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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  ILLINOIS 

LIBRARY 

CV<2) 
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University  of  Illinois  Library 


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LIBRARY 

.,•  THE 

iJNlVERSITV  OF  ILLINOIS 


COI.I.IER'S    UNABRIDGED    EDITION. 


THE    "WORKS 


VOLUME     I 


WILLY  EEILLY. 

FARDOROUGHA  THE  MISER. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET ; 

OR,  The  Chroxicles  of  Ballttrain, 

THE  EVn.  EYE; 

OR,  The  Black  Spectee. 


I IL,  LXJ  S  T  I^  .A.  T  E  ID  . 


NEW  YORK: 
P.    V.    COLLIER,    PUBLISHER. 


7  2-3 


I/. 


CONTENTS. 


WILLY  REILLY. 


rBAPTBB  PAGE 

I. — An  Adventure  and  an  Escape 0 

II.— The  Cooleen  Bawn 12 

III. — Daring  Attempt  of  the  Red  Rapparee 
- — Jlystei-ioua  Disappearance  of  His 

Gang — The  Avowal 19 

IV. — A  Sapient  Project  for  our  Hero's  Con- 
version— His  Rival  makes  his  Ap- 
pearance, and  its  Consequences. .  .      36 

V.  —  The  Plot  and  the  Victims 34 

VI. —The  Warning—  an  Escape 41 

VIL — An  Accidental  Incident  favorable  to 
Reilly,  and  a  Curious  Conversa- 
tion      48 

VIII. — A   Conllagration — An   Escape  —  And 

an  Adventure 54 

LX. — Reilly's  Adventure  Continued  —  A 
Prospect  of  By-gone  Times — Reilly 
gets  a  Bed  in  a  Curious  Establish- 
ment      C)2 

X. — Scenes  that  took  place  in  the  Moun- 
tain Cave 69 

XI.  — The  Sqiure's  Dinner  and  his  Guests. .     75 
XII.     Sir  Robert  Meets  a  Brother  Sports- 
man— Draws  his  Nets,  but  Catches 

Nothing 83 

XIII- — Reilly  is  Taken,  but  connived  at   by 

the  Sheriff — the  Mountain  Mass.  ,  .     86 


XIV. — Reilly  takes  Service  with  Squire  Fol- 

Hard 99 

XV.— More  of  Whitecraft's  Plots  and  Pr.anks  105 
XVI. — Sir     Robert     ingeniously     extricates 

Himself  out  of  a  great  Difficulty. .   Ill 
XVII. — Awful  Conduct  of  Sqtiire  Folliard — 
Fergus  lieill}-  begins  to  Contravene 

the  Red  Rapparee 117 

XVIII  — Something  not  very  Pleasant  for  all 

Parties 133 

XIX.— Reilly's  Disguise  Penetrated— He  Es- 
capes—Fergus Reilly  is  on  the  Trail 
of  the  Rapparee —  Sir  Robert  begins 

to  feel  Confident  of  Succes.^; 129 

XX.  —The    Rapparee    Secured — Reilly  and 
the  Cooleen  Bawn  Escape,  and  are 

Captured ,    136 

XXI. — Sir  Robert  Accepts  of  an  Invitation. .   141 
XXII. — The  Squire  Comforts  AVhitecraft  in 

his  Affliction 151 

XXIII. — The  Squire  becomes  Theological  and 

a  Proselytizer,  but  .signally  fails. ..   156 
XXIV. — Preparations — Jury  of  the  Olden  Time 

■  -The  Scales  of  Justice 103 

XXV. — Rumor  of  Coolen  Bawn's  Treachery 
— How  it  appears — Reilly  stands 
his  Tri.al — Conclusion 170 


I      FARDOROUGHA,  THE  MISER. 


>« 


QO 


;;  PAGE  I 

Part  I. — Fardorongha,  the  Miser 187 

Part  It « 203 

Part  III J 233 

(Part  IV.. •. 236 


PartV 

Part  VI 

Part  VII 

Part  VIII.  and  Last. 


359 
278 
292 
306 


HE  BLACK  BARONET;  OR,  THE  CHRONICLES  OF  BALLY- 
TRAIN. 


I. — A  Mail  Coach  by  Night,  and  a  Bit 

of  Moonshine 323 

n.— The  Top'nand  its  Inhabitant*^.  ...  326 
HI. — Paudeen   Gair's  Receipt  how    to 
make;  a  Bad  Dinner  a  Good  One 
— Thfc  Stranger  finds  Fenton  as 

Mystirions  .is  Himself 338 

rV.  —  An  Anoiymous Letter-Lucy  Gour- 


lay  Avows  a  Previous  AM.ach- 

ment 

V. — Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  FaiLs  in  Un- 
masking the  Stranger — Mysteri- 
ous Conduct  of  Fenton 

VI. — Extraordinary  Scene  between  Fen- 
ton and  the  Stranger 

VII  —The    Earonet  attempts  by  False- 


3:« 
34C 


936364 


CONTENTS. 


CBIPIEB  PAGE 

hood  to  nrgc  his  Daughter  into 
an  Avowal  of  her  Lover's  Name.  343 
VIII. — -The  Fo-tuue-'reller— An  Equivo- 
cal Prediction 347 

IX.  — Candor  and  Dissimulation 350 

X. — A  Family  Dialogue— and  a  Secret 

nearly  Discovered 357 

XI. — The   Stranger's  Visit    to  Father 

MacMahon 3C3 

XII. — Crackeufudge  Outwitted  by  Fen- 
tnn — The  Baronet,  Enraged  at 
his  Daughter's  Firmness,  strikes 

Her 3G9 

XIII.— The  Stranger's  Second  Visit  to 
Father  MacMahon — Something 

like  an  Elopement 375 

XIV. — Craokenfudge  put  upon  a  Wrong 
Scent — Miss  Gourlay  lakes  Ref- 
uge with  an  Old  Friend 383 

XV. — Interview  between  Lady  Gourlay 
and  the  Stranger--D.andy  Dulci- 
mer makes  a  Discovery — The 
Stranger    Receives   Mysterious 

Comraunioations   392 

XVI.— Conception  and  Perpetration  of  a 
Diabolical  Plot  against  Fen- 
ton.. 399 

XVII. — A  Scene  in  Jemmy  Trailcudgel's- 
Retributive  Justice,  or  the  Rob- 
ber Robbed 407 

SVIII. — Dunphy  visits   the  County  Wict- 

lovv — Old  Sam  and  his  Wife. ...  415 
XIX. — Interview  between  Trailcudgel 
and  the  Stranger — A  Peep  at 
Lord  Dunroe  and  his  Friend. . .  4.23 
XX. — Interview  between  Lord.s  CuUa- 
niore,  Dunroe,  and  Lady  Emily 
— Tom  Norton's  Aristocracy 
fails    him — His    Reception   by 

Lord  CuUamore 429 

XXI. — A  Spy  Rewarded — Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  Charged  Home  by  the 
Stranger  with  the  Removal  and 
Disappearance  of  his  Brother's 

Son 437 

XXII.--Lucy  at  Summerlield  Cottage. . . .  44ti 
XXIII. —A  Lunch  m  Summ^rfield  Cottage.  404 
XXIV. — An  Irish  Watchhoiise  in  the  time 

of  the  "  Charlie.'!  " 4C0 

XXV.— The  Police  Office  —  Sir  Spigot 
Sputter  and  Mr.  Coke — An  Un- 
fortunate Translator — Decision 

in  ■' a  Law  Case  " 470 

XXVI.— Th J  Priest  Raturns  Sir  'i'homaa's 


XXVIJL 
XXIX. 


■      XXX. 
XXXI. 


XXXIL 
XXXIII.- 
XXXIV.- 

XXXV.—: 

XXXVI.- 
XXXVIL- 


XXXIX. 


XL. 
XL  I. 


Money  and  Pistols — A  Bit  of 
Controversy — A  New  Light  Be- 
gins to  Appear 47.1 

-Sir  'I'homas,  who  Shams  Illness,  is 
too  sharp  for  Mrs.  Mainwaring, 
who  visits  Him — Lucy  calls  up- 
on Lady  Gourlay,  where  she 
meels  her  Lover— Affecting  In- 
terview between  Lucy  and  Lady 
Gourlay 480 

-Innocence  and  Affection  overcome 
by  Fraud  and  Hypocrisy — Lucy 
yields  at  Last 488 

-Lord  Dunroe's  Affection  for  his 
Father — Glimpse  of  a  new  Cha- 
racter— Lord  Cuilamore's  Re- 
buke to  his  Son,  who  greatly 
Retvises  to  give  up  his  Friend..  49*) 

-A  Courtship  on  Novel  Principles..   5J4 

-The  Priest  goes  into  Corbet's 
House  very  like  a  Thief —a  Se- 
derunt, with  a  Bright  look  up 
for  Mr.  Gray 512 

-Discovery  of  the  Baronet's  Son — 
who,  however,  is  Shelved  for  a 
Time 520 

The  Priest  asks  for  a  Loan  of 
Fifty  Guineas,  and  Offers  "Fre- 
ne.v  the  Robber"  as  Security.  .   528 

Young  Gourlay's  Affectionate  In- 
terview with  His  Father — Risk 
of  Strangulation  —  Movements 
of  M'Bride 533 

Lucy's  Vain  but  Affecting  E.Kpos- 
tulation  with  her  Father — Her 
Terrible  Denunciation  of  Am- 
brose Gray 54'3 

-Which  contains  a  variety  of  Mat- 
ters, some  to  Laugh  and  some 
to  Weep  at 5-17 

Dandy's  Visit  to  Suramerfield  Cot- 
tage, where  he  Makes  a  most 
Ungailant  Mistake  —  Returns 
with  Tidings  of  both  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton and  Fenton — and  Generous- 
ly Patronizes  his  Master 550 

Anthony  Corbet  gives  Important 
Documents  to  the  Stranger — An 
Unpleasant  Disclosure  to  Dun- 
roe — Norton  catches  a  Tartar..   5G4 

-Fenton  Recovered  —  The  Mad- 
House  574 

-Lady  Gourlay  sees  her  Son 581 

-Denouement 587 


THE  EVIL  EYE ;  OR,  THE   BLACK   SPECTRE. 


OHAPT-.R 

I. 

II. 


IV. 


PAfiE  CHAPTER 

Short  aud  Preliminary (il3  .  VII.- 

A  Murderer's  Wake  and   the  Arrival  | 

of  a  Stranger G17  I  VIII. 

Breakfast  ne.\t  moming — Woodward,  I 

oil  his  way  Home,  meets  a  Stranger          |  IX- 

— Their  Conversation 625  X. 

Woodwai'd    meets  a   Guide— His  lie-  XI. 

ception  at  Home- Preparations  for  XII. 

a  FOie n31  [  Xill. 

-Tl.c  Bonfire— The  Prodigy 040  I 

.-^nawn  na-Middogue —  Sh-in-Dhinne-  I 

Dhiiv,  or  Tii8  Black  Sijecirc 047  !  XIV. 


-A  Council  of   Two — Visit  to  Beech 

Grove— The  Herbalist I!55 

-A  Ileaiingof  the  Breach — A  Proposal 

-  for  Marriage  .Accepted 001! 

-Chase  of  the  White  Hare 0711 

-True  Love  Defeated 078 

-A  Conjurer's  Levee 085 

-Fortune-telling 694 

-Woodward    is    Discarded   from    Mr. 
Goodwin's  Family — Other  Particu- 

lar.«  of  Importance 701 

-Shawnna-Middogue     Stabs    Charles 


COXTJJXTS.  y 

PHAPTCR  rAGG   '    mVPTKR  Pit. I 

Lindsay  in  Mistake  for  hi.s  Broth-  XVIII —The  Toir,  or  Tory  Hunt "JHI 

cr T(W  ^      XIX Plaus  and  Xegotiations 741 

XV. — The  lianshee-Disappearauce  of  Grace  |        XX,— Wooiiward's  Visit   to    Hallyspellan . .   7IH 

Davoreu 710  1      XXI 'Ihe  Dinner  at  Ballyspolluu — J'ho  A|)- 

XVI  — A  HiiusR  of  Sorrow — After  which  fol-  I  pearauce  of   Woodward — Valentine 

Ions  a  Courting  Scene 723  ;  Groatrakc8 ~'t'-' 

XVII, — Description   of  ihe   Original    Tory —  XXII. — History  of  the  Black  Spectre 7(1.1 

Their  iUanner  ol  Swearing 739  i  XXIII. — Greatrakcs  at  Work — Denouement. . .  '('117 


Willy  Keilly. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

Most  of  our  Irish  readers  must  be  aware 
that  the  following  stoiy  is  foundetl  upon  an 
incident  in  the  histoiy  of  the  nft'ections, 
which,  ever  since  its  occun'ence,  has  oc- 
cupied a  hxge  portion  of  popular  interest. 
From  the  verj-  first  iliscoverv  of  their  at- 
tachment, the  loves  of  "WiUy  EeiUv"  and 
his  "  Fair  Cooleen  Bawn  "  became  celebrated, 
and  were  made  the  burden  of  many  a  i-ude 
ball:Kl  throughout  Ii-eland.  AVith  the  ex- 
ception, however,  of  the  oue  wliich  we  sub- 
Join,  they  have  all  nearly  disappeared;  but 
that  production,  rude  as  it  is,  has  stood  its 
grounil,  and  is  permanently  embodied  as  a 
tavorite  in  the  ballad  j'oetry  of  the  iJeople. 
It  is  not,  though  couched  in  hiunble  and  lui- 
pretcuding  Linguage,  without  a  good  deal 
of  i-ustic  vigor,  and,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  a  kind  of  inartistic  skill, 
fumislied  either  by  chance  or  nature — it  is 
difficult  to  deteiTnine  which.  We  are  of 
opinion,  however,  that  it  owes  a  great  por- 
tion of  its  permanent  popularity  to  feelings 
whirh  have  been  transmitted  to  the  people, 
arising  not  so  much  from  the  direct  iuterest 
of  tlie  incidents  embodied  in  it,  as  fi-oni  the 
politii'al  spirit  of  the  times  in  which  they 
occun-ed.  At  that  unhappy  period  the 
Penal  Laws  were  in  deatUy  and  ten-iblc 
operation;  and  we  need  not  be  surjirised 
that  a  young  and  handsome  Catholic  should 
earn  a  boun<lless  jjopularity,  especially 
among  tliose  of  his  ovnx  creed,  by  tlie  dar- 
ing and  resolute  act  of  tiiking  away  a  Prot- 
estant heiress — the  daughter  of  a  persecu- 
tor— and  whose  fame,  from  her  loveUness 
and  accomplishments,  had  alromly  become 
proverbial  among  the  gi-eat  body  of  the 
Irisli  people,  and,  indeed,  throughout  all 
classes.  It  was  looked  upon  as  a  Irind  of 
trium])h  over  tlie  persecutoiM ;  and,  in  tliis 
•nstance,  Cupid  himself  seemed  to  esp<)use 
tlie  cause  of  the  beads  and  rosan-.  and  to 
become  a  tight  little  Cathohc.  The  clianic- 
ter  of  Sir  Robert  Whitecr.ift  (a  fictitious 
name)  is  dr.iwn  from  traditions  which  were 
some  time  ago  floating  among  tiie  people, 
but  which  ai-o  fa.st  fading  out  of  the  jiopular 
mind.     The  mode  of  his  death,  and  its  con- 


comitants, the  author  has  often  heard  toio 
in  his  youth,  around  the  hob,  during  the 
long  winter  evenings.  With  resjject  to  the 
description  of  the  state  of  the  unhappy 
Catholics,  however  I  may  luive  diminished,  I 
have  not  exaggerated  it ;  imd  I  tiiist  that  i. 
have  done  ample  justice  to  the  educated 
Protestants  of  the  day,  many  of  whom  not 
only  opposed  the  Goveniment  openly  and 
directly — whose  object  was  extei-mination 
by  the  withering  operation  of  o2)pressive 
laws — but  threw  uj)  their  commissions  as 
justices  of  the  peace,  and  refused  to  bet;ome 
the  tools  and  abettors  of  religious  perse- 
cution. To  such  uoble-mindeil  men  J 
trust  I  have  rendered  anij>lo  justice.  The 
following  is  the  celebrated  biillad  of  "  Wilh 
Roilly,"  which  is  still  sung,  and  wiU  long 
continue  to  be  sung,  at  many  a  hearth  ir 
Ireland  : 

"  Oh  I   rise  up  Willy  Reilly,  aud  come  alongst  witb 

me, 
I  mean  for  to  po  with  you  and  leave  this  counorie. 
To  leave  my  father's  dwelling,  his  houses  and  tree 

lands — " 
And  away  goes  Willy  Reilly  and  his  dear  Codeeit. 

Hdwii. 

They  go  by  hill  aud  mountains,  and  by  yon  lone- 
some plain. 

Through  shad}'  groves  and  valleys  all  dangers  to 
refrain ; 

But  her  father  followed  after  with  a  well-arni'd 
chosen  band. 

And  taken  was  poor  R«illy  and  his  dear  Coolem 
liaicn. 

It's  homeHhen  she  was  taken,  and  in  her  closet 

bound. 
Poor  Reilly  all  in  Sligo  jail  lay  on  the  stony  ground. 
Till  at  the  bar  of  justice  before  the  Judge  he'd 

stand. 
For  nothing  but  the  stealing  of  his  dear   Cooleen 

Uttucn. 

"  Xow  in  the  cold,  cold  iron,  my  hands  aud  feet 

are  bound. 
I'm  handcuffed  like  a  murderer,  and  tied  unto  the 

ground  ; 
But  all  this  toil  and  slavery  I'm  w^illing  for  to  stand. 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored   by  my  dear   CooUen. 

UitiBn." 

The  jailer's  son  to  Reilly  goes,  and  thus  to  him  did 

■ay. 
"Oh!  get  up,  Willy  Reilly.  you  must  appear  thie 

day. 


2 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WOBKS. 


For  great  Squire   Folliard's  anger  you   never  can 

withstand  ; 
I'm  afear'd  you'll  suffer  sorely  for  your  dear  CooUen 

Baicn. 

"  This  is  the  news,  young  Reilly,  last  night  that  I 

did  hear, 
The  lady's  oath  will  hang  you,  or  else  will  set  you 

clear." 
"If  that  be  so,"  says  Reilly,    "  her  pleasure  I  will 

stand, 
ritill  hoping  to  be  succored   by   my  dear    Coulceii 

Bawn." 

Now  Willy's  drest  from  top  to  toe  all  in  a  suit  of 

green, 
His  hair  hangs  o'er  his  shoulders  most  glorious  to 

be  seen  ; 
lie's  tall  and  straight  and  comely  as  any  could  be 

found. 
He's  fit  for   Folliard' s  daugMer,  was  she  heiress  to 

a  crown. 

The  Judge  he  said,  "  This  l.ady  being  in  her  tender 

youth. 
If  Reilly   has  deluded  her,   she   will   declare   the 

truth." 
Then,  like  a  moving  beauty  bright,  before  him  she 

did  stand. 
"You're    welcome  there   my   heart's   delight  and 

dear  Voolcen  Btwii  /  " 

"Oh,    gentlemen."   Squire    FoUiard   said,    "with 

pity  look  on  me, 
This   villain    came    amongst   us   to    disgrace    our 

family. 
And   by   his   base   contrivances    this   villany    was 

planned  ; 
If  I  don  t  get  satisfaction  I  will  quit  this  Irish  land." 

The  lady  with  a  tear  began,  and  thus  replied  she, 
"  The  fault  is  none  of  Reilly's,  the  blame  lies  all 

on  me  : 
I  forced  him  for  to  leave  his  place  and  come  along 

with  me  ; 
I  loved  him  out  of  measure,  which  has  wrought  our 

destiny. ' ' 

Then  out  bespoke  the  noble  Fox,  at  the  table  he 

stood  by, 
"  Oh,  gentlemen,  consider  on  this  extremity. 
To  hang  a  man  for  love  is  a  murder  you  may  see, 
:?o  spare  the  life  of  Reilly,  let  him  leave  this  coun- 

trie. " 

"  Good,  my  lord,  he  stole  from  her  her  diamonds, 

and  her  rings,  ' 

Gold  watch  and  silver  buckles,  and  many  precious 

things. 
Which  cost  me   in  bright  guineas,  more  than  live 

hundred  pcund, 
I    will   have   the   life  of  Reilly  should  I   lose  ten 

thousand  pounds." 

"  Good,  my  lord,  I   gave  them    him  as   tokens  of 

true  love  ; 
And  when  we  are  a-partiug  I  will  them  all  remove: 
If  you  have  got  them,  Reilly,  pray  send  them  home 

to  me  ; 
They're  jioor  compared  to  that  true  heart  which  I 
have  given  to  thee. 

'■  There  is   a  ring  among  them  I  allow  your.self  to 

wear, 
With  thirty  locket  diamonds  well  set 'in  silver  fair; 


And  as  a  true-love  token  wear  it  on  your  right  hand, 
That  you  may  think  on   my  broken    heart  when 
you're  in  a  foreign  land." 

Then  out  spoke  noble  Fox,  ' '  You  may  let  the 
prisoner  go,  * 

The  lady's  oath  has  cleared  him,  as  the  Jury  all 
may  know : 

She  has  released  her  own  true  love,  she  has  re» 
newed  his  name. 

May  her  honor  bright  gain  high  estate,  and  her  off- 
spring rise  to  fame." 

This  ballad  I  found  in  a  state  of  wretched 
disorder.  It  passed  from  one  individual  to 
another  by  ear  alone  ;  and  the  inconsecu- 
tive position  of  the  verses,  occasioned  by  inac- 
curacy of  menioiy  and  ignorance,  has  sadly 
detracted  fi-om  its  genuine  force.  As  it  ex- 
isted in  the  oral  Tersions  of  the  populace, 
the  naiTative  was  gi'ossly  at  variance  with 
the  regular  progi'ess  of  circumstances  which 
characterize  a  trial  of  any  kind,  but  especial- 
ly such  a  trial  as  that  which  it  undertakes 
to  describe.  The  individuals  concerned  m 
it,  for  instance,  are  made  to  speak  out  of 
place ;  and  it  would  api^ear,  from  all  the 
versions  that  I  have  heard,  as  if  every  stanza 
was  assigned  its  position  by  lot.  This  fact, 
however,  I  have  jiist  accounted  for  and 
remedied,  by  having  restored  them  to  their 
original  places,  so  that  the  vigorous  but 
rustic  bard  is  not  answerable  for  the  confu- 
sion to  which  unprinted  jioetry,  sung  by  an 
uneducated  people,  is  hable.  As  the  ballad 
now  stands,  the  character  of  the  jaoet  is 
satisfactorily  vindicated  ;  and  the  disorder 
which  crept  in  during  the  course  of  time, 
though  strongly  calculated  to  weaken  its 
influence,  has  never  been  able  to  injure  its 
fame.  This  is  a  high  honor  to  its  composer, 
and  proves  him  well  worthy  of  the  jJopularity 
wliich,  imder  such  adverse  circumstances, 
has  taken  so  firm  a  hold  of  the  present  feel- 
ing, and  survived  so  long. 

The  author  trusts  that  he  has  avoided,  as 
far  as  the  truthful  treatment  of  his  subject 
would  enable  him,  the  exj)ression  of  ai\y 
political  sentiment  calculated  to  give  offence 
to  any  party — an  attempt  of  singular  diffi- 
culty in  a  country  so  miserably  divided  upon 
rehgious  feehng  as  this.  The  experience  of 
centuries  should  teach  statesmen  and  legisliv- 
tors  that  persecution,  on  account  of  creed 
.and  conscience,  is  not  only  bad  feeling,  but 
worse  policy  ;  and  if  the  author,  in  thess 
pages,  has  succeeded  in  conveying  this  self- 
evident  truth  to  his  readers,  he  will  rest 
satisfied  with  that  result,  however  severely 
the  demerits  of  his  work  may  be  censured 
upon  purely  hteraiy  grounds.  One  thing 
may  be  said  in  his  defence — that  it  was 
utterly  impossible  to  dissociate  the  loves  of 
this  celebrated  couwJe  fi-om  the  condition  of 


WILLY  REILLY. 


W.e  rountn-,  and  the  operation  of  tlie  merci- 
less laws  wliich  j^revailed  against  the  Catho- 
lics in  theii-  day.  Had  the  lovers  both  been 
CathoHcs,  or  both  been  Protestants,  this 
might  have  been  avoided  ;  but,  as  pohtical 
and  rehgious  matters  then  stood,  to  omit  the 
state  and  condition  of  society  which  resulted 
fi-om  them,  and  so  deeply  aifected  their  fate, 
would  be  somewhat  like  leaving  the  charac- 
ter of  Hamlet  out  of  the  tragedy. 

As  the  work  was  first  wiitteu,  I  described 
a  good  many  of  the  Catholic  priests  of  the 
day  as  disguised  La  female  apparel ;  but  on 
discovering  that  there  exists  an  ecclesiastical 
regulation  or  canon  forbidding  any  j)riest, 
under  whatever  persecution  or  pressure,  to 
assume  such  appai-el  for  the  pui-j50se  of  dis- 
guising his  i^erson  or  saving  his  Ufe,  I,  of 
course,  changed  that  j'ortion  of  the  matter, 
although  a  lavTuan  might  well  be  jiardoned 
for  his  ignorance  of  an  ecclesiastical  statute, 
which,  excei^t  in  veiy  rare  cases,  can  be 
knox^Ti  only  to  ecclesiastics  themselves.  I 
retain  one  mstance,  however,  of  this  descrip- 
tion, which  I  ascribe  to  Hennessy,  the  de- 
graded fiiar,  who  is  a  historical  character, 
and  who  v\Tought  a  vast  weight  of  evil,  as 
an  informer,  against  the  Cathohc  priesthood 
of  Ireland,  Ijoth  regular  and  secular. 

With  respect  to  the  family  name  of  the 
heroine  and  her  father,  I  have  adopted  both 
the  jjopulai"  pi-onimciation  and  orthogi-ajihy, 
instead  of  the  real.  I  give  it  simply  as  I 
found  it  in  the  liallad,  and  as  I  always  heard 
it  pronounced  by  the  people  ;  in  the  first 
place,  fi'om  reluctance,  by  writing  it  accu- 
rately, to  give  offence  to  that  portion  of  this 
highly  respectable  family  which  stdl  exists  ; 
and.  in  the  next,  fi'om  a  disinchnation  to  dis- 
turb the  original  imi^i-essions  made  on  the 
popular  mind  by  the  ballad  and  the  traditions 
associated  mth  it.  So  far  as  the  traditions 
go,  there  was  nothing  connected  with  the 
heroine  of  which  her  descendants  need  feel 
ashamed.  If  it  had  been  othei-nise,  her 
memory  never  would  have  been  enshrined 
in  the  affections  of  the  Ii-ish  people  for  such 
an  unusual  period  of  time. 
DUBLfN,  February.  1855. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDmON. 

I  AJi  agreeably  called  upon  by  my  book- 
seller to  prepare  for  a  Second  Edition  of 
"  Willy  Reilly."  This  is  at  all  times  a  pleas- 
ing call  upon  an  author ;  and  it  is  so  especial- 
ly to  me,  inasmuch  as  the  first  Edition  was 
sold  at  the  fashionable,  but  imreasonable, 
price  of  a  guinea  and  a  half — a  jjrice  which, 
in  this  age  of  cheap  Hterature,  is  almost  fatal 


to  the  sale  of  any  three-volume  novel,  no 
matter  what  may  be  its  merits.  With  respect 
to  "WiUy  Reilly,"  it  may  be  necessaiy  to 
say  that  I  never  ^Tote  any  work  of  the  same 
extent  in  so  short  a  time,  or  with  so 
much  haste.  Its  populaiity,  however,  has 
been  equal  to  that  of  any  other  of  my  pro- 
ductions ;  and  the  reception  which  it  has 
experienced  fi'om  the  ablest  jDublic  and  pro- 
fessional critics  of  the  day  has  fcu"  siu-passed 
my  expectations.  I  accordingly  take  this 
opportunity  of  thanking  them  most  sincerely 
for  the  favorable  verdict  which  they  have 
generously  passed  upon  it,  as  I  do  for  their 
kindness  to  my  humble  efforts  for  the  last 
twenty-eight  years.  Nothing,  mdeed,  can  be 
a  greater  eucoirragenient  to  a  literaiy  man, 
to  a  novel  writer,  in  fact,  than  the  reflection 
that  he  has  an  honest  and  generous  tribunal 
to  encounter.  If  he  be  a  quack  or  an  im- 
postor, they  will  at  once  detect  him  ;  but  if 
he  exhibit  human  nature  and  truthful  char- 
acter in  his  pages,  it  matters  not  whether  he 
goes  to  his  bookseller's  in  a  coach,  or  plods 
there  humbly,  and  on  foot ;  they  vrill  forget 
everything  but  the  value  and  merit  of  what 
he  places  before  them.  On  this  accoimt  it  is 
that  I  reverence  and  respect  tliem ;  and 
indeed  I  ought  to  do  so,  for  I  owe  them  the 
gratitude  of  a  pretty  long  hterary  life. 

Concerning  this  Edition,  I  must  say  some- 
thing. I  have  already  stated  that  it  was 
■\\ritten  rapidly  and  in  a  hiurv*.  On  reading 
it  over  for  con-ection,  I  was  strack  in  my 
cooler  moments  by  many  defects  in  it,  which 
were  kindly  overlooked,  or,  perhajis,  not 
noticed  at  aU.  To  myself,  however,  who  had 
been  brooding  over  this  work  for  a  long 
time,  they  at  once  became  obvious.  I  have 
accordingly  added  an  imdei-plot  of  affection 
between  Fergus  EeiUy — mentioned  as  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  my  hero — and  the  Cooleev 
Tlawn'x  maid,  Ellen  Connor.  Li  doing  so,  I 
have  not  disturbed  a  single  incident  in  the 
work  ;  and  the  reader  who  may  have  jjerused 
the  fii-st  Edition,  if  he  should  ever — as  is  not 
imfrequently  the  case — peruse  this  second 
one,  vrill  certainly  wonder  how  the  additions 
were  made.  That,  however,  is  the  secret  of 
the  author,  -nith  which  they  have  notliing  to 
do  but  to  enjoy  the  book,  if  they  can  enjoy  it. 

With  respect  to  the  O'Reilly  name  and 
family,  I  have  consulted  my  distinguished 
fiiend — and  I  am  proud  to  call  him  so  — 
John  O' Donovan,  Esq.,  LL.D.,  M.R.I.A.. 
who,  with  the  greatest  kindness,  placed  the 
siunmaiy  of  the  histoiy  of  that  celebrated 
fami];s'  at  my  disposal.  This  learned  gentle- 
man is  an  authority  beyond  all  question. 
With  respect  to  L-eknd — her  language — her 
old  laws — her  historj' — her  antiquities — hei 
ai-chfeologj' — her  tojijography,  and  the  gen© 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


alogy  of  her  families,  he  is  a  pei'fect  mu-acle, 
as  is  liis  distinguished  fellow-laborer  in  the 
same  field,  Eugene  Cuny.  ISvo  such  men — 
and,  including  Dr.  Petrie,  three  such  men — 
Ireland  never  has  firoduced,  and  iTever  can 
again — for  this  simj)le  reason,  that  they  will 
have  left  notliing  after  them  for  their  succes- 
sors to  accompUsh.  To  Eugene  Curiy  I  am 
indebted  for  the  jirincipal  fact  upon  which 
my  novel  of  the  "  Tithe  Proctor  "  was  writ- 
ten— the  able  introduction  to  which  was 
printed  verbatim  fi-om  a  manuscript  with 
which  he  kindly  furnished  me.  The  follow- 
ing is  Dr.  O'Douovan's  clear  and  succinct 
history  of  the  O'Eeilly  family  from  the  year 
^35  until  the  present  time  : 

"The  ancestors  of  the  family  of  O'Reilly 
dad  been  celebi'ated  in  Iiisli  history  long  be- 
fore the  establishment  of  surnames  in  Ii'e- 
land.  In  thej'ear  435  their  ancestor,  Duach 
Galach,  King  of  Connaught,  was  baptized 
by  St.  Patrick  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Scola, 
and  they  had  remained  Christians  of  the 
old  Irish  Church,  which  ajspears  to  have 
been  jieculiar  in  its  mode  of  tonsure,  and  of 
keeping  Easter  (and,  siace  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, firm  adherents  to  the  rehgion  of  the 
Pope,  till  DoweU  O'Reilly,  Esq.,  the  father 
of  the  present  head  of  the  name,  quai-reUing 
with  Father  Dowhng,  of  StradbaUy,  turned 
Protestant,  about  the  year  1800). 

"  The  ancestor,  after  whom  they  took  the 
family  name,  was  Reillagh,  who  was  chief 
of  his  sept,  and  flourished  about  the  vear 
981. 

"  From  this  period  they  are  traced  iu  the 
Irish  Annals  through  a  long  hue  of  power- 
ful chieftams  of  East  Breifny  (County 
Cav^n),  who  succeeded  each  other,  accord- 
ing to  the  law  of  Tanistry,  tih  the  year  1585, 
when  two  rival  chieftiaus  of  the  name.  Sir 
John  G'Reilly  and  Edmimd  O'Reilly,  aj)- 
2')eared  in  Dublin,  at  the  parliament  sum- 
moned by  Perrot.  Pre^iously  to  this,  John 
O'ReiLly,  finding  his  party  weaJi,  had  repau-ed 
to  England,  in  1583,  to  solicit  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's interest,  and  had  been  kiutUj'  received 
at  Coui't,  and  invested  Avith  the  order  of 
Ivnighthood,  and  jjromised  to  be  made  Eaii, 
whereupon  he  returned  home  with,  letters 
from  the  Queen  to  the  Lord  Dejjuty  and 
Council  of  Ii-eland,  instructing  them  to 
supjDort  him  in  his  claims.  His  uncle, 
Edmund,  of  Kilnacrott,  would  have  succeeded 
Hugh  ConnaUagh  O'Reilly,  the  father  c  f  Sir- 
John,  according  to  the  Lish  law  of  Tanistry, 
but  he  was  set  aside  by  Elizabeth's  govern- 
ment, and  Sir  John  set  up  as  O'Reilly  in  his 
place.  Sir  Jolm  being  settled  in  the  c^iief- 
taiiaship  of  East  Breifny,  entered  into  certsun 
articles  of  agreement  with  Sir  John  PeiTot, 
the  Lord  Deputy,  and  the  Council  of  Ireland, 


whereby  he  agreed  to  siuTcnder  the  princl 
2)ality  of  East  Breifny  to  the  Queen,  on 
condition  of  obtaining  it  again  fi-om  the 
cro\vn  in  cajjile  by  English  tenure,  and  the 
same  to  be  ratified  to  him  and  the  heu'S 
male  of  his  body.  In  consequence  ot  this 
agi'eement,  and  with  the  intent  of  abolishing 
the  tanistic  succession,  he,  on  the  last  day 
of  August,  1590,  jDerfected  a  deed  of  feofment, 
entailing  thereby  the  seignoiy  of  Breifny 
(O'Reilly)  on  his  eldest  son,  Malmore 
(Myles),  sumamed  Alainn  (the  comely), 
aftei"wards  known  as  the  Queens  O'Reilly. 

"  Not\\ithstanding  these  transactions.  Sir 
John  O'Reilly  soon  after  joined  in  the  rebel- 
hon  of  Hugh,  Earl  of  Tyrone,  and  died  on 
the  first  of  June,  159G.  After  his  death  the 
Eaii  of  Tyrone  set  up  his  second  brother, 
Phihj),  as  the  O'ReiUy,  and  the  government 
of  Elizabeth  supijorted  the  claim  of  Sir  John's 
son,  Malmore,  the  comely,  in  oijposition  to 
Phihp,  and  Edmund  of  Kilnacrott.  But 
Malmore,  the  Queen's  O'Reilly,  was  slain  by 
TyTone  in  the  great  battle  of  the  Yellow 
Ford,  near  Benbiu-b,  on  the  14th  of  August, 
1598,  and  the  Lish  of  Ulster  agi-eed  to 
establish  Edmimd  of  Kihiacrott,  as  the 
O'Reilly. 

"  The  Uneal  descendants  of  Sir-  John 
piassed  into  the  French  sei-vice,  and  are  now 
totally  unknown,  and  probably  extinct.  The 
descendants  of  Edmund  of  lulnacrott  have 
been  far  more  prolific  and  more  fortunate. 
His  senior  rejoresentative  is  my  worthy  old 
friend  Myles  John  O'Reilly,  Esq.,  Heath 
House,  Emo,  Queen's  Co.,  and  fi'om  him  ai-e 
also  descended  the  O'Reillys  of  Thomastown 
Castle,  in  the  County  of  Louth,  the  Counts 
O'Reilly  of  Spain,  the  O'Reillys  of  Beltrasna, 
in  Westmeath,  and  the  Reillys  of  ScaiTa 
House,  iu  the  County  of  Down. 

"Edmund  of  IvQnacrott  had  a  son  John 
who  had  a  son  Brian,  by  Mary,  daughter  of 
the  Baron  of  Dmisiiny,  who  had  a  famous 
sou  Malmore,  commonly  called  Jli/les  the 
Sla:<her.  This  Myles  was  '  an  able  military 
leader  dui-iug  the  civil  wars  of  1641,  and 
showed  in-odigies  of  valor  during  the  yejirs 
1641,  1642,  and  1643  ;  but,  iu  1644,  bemg 
encamjjed  at  Granard,  iu  the  Coimty  of 
Longford,  ^rith  Lord  Castlehaven,  who  or- 
dered him  to  proceed  with  a  chosen  detacii- 
ment  of  horse  to  defend  the  bridge  of  Fines 
against  the  Scots,  then  bearing  downi  on 
the  main  army  with  a  very  superior  force. 
Myles  was  slain  at  the  head  of  his  troojjs, 
fighting  bravely  on  the  middle  of  the  bridge. 
Ti'adition  adds,  that  during  this  action  ho 
encoimtered  the  cc^ouel  of  the  Scots  in 
single  combat,  who  laid  open  his  cheek  with 
a  blow  of  his  sword  ;  but  Myles,  whose  jawa 
were  stronger  than  a  smith's  vice,  held  fa,st 


WILLY  liEILLT. 


the  St-otcbmon's  sword  hetween  his  teeth 
till  he  cut  him  down,  but  the  main  body  of 
the  Soots  pressing  upon  liim,  he  was  left 
dead  on  the  brid<a;e. 

"  This  ilvles  Die  Slanher  was  the  father  of 
Colonel  John  O'Eeillv,  of  Bfdl^^uacatld,  in 
the  Coimty  Meath,  wlio  was  elet-ted  Knight 
of  the  Shire  for  the  County  of  Cavan,  in  the 
parliament  held  at  Dublin  on  the  7th  ef  May, 
1(>89.  He  raised  a  regiment  of  dragoons,  at 
his  own  expense",  for  the  senile  of  James 
n.,  and  assisted  at  the  siege  of  Londonderry' 
in  1689.  He  had  two  engagements  with 
Colonel  Wolsley,  tlie  commander  of  the  gar- 
rison of  Belturbet,  whom  he  signally  defeated. 
He  fought  at  the  battles  of  the  Boj-ne  and 
Aughriin,  iUid  was  mcluded  in  tha  articles  of 
capitulation  of  Limerick,  whei-eby  he  jsre- 
served  his  f)roperty,  and  was  jiUowed  to  caiTV 
arms. 

"  Of  the  eldent  son  of  this  Colonel  John 
O'Reilly,  who  left  is.sue,  my  fiiend  Myles  J. 
O'Reilly,  Esq.,  is  now  the  senior  representa- 
tive. 

"  From  Colonel  John  O'Reilly's  youngest 
son,  Thomas  O'Reilly,  of  Beltrasna,  was  de- 
cended  Ct)unt  Alexander  O'Reilly,  of  Spain, 
who  TOOK  Algiers  !  immortahzetl  by  Bn'on. 
This  .Alexander  was  bom  near  Oldcastle,  in 
the  County  Meatli,  in  the  year  1722.  He  was 
Generahssimo  of  his  Cathohc  ALijesty's 
forces,  and  Lispector-Cjeuenil  of  the  Infantry, 
etc.,  etc.  In  the  year  1780  he  employed  the 
Chevalier  Thomas  0'(Torman  to  compile  for 
him  a  history  of  the  House  of  O'Reilly,  for 
which  he  paid  O'Gorman  the  sum  of  £1,137 
10.V.,  the  originsU  receij^t  for  which  I  have  in 
my  possession. 

"  From  this  branch  of  the  O'Reilly  family 
was  also  descended  the  illustrious  Andrew 
Count  O'Reilly,  who  died  at  Vienna  in  1832. 
at  the  age  of  !)2.  He  was  Oenend  of  Cavah'v 
in  the  .Austrian  sen-ice.  This  distinguished 
man  filled  in  succession  all  the  mihtai'v 
grades  in  the  Austrian  service,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  that  of  Field  Marahid,  and  was 
cidled  1>}'  Napoleon  '  /«  rcxix-ctable  General 
O'lieill,// 

"Tlie  eldest  son  of  Myles  J.  O'Reilly, 
Esq.,  is  a  young  gentleman  of  great  promise 
and  considerable  fortune.  His  rencontre  vrith 
Lord  Clements  (now  Earl  of  Leitrim)  has 
been  not  long  since  ])rominently  before  tlie 
public,  and  in  a  niiuiner  wliicli  does  justice 
to  our  old  party  (piarrels  1  Both  are,  how- 
ever, worthy  of  their  high  descent  ;  and  it 
is  to  be  hoj>ed  that  tliev  will  soon  Ijecome 
good  friends,  as  they  are  both  young,  and 
remirkablc  for  benevolence  and  love  of 
fatherland." 

As  this  has  been  considered  by  some  j)er- 
fons  as  a  historical  novel,  idthough  I  really 


never  intended  it  as  such,  it  may  be  necessar* 
to  give  the  reader  a  more  disrmct  notion  o,'' 
the  i)eriod  in  which  the  incidents  recorded 
in  it  took  place.  The  period  then  was  ab(jut 
I  that  of  1745,  when  Lord  Chestei-field  was 
Govemor-Cxenend  of  L-eliuid.  This  nol)le- 
man,  though  an  infidel,  was  a  bigot,  and  j; 
decided  lUiti-Cathohc  ;  nor  do  I  think  that 
the  temporaiT  relaxation  of  the  penal  laws 
against  Catholics  was  anv'tiiing  else  than  an 
apprehension  on  the  ly.ivt  of  England  that 
the  claims  of  the  Pretender  might  be  sujj- 
ported  by  the  Lish  C'athohcs,  who  then,  so 
depressed  and  persecuted,  must  have  natu- 
rally felt  a  strong  interest  in  baring  a  prince 
who  jirofessed  their  own  rehgion  placed  upon 
the  English  throne.  Strange  as  it  may  ap- 
jiear,  however,  and  be  the  cause  of  it  what  it 
may,  the  Cathohcs  of  L'eland,  as  a  peojile 
and  as  a  body,  took  no  pai't  whatever  in  sup- 
porting him.  Under  Lord  Chestei-field's  ad- 
ministr.itiou,  one  of  the  most  shocking  and 
unnatural  Acts  of  Parhainent  ever  conceived 
jMssed  into  a  law.  This  was  the  making  void 
and  null  all  uiteiTuaiTiages  between  Cathohc 
and  Protestant  that  should  take  jilace  after 
the  1st  of  May,  174(j.  Such  an  Act  was  a 
I'enewal  of  the  Statute  of  lulkeuny,  and  it 
was  a  fortimate  circumstance  to  Willy  Reilly 
and  his  dear  Cuolcen  Jkiivii  that  he  liad  the 
consolation  <;f  having  been  transported  for 
seven  years.  Had  her  father  even  given  liis 
consent  at  an  earlier  period,  the  laws  of  the 
Luid  would  have  rendered  their  maniage  im- 
jjossible.  This  cruel  law,  however,  was  over- 
looked ;  for  it  need  hsu'iUy  be  said  that  it 
was  met  and  spurned  not  oidy  by  human 
reason,  but  by  hiuuau  jjaasion.  In  truth, 
the  strong  iuid  intlueuti:il  of  botli  rehgions 
treated  it  with  contempt,  and  ti-ampled  on  it 
without  any  dread  of  the  consequences.  By 
the  time  of  his  return  fi'om  transportation, 
it  was  merely  a  dead  letter,  ilisregurded  and 
scorned  by  both  pjulies,  and  was  no  ob- 
stniction  to  either  the  man-iiige  or  the  happi- 
ness of  himself  and  his  dear  C'nolren  Bairn. 

I  know  not  that  there  is  any  thing  else  I 
can  iuld  to  this  pref'ac(^  luiless  the  fact  tliat  I 
have  hearil  several  other  ballads  ujion  the 
subject  of  these  celebrated  lovers — all  of  the 
same  tendency,  an<l  all  in  the  highest  praise 
of  the  beauty  and  virtues  of  the  fair  Coulrrn 
Ji'iiim.  Tlu'ii-  utter  \nilgaritv,  liowcver,  pre- 
cludes them  from  a  jilace  in  these  jiages. 
And,  by  the  way.  talking  of  tlie  law  which 
j)a.ssed  under  the  adiiiinistration  of  Lord 
Cliestertield  against  intermarriages,  it  is  not 
imjtrobable  that  the  elo])cment  of  Reilly  ;uid 
the  <  'iioleen  /lairn,  in  addition  to  the  execu- 
tion of  the  man  to  whom  I  have  given  tlie 
name  of  Sir  Robert  \Vhitecnift,  may  have  in- 
troduced it  in  a  spirit  of  reaction,  not  ouh 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


against  the  consequences  of  the  elopement, 
but  against  the  baronet's  ignominious  death. 
Thus,  in  every  point  from  which  we  can  view 
it,  the  fate  of  tbis  celebrated  couple  involved 
not  only  jjopular  feeling,  but  national  impor- 
tance. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  trace  with  any  ac- 
ciu'acy  or  satisfaction  that  portion  or  branch 
of  the  O'Keilly  family  to  which  my  hero  be- 
longed. The  dreary  lajise  of  time,  and  his 
removal  fi'om  the  ccuutry,  have  been  the 
means  of  sweepmg  into  obli^don  every 
thing  concerning  him,  M'ith  the  exception  of 
his  love  for  Rliss  FoUiard,  and  its  strange  con- 
sequences. Even  tradit)o>3  is  silent  uijou 
that  pai-t  of  the  subject,  and  I  fear  that  any 
attempt  to  tlu-ow  hght  u])on  it  must  end 
only  in  disappointment.  I  )ia">-'e  reason  to 
beheve  that  the  Counsellor  i'ox.  who  acted 
as  his  advocate,  was  never  liimseK  raised  to 
the  bench  ;  but  that  that  lionor  wa,«  reserved 
for  Ms  son,  who  was  an  active  jud^>'f>  p  Htvle 
before  the  close  of  the  last  century. 

W.  CAEir'<~i-' 

Dublin,  December,  185G. 


CHAPTER  I.  I 

I 
Ah  Adventure  and  an  Encape.  \ 

i 

SpffiiT  of  George   Prince   Regent  James,  I 
Esq.,  forgive  me  this  commencement !  * 

It  was  one  evenuig  at  the  close  of  a  Sej)- 
tember  month  and  a  September  day  that 
two  equestrians  might  be  obseiTed  passing 
along  one  of  those  old  and  lonely  Irish  roads 
that  seemed,  from  the  nature  of  its  con- 
stmctiou,  to  have  been  paved  by  a  society  of 
antiquarians,  if  a  person  could  judge  from 
its  obsolete  character,  and  the  difficulty, 
without  risk  of  neck  or  hmb,  of  riding  a 
horse  or  driving  a  eaiiiage  along  it.  Ii'elaud, 
as  our  Enghsh  readers  ought  to  know,  has 
always  been  a  countiy  teeming  with  abun- 
dance— a  hapjjy  land,  in  which  want,  desti- 
tution, sickness,  and  famine  have  never  been 
felt  or  kno^^^l,  excejjt  through  the  menda- 
cious misrepresentations  of  her  enemies. 
The  road  we  speak  of  was  a  proof  of  this  ; 
for  it  was  erident  to  every  observer  that,  in 
some  season  of  superabimdaut  food,  the 
people,  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  dispose 
of  their  shilling  loaves,  took  to  paving  the 
common  roads  with  them,  rather  than  they 
should  be  utterly  useless.     These  loaves,  in 

*  I  mean  no  ofEence  whatsoever  to  this  distin- 
guished and  multitudinous  writer  ;  but  the  com- 
mencement of  this  novel  really  resembled  that  of 
so  m.any  of  his  that  I  was  anxious  to  avoid  the 
charge  of  imitating  him. 


the  course  of  time,  imderwent  the  process  ol 
petrifaction,  but  could  not,  nevertheless,  be 
looked  ui^ou  as  wholly  lost  to  the  countiy. 
A  great  number  of  the  Irish,  within  six  of 
the  last  i^receding  years — that  is,  fi-om  '4G  to 
'52 — took  a  pecuhar  fancy  for  them  as  food, 
which,  we  jwesume,  caused  their  enemies  to 
say  that  we  then  had  hard  times  in  Ii-eland. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  it  enabled  the  sagacious 
ej)icures  who  lived  ujson  them  to  retire,  in 
due  covu-se,  to  the  dehghtful  retreats  of 
Skull  find  Skibbereen,*  and  similar  asylums, 
there  to  jjass  the  very  short  remainder  of 
their  hves  in  health,  ease,  and  luxury. 

The  evening,  as  we  have  said,  was  about 
the  close  of  Sej)tember,  when  the  two  eques- 
trians we  speak  of  were  proceeding  at  a  pace 
necf.ssarilij  alow.  One  of  them  was  a  bluff, 
fi'esh-comj)lexioned  man,  of  about  sixty  sum- 
mers ;  but  although  of  a  healthy  look,  and  a 
frame  that  had  evidently  once  been  vigorous, 
yet  he  was  a  good  deal  stoojsed,  had  about 
him  all  the  impotence  of  plethora,  and  his 
hiiu-,  which  fell  down  his  shoulders,  was 
white  as  snow.  The  other,  who  rode  pretty 
close  to  him,  was  much  about  his  own  age, 
or  perhajjs  a  few  yeai's  older,  if  one  could 
iudge  by  a  face  that  gave  more  tuideniable 
evidences  of  those  furrows  and  WTinkles 
wli'ch  Time  ttsually  leaves  behind  him.  This 
person  did  not  ride  exactly  side  by  side  with 
the  tir?t-uientioned,  but  a  httle  aback,  though 
not  so  fa?-  as  to  jireveut  the  i^ossibOity  of 
conversation.  At  this  time  it  may  be  men- 
tioned here  that  every  man  that  could  afford 
it  wore  a  wi,g,  with  the  excejition  of  some  of 
those  eccentric  individuals  that  ai'e  to  be 
found  in  every  state  and  jieriod  of  society, 
and  who  are  reraai'kable  for  that  pecuhar 
love  of  singuki-ity  wlxich  gener;dly  constitutes 
then-  character — a  small  and  harmless  am- 
bition, easily  gi-atiiieJ,  and  iuvolvuig  no 
injury  to  theu'  fellow-creatures.  The  second 
horseman,  therefore,  wore  a  wig,  but  the 
other,  although  he  eschewed  that  ornament, 
if  it  can  be  caUed  so,  was  b>  no  means  a  m;ui 
of  that  mild  and  hannless  character  which 
we  have  attributed  to  the  eccentric  and  un- 
fashionable class  of  whom  v,e  have  just 
spoken.  So  far  fi'om  that,  he  was  a  man  of 
an  obstinate  and  violent  temper,  of  strong 
and  unreflecting  prejudices  both  for  good 
and  evil,  hot,  jjerseveriug,  and  vindictive, 
though     personally     brave,     intrepid,    and 


*  Two  poor-houses  in  the  most  desolate  p.arts  of 
the  County  of  Cork,  where  famine,  fever,  dysen- 
tery, and  cholera,  rendered  more  destructive  by 
the  crowded  state  of  the  houses  and  the  consequent 
want  of  ventilation,  swept  away  the  wretched  in- 
mates to  the  amount,  if  we  reooll'ict  riphtly.  of 
sometimes  from  fifty  to  seventy  per  d:ei.n  in  the 
years  '45  and  '47. 


WrLLY  REILLY. 


often  fjcnerotis.  Like  many  of  his  class, 
ne  never  trouhlcil  bis  head  al)out  rehgioii 
as  a  mutter  that  must,  and  ought  to  have 
oeen,  personally,  of  the  chiefest  interest 
to  himself,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  was 
looked  upon  as  one  of  the  best  and 
staunohest  Proteshmts  of  the  day.  His  loy- 
alty and  devotcdness  to  the  throne  of  Eiipf- 
land  were  not  onlj'  unquestionable,  but 
proverbiid  thi'ouj^hout  the  coiuitiy ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  he  refjiu'ded  no  clergy- 
num,  either  of  his  owii  or  anj'  other  creed, 
as  a  man  whose  intimacy  was  worth  preseiT- 
in*^,  unless  he  was  able  to  take  oflf  lus  three 
or  four  bottles  of  claret  after  dinner.  In 
fact,  not  to  keep  our  readers  lonjjer  in  sus- 
pense, the  rel;itiou  v\hich  he  and  his  com- 
panion bore  to  each  other  was  that  of  master 
and  servant. 

The  hour  was  now  a  little  jiast  twHight, 
and  tlie  western  slcy  presented  an  unusual, 
if  not  an  ominous,  apjiearance.  A  sharp  and 
melancholy  Ijreeze  was  abroad,  and  the  sun, 
which  had  set  among  a  mass  of  red  clouds, 
half  placid,  and  half  augi-y  in  apjieiu-auce, 
had  for  some  brief  space  gone  downi.  Over 
fi'om  the  north,  however,  glided  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  a  long  black  bar,  right 
across  the  place  of  his  disappejmince,  (md 
nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the 
wild  and  unnatural  contrast  between  the  dy- 
ing crimson  of  the  west  and  this  fearful  muss 
of  impenetrable  darkness  that  came  over  it. 
As  yet  there  was  no  moon,  and  the  portion 
of  light  cr  rather  "  darkness  visible  "  that 
feel)ly  aj.peared  on  the  sky  and  the  land- 
Kcape,  was  shigularly  sombre  and  impres- 
sive, if  not  actually  appalluig.  The  scene 
about  them  was  wild  and  desolate  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  and  as  the  faint  outlines  of  the  bleak 
and  barren  moors  apjieared  in  the  dim  and 
melancholy  distance,  the  feelings  they  in- 
sjiired  were  those  of  discomfort  and  depres- 
sion. On  eiich  side  of  them  were  a  Viu-iety 
of  lonely  lakes,  abrupt  precipices,  and  ex- 
tensive marshes  ;  and  as  our  travellers  went 
along,  the  hum  of  the  snipe,  the  feeble  but 
mournful  cry  of  the  plover,  and  the  wilder 
and  more  piercing  whistle  of  the  curlew, 
still  deepened  the  melancholy  dreariness  of 
tlieir  situation,  and  added  to  their  anxiety 
to  i)ress  on  towards  the  jilace  of  their  des- 
tination. 

"  Tliis  is  a  verj'  lonely  spot,  your  honor,  " 
Slid  his  servant,  whose  name  was  Andrew, 
or,  iis  lie  was  more  fcuniliarly  called,  Anily 
Cummiskey. 

'■  Yes,  but  it's  the  safer,  Andy,"  replied  liis 
master.  "  There  is  not  a  human  habitation 
wiUiin  miles  of  ns." 

"  It  <loesn't  follow,  sir.  that  this  place,  above 
all   others  in  the  neighliorhood,  is  not,  es- 


l^ecially  at  this  hour,  wthout  some  persona 
aljout  it.     You  know  I'm  no  coward,  sii-." 

"  What,  you  scoundrel !  and  do  you  mear. 
to  hint  that  I'm  one  ?  " 

"  Not  at  idl,  sir  ;  but  you  see  the  truth  is. 
that,  this  being  the  very  hour  for  dr.ck  iuid 
wild-fowl  shootiu",  it's  hiu'd  to  say  where  or 
when  a  fellow  might  start  up,  and  mistake 
rac  for  a  wild  duck,  and  j'our  honor  for  a 
curlew  or  a  bittern." 

Ho  had  no  sooner  s])oken  than  the  breeze 
started,  as  it  were,  into  more  vigorous  liic 
and  ere  the  sjjace  of  many  minutes  a  dark 
impenetrable  mist  or  fog  was  bome  over 
from  the  solitary  hills  across  the  dreary  level 
of  country  through  which  they  jjassed,  and 
they  felt  themselves  suddenly  chilled,  whilst 
a  d.u'kness,  almos.t  piilpable,  nearly  concealed 
them  from  each  other.  Now  the  roads  which 
we  have  described,  being  almost  without  ex- 
ception in  remote  and  imfi-equented  jiarts  of 
the  country,  are  for  the  most  part  covered 
over  with  a  thick  snle  of  close  gi'ass,  unless 
where  a  naiTow  strip  in  the  centre  shows 
that  a  pathw.ay  is  kept  worn,  and  distinctly 
mark('d  1  )y  the  tread  of  foot-])assengers.  Un- 
der all  these  circumstances,  then,  our  i-ead- 
ers  need  not  feel  suiijriscd  that,  owing  at 
once  to  the  imiDenetraljle  obscurity  around 
them,  and  the  noiseless  nature  of  the  antique 
and  grass-covered  pavement  t)ver  which  they 
went,  siarcely  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
yards  had  been  gained  when  tliey  found,  to 
their  dismay,  that  they  had  lost  their  path 
and  were  in  one  of  the  wild  and  heathy 
stretches  of  unbounded  moor  by  which  they 
were  surroiuided. 

"We  have  lost  our  waj',  Andy,"  ob.served 
his  master.  "  We've  got  oft"  that  damned  old 
path  ;  what's  to  be  done?  where  are  you  ?  " 

"I'm  here,  sir,"  replied  his  man  ;  "but  as 
for  what's  to  be  done,  it  would  take  jVLive 
MuUen,  that  sees  the  fairies  and  teUs  for- 
tunes, to  tell  us  that.  For  heaven's  sake, 
st^iy  where  you  are,  sir,  till  I  get  \\\t  to  you, 
for  if  we  part  from  one  anothei",  we're  both 
lost.     "Where  !U-e  you.  sir  ?  " 

"  Curse  you,  sirra,"  re2)lie(l  his  master  an- 
giily,  "is  this  either  a  time  or  j)lace  to 
jest  in  ?  A  man  that  woidd  make  a  jest  in 
such  a  situation  as  this  would  djince  on  his 
father's  ttnubstone." 

"  Jiy  my  soul,  sir,  and  I'd  give  a  five-pound 
note,  if  I  had  it,  that  you  and  I  were  dan- 
cing '  JigPoltliogue  '  on  it  this  minuie.  Bnl. 
in  the  mane  time,  the  devil  a  one  o'  uie  seen 
the  joke  your  honor  s])eaks  of." 

"Why,  then,  do  you  a.sk  me  where  lam, 
when  you  know  I^ii  astray,  that  we  re  l)ot)i 
a.stray,  yon  snivelling  old  wlieljt  V  IJy  tli' 
gi'eat  and  good  King  William,  I'll  bu  losi 
Andv  ! " 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


"  Well,  and  even  if  you  are,  sii',"  replied 
Andj',  who,  guided  by  liis  voice,  had  now 
approached  and  joined  him  ;  "  even  if  you 
are,  sii-,  I  tmst  you'll  bear  it  like  a  Christian 
and  a  Trojan." 

"  Get  out,  you  old  sniveller — ^what  do  you 
mean  by  a  Trojan  ?  " 

"A  Trojan,  sii-,  I  was  tould,  is  a  man  that 
lives  by  sellin'  Mdld-fowl.  They  take  an 
oath,  sir,  before  they  begin  the  trade,  never 
to  die  uutU  they  can't  heli^  it." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  or  to  hint  at  least,  that 
in  addition  to  our  other  dangers  we  run 
(he  risk  of  coming  in  contact  with  poach- 
ers ?  " 

"Well,  then,  sir,  if  I  don't  mistake  they're 
out  to-niglit.  However,  don't  let  us  alarm 
one  another.  God  forbid  that  I'd  say  a  sin- 
gle word  to  frighten  you ;  but  still,  you 
know  yourself  that  there's  many  a  man  not 
a  hundred  miles  fi'om  us  that  '  ud  be  glad  to 
mistake  you  for  a  target,  a  mallard,  or  any 
other  wild-fowl  of  that  description." 

"Li  the  meantime  we  are  both  well 
;inned,"  replied  his  master  ;  "  but  what  I  fear 
most  is  the  i-isk  we  ran  of  falling  down 
precipices,  or  walking  into  lakes  or  quag- 
mires. "WTiat's  to  be  done  ?  This  fog  is  so 
cursedly  cold  that  it  has  chilled  uiy  very 
blood  into  ice." 

"  Oiu"  best  j)lan,  sir,  is  to  dismount,  and 
keep  ourselves  warm  by  taking  a  jjleasaut 
etroll  across  the  country.  The  horses  will 
take  care  of  themselves.  In  the  meantime 
keep  up  youi-  spirits — we'll  both  want  some- 
thing to  console  us  ;  but  this  I  can  tell  you, 
that  de%dl  a  bit  of  tombstone  ever  wiU.  go 
over  either  of  us,  barrin'  the  sky  in  heaven  ; 
smd  for  oiu-  coflins,  let  us  pray  to  the  coffin- 
maker,  bekaise,  you  see,  it's  the  maddhu 
riiah*  (the  foxes),  and  ravens,  and  other 
civilized  animals  that  wOl  coffin  us  both  by 
instalments  in  their  hungry  gaits,  imtd  om- 
bones  wiU  be  beautiful  to  look  at — afther 
about  six  months'  bleaching — and  a  sharj) 
eye  'twould  be  that  'ud  know  the  difference 
between  masther  and  man  then,  I  think." 

We  omitted  to  say  that  a  jjiercing  and 
most  severe  hoar  frost  had  set  in  wth  the 
fog,  and  that  Cummiskey's  master  felt  the 
immediate  necessity  of  dismounting,  and 
walking  about,  in  order  to  presei-ve  some 
degree  of  animixl  heat  in  his  body. 

"  I  cannot  bear  this,  Andy,"  said  he,  "  and 
these  two  gallant  animals  wiU  never  recover 
it  after  the  severe  day's  hunting  they've  had. 
Poor  Fiddler  and  Piper,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  this  has  proved  a  melancholy  day  to  you 
both.     What  is  to  be  done,  AJidy?     I  am 

*  Maddhu  ruah,  or  red  dog,  the  Irish  name  for 
'■/he  fox. 


scarcely  able  to  stand,  and  feel  as  if  mj 
streugih  had  utterly  left  me." 

"  "What,  su',"  rejjhed  his  servant,  who  wan 
certainly  deefily  attached  to  his  master,  "  is 
it  so  bad  with  you  as  all  that  comes  to  'i 
Sure  I  onlj'  thought  to  amuse  you,  sir. 
Come,  take  coiu-age  ;  I'U  whistle,  and  maybe 
somebody  v\ill  come  to  our  relief." 

He  accordingly  put  his  two  lingers  into 
his  mouth,  and  uttered  a  loud  and  piercing 
whistle,  after  wliioh  both  stood  stdl  for  a 
time,  but  no  reply  was  given. 

"Stop,  sir,"  proceeded  Andrew;  I'U  give 
them  another  touch  that'll  make  them  spake, 
if  there's  any  one  near  enough  to  hear  us." 

He  once  more  repeated  the  whistle,  but 
with  two  or  thi-ee  jjecuhar  shakes  or  varia- 
tions, when  almost  instantly  one  of  a  similar 
character  was  given  in  reply. 

"Thank  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "be  they 
friends  or  foes,  we  have  human  creatures  not 
far  from  us.  Take  courage,  sir.  How  do 
you  feel  ?  " 

"Frozen  and  chilled  almost  to  death," 
repKed  his  master  ;  "  I'll  give  fifty  jioimds 
to  any  man  or  pai'ty  of  men  that  wdl  conduct 
us  safely  home." 

"  I  hope  in  the  Almighty,"  said  Andrew  to 
himself  in  an  anxious  and  apprehensive  tone 
of  voice,  "  that  it's  not  Parrali  Ruah  (Red 
Patrick),  the  red  Eapparee,  that's  in  it,  and 
I'm  afeered  it  is,  for  I  think  I  know  his  whistle. 
There's  not  a  man  in  the  three  baronies 
coidd  give  such  a  whistle  as  that,  barring  him- 
self. If  it  is,  the  masther's  a  gone  man, 
and  I'U  not  be  left  behind  to  tell  the  story, 
God  protect  us  !  " 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Andy  ?  "  asked  his 
master.  "  What  were  you  mutteiing  just 
now  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  su",  nothing  ;  but  there  can  be 
no  harm,  at  aU  events,  to  look  to  oui-  pistols. 
If  there  should  be  danger,  let  us  seU  our 
Uves  hke  men." 

"And  so  we  v\iU,  Andy.  Tlie  countiy  I 
know  is  in  a  distiu'bed  and  lawless  state,  and 
ever  since  that  unfortunate  atfaii-  of  the 
j)riest,  I  know  I  am  not  ijopulai-  with  a  great 
many.  I  hojie  we  won't  come  across  his 
Kapi^ai-ee  uej)hew." 

"  WTiether  we  do  or  not,  sir,  let  us  look  to 
our  firearms.  Show  me  yours  tiU  I  settle 
the  powdher  in  them.  Why,  God  bless  me, 
how  you  are  tremblin'." 

"It  is  not  from  feiu-,  sir,"  replied  th? 
intrejiid  old  man,  "  but  from  cold.  If  any 
thing  should  happen  me,  Andy,  let  my 
daughter  know  that  my  wiU  is  in  the  oaken 
cabinet  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  la><i  I  made.  She 
is  my  heu-ess — but  that  she  is  by  the  laws  of 
the  land.  However,  as  I  had  disjjosed  of 
some  jiersoual  property  to   other  person* 


L':"Ar!Y 

.       TnlE 

liNMVERSriV  OF   ILUNf>i3 


WILLY  REILLY. 


which  disposition  I  have  revoked  in  the  ■s^'ill 
I  speak  of — my  last,  as  I  said — I  wish  you  to 
let  her  know  where  she  may  find  it.  Her 
mother's  jewels  are  also  in  the  same  place — 
but  they,  too,  are  hers  by  right  of  law — her 
mother  bequeathed  them  to  her." 

"Ah  !  sir,  you  are  right  to  remember  and 
think  well  of  that  daughter.  She  has  been  a 
guardian  angel  to  you  these  five  years.  But 
why,  su',  do  you  give  me  this  message  ?  Do 
you  think  I  won't  sell  my  life  in  defence  of 
yours  ?     If  you  do  j'ou're  mistaken." 

"  IbeUeve  it,  Andi-ew  ;  Ibeheve  it,  Andy," 
said  ne  again,  famdiarizing  the  w^ord  ;  but  if 
this  red  liajjparee  should  murder  me,  I  don't 
wish  you  to  sacrifice  your  Hfe  on  my  account. 
Miike  yoiu'  escape  if  he  should  be  the  person 
who  is  approaching  us,  and  convey  to  my 
daughter  the  message  I  have  given  you." 

At  this  moment  another  whistle  jsroceeded 
fi'om  a  quai'ter  of  the  moor  much  nearer 
them,  and  Andy,  having  handed  back  the 
pistols  to  his  master,  asked  him  should  he 
return  it. 

"  Certainly,"  rephed  the  other,  who  dui-- 
ing  all  this  time  was  jJaeing  to  and  fro,  in 
order  to  keeji  himself  from  sinking  ;  "  cer- 
tainly, let  us  see  whether  these  pier  sons  are 
fi'iends  or  enemies." 

His  sei-vant  then  replied  to  the  whistle, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  it  was  answered  again, 
wlulst  at  the  same  time  a  strong  but  bitter 
wind  arose  which  cleared  away  the  mist,  and 
showed  them  -with  considerable  distinctness 
the  position  which  they  oeeuijied. 

"Within  about  ten  yai-ds  of  them,  to  the 
left,  the  veiT  direction  in  which  they  had 
been  proceeding,  was  a  small  deejj  lake  or 
tarn,  utterly  shoreless,  and  into  which  they 
unciuestiouably  wovdd  have  walked  and  per- 
ished, as  neither  of  them  knew  how  to  swim. 
The  clearing  away  of  the  mist,  and  the 
hght  of  the  stars  (for  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen),  enabled  the  parties  to  see  each  other, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Andrew  and  his  master 
were  joined  by  four  men,  the  i^rincipal  j^er- 
son  among  them  being  the  identical  indi- 
vidual whom  they  both  had  di-eaded — the 
Eed  Rapparee. 

"Master,"  said  Cummiskey,  iu  a  whisper, 
on  seeing  them  approach,  "we  must  fight 
for  it,  I'm  afeered,  but  let  us  not  be  rash ; 
there  may  be  a  friend  or  two  among  them, 
and  it  is  better  to  come  off  peaceably  if  we 
can." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  replied  his  master. 
"  There  is  no  iise  iu  shedding  unnecessaiy 
blood  ;  but,  in  any  event,  let  us  not  permit 
them  to  disarm  us,  should  they  insist  on 
doing  so.  They  know  I  never  go  three  yards 
from  my  hall-door  without  arms,  and  it  is  not 
improbable  they  may  make  a  jjoiut  of  taking 


them  fi'om  us.  I,  however,  for  one.  Trill  not 
trust  to  their  promises,  for  I  know  tlieir 
treachery,  as  I  do  their  cowardice,  when 
their  numbers  ai'e  but  few,  and  an  armed 
op23onent  or  two  before  them,  determined  to 
give  battle.  Stand,  therefore,  by  me,  Andy, 
and,  by  King  WUham,  should  they  have  re- 
course to  violence,  we  shiill  let  them  see,  and 
feel  too,  that  we  are  not  unprepared." 

"I  have  but  one  life,  sii-,"  replied  his 
faithful  follower  ;  "it  was  silent — at  least  its 
best  days  were — in  your  service,  and  sooner 
than  any  danger  should  come  to  you,  it  wOl 
be  lost  in  your  defence.  If  it  was  only  for 
the  sake  of  her,  that  is  not  here,  the  Cooleen 
Bawn.  I  would  do  it." 

"  VTho  goes  there  ?  "  asked  a  deep  and 
powerful  voice  when  the  parties  had  come 
■s^ithin  about  twentj'  yards  of  each  other. 

"  By  the  powers  !  "  exclaimed  Andrew  in  a 
whisper,  "  it's  himseK — the  Red  Eapparee  ! " 

"  "We  are  fiiends,"  he  rephed,  "  and  have 
lost  our  way." 

The  other  jjai'ty  approached,  and,  on  join- 
ing our  travellers,  the  Eiijjpai-ee  started,  ex- 
claiming, ""What,  noble  Squire,  is  it  possible 
that  this  is  you  ?  Hut !  it  can't  be — let  me 
look  at  you  closer,  tUl  I  make  sure  of  you." 

"  Keej}  yoiu'  distance,  sh',"  rejalied  the  old 
man  with  courage  and  dignity  ;  "  keep  youi- 
distance  ;  you  see  that  I  and  my  sen-aut  are 
both  v.^li  armed,  and  determined  to  defend 
ourselves  against  violence." 

An  ominous  and  ferocious  glance  piassed 
from  the  Rapparee  to  his  comrades,  who, 
however,  said  nothing,  but  seemed  to  be  re- 
solved to  gaiide  themselves  altogether  by  his 
conduct.  The  Red  Eapparee  was  a  huge 
man  of  about  forty,  and  the  epithet  of  "  Red  " 
had  been  given  to  him  in  consecjueuce  of  the 
color  of  his  haii'.  In  expression  his  counte- 
nance was  by  no  means  unhandsome,  being 
florid  and  symmetrical,  but  hard,  and  with 
sciU'cely  any  trace  of  feeling.  His  brows 
were  far  asunder,  arguing  ingenuity  and  in- 
vention, but  his  eyes,  which  were  small  and 
treacherous,  glared — whenever  he  became  ex- 
cited— with  the  ferocity  of  an  enraged  tiger. 
His  shoulders  were  broad,  his  chest  deep 
and  squai'e,  his  ai-ms  long  and  powerful,  but 
his  lower  hmbs  were  somewhat  hght  in  pro- 
portion to  the  pTeat  size  of  his  upper  figure. 
This,  however,  is  generally  the  case  when  a 
miui  combines  iu  his  o•^^•n  person  the  united 
quaUties  of  activity  and  strength.  Even  at 
the  period  we  ar-e  describing,  when  this  once 
celebrated  character  was  forty  years  of  age, 
it  was  well  kno^vn  that  in  fleetness  of  foot 
there  was  no  man  in  the  prorince  able  to 
compete  T\ith  him.  Li  athletic  exercises  that 
retjuired  strength  and  skiU  he  never  had  a 
rival,  but  one — with  whom  the  reader  will 


10 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


soon  be  made  acquaintetl.  He  was  wrapped 
loosely  in  a  gray  frieze  big-coat,  or  colhamore, 
as  it  is  called  in  Iiish — wore  a  hat  of  two 
colors,  and  so  pli.mt  in  texture  that  he  coiild 
at  any  time  turn  it  inside  out.  His  coat  was 
— as  indeed  were  all  his  clothes — made  ujjou 
the  sn.me  principle,  so  that  when  hai'd  pressed 
by  the  authorities  he  could  in  a  minute  or 
two  transmute  himself  into  the  ajspeai-ance 
of  a  man  veiy  diiferent  from  the  individual 
described  to  them.  Indeed  he  was  such  a 
perfect  Proteus  that  no  vigilance  of  the  Ex- 
ecutive was  ever  a  match  for  his  versatihty 
of  appearance,  swiftness  of  foot,  and  caution. 
These  frecjuent  defeats  of  the  authorities  of 
that  day  made  him  extremely  j)opular  with 
the  people,  who  were  always  ready  to  aflbrd 
him  shelter  and  means  of  concealment,  in 
return  for  which  he  assisted  them  with  food, 
money,  and  the  spoils  of  his  predatoiy  hfe. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  sagacious  j^rincijale  of 
the  Iiish  Kobbers  and  Rapparees  from  the 
beginning — lo  rob  from  the  rich  and  give  to 
the  poor  being  their  motto. 

The  persons  who  accompanied  him  on  this 
occasion  were  tlu'ee  of  his  own  gang,  T/ho 
usually  constituted  his  body-guai-d,  and  acted 
as  videttes,  either  for  his  iDrotection  or  for 
the  jjui'jjose  of  bringing  him  information  of 
such  travellers  as  fi'om  then*  kno\\Ti  wealth 
or  external  appearance  might  be  suj^posed 
worth  attacking.  They  were  weU-niixcle,  ac- 
tive, and  athletic  men,  in  whom  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  recognize  any  j)articular  chai-acter 
at  variance  with  that  of  the  peasantry  around 
them.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  thej' 
were  aU  armed.  Having  satisfied  himself  as 
to  the  identity  of  master  and  man,  with  a 
glance  at  his  companions,  the  Eapjjaree  said, 

"^\1iat  on  earth  brought  you  and  Andy 
Cummiskey  here,  noble  squire  ?  Oh  !  you  lost 
your  way,  Andy  says.  Well  now,"  he  jjro- 
ceeded,  "you  know  I  have  been  many  a  day 
and  night  on  the  lookout  for  you  ;  aye,  could 
have  imt  dayhght  tkrough  you  many  and 
many  a  time  ;  and  what  do  you  thuik  pre- 
vented me  ?  " 

"Fear  of  God,  or  of  the  gallows,  I  hope," 
replied  the  intrepid  old  man. 

"Well,"  returned  the  Eajipai-ee,  with  a 
smile  of  scorn,  "  I'm  not  a  man — as  I  sup- 
pose you  may  know — that  ever  feared  either 
of  them  much — God  forgive  me  for  the  one, 
I  don't  ask  his  forgiveness  for  the  other. 
No,  Squire  FoUiard,  it  was  the  goodness,  the 
kindness,  the  generosity,  and  the  charity  of 
the  Cvoleen  Bawn,  your  lovely  daughter,  that 
held  my  hand.  You  persecuted  my  old 
vmcle,  the  priest,  and  you  would  a'  hanged 
him  too,  for  merely  marryin '  a  Protestant 
and  a  Catholic  together.  Well,  sir,  your  fan- 
daughter,  and  her  good  mother — that's  now 


in  heaven,  I  hope — went  up  to  Dublin  to  tin 
Lord  Lieutenant,  and  before  him  the  Cooleen 
liawn,  went  on  her  two  knees  and  begged 
my  uncle's  life,  and  got  it ;  for  the  Lord  " 
Lieutenant  said  that  no  one  could  denj'  her 
any  thing.  Now,  sir,  for  her  sake,  go  home 
in  j)eace.     Boys,  get  their  horses." 

Andy  Cummiskey  would  have  looked  uiron 
all  this  as  manly  and  generous,  but  he  could 
not  heljj  observing  a  j^articulai-  and  rather 
sinister  meaning  in  the  look  which  the  Rajj- 
jsai'ee  turned  on  his  comjjanions  ashesjjoke. 
He  had  often  heard,  too,  of  lus  treacherous 
disposition  and  his  unrelentuig  craelty 
whenever  he  entertained  n,  feeling  of  ven- 
geance. In  his  i^resent  j)osition,  however,  all 
he  could  do  was  to  stand  on  his  guard  ;  and 
^dth  this  imjjression  strong  upon  him  he  re- 
solved to  piit  no  confidence  in  the  words  of 
the  Rapi^aree.  In  a  few  minutes  the  horses 
were  brought  uji,  and  Randy  (Randal)  Ruah 
having  willed  Mr.  Folliard's  saddle — for 
such  was  his  name^with  the  skirt  of  his 
colhamore,  and  removed  the  hoar  frost  or 
rime  which  had  gathered  on  it,  he  brought 
the  animal  over  to  him,  and  said,  with  a 
kind  of  rude  courtesy, 

"  Come,  sir,  trust  me  ;  I  will  help  you  to 
your  saddle." 

"You  have  not  the  rej)utation  of  being 
tnistworthy,"  rejjlied  Mr.  Folhard  ;  "keep 
back,  sir,  at  your  peril  ;  I  will  not  trust  you. 
My  own  servant  will  assist  me.  " 

This  seemed  precisely  the  aiTangement 
which  the  Rapparee  and  liis  men  had  con- 
templated. The  squire,  in  mounting,  was 
obhged,  as  every  man  is,  to  use  both  his 
hands,  as  was  his  sei-vant  also,  while  assist- 
ing him.  They  consequently  put  up  theu' 
j)istols  until  they  should  get  into  the  saddles, 
and,  almost  in  an  instant,  fovmd  themselves 
disarmed,  and  jjrisoners  in  the  hands  of 
these  lawless  and  uuscmpulous  men. 

"Now,  Squire  FoUiard,"  exclaimed  the 
Rajjjiaree,  "  see  what  it  is  not  to  trust  an 
honest  man  ;  had  jou  done  so,  not  a  hair  of 
your  head  would  be  injured.  As  it  is,  I'll 
give  you  five  minutes  to  do  three  thmgs ; 
remember  my  imcle,  the  j)riest,  that  you 
transported." 

"He  acted  most  illegally,  sir,"  replied  the 
old  man  indignanily  ;  "  and,  in  my  opinion,  I 
say  that,  in  consequence  of  his  conduct,  the 
coimtry  had  a  good  riddance  of  him.  I  only 
wish  I  could  send  you  after  him  ;  perhaps  I 
shall  do  so  yet.  I  believe  in  Providence, 
sirra,  and  that  Gt)d  can  j^i'otect  me  from 
your  violence  even  here." 

"  In  the  next  place,"  proceeded  the  Rap- 
paree, "  think  of  your  daughter,  that  you  will 
never  see  again,  either  ui  this  world  or  the 
nest." 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


A 


"  I  know  I  am  unworthy  of  having  such  an 
angel,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  but  unless  j-ou 
were  a  cruel  and  a  heartless  ruffian,  you 
would  not  at  this  moment  mention  her,  or 
bring  the  thoughts  of  her  to  my  recol- 
lection." 

"In  the  last  place,  continued  the  other, 
"if  you  have  anj-  thing  to  say  in  the  shape 
of  a  jirayer,  sav  it,  for  in  five  minutes'  time 
there  will  be  a  bullet  through  youi-  heart, 
and  in  five  more  you  will  be  snug  and  wai-m 
at  the  bottom  of  the  loch  there  below — that's 
your  doom." 

"  O'Domiel,"  said  Andy,  "  think  that 
there's  a  God  above  you.  Siu-ely  you 
wouldn't  murdher  this  oiild  man  and  make 
the  sowl  within  your  body  redder — if  the 
thing's  possible — than  the  head  that's  on  the 
top  of  it,  though  in  throth  I  don't  think  it's 
by  way  of  ornnjnent  it's  there  either.  Come, 
come,  Randal,  my  man,  this  is  BMfeaxtlmlagh 
(nonsense).  You  onlj'  want  to  frighten  the 
gentleman.  As  for  yoiu-  uncle,  mau  alive, 
all  I  can  say  is  that  he  was  a  fi-iend  to  youi- 
family,  and  to  reUgion  too,  that  sent  him  on 
his  travels." 

"Take  off  your  gallowses"  (braces),  said 
the  Rapparee  ;  "take  them  off,  a  couple  of 
you — for,  by  all  the  jjowers  of  dai-kuess, 
they'll  both  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  loch 
together,  back  to  back.  Down  you'll  go, 
Andy." 

"  By  my  soul,  then,"  replied  the  unflinch- 
ing servant,  "  if  we  go  down  you'll  go  up  ; 
and  we  have  those  belongin'  to  us  that  wiU 
see  you  kiss  the  hangman  yet.  Yerra,  now, 
above  aU  words  in  the  alphabet  what  could 
put  a  gallows  into  youi-  mouth'?  Faith, 
Randal,  it's  about  your  neck  it'll  go,  and 
you'll  put  out  youi-  tongue  at  the  daicent 
people  that  will  attend  yoiu'  owti  funeral  yet 
^that  is,  if  you  don't  let  us  off." 

"Put  them  both  to  their  knees,"  said  the 
Rapi5ai-ee  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "to  their 
knees  with  them.  I'll  take  the  masther,  and, 
Kiueely,  do  you  take  the  man." 

The  companions  of  the  Rapparee  could 
not  avoid  laughing  at  the  comic  coui'age  dis- 
played by  Cummiskey,  and  were  about  to 
intercede  for  him,  when  O'Donnel,  which  was 
his  name,  stamped  with  fury  on  the  gTouud 
and  asked  them  if  they  dai-ed  to  disobey  him. 
This  sobered  them  at  once,  and  in  less  than 
a  minute  'Six.  Folliai'd  and  Andy  were  placed 
upon  their  knees,  to  await  the  teiTific  sen- 
tence which  was  about  to  be  executed  on 
them,  in  that  wild  and  lonely  moor,  and 
under  such  ajjpalling  cuTumstances.  Wlien 
placed  in  the  desired  postui-e,  to  ask  that 
mercy  fi-om  God  which  they  were  not  about 
to  experience  at  the  hands  of  man,  Squire 
Folhai'd  spoke  : 


"  Red  Rappai'ee,"  said  he,  "  it  is  not  that 
I  am  afi-aid  of  di'ath  as  such,  but  I  feel  that  1 
am  not  prepai-ed  to  die.  Suffer  my  senant 
and  myseh  to  go  home  TOthout  hai'm,  and  1 
shall  engage  not  onlj-  to  get  you  a  paixlou 
from  the  Government  of  the  countiy,  but  I 
shall  fiuTiish  you  with  money  either  to  take  ; 
you  to  some  useful  calling,  or  to  emigrate  to 
some  foreign  countiy,  where  nobody  will 
laiow  of  your  misdeeds,  or  the  life  you  have 
led  here." 

"Randal,  my  man,"  added  Andy,  "hsteu 
to  what  the  gentleman  says,  and  you  may 
escape  what  you  know  yet.  As  for  my  mas- 
ther, Randal,  let  him  pass,  and  take  me  in 
his  jjlace.  I  may  as  well  die  now,  maybe,  as 
another  time.  I  was  an  honest,  faithful  ser- 
vant, at  all  times.  I  have  neither  chick  nor 
child  to  cry  for  me.  No  wife,  thank  God, 
to  break  my  heai-t  afther.  My  conscience  is 
hght  and  aiiy,  like  a  beggaiinau's  blanket, 
as  they  say  ;  and,  ban'in'  that  I  once  got 
drank  \d<\  your  imcle  in  Moll  Flanagan's 
sheebeen  house,  I  don't  know  that  I  have 
much  to  trouble  me.  Spare  liim,  then,  and 
take  me,  if  it  must  come  to  that  He  has 
the  Cuolven  Bawn  to  think  for.  Do  you 
think  of  her,  too  ;  and  remember  that  it  was 
she  who  saved  yoiu-  uncle  fi-om  the  gal- 
lows." 

Tliis  unlucky  allusion  only  deepened  the 
vengeance  of  the  Red  Rapparee,  who  look- 
ed to  the  priming  of  Ids  gim,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  preparing  to  perpetrate  this  most  in- 
human and  awful  mui'der,  when  an  inter- 
ruption took  place  for  which  neither  pai-ty 
was  prepared. 

Now,  it  so  hajapened  that  within  about 
eight  or  ten  yards  of  where  they  stood  there 
existed  the  walls  and  a  portion  of  the  arched 
roof  of  one  of  those  old  ecclesiasticid  ruins, 
which  our  antiquaiians  denominate  Ci/clo- 
pean,  like  hicua  a  non  lucendu,  because  scarcely 
a  dozen  men  could  kneel  in  them.  Over  this 
sad  ruin  was  what  sportsmen  tenn  "  a  pass  " 
for  duck  and  vddgeon,  and,  aided  by  the 
shelter  of  the  building,  any  persons  -who 
stationed  themselves  there  could  certainly 
commit  gi'eat  havoc  among  the  wild-fowl  in 
question.  The  Red  Rapjjaree  then  had  his 
gun  in  his  hand,  and  was  in  the  very  act  of 
adjusting  it  to  his  shoulder,  when  a  power- 
ful young  man  spnmg  forward,  and  dashing 
it  aside,  exclaimed  : 

"  ^Miat  is  this,  Randal  ?  Is  it  a  double 
murder  you  are  about  to  execute,  you  inhu- 
man nitlian  ?  " 

The  Rapi^aree  glared  at  him,  but  with  a 
quailmg  and  subdued,  yet  sullen  and  vindic- 
tive, expression. 

"Stand  up,  sir,"  proceeded  this  dai-ing 
and   animated   young  man,  addi'essing  Mr. 


12 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Folliard  ;  "  and  you,  Cummiskey,  get  to  your 
legs.  No  person  shall  dai-e  to  injiu-e  either 
of  ycu  while  I  am  here.  O'Donuel — stain 
and  disgi-aee  to  a  uoble  name — begone,  you 
and  your  mffians.  I  know  the  cause  of  your 
enmity  against  this  gentleman  ;  and  I  tell 
you  now,  that  if  you  were  as  ready  to  sustain 
your  religion  as  you  are  to  disgrace  it  by 
your  conduct,  you  would  not  become  a  ciu'se 
to  it  and  the  countiy,  nor  give  jjromise  of 
feeding  a  hungry  gallows  some  daj',  as  you 
and  yoiu"  accomplices  will  do." 

Whilst  the  young  stranger  addressed  these 
miscreants  with  such  energj'  and  determina- 
tion, Mr.  FoUiard,  who,  as  well  as  his  ser- 
vant, had  now  got  to  his  legs,  asked  the  latter 
in  a  whisjjer  who  he  was. 

"  By  all  that's  happy,  sii',"  he  rephed,  "  it's 
himself,  the  only  man  living  that  the  Red 
Raj^paree  is  afraid  of  ;  it's  '  WiUy  Reilly.' " 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  Cooleen  Bawn, 

The  old  man  became  very  httle  vdser  by 
the  information  of  his  servant,  and  said  in 
reply,  "  I  hope,  Andy,  he's  not  a  Papist ; " 
but  checkiug  the  unworthy  prejudice — and 
in  him  such  prejudices  were  singulaiiy  strong 
in  words,  although  often  feeble  in  fact — he 
added,  "  it  matters  not — we  owe  oui-  hves  to 
him — the  deejaest  and  most  important  obHga- 
tion  that  one  man  can  owe  to  another.  I  am, 
however,  scarcely'  able  to  stand  ;  I  feel  be- 
numbed and  exhausted,  and  wish  to  get 
home  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Ml-.  EeiUy,"  said  Andy,  "this  gentleman 
is  very  weak  and  HI ;  and  as  you  have  acted 
so  much  like  a  brave  man  and  a  gentleman, 
maybe  you'd  have  no  objection  to  see  us  safe 
home." 

"It  is  my  intention  to  do  so,"  replied 
Reilly.  "  I  could  not  for  a  moment  think  of 
leaving  either  him  or  you  to  the  mercy  of 
this  treacherous  man,  who  dishonors  a  noble 
name.  Randal,"  he  proceeded,  adtlressing 
the  Rapparee,  "  mark  my  words  ! — if  but  a 
single  hair  of  this  gentleman's  head,  or  of  any 
one  belonging  to  him,  is  ever  injui-ed  bj'  you 
or  your  gang,  I  swear  that  you  jmd  they  will 
swing,  each  of  you,  fi'om  as  many  gibbets,  as 
soon  as  the  course  of  the  law  can  reach  you. 
You  know  me,  sir,  and  my  influence  over 
those  who  protect  you.  As  for  you,  Fergus," 
he  added,  addressing  one  of  the  Raj^paree's 
followers,  "  you  are.  thank  God  !  the  only 
Ode  of  my  blood  who  has  ever  disgraced  it 
by  leading  such  a  lav.iess  and  gviUty  hfe.  Be 
advised  by  me — leave  that  man  of  treacheiy, 


rapine,  and  muider — abandon  him  and  re< 
foiTu  yoTu-  hfe — and  if  you  are  disposed  to 
become  a  gO'id  and  an  industrious  mem- 
ber  of  society,  go  to  some  other  countiy, 
where  the  disgrace  you  have  incui-red  in  this 
may  not  follow  you.  Be  advised  by  me,  and 
you  shall  not  want  the  means  of  emigi'ating. 
Now  begone ;  and  think,  each  of  you,  of 
M'hat  I  have  said." 

The  Rapi3ai-ee  glanced  at  the  noble-looking 
young  feUow  vvith  the  vindictive  ferocity  of 
an  enraged  bull,  who  feels  a  disposition  to 
injure  you,  but  is  restrained  by  ten-or  ;  or, 
which  is  quite  as  apiaroisriate,  a  cowai-dly 
but  vindictive  mastiff,  who  eyes  you  askance, 
gi-owls,  shows  his .  teeth,  but  has  not  the 
courage  to  attack  you. 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  so,  sir,"  said  Reilly  ; 
"  you  know  I  fear  you  not." 

"But  in  the  meantime,"  replied  the  Rap- 
jjai'ee,  "what's  to  prevent  ms  fc-om  putting  a 
buUet  into  you  this  moment,  if  I  wish  to  do 
it?" 

"There  are  ten  tliousand  reasons  against 
it,"  returned  Reilly.  "If  you  did  so,  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  you  would  find  youi-- 
self  in  Sligo  jail — or,  to  come  nearer  the 
truth,  in  less  than  five  minutes  you  would 
find  yourself  in  heU." 

"  Well,  now,  sujjpose  I  should  make  the 
trial,"  said  the  Rapparee.  "  You  don't  know, 
Ml'.  ReUly,  how  you  have  crossed  me  to- 
night. Suppose  now  I  should  tiy — and  sup- 
j)ose,  too,  that  not  one  of  you  three  should 
leave  the  sjjot  you  stand  on  only  as  coi-jjses 
— wouldn't  I  have  the  advantage  of  you 
then?" 

Reilly  tiu-ned  towaixls  the  mined  chapel, 
and  simply  raising  his  right  hand,  about 
eight  or  ten  persons  made  their  appearance  ; 
but,  restrained  by  signal  from  him,  they  did 
not  advance. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  he.  "  Now,  Randal, 
I  hope  you  understand  yoiu-  jsosition.  Do 
not  i^rovoke  me  again  ;  for  if  you  do  I  will 
surround  you  with  toils  fi-om  which  you 
could  as  soon  change  youi-  fierce  and  brutal 
natui'e  as  escajse.  Yes,  and  I  will  take  you 
in  the  midst  of  your  niffian  guards,  and  in 
the  deejjest  of  your  fastnesses,  if  ever  you 
provoke  me  as  you  have  done  on  other  oc- 
casions, or  if  you  ever  iujui'e  this  gentleman 
or  any  indi\idual  of  his  family.  Come,  sir," 
he  proceeded,  addi-essing  the  old  man,  "  you 
ai-e  now  mounted — my  horse  is  in  this  old 
ruin — and  in  a  moment  I  shall  be  read}'  to 
aceomiiany  you." 

Reilly  and  his  companions  jomed  our 
travellers,  one  of  the  former  having  ott'ered 
the  old  squii'e  a  large  frieze  gi-eat-coat,  which 
he  gladly  accepted,  and  ha-\ing  thus  formed 
a  guard  of  safety  fo»  him  and  his  faithful 


WILLY   BE  ILLY. 


13 


attendant,  they  retrained  the  old  road  we 
have  described,  and  resumed  their  jouniev. 

AMieu  Uiey  luul  {ijone,  the  Rappiu-ee  luid  his 
eompiuiious  looked  after  them  with  blank 
faces  for  .some  minutes. 

"  Well,"  said  their  leader,  '•  Reilly  has 
knocked  iij)  our  j^ame  for  this  ni^dit.  Only 
for  him  I'd  have  hatl  a  full  and  sweet  re- 
venge. However,  never  mind :  it'll  go  hard 
with  me,  or  I'll  have  it  yet.  Li  the  mane 
time  it  won't  be  often  that  snch  another  op- 
portunity will  come  in  our  way." 

"Well,  now  that  it  is  over,  what  was  j-om* 
intention,  Eaudal  ? "  a.sked  the  person  to 
whom  ReUly  hiKl  addressed  himself. 

"  Why,"  replied  the  miscreant,  "aftei'  the 
deed  was  done,  what  was  to  prevent  us  from 
robbing  the  house  to-night,  and  taking  away 
his  daughter  to  the  mountains.  I  have  long 
had  my  eye  on  her,  I  can  tell  you,  and  it'll 
cost  me  a  fidl,  or  I'll  ha\e  her  yet." 

"  You  ha*!  better,"  rephed  Fergus  EeUly, 
for  such  w;is  his  name,  "  neither  make  nor 
meddle  with  that  family  afther  this  night. 
If  you  do,  that  teirible  relation  of  mine  will 
hang  you  hke  a  dog." 

"How  will  he  hang  me  like  a  dog?" 
asked  the  K;ipparee,  knitting  his  shaggy 
eyebrows,  and  turning  upon  him  a  fierce  and 
gloomy  look. 

"  Why,  now,  Rimdtd,  you  know  as  well  as 
1  do,"  rejjlied  the  other,  "  that  if  he  only 
raised  his  linger  against  you  in  the  countiy, 
the  very  people  that  harbor  both  you  and  us 
would  betray  us,  aye,  seize  u.s,  and  bind  us 
hand  and  foot,  like  commou  thieves,  and 
{five  us  over  to  the  authorities.  But  as  for 
himself,  I  believe  you  have  sense  enough  to 
let  him  alone.  'NMien  you  took  away 
Mai-y  Traviior,  and  neiu-ly  kilt  her  brother, 
the  young  priest — you  know  they  were 
Reilly's  tenants — I  needn't  tell  you  what 
happened  :  in  four  hom-s'  time  he  had  the 
coimtiy  uji,  followed  you  and  your  jMU'ty — I 
wasn't  with  you  then,  but  you  know  it's 
truth  I'm  spakin' — and  when  he  had  five  to 
one  against  you,  didn't  he  make  them  stand 
aside  until  he  and  you  should  decide  it  be- 
tween you  '?  Aye,  and  you  know  he  could  a' 
brought  home  every  man  of  you  tied  neck 
and  heels,  and  would,  too,  only  that  there 
was  a  large  reward  ot'l<'rc<l  for  the  tikin'  of 
you  hvin'  or  dead,  and  he  scorned  to  have 
any  haud  in  it  on  that  account." 

"  It  was  by  a  chance  blow  he  hit  me,"  said 
the  Rjippiu-ee — "  by  a  cluuice  blow." 

"  By  a  couple  dozen  chiuice  blows,"  replied 
the  other  ;  "  you  know  he  knocked  you  down 
as  fast  as  ever  you  got  up — I  lave  it  to  the 
boys  hero  that  wor  present." 

"  There's  no  use  in  denyin'  it,  Itjindal."  they 
replied  ;  "  you  hadn't  a  chjuice  wid  him." 


"  Well,  at  all  events,"  obsei-ved  the   Rsip- 

l>ai-ee,  "if  he  ditl  Ijeat  me,  he's  the  onl_v  niiui 

}  ill  the  couuby  able  to  do  it ;    but  it's  n(rt 

over,  cui'se  him — I'll  have  another  tiial  with 

him  yet." 

"  If  you  trtke  my  advice,"  rephed  ReUly, 
"  you'll  neither  make  nor  mediUe  with  him. 
He's  the  head  o'  the  Cathohcs  in  this  piu't  of 
(he  countiy,  and  you  know  thai ;  aye,  and 
he's  their  fiiend,  and  uses  the  friendship 
that  the  Pi'otestjints  have  towai-ds  him  for 
their  advantage,  wherever  he  can.  Tlie  man 
that  would  injure  WUIy  Reilly  is  an  enemy 
to  our  reHgion,  as  well  as  to  eveiy  thing 
that's  good  and  generous  ;  and  mai'k  mo, 
Randal,  if  ever  you  cross  him  in  what  he 
wai-ned  you  agauist  this  very  night,  I'll  hang 
you  myself,  if  (here  wasn't  another  liviu'  man 
to  do  it,  and  to  (he  back  o'  that  again  I  say 
you  must  shed  no  blood  so  long  as  I  am  ^\'ith 
you." 

"  That  won't  be  long,  then,"  rephed  the 
RupiJaree,  puUing  out  a  \t\xrg»  ;  "  there's 
twenty  guineas  for  j'ou,  and  go  about  your 
business  ;  but  take  cju'e,  no  treacheiy." 

"No,"  rephed  the  other,  "I'll  have  none 
of  yoiu'  money  ;  there's  blood  in  it.  God 
forgive  me  for  ever  joinin'  you.  "NMien  I 
want  money  I  can  get  it ;  as  for  breacheiy, 
there's  none  of  it  in  my  veins ;  good-night, 
I  and  remember  my  words." 

Having  thus  spoken,  he  took  his  way 
along  the  same  road  by  wliich  the  old  squire 
and  his  pai-ty  went. 

"  Tliat  fellow  will  beti-ay  us,"  said  the 
Rjipparee. 

"  No,"  replied  his  companions  finnly, 
"  there  never  was  treachery  in  hia  jDart  of  the 
\  family  ;  he  is  not  come  fi'om  any  of  Ihe 
Qiwu'x  O'Reillys.*  We  wish  you  were  as 
sure  of  every  man  you  have  as  you  may  be 
of  him." 

"Well,  now,"  obsen'ed  their  leiuler,  "a 
thought  stiikes  me  ;  this  ould  squire  will  bo 
hidf  dead  iill  night.  At  any  rate  he'll  sleep 
like  a  top.  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  oppor- 
tunity to  attack  the  house — aisc;  hun  of  liis 
money,  for  he's  a«  rich  as  a  Jev — and  take 
j  away  the  ('onlt'cn  liawn?  We'll  call  at 
hjhiuie  Beiu-ua's  f  stables   on   om-  way  and 


•  Catholic  families  who  were  fnithfnl  and  loyal 
to  Queen  Elizabeth  diirintf  her  wars  in  Ireland  wero 
stigmatized  by  the  nickname  of  the  Qaeen's 
friends,  to  diHtir.i;ui8h  them  from  others  of  tho 
same  name  who  had  opposed  her,  ou  l>ehalf  of 
their  religion,  in  the  wars  which  Jcsoluted  Ireliknd 
during  her  reign ;  a  portion  of  the  family  of  >vhich 
we  write  wore  en  this  accoi'.nt  desigiiat<'d  ns  tho 
t^iiffuK  O'Keillys. 

\  Shane  lieamn  was  a  celebrated  I'apparee.  who, 
among  bis  other  exploits,  figured  priucipally  as  a 
horsu-steuler.  lie  kept  the  stolen  animnjs  con- 
cealed    in     remote    mnuntaiu    cav<M,    where    h« 


14 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


bring  tlie  other  boys  along  wid  us.  What 
do  j'ou  say  ?  " 

"  ^Vhy,  that  you'U  hang  yourself,  and 
every  man  of  us." 

.  "  Nonsense,  you  cowardly  dogs,"  replied 
then-  leader  indignantly  ;  "  can't  we  lave  the 
comitiy  ?  " 

"Well,  if  you're  bent  on  it,"  replied  his 
followers,  "  we  won't  be  yoiu-  hindrance." 

"  We  can  break  ujJ,  and  be  off  to  America," 
he  added. 

"  But  what  will  you  do  with  the  Cooleen 
Bau-n,  if  you  tate  her  ?  "  they  asked. 

"  ^\'liy,  lave  her  behind  us,  afther  showin' 
the  purtj'  creature  the  inside  of  Shane 
Bearaa's  stables.  She'll  be  able  to  find  her 
way  back  to  her  father's,  never  fear.  Come, 
boys,  now  or  never.  To  sny  the  truth,  the 
sooner  we  get  out  of  the  countiy,  at  all 
events,  the  better." 

The  Rapparee  and  his  men  had  moved  up 
to  the  door  of  the  old  chapel  aheady  alluded 
to,  whUst  this  conversation  went  on  ;  and 
now  that  theu*  dreadful  project  had  been 
determined  on,  they  took  a  short  cut  across 
the  moors,  in  order  to  procure  additional 
assistance  for  its  accomplishment. 

No  sooner  had  they  gone,  however,  than 
an  individual,  who  had  been  concealed  in 
the  dai'kness  within,  came  stealtliily  to  the 
door,  and  peeping  cautiously  out,  at  length 
advanced  a  few  stej)s  and  looked  timidly 
about  him.  Perceiving  that  the  coast  was 
clear,  he  placed  himself  under  the  shadow 
of  the  old  widls — for  there  was  now  suffi- 
cient hght  to  cast  a  shadow  from  any  prom- 
inent object  ;  and  from  thence  having  ob- 
sei-\-ed  the  dii-ection  which  the  Ripjjaree  and 
his  men  took,  without  any  risk  of  being 
seen  himself,  he  appeared  satisfied.  The 
name  of  this  individual — who,  although 
shrewd  and  cunning  in  many  things,  was 
nevertheless  deficient  in  reason — or  rather 
the  name  by  which  he  generally  went,  was 
Tom  Steeple,  a  sobriquet  given  to  him  on 
accomit  of  a  predominant  idea  which  charac- 
teiized  and  influenced  his  whole  conversa- 
tion. The  great  dehght  of  this  poor  creature 
was  to  be  considered  the  tallest  individual 
in  the  kingdom,  and  indeed  nothing  could 
be  more  amusing  than  to  witness  the  man- 
ner in  wliich  he  held  uj)  his  head  while  he 


trimmed  and  dyf>d  them  in  scoh  a  way  as  m.ide  it 
impossible  to  I'ecognize  th.3m.  'I'hese  caves  are 
cuTiositieK  at  the  pre.sent  day,  and  are  now  known 
as  S/iii/ie  Beitrnii's  titaUes.  He.  was  a  chief  in  the 
formidable  gang  of  the  celebrated  Redmond 
O'HanUm.  Itj'.s  said  of  him  that  he  was  called 
Bi'iir/m  because  he  nev^r  had  any  teeth  ;  but  tra- 
dition tells  us  that  he  could,  notwithstanding,  bite 
a  pieca  out  of  a  thin  plate  of  iron  with  as  much 


walked,  or  sat,  or  stood.  In  fact  his  walk 
was  a  comjjlete  stnit,  to  which  the  pride, 
arising  from  the  consciousness  of,  or  rather 
the  behef  in,  his  extraordinary  height  gave 
an  extremely  ludicrous  a23j)earance.  Poor 
Tom  was  about  five  feet  nine  in  height,  but 
imagined  himself  to  be  at  least  a  foot  higher. 
His  whole  family  were  ceiiainly  tall,  and 
one  of  the  gi-eatest  calamities  of  the  j)Oor 
fellow's  life  was  a  bitter  reflection  that  he 
himself  was  by  several  inches  the  lowest  of 
his  race.  This  was  the  only  exccj^tion  he 
made  with  respect  to  height,  but  so  deeply 
did  it  affect  him  that  he  could  scarcely  ever 
aUude  to  it  without  shedding  tears.  The 
life  he  led  was  similar  in  most  respects  to 
that  of  his  unhappy  class.  He  wandered 
about  through  the  countiy,  stopping  now  at 
one  fai'mer's  house,  and  now  at  another's, 
where  he  always  experienced  a  kind  recep- 
tion, because  he  was  not  only  amusing  and 
inoffensive,  but  capable  of  making  himself 
useful  as  a  messenger  and  diiidge.  He  was 
never  guilty  of  a  dishonest  act,  nor  ever 
knovkii  to  commit  a  breach  of  tiiist ;  and  as 
a  Cjuick  messenger,  his  extraordinary  speed 
of  foot  rendered  him  unrivalled.  His  great 
dehght,  however,  was  to  attend  sjsortsmen, 
to  whom  he  was  invaluable  as  a  guide  and 
director.  Such  was  his  wind  and  speed  of 
foot  that,  aided  by  his  knowledge  of  what  is 
termed  the  lie  of  the  country,  he  was  able  to 
keep  up  mth  any  pack  of  hounds  that  ever 
went  out.  As  a  xoku  man  he  was  unrivalled. 
The  form  of  every  hare  for  miles  about  was 
known  to  him,  and  if  a  fox  or  a  covey  of 
partridges  were  to  be  found  at  all,  he  was 
your  man.  In  wild-fowl  shooting  he  was 
infallible.  No  j^ass  of  duck,  widgeon,  bar- 
nacle, or  curlew,  was  unknovvn  to  bim.  In 
fact,  his  principal  delight  was  to  attend  the 
gentry  of  the  country  to  the  field,  either 
with  harrier,  foxhound,  or  setter.  No  cours- 
ing match  went  right  if  Tom  were  not 
present ;  and  as  for  night  shooting,  his  eye 
and  ear  were  such  as,  for  accuracy  of  obser- 
vation, few  have  ever  witnessed.  It  is  true 
he  could  subsist  a  long  time  without  food, 
but,  like  the  renowned  Captain  D;ilgetty, 
when  an  abundance  of  it  happened  to  be 
placed  before  him,  he  displayed  the  most 
indefensible  ignorance  as  to  all  knowledge 
of  the  i^eriod  when  he  ought  to  stop,  con- 
sidering it  his  bounden  duty  on  all  occasions 
to  clear  off  whatever  was  set  before  him — a 
feat  which  he  always  accomphshed  with  the 
most  signal  success. 

"  Alia  !  "  exclaimed  Tom,  "  dat  Red  Rap- 
j)aree  is  taU  man,  but  not  tall  as  Tom  ;  h^m 
no  steeple  hke  Tom  ;  but  him  rogue  and 
murderer,  an'  Tom  honest ;  him  won't  carry 
off  (JofJjifji  Bawn  dough,  nor  rob  her  fader 


WILLY  HE  ILLY. 


15 


aytler.  Come,  Tom,  Steeple  Tom,  out  with 
your  two  lef;s,  one  afore  toiler,  and  put 
Kappiixee's  nose  out  o'  joint.  Cuuleen  llawn 
data  pood  to  everybody,  Catlicks  (Catholics) 
au'  idl,  iin'  often  ordered  Tom  many  a  bully 
dinner.  Hii-ko !  hicko !  be  de  bones  of 
Peter  AMiite— ott'Igo!" 

Tom,  like  many  other  individuals  of  his 
description,  was  never  able  to  get  over  the 
lanpruage  of  childhood — a  chai-acteristic 
which  is  often  appended  to  the  want  of  rea- 
son, and  from  which,  we  presume,  the  term 
"  innocent  "  has  been  applied  in  an  especial 
maimer  to  those  who  are  remarkable  for  the 
same  defect. 

Havinjj  uttered  the  words  we  have  just  re- 
cited, he  started  otl"  at  a  giiit,  iieculi^ir  to  fools, 
which  is  knowii  by  the  name  of  "  a  fhnpf  trot," 
and  after  fjotting  out  upon  the  old  road  he 
turned  himself  iu  the  direction  which  Tully 
Keilly  and  his  p  irty  hii<l  taken,  and  there  we 
be*;  to  leave  him  for  the  present. 

The  old  squire  felt  his  animal  heat  much 
revived  by  the  warmth  of  the  fiiezccoat,  and 
his  spirits,  now  that  the  dreadful  scene  into 
which  he  had  been  so  unexpectedly  cast  had 
passed  away  without  danger,  began  to  riss 
so  exuberantly  that  his  conversation  became 
quite  locjuacious  and  mu'tlifid,  if  not  actual- 
ly, to  a  certain  extent,  incoherent. 

"  Sir,  "  Siiid  he,  "  j'ou  must  come  home 
with  me — confound  lue,  but  you  must,  and 
you  needn't  say  nay,  now,  for  1  shidl  neither 
take  excuse  nor  ajjolog^-.  I  am  a  hosjiifciblo 
man,  Mr. — what's  this  your  name  is  '! " 

""Sly  name,  sir,"  rephed  the  other,  "is 
R<'illy — William  Reilly,  or,  as  I  am  more 
generally  called,  Willy  Iteilly.  The  name, 
sir,  though  an  honorable  one,  is,  in  this  in- 
sbmce,  that  of  au  humble  mah,  but  one  who, 
I  tnist,  will  never  disgrace  it." 

"  You  must  come  home  with  me,  Mr.  lleil- 
ly.     Not  a  w(jrd  now." 

"  Such  is  my  intention,  sir,"  replied  ReUly. 
"  I  shall  not  leave  you  imtil  I  see  th;it  all  risk 
of  danger  is  past — until  I  place  you  safely 
under  your  own  roof." 

"  Well,  now,"  continued  the  old  squii-e,  ' 
"  I  believe  a  Paj)ist  can  be  a  gentleman — a  ' 
brave  man — a  man  of  honor.  Mr.  Reilly."         ] 

'"I  am  not  aware  that  tliere  is  any  thing  in 
his  religion  to  make  him  either  dishonorable 
or  cowai-dly,  sir."  replied  Reilly  with  a  smile. 

"  No  matter,"  continneil  the  other,  who 
found  a  good  deal  of  difticulty  in  restraining 
his  prejudices  on  that  point,  "  no  matter,  sir,  i 
no  matter,  Mr. — a^a — oh,  yes,  Reilly,  we  . 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  religion — away 
with  it — confoiuid  religion,  sir.  if  it  prevents 
one  man  from  being  thankful,  and  grateful 
too,  to  another,  wlien  that  other  has  saved 
his  life-     WTiat's  your  stiite  and  condition  in  i 


society.  Mr. — ?  confound  the  scoundrel !  lie'd 
have  shot  me.  We  nuist  hang  that  fellow — ■ 
the  Red  Rjipparee  they  ciill  him — a  dreadful 
scourge  to  the  country  ;  and,  another  thing, 
Jlr.  -  iNIr.  Mahon — you  nuist  come  to  my 
daughter's  wedding.  Not  a  word  now— by 
the  gi-eat  Boyne,  you  must.  Have  you  even 
seen  my  daughter,  sir'?  " 

"  I  have  never  had  that  pleasure,"  replied 
Reilly,  "  but  I  have  heard  enougli  of  her  wouv 
derful  goodness  and  beauty." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  tell  you  to  your  teetli  Uiat  I 
deny  your  words  -  you  have  stated  a  false- 
hood, sir — a  lie,  sii'." 

"  WTiat  do  you  mean,  su"?"  replied  Reil- 
ly, somewhat  indignantly.  "  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  stating  a  ffdsohooil,  nor  of  submits 
ting  tamely  to  such  an  imputation." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  say  it's  a  lie  stQl,  my  friend. 
What  did  you  say"?  Why,  that  you  had 
heard  cnoin/h  of  her  goodness  and  beauty. 
Now,  sir,  b\-  the  banks  of  the  IJoyne,  I  say 
you  didn't  hear  lui/f  rnoin/h  of  either  one  or 
t'othei*.  Sir,  you  should  know  her,  for  al- 
tliough  you  are  a  Papist  you  are  a  bi-ave 
man,  and  a  gentleman.  Still,  sir,  a  Papist  is 
not — cur.se  it,  this  isn't  haiidsome  of  me, 
Willy.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Confound  all 
rehgions  if  it  goes  to  that.  Still  at  the  same 
time  I'm  bound  to  siy  as  a  loyal  man  that 
Protestantism  is  my  forlc,  jMr.  Reilly — there's 
where  I'm  strong,  a  touch  of  Hercules 
about  me  tlii-re,  JL-.  Reilly — Willy,  I  mean. 
Well,  you  are  a  thorough  good  fellow,  I'ajiist 
and  all,  though  you— uliem  !— never  mind 
though,  you  shall  see  my  daughter,  and  you 
shall  hear  my  daughter  ;  for,  by  the  great 
Boyne,  slie  must  salute  the  man  that  saved 
her  father's  life,  antl  prevented  her  from 
being  an  orphan.  And  yet  see,  Willy,  I 
love  that  girl  to  such  a  deji^ree  that  if  heav- 
en was  open  for  me  this  momc^nt,  lUid  that 
Saint  Peter — hem  ! — I  mean  the  Ajiosth;  Pe- 
tei',  said  to  me,  '  Come,  Folliard.  walk  in,  sir,' 
by  the  gi-eat  Deliverer  that  saved  us  fi-om 
Pope  and  Popeiy,  bra.ss  money,  and — ahem  ! 
I  beg  your  pardon — well,  I  8!iy  if  he  was  to 
s.ay  so,  I  woiildn't  leave  her.  There's  affec- 
tion for  you  ;  but  she  deseiTes  it.  No,  if 
ever  a  girl  was  ea]iable  of  keeping  an  old 
father  from  heaven  she  is." 

'■  I  luiderstand  yotn-  meaning,  sir,"  replied 
Reilly  with  a  smile,  "  and  I  believe  she  is 
loveil  by  everv'  one  who  has  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  her — by  rich  ami  poor." 

"Troth,  !Mr.  Reilly,"  ob.served  Andy,  "it's 
a  sin  for  any  one  to  let  their  att'ections.  even 
for  one  of  their  own  childer,  go  between 
them  and  heaven.  As  for  the  mastlier.  he 
makes  a  goil  of  her.  To  be  sure  if  ever 
there  was  an  angel  in  this  world  she  is  one." 

"Get  out,  you  old  wjieli),"  exclaimed  his 


16 


WILLIAM   CARLETOJS'S  WORR^. 


master  ;  "  what  do  you  know  al30ut  it  ? — you 
who  never  had  wife  or  child  ?  isn't  she  my 
onlj'  child  ? — the  aj^jjle  of  my  eye  ?  the  love 
of  my  heart  ?  " 

"  If  you  loved  her  so  well  you  wouldn't 
make  her  unhappy  then." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  desj^icable  old 
Papist?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  wouldn't  many  her  to  a 
man  she  doesn't  Hke,  as  you're  goin'  to  do. 
That's  a  bad  way  to  make  her  happy,  at  any 
rate." 

"  Overlook  the  word  Painat,  T*Ir.  EeiUy, 
that  I  aj)plied  to  that  old  idolater — the  fellow 
worships  images  ;  of  coxu'se  you  know,  as 
a  Papist,  he  does — ahem  ! — but  to  show  you 
that  I  don't  hate  the  Papist  ■ndthout  excep- 
tion, I  beg  to  let  you  know,  sii',  that  I  fi-e- 
quently  have  the  Papist  priest  of  our  parish 
io  dine  with  me  ;  and  if  that  isn't  hberahty 
the  devil's  in  it.  Isn't  that  tme,  you  sujier- 
stitious  old  Padareen  ?  No,  INIr.  Eeilly,  Yix. 
Mahou — "Willy,  I  mean — I'm  a  liberal  man, 
and  I  hope  we'U  be  all  saved  yet,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Pope — ahem !  yes,  I  hope 
we  shall  all  be  saved." 

"Throth,  sir,"  said  Andy,  addressing  him- 
self to  EeiUy,  "he's  a  quare  gentleman, 
this.  He's  alwaj'S  abusing  the  Papists,  as 
he  calls  us,  and  yet  for  everj'  Protestant  ser- 
vant undher  his  roof  he  has  three  Papists,  as 
he  calls  us.  His  bark,  sir,  is  worse  than  his 
bite,  any  da}^" 

"  I  beUeve  it,"  replied  Eeilly  iu  a  low  voice, 
"  and  it's  a  pity  that  a  good  and  benevolent 
man  should  suffer  these  idle  prejudices  to 
swaj'  him." 

"  Divil  a  bit  they  sway  him,  sir,"  replied 
Andy  ;  "  he'll  damn  and  abuse  them  and 
then-  rehgion,  and  yet  he'll  go  any  length  to 
serve  one  o'  them,  if  they  want  a  fiieud,  and 
has  a  good  character.  But  here,  now  we're 
at  the  gate  of  the  avenue,  and  you'U  soon  see 
the  Coolcen  Bawn." 

"  Hallo  !  "  the  squire  shouted  out,  "  what 
the  devil !  are  you  dead  or  asleep  there  ? 
Brady,  you  Papist  scoundrel,  why  not  open 
the  gate  ?  " 

The  porter's  mfe  came  oiit  as  he  uttered 
the  words,  saying,  "  I  beg  your  honor's  par- 
don. Ned  is  up  at  the  Castle  ;"  and  whilst 
speaking  she  opened  tlie  gate. 

"  Ha,  MoUy  !  "  exclaimed  her  master  in  a 
(one  of  such  bland  good  nature  as  could  not 
for  a  moment  be  mistaken  ;  "  well,  MoUy, 
how  is  little  Mick  V  Is  he  better,  poor  fel- 
low?" 

"He  is,  thank  God,  and  your  honor." 

"  HaUo,  Molly,"  said  tlie  squire,  laughing, 
"  that's  Popery  again.  You  are  thanking 
God  and  me  as  if  we  were  intimate  acquaint- 
ances.   None  of  that  foolish  Popish  nonsense. 


Wlien  you  thank  God,  thank  him  ;  and  whea 
you  thank  me,  why  thank  me  ;  but  don't 
unite  Tis,  as  you  do  him  and  your  Popish 
saints,  for  I  tell  you,  MoUy,  I'm  no  saint ; 
God  forbid !  Tell  the  doctorman  to  pay 
him  evei-y  attention,  and  to  send  his  bill  to 
me  when  the  child  is  properly  recovered ; 
mark  that — properly  recovered." 

A  noble  avenue,  that  swept  along  -nith  two 
or  three  magnificent  bends,  brought  them 
up  to  a  fine  old  mansion  of  the  castellated 
style,  where  the  squire  and  his  two  equestrian 
attendants  dismounted,  and  were  ushered 
into  the  parlor,  which  they  found  briUiantly 
lighted  np  with  a  number  of  large  wax 
tapers.  The  furnitiu'e  of  the  room  was  ex- 
ceedingly rich,  Ixit  somewhat  curious  and 
old-fashioned.  It  was  such,  however,  as  to 
give  ample  proof  of  great  wealth  and  com- 
fort, and,  by  the  heat  of  a  large  peat  fire 
which  blazed  in  the  cai:)acious  hearth,  it  com- 
mimicated  that  sense  of  warmth  which  was 
in  complete  accordance  with  the  general 
aspect  of  the  aj)artment.  An  old  graj--haii'ed 
butler,  weU-powdered,  together  "with  two  or 
thi-ee  other  servants  in  rich  liveiy,  now  en- 
tered, and  the  squire's  first  inquiiy  was  after 
his  daughter. 

"  John,"  said  he  to  the  butler,  "  how  is 
your  mistress  ?  "  but,  without  waiting  for  a 
reply,  he  added,  "here  are  twenty  pomids, 
v/hich  you  will  hand  to  those  fine  fellows  at 
the  hall-door." 

"Pai'dou  me,  sii-,"  replied  Eeilly,  "those 
men  are  my  tenants,  and  the  sons  of  my 
tenants  :  ihey  have  only  performed  towards 
you  a  duty,  which  common  humanity  would 
require  at  their  hands  towards  the  humblest 
person  that  hves." 

"  They  must  accejat  it,  Mr.  Eeilly — they 
must  have  it — they  are  humble  men — and  as 
it  is  only  the  rewai'd  of  a  kind  office,  I  think 
it  is  justl}'^  due  to  them.  Here,  John,  give 
them  the  monej'." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Eeilly  intei-posed  ;  the 
old  squire  would  not  listen  to  him.  John 
was,  accordingly,  dispatched  to  the  hall 
stej)s,  but  found  that  they  had  all  gone. 

At  this  moment  our  friend  Tom  Steejjle 
met  the  butler,  whom  he  ajsproached  ^Wth  a 
kind  of  wild  and  imcouth  anxiety. 

"Aha!  Mista  John,"  said  he,  "you  tall 
man  too,  but  not  tall  as  Tom  Steeple — ha, 
ha — you  good  man  too,  Mista  Jolm — give 
Tom  bully  dinners — Willy  EeiUv,  Mistal 
John,  want  to  see  WiUy  EeiUy." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  him,  Tom  ?  he's 
engaged  with  the  master." 

"  Must  see  him,  Mista  John  ;  stitch  in 
time  saves  nine.  Hicko  !  hicko  !  God's 
sake,  Mista  John  :  God's  sake  !  Up  dere  ; '' 
and  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  towards  the  sky. 


WILLI'  RE  ILLY 


17 


"  Well,  hut  what  is  your  Imsiness,  then  ? 
WTiat  have  you  to  say  to  him?  He's  en- 
ga{jed,  I  tell  you." 

Tom,  apprehensive  that  he  might  not  get 
an  opportunity  of  cominunicating  with 
Reilly,  bolted  in,  and  as  the  parlor  door 
stood  open,  he  saw  him  standing  near  the 
large  ehinniey-i)ieee. 

"  Willy  Keilly  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
that  trenililed  with  earnestness,  "  Willy 
Reilly,  dere's  news  for  you — for  de  squii'e 
too — bad  news — God's  sake  come  wid  Tom 
— you  tidl  too.  Willy  Eeilly,  but  not  t;ill  as 
Tom  is." 

"  Wliat  is  the  matter,  Tom  ? "  asked 
Keilly  ;  "  you  look  aLinned." 

"God's  sake,  here,  Willy  ReiUy,"  rephed 
the  kind-hefu-ted  fool,  "  come  wid  Tom. 
B.id  news." 

"  Hallo  !  "  exclaimed  the  squire,  "  what  is 
the  matter?  Is  this  Tom  Steeple?  Go  to 
the  kitchen.  Tom,  and  get  one  of  your  'bully 
dinners  ' — my  poor  fellow — off  -w-ith  you — 
and  a  pot  of  lieer.  Tom." 

An  expression  of  distress,  probably  height- 
ened by  his  vague  and  unconscious  sense  of 
tlie  squire's  kind:iess,  was  dejucted  strongly 
on  his  countenance,  and  ended  in  a  burst  of 
tears. 

"  Ha  I "  exclaimed  Reilly,  "poor  Tom,  sir, 
was  with  us  to-night  on  oiu'  duck-shooting 
excursion,  and,  now  that  I  remember,  re- 
mained behind  us  in  the  o!fl  ruin— and  then 
he  is  in  te;u^.  AMiat  can  this  mean  ?  I 
will  go  with  you,  Tom — excuse  me,  sir,  for 
a  few  minutes — there  can  be  no  harm  in 
hearing  what  he  has  to  say." 

He  accomjjanied  the  fool,  v\ith  whom  lie 
remained  for  about  six  or  eight  minutes, 
after  which  he  re-entere<l  the  parlor  wth  a 
face  wliich  strove  in  vain  to  maintain  its 
previous  expression  of  ease  and  serenity. 

"Well,  Willy?"  said  the  squire — "you 
see,  Vjy  the  way,  I  make  an  old  acquaintance 
of  you — " 

"  You  do  me  lionor,  sir,"  replied  Reillj'. 

"Well,  what  was  tliis  niiglity  matter? 
Not  a  fool's  messige,  I  hope  ?  eh  !" 

"  No,  su%"  s  lid  the  other,  "  but  a  matter 
of  some  importjmce." 

"John,"  asked  his  master,  as  the  hntler 
entered,  "  did  you  give  those  worthy  fellows 
the  money  ?  " 

"  No,  your  honor,"  replied  the  other, 
■'  they  were  gone  before  I  went  out." 

"Well,  well,"  rei)lied  his  master,  "it 
can't  be  helped.  You  will  excuse  nie,  Mr.  — 
a— a— yes— :Mr.  Reilly— Willy— Willy— ay, 
that's  it — you  will  excuse  me,  Willy,  for  not 
bringing  you  to  the  drawing-room.  The 
fiu't  is.  neither  of  us  is  in  a  proper  trim  to 
go  ♦here — both  travel-soiled,  as  they  say  — 


you  with  duck-shooting  and  I  with  a  lonff 
ride — besides,  I  am  quite  too  much  fatigueo 
to  change  my  dress — John,  some  Madeira. 
I'm  better  than  I  was — but  still  ib-eatlfully 
exliauste<l — and  afterwards,  Jolin,  tell  youi 
mistress  that  her  fatlier  wshes  to  see  hei 
here.  First,  the  ILideira,  though,  till  I  re- 
ci-uit  myself  a  little.  A  glass  or  two  will  dc 
neither  of  us  any  harm.  WiUy  l)ut  a  gi'eat 
deal  of  good.  God  bless  me  !  what  an  es- 
cajic  I've  had  I  what  a  dreiulful  fate  you  res- 
cued me  from,  my  yoiuijj  friend  and  pre- 
senter— for  as  such  I  will  ever  look  upor. 
you." 

"Sir,"  replied  Reilly,  "I  •vvill  not  den7 
that  the  appearance  of  myself  and  my  con  • 
panions,  in  all  prob.abLlity,  saved  your  life." 

"  There  was  no  probabiUty  in  it,  Willj- — 
none  at  all ;  it  would  have  been  a  dead  cer- 
tainty in  every  sense.  !My  God  I  here,  John — 
put  it  downi  here — till  for  that  gentleman 
and  me — thank  you,  John — Willy,"  he  sjiid 
as  he  took  tlie  glass  iu  his  trembling  lumd — 
"  M'illy — Joliu,  withdi-aw  and  send  do^\^l  my 
daughter — Willy" — the  old  man  looked  at 
him,  but  was  too  full  to  utter  a  word.  At 
this  moment  his  daughter  entered  the  room, 
and  her  father,  laying  do\vn  the  glass,  open- 
ed his  anns,  and  said  iu  a  choking  voice, 
"Helen,  my  daughter — my  child — come  to 
me  ;  "  and  as  she  threw  herself  into  them  he 
embraced  her  tenderly  and  wept  aloud. 

"  I/ear  papi ! "  she  excliiimed,  sifter  the 
£i-st  bm-st  of  his  grief  was  over,  "  what  ha^s 
affected  you  so  deej^ly  ?  ^Tiy  are  you  so 
agitated  ?  " 

"  Look  at  that  noble  young  man,"  he  ex- 
claimed, directing  her  attention  to  Reilly 
who  was  still  stjinding.  "  Look  at  him,  m^ 
life,  and  obsei-ve  him  well  ;  there  he  st-ands 
who  has  this  night  saved  your  loving  father 
fi'oni  the  deadly  iiini  of  an  assussin— from  be- 
ing murdered  i)y  G'Donnel,  the  Red  Rjqipa- 
ree,  in  the  lonely  moors." 

Reilly,  fi-om  the  moment  the  foi'-fanied 
Citoh'i'n  Itairii  entered  the  room,  heard  not  a 
syllable  the  old  nuin  hail  siid.  He  wius  ab- 
sorlied,  enti-anced,  struck  with  a  sensation  of 
wonder,  sui-jirise,  agitation,  joy,  and  confu- 
sion, .all  nearly  at  the  same  moment  Such 
a  blaze  of  beauty,  such  elegance  of  pei-son, 
sncli  tenderness  and  feeling  as  chastened 
the  radiance  of  her  countenance  into  some- 
thing that  might  be  tenned  absolutely  di- 
vine ;  such  svnnmetry  of  fonii  ;  such  liar- 
r>..Miy  of  motion  :  such  a  sei-ai)liic  bein-^  in 
the  sha])e  of  woman,  he  luid.  in  fact,  never 
seen  or  <lreanit  of.  Slie  Keeiii<>d  as  if  sur- 
rounded by  an  atmosphere  of  light,  of  dig- 
nity, of  goodness,  of  gi-ace  ;  but  that  which, 
above  all,  smote  hw  he:irt  on  ihe  moment 
was  the  spirit  of  tenderness  and  profound 


18 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


sensibility  wliich  seemed  to  predominate  in 
her  whole  being.  Wliy  did  his  manly  and 
intrepid  heart  j)alpitate  ?  Why  did  such  a 
strange  confusion  seize  upon  him  ?  Why 
did  the  few  words  which  she  uttered  in  her 
father's  arms  ti)l  his  ears  with  a  melody  that 
charmed  him  out  of  his  streugih  ?  Alas  !  is 
it  necessai-y  to  ask '?  To  those  who  do  not 
understand  this  mystery,  no  explanation 
couid  be  of  any  avail ;  and  to  those  who  do, 
none  is  neeessai-y. 

After  her  father  had  spoken,  she  raised 
herself  fi'oni  his  arms,  and  assuming  her  full 
height — and  she  was  tall — looked  for  a  mo- 
ment wth  her  dark,  deep,  and  terrible  eyes 
upon  Reilly,  who  in  the  meantime  felt  rapt, 
speU-boimd,  and  stood,  wliilst  his  looks  were 
riveted  upon  these  irresistible  orbs,  as  if  he 
had  been  attracted  by  the  influence  of  some 
delightful  but  supernatural  power,  under 
wliich  he  felt  himself  helpless. 

That  mutual  gaze  ajid  that  delightful  mo- 
ment !  alas  !  how  many  hours  of  misery — of 
sorrow — of  sufifei-iug — and  of  madness  did 
diey  not  occasion ! 

"  Papa  has  imposed  a  task  upon  me,  sir," 
.she  said,  advancing  gracefully  towards  him, 
her  complexion  now  j)ale,  and  again  over- 
spread with  deep  blushes.  "  WTiat  do  I  say  ? 
A  lad: — a  task  !  to  thank  the  preserver  of 
my  father's  life — I  know  not  what  I  say  : 
helj)  me,  sir,  to  papa — I  am  weak — I  am — " 
fteilly  flew  to  her,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms 
just  in  time  to  prevent  her  fifom  ftdliug. 

"  My  God  !  "  exclaimed  her  father,  getting 
to  his  feet,  "what  is  the  matter?  I  was 
wrong  to  mention  the  cu'cumstance  so  ab- 
ruf)tly  ;  I  ought  to  have  prejjared  her  for  it. 
You  are  strong,  IJeUly,  you  ai-e  strong,  and  I 
am  too  feeble— carry  her  to  the  settee.  There, 
God  bless  you  ! — God  bless  you  ! — she  will 
soon  recover.  Helen  !  my  child  !  my  life  ! 
Wiat,  Helen  !  Come,  dearest  love,  be  a  wo- 
man. I  am  safe,  as  you  may  see,  dearest. 
I  t£ll  you  I  sustained  no  injury  in  life — 
not  a  hair  of  my  head  was  hurt  ;  thanks  to 
Mr.  Pieilly  for  it — thanks  to  this  gentleman. 
Oh  !  that's  right,  bravo,  Helen — bravo,  my 
gii-1 !  See  that,  Keilly,  isn't  she  a  glorious 
creature  ?  She  recovers  now,  to  set  her 
old  loving  father's  heart  at  ease." 

The  weakness,  for  it  did  not  amount  alto- 
gether to  insensibility,  was  only  of  brief  du- 
ration. 

"  Dear  papa,"  s>'Jd  she,  raising  herself, 
and  withdrawing  gently  and  modestly  fi-om 
Keilly 's  support,  "  I  was  unprepared  for  the 
account  of  this  dreatlful  aft'air.  Excuse  me, 
sir  ;  surely  you  will  admit  that  a  murderous 
attack  on  dear  papa's  life  could  not  be  lis- 
tened to  by  his  only  child  ^Ndth  mdifl'erence. 
But  do  let  me  know  how  it  happened,  papa." 


"  You  are  not  yet  equal  to  it,  darling  •,  you 
are  too  much  agitated." 

"  I  am  equal  to  it  now,  papa  !  Pray,  let  me 
hear  it,  ajid  how  this  gentleman — who  vriU 
be  kind  enough  to  imagine  my  thanks,  for, 
indeed,  no  language  could  expiress  them — 
and  how  this  gentleman  was  the  means  of 
saving  you." 

"  Perhaps,  iliss  FoUiard,"  said  Eeilly,  "  it 
woidd  be  better  to  defer  the  exijlanatiou  un- 
til you  shall  have  gained  more  strength." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  rejiHed  ;  "  my  anxiety  to 
hear  it  ■s\'ill  occasion  me  greater  suffering,  I 
am  siu'e,  than  the  knowledge  of  it,  esjiecially 
now  that  papa  is  safe." 

Eeilly  bowed  in  acquiescence,  but  not  in 
consequence  of  her  words  ;  a  glance  as  quick 
as  the  lightning,  but  fuU  of  entreaty  and 
gratitude,  and  something  like  joy — for  who 
does  not  know  the  many  languages  which 
the  single  glance  of  a  lovely  woman  can 
speak  ? — such  a  glance,  we  say,  accompanied 
her  words,  and  at  once  won  him  to  assent. 

"Miss  FoUiard  may  be  right,  sir,"  he  ob- 
sei-ved,  "  and  as  the  shock  has  passed,  per- 
hapis  to  make  her  briefly'  acquainted  with  the 
circumstances  will  rather  relieve  her." 

"Plight,"  Slid  her  father,  "  so  it  will,  WUly, 
so  it  will,  esj)eciilly,  thank  God,  as  there  has 
been  no  harm  done.  Look  at  this  now  !  Get 
away,  you  saucy  baggage  !  Your  ^ooi  lo\'ing 
father  has  only  just  escaped  being  shot,  and 
now  he  nins  the  risk  of  being  strangled." 

"Dear,  dear  papa,"  she  said,  "who  could 
have  thought  of  injuring  you — you  with  your 
angry  tongue,  but  your  generous  and  chari- 
table and  noble  heart  ?  "  and  again  she  wound 
her  exquisite  and  lovely  ai-ms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  liim,  whilst  a  fi-esh  gush  of  tears 
came  to  her  ej^es. 

"  Come,  Helen — come,  love,  be  quiet  now, 
or  I  shall  not  tcU  you  any  thing  more  about 
my  rescue  by  that  gallant  young  fellow 
standing  before  you." 

This  was  followed,  on  her  part,  by  another 
gkmce  at  Eeilly,  and  the  gLmce  was  as 
speedily  followed  by  a  blush,  and  again  a 
host  of  tumultuous  emotions  crowded  ai'ound 
his  heart. 

The  old  man,  jDlacing  her  head  upon  his 
bosom,  kissed  and  patted  her,  after  which 
he  related  briefly,  and  in  such  a  way  as  not, 
if  possible,  to  excite  her  afiesh,  the"  circum- 
stances with  which  the  reader  is  ah-eady  ac- 
quainted. At  the  close,  howeve)-,  when  he 
came  to  the  part  which  EeiUy  had  borne  in 
the  matter,  and  dwelt  at  more  length  on  his 
intrepidity  and  spirit,  and  the  enei'gy  of 
character  and  courage  with  which  he  quolled 
the  terrible  Eapparee,  he  was  obhged  to  stop 
for  u  moment,  and  say, 

"Why,  Helen,   what   is   the   matter,  my 


L'    -ARY 

.     THE 

JNIVERSII*-  OF  ILLINOIS 


WILLY  REILLY. 


II 


dai'ling?  Are  you  getting  ill  again?  Your 
little  heart  is  going  at  a  gjillop — bless  me, 
how  it  pit-a-pats.  There,  now,  you've  heard 
it  all — here  I  am,  s;ife — and  there  stands  the 
gentleman  to  whom,  under  God,  we  are  both 
indebted  for  it.  And  now  let  us  have  dinner, 
diu-ling,  for  we  have  not  dined?" 

Apologies  on  tlie  pai't  of  EeLlly,  who  really 
hatl  dined,  were  flung  to  the  winds  by  the  old 
8(juire. 

"  What  matter,  WiUy  ?  what  matter,  man  ? 
— sit  at  the  table,  pick  something — curse 
it,  we  won't  eat  you.  Your  dress  ?  never 
mind  your  di-ess.  I  am  sure  Helen  here 
\\ill  not  tind  fault  with  it.  Come,  Helen, 
use  your  influence,  love.  And  you,  sir, 
Willy  Reilly,  give  her  your  arm.''  Tliis  he 
added  in  conse<jueiK'e  of  dinner  ha\ing 
been  announced  while  he  spoke ;  and  so 
they  passed  into  the  diuing-room. 


CHAPTER  m. 

Daring  Attempt  of  tlte  Red  Rnppnree — Ifysterious 
Duiiiiypetiranee  of  Jlis  Ganij — The  AdoicoI. 

'We  must  go  1)ack  a  little.  'SMien  Helen 
sank  uiuler  tlie  dreadful  intelligence  of  the 
attempt  made  to  a.s.sassinate  her  father,  we 
stilted  at  the  time  that  she  was  not  absolutely 
in.sensible  ;  and  this  was  the  fact.  EeUly,  i\l- 
rea<ly  enraptured  by  such  wonderful  gi-ace 
and  beauty  as  the  highest  flight  of  his  imagi- 
nation could  never  have  conceived,  when  call- 
ed upon  by  her  father  to  cany  her  to  the  sofa, 
could  scarcely  credit  his  senses  tliat  such  a 
lovely  and  jn-ecious  burden  should  ever  be 
entrusted  to  him,  much  less  borne  in  his 
vevy  arms.  Li  order  to  prevent  her  fi'om 
falling,  lie  was  literally  obliged  to  throw 
tlieni  lu-ouiid  her,  imd,  to  a  certjiin  extent, 
to  pre8.s  her — f<M-  tlie  puiiiose  of  supportuig 
her — against  his  heart,  the  pulsations  of 
which  were  going  at  a  tremendous  speed. 
There  was,  in  fact,  something  so  soft,  so 
pitiable,  so  Ijeautiful,  and  at  the  same  time 
80  exquisitely  pure  and  fragrant,  in  this 
lovely  creature,  a-s  her  hea<l  Liy  drooping  on 
bis  shoulder,  lier  pale  cheek  litenilly  l.ving 
against  his,  that  it  is  not  at  iill  to  be  wonder- 
ed at  that  the  l)eatings  of  his  heju't  were  ac- 
celenited  to  an  unusual  degree.  Now  she, 
from  her  position  ujxin  his  bosom,  necessarily 
felt  this  rapid  action  of  its  tenant ;  when, 
tlicrefore,  lier  father,  after  her  recovery,  on 
reciting  for  her  the  fearful  events  of  the 
evening,  and  dwelling  upon  Reilly 's  determi- 
nation and  coiuiige,  expressed  aJann  at  the 
palpitations  of  her  lieart,  a  glimce  passed 
between  Uiem  which  each,  once  and  forever, 


imderstood.  She  had  felt  the  agitation  ol 
hi.-i,  who  had  risked  his  life  in  defence  of  hef 
father,  for  in  this  shape  the  old  man  liatl 
truly  jjut  it ;  and  now  she  knew  from  her 
father's  obseiTation,  as  his  ai-m  lay  upon  her 
own,  that  the  interest  which  his  account  of 
Reilly's  chivah-ous  conduct  throughout  the! 
wliole  affair  had  excited  in  it  were  discovered. 
In  this  case  heart  sjioke  to  heart,  and  bj-  the 
time  they  sat  do^ii  to  dinner,  each  felt  con- 
scious that  their  passion,  brief  as  was  the 
period  of  their  acquaintance,  had  beccnne, 
wliether  for  good  or  e^•il,  the  uncontrollable 
destiny  of  tlieir  lives. 

William  ReiUy  Wiis  the  descendant  of  an 
old  and  noble  Iiish  family.  His  ancestors 
hiul  gone  through  all  the  vicissitudes  and 
triids,  and  been  engaged  in  most  of  the  civil 
broils  and  wars,  wliich,  in  Irelimd,  had  char- 
acterized the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  As  we  ;ire 
not  disposed  to  enter  into  a  disquisition 
upon  the  history  of  that  stormy  jieriod,  un- 
less to  say  that  we  believe  in  our  souls  both 
pai'ties  were  equally  savage  and  iuhumau, 
and  that  there  was  not,  liter.illy,  a  toss  ujt 
between  them,  we  have  only  to  a<ld  tliat 
Reilly's  family,  at  least  that  branch  of  it  to 
which  he  belonged,  had  been  reduced  by  the 
ruin  that  resulted  from  the  civU  wai's,  and 
the  confiscations  peculiar  to  the  times.  His 
father  had  made  a  good  deal  of  money  abroad 
in  business,  but  feeling  that  melancholy 
longing  for  his  native  sod,  for  the  dark 
mountains  and  the  green  fields  of  his  be- 
loved country,  he  returned  to  it,  and  having 
tiikcn  a  large  farm  of  about  a  thousand 
acres,  under  a  peculiar  tenure,  which  we 
shall  mention  ere  we  close,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  pa.sturage  and  agriculture.  Old 
ReiUy  lia<l  been  for  some  years  dead,  and  liis 
eldest  son,  William,  was  now  not  only  the 
head  of  his  immediate  family,  but  of  that 
great  brancli  of  it  to  which  he  belonged, 
idthougli  he  neither  claimed  nor  exercised 
the  lionor.  In  Reilly,  many  of  those  iiTecon- 
ciLible  points  of  chiu'acter,  which  sciu-cely 
ever  meet  in  the  di.sposifion  of  any  but  an 
Iri.shman,  were  united.  He  was  at  once  mild 
and  inijietuous  ;  under  peculiiu-  circumstjui- 
ces,  humble  !uid  unassuming,  but  in  others, 
proud  almost  to  a  fault ;  a  bitter  foe  to  op- 
j)ressi()n  in  every  sense,  and  to  bigotry  iu 
(■very  creed.  He  was  highly  educated,  and 
as  perfect  a  master  of  French,  Spanish,  and 
Gennan,  as  he  was  of  either  English  or  Irisli, 
l)oth  of  which  he  spoke  with  equal  lluency 
and  purity.  To  liis  j>ei-sonal  courage  we 
need  not  make  any  further  allusion.  On 
many  occjiaions  it  liml  been  well  tested  on 
the  Continent.  He  was  lui  exjjcrt  and  un« 
rivalled  swordsman,  and  a  fii-st-rate  shot, 
whether   with    the   pistol   or  fowling-piec* 


20 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


At  every  atiiletic  exercise  he  was  matcliless  ; 
and  one  gi'eat  cause  of  his  extraordinary 
popularity  among  the  jjeasantry  was  the 
pleasure  he  took  in  promoting  the  exercise 
of  siieh  manly  sports  among  them.  In  his 
person  he  combined  great  strength  with  re- 
markable grace  and  ease.  The  wonderful 
sjanmetry  of  his  form  took  away  apparently 
from  his  size  ;  but  on  looking  at  and  exam- 
ining liim  closely,  you  felt  siu-prised  at  the 
astonishing  fulness  of  his  jJi'oportions  and 
the  prodigious  muscular  power  which  lay 
under  such  deceptive  elegance.  As  for  his 
features,  they  were  replete  with  that  manly 
expression  which  changes  with,  and  becomes 
a  candid  exponent  of,  every  feehng  that  in- 
fluences the  heart.  His  mouth  was  fine,  and 
his  full  red  Hps  exquisitely  chiselled  ;  his 
chm  was  fuU  of  firmness  ;  and  his  l;u-ge  dark 
eyes,  though  soft,  mellow,  and  insinuating, 
had  yet  a  sparkle  in  them  that  gave  evidence 
of  a  fiery  spiiit  when  provoked,  as  well  as  of 
a  high  sense  of  self-respect  and  honor.  His 
complexion  was  slightly  bronzed  by  resi- 
dence in  contuiental  chmates,  a  circumstance 
that  gave  a  warmth  and  mellowness  to  liis 
features,  which,  when  taken  mto  considera- 
tion with  his  black,  clustering  locks,  and  the 
sno^vy  whiteness  of  his  forehead,  placed  him 
in  the  verj'  highest  order  of  handsome  men. 

Such  was  om-  hero,  the  fame  of  whose  per- 
sonal beauty,  as  well  as  that  of  the  ever- 
memorable  Oooleen  Bawn,  is  yet  a  tradition 
in  the  country. 

On  tliis  occasion  the  dinner-party  consisted 
only  of  the  squu-e,  his  daughter,  and  Reilly. 
The  old  man,  on  reflecting  that  he  was  now 
safe,  felt  his  spirits  re-\dve  apace.  His  habits 
of  life  were  joUy  and  convivial,  but  not  ac- 
tually intemj)erate,  although  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  on  some  occasions  he  got  into 
the  debatable  ground.  To  those  who  did 
not  know  him,  and  who  were  acqiiainted 
through  common  report  only  mth  his  un- 
mitigated abuse  of  Popery,  he  was  looked 
upon  as  an  opjsressive  and  overbearing  ty- 
rant, who  would  enforce,  to  the  fiu-thest  j)os- 
sible  stretch  of  severity,  the  jienal  enact- 
ments then  in  existence  against  Eoman 
Cathohcs.  And  this,  indeed,  was  true,  so 
far  as  any  one  was  concerned  from  whom  he 
imagined  himself  to  have  received  an  injury  ; 
agauist  such  he  was  a  vindictive  tjTant,  and 
a  most  implacable  persecutor.  By  many,,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  considered  as  an  ec- 
centric man,  with  a  weak  head,  but  a  heart 
that  often  set  all  his  anti-CathoUc  prejudices 
at  complete  defiance.  | 

At  dinner  the  sqiiire  had  most  of  the  con- 
versation to  himself,  his  loquacity  and  good-  ! 
humor  having  been  very  much  improved  by  j 
a  few  glasses  of  his  rich  old  Madeira.     His  \ 


daughter,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  fre» 
quently  in  a  state  of  abstraction,  and,  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  found  herself  incap- 
able of  answering  several  questions  which  he 
f)ut  to  her.  Ever  and  anon  the  timid,  blush- 
ing glance  was  directed  at  Reilly,  by  whom 
it  was  retui-ned  with  a  significance  that  went 
dii'ectly  to  her  heart.  Both,  in  fact,  appear- 
ed to  be  influenced  by  some  secret  train  of 
thought  that  seemed  quite  at  variance  with 
the  old  gentleman's  gaiiTihty. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  here  we  are,  thank  God, 
all  safe  ;  and  it  is  to  you,  Willy,  we  owe  it. 
Come,  man,  take  ofl"  your  wme.  Isn't  he  a 
fine  young  fellow,  Helen  ?  " 

Helen's  heart,  at  the  moment,  had  followed 
her  eyes,  and  she  did  not  hear-  him. 

"  HeUo  !  what  the  deuce  !  By  the  banks 
of  the  Boyne,  I  believe  the  girl  has  lost  her 
hearing.  I  say,  Helen,  isn't  Willy  Reilly 
here,  that  prevented  you  fi'om  being  an  or- 
l^hau,  a  fine  young  fellow  ?  " 

A  sudden  rosy  blush  sufiused  her  whole 
neck  and  face  on  hearing  this  blunt  and  in- 
considerate question. 

"  What,  daiiing,  have  you  not  heard  me  ?  " 

"  If  Mr.  ReOly  were  not  jsresent,  jiapa,  I 
might  give  an  ojiinion  on  that  suljject  ;  but 
I  trust  you  will  excuse  me  now." 

"Well,  I  sujjpose  so;  there's  no  gettiug 
women  to  speak  to  the  jiomt.  At  all  events, 
I  would  give  more  than  I'U  mention  that  Sir 
Robert  Whiteeraft  was  as  good-looking  a 
specimen  of  a  man  ;  I'U  engage,  if  he  was, 
you  would  have  no  objection  to  say  yes,  my 
giri." 

"I  look  to  the  disj)osition,  jDajsa,  to  the 
moral  feelings  and  princij)les,  more  than  to 
the  per.=:on. ' 

"  WeU,  Helen,  that's  right  too— all  right, 
darhug,  and  on  that  account  Sir  Robert 
must  and  ovight  to  lie  a  favorite.  He  is  not 
yet  forty,  and  for  this  he  is  liimself  mj-  au- 
thority, and  forty  is  the  prime  of  Ufe  ;  yet, 
with  an  immense  fortune  and  strong  temi^ta- 
tions,  he  has  never  laimchcd  out  into  a  single 
act  of  imprudence  or  lolly.  No,  Helen,  he 
never  sowed  a  jieck  of  wild  oats  in  his  life. 
He  is,  on  the  contnij-y,  sober,  grave,  silent — a 
little  too  much  so,  by  the  way — cautious, 
prudent,  and  saving.  No  man  knows  the 
value  of  money  better,  nor  can  contrive  to 
make  it  go  fm-tUer.  Then,  as  for  managing 
a  biu'gaiu — upon  mv  soul,  I  don't  tliink  he 
treated  me  well,  though,  m  the  swop  of 
'  Hop-and-go-constant '  against  my  jirecious 
bit  of  blood,  'Pat  the  Spanker.'  He  made 
me  pay  him  twenty-five  pounds  boot  for  an 
old — But  you  shall  see  him,  Reilly,  you  shall 
see  him,  "Willy,  and  if  ever  there  was  a 
gi'eater  take  in — you  needn't  smile,  He  en, 
nor  look  at  W^iUy.     By  the  good  King  Wil- 


WILLY  REILLT. 


21 


liam  that  saved  us  from  Pope,  and — iiliein — 
1  beg  pardon,  \Villy,  Liit,  upon  my  soul,  he 
took  nie  completely  in.  I  say,  I  shall  show 
you  Hop-and-jjo-coustant.  and  when  you  see 
him  you'll  admit  the  '  Hop,'  hut  the  devil  a 
bit  you  will  find  of  the  '(Jo-constant.'" 

"I  suppose  the  fj;eutlenian's  pci'sonixl  ap- 
pearance, sir,"  observed  KeUly,  glancing  at 
iliss  FoUiard,  "  is  equal  to  his  other  quali- 
ties." 

"  ^Miy — a — ye — s.  He's  tall  and  thin  and 
serious,  with  something  about  him,  say,  of  a 
philosoiiher.     Isn't  that  true,  Helen  '? " 

"  Perfectly,  jjapa,"  she  rejilicd,  with  a  smile 
of  ai'ch  humor,  which,  to  lU'illy,  placed  her 
character  in  a  new  light.  ] 

"  Perfectly  tnie,  papa,  so  far  as  you  have 
gone  ;  but  I  tnist  you  will  finish  the  portrait 
for  JFr.  IJeillv." 

"  "WeU,  tlien,  I  will.  TVliere  wasl  ?  Oh,  yes 
— tall,  thin,  and'  serious  ;  like  a  jjlulosopher. 
I'll  go  next  to  the  shoulders,  because  Helen  ! 
seems  to  like  them — they  are  a  little  round 
or  so.  I,  myself,  wish  to  gootbiess  they  were 
.somewhat  straighter,  but  Helen  saj-s  the  ' 
cun'e  is  delightful,  being  what  isainters  and 
glaziers  call  the  line  of  beauty."  | 

A  sweet  light  laugh,  that  rang  with  the 
melody  of  a  musicjil  bell,  broke  from  Helen 
at  this  part  of  the  description,  in  which,  to 
tell  tiie  tiiith,  she  was  joined  by  Reilly.  The 
old  man  himself,  from  sheer  hapjiiness  and 
goixl-humor,  joined  them  both,  though  ut- 
terly ignorant  of  the  cause  of  their  mirth. 

"Aye,  aye,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  may  laugh 
— by  the  great  Boyue,  I  knew  I  would  make  ' 
you  laugh.     Well,  111  go  on  ;  his  complexion  ' 
is  of  a — a  —no  matter — of  a  good  st  uiding 
color,  at  idl  events  ;  his  nose,  I  griuit  you,  is 
as   thin,    and   much  of  the   same  <-olor,  as 
l)astebo:u-d,  but   as  a  set-off  to   that   it's  a 
thorough     Williamite.       Isn't     that     tme,  | 
Helen  '>.  "  i 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  but  I  think  King  WiUiam's 
nose   was   the   worst    feature    in    his   face,  i 
altiiough  that  cei-tiiiuly  cannot  be  said   of  j 
!Sir  liobert.  " 

"Do  you  hear  that.  Keilly?    I  wish  Sir' 
RulHrt  heai-d   it,  but  I'll  tciriiiin— there's  a 
coiiij)liment,    Helen — you're   a   good  girl — 
thank  you,  Helen." 

Helen's  face  W!i8  now  nuliant  with  mirth-  ' 
ful  enjoyment,  whilst  at  the  same  time 
Heilly  could  perceive  tha'  from  time  to  time 
a  deep  unconscious  sigh  would  escape  from 
her,  such  a  sigh  as  induce<l  him  to  infer  that 
some  hidden  CiU-e  was  at  work  witli  her 
lieart.  This  he  at  once  im])uted  to  her 
fatiier's  det<>nuination  to  force  her  into  a 
marriage  with  tiie  worthy  baronet,  wliom 
in  his  simphcity  he  was  so  ludicrously  de- 
scribing. 


"  Proceed,  papa,  and  finish  as  you  hava 
begun  it." 

"I  will,  to  oblige  and  gi-atify  you,  Helen. 
He  is  a  little  close  about  the  knees,  Mr. 
Reilly — a  little  close  about  the  knees,  Willy." 

"  And  al>out  the  heart,  papa,"  added  his 
daughter,  who,  for  the  life  of  her,  could  not 
restrain  tlie  obsciTation. 

"  It's  no  fault  to  know  the  value  of  money, 
my  deiU'  child.  However,  let  me  go  on^ 
close  about  the  knees,  but  that's  a  proof  of 
strength,  l)ecause  they  sujijDort  one  another : 
every  one  knows  that." 

"  But  his  arms,  papa?" 

"  You  see,  ReiUy,  you  see,  Willy,"  said 
the  squire,  nodding  in  the  direction  of  his 
daughter,  "  not  a  bad  sign  that,  and  yet  she 
pretends  not  to  care  about  him.  She  is 
gratified,  evidently.  Ah,  Helen,  Helen  !  it's 
hard  to  know  women." 

"But  his  arms,  jiapa?" 

"  WeU,  then,  I  i^-ish  to  goodness  you  would 
allow  me  to  skip  that  part  of  the  subject — 
they  are  an  awftil  length,  A\'illy,  I  grant.  I 
allow  the  fact,  it  cannot  be  denied,  they  are 
of  an  awful  length." 

"  It  will  give  him  the  greater  adviuitageiu 
over-reaching,  papa." 

"  Well,  as  to  his  arms,  upon  my  soul, 
Willy,  I  know  no  more  what  to  do  with 
them — " 

■■  Than  he  does  himself,  papa." 

"Just  so,  Helen;  they  hang  about  him 
like  those  of  a  skeleton  on  wires  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  has  a  neck  that  always 
betokens  ti-ue  blood,  long  and  thin  like  that 
of  a  racer.  Altogether  he's  a  devilish  inter- 
esting man,  steady,  i)rudent,  and  sober.  I 
never  saw  him  drink  a  third  glass  of — " 

"  In  the  meantinic,  papa,"  observed  Helen, 
"  ui  tlie  enthusiasm  of  yoiu-  description  you 
are  neglecting  ]\Ir.  ReiUy." 

Ah,  love,  love  !  in  how  many  minute  points 
can  you  make  yourst'lf  understood  ! 

"By  the  great  William,  and  so  I  am. 
Come,  Willy,  help  yourself  " — and  he  pushed 
the  bottle  towar<ls  him  as  he  spoke. 

And  why,  gentle  reader,  did  Reilly  fill  his 
gla.ss  on  that  particular  occasion  until  it 
became  literally  a  bnmmer  ':"  We  know — bat 
if  you  we  ignorant  of  it  we  simply  beg  yoq 
to  remain  so  :  and  why,  on  i>utting  tlie  glass 
to  his  lijKs,  did  his  large  dark  eyes  rest  upon 
her  witii  that  dee])  and  melting  glance':" 
Why,  too,  was  that  glance  returned  with  tJie 
quickness  of  tliouglit  l)efore  her  lids  dropped, 
anil  the  conscious  blu.sh  suffused  her  face? 
The  solution  of  this  we  must  also  leave  to 
viiur  own  ingenuitv. 

"Well,"  jirocccded  the  squire,  "steady, 
jirudent.  .sober—  of  n  fine  old  family,  unci 
with  lui  estate  of  twelve  thousand  a  year— 


22 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


what  do  you  tliink  of  that,  Willy  ?  Isn't  she 
a  fortunate  f^ii'l  ?  " 

"  Taking  his  virtues  and  very  agi-eeable  j^er- 
son  into  consideration,  sir,  I  think  so,"  replied 
Eeilly  in  a  tone  of  slight  siu'casm,  which  was 
only  calculated  to  reach  one  of  his  audience. 

"  Tou  hear  that,  Helen — you  hear  what 
Mr.  EeiUy— what  Willy— says.  The  fact  is, 
I'll  call  you  nothmg  but  Will}-  in  future, 
WiUy — you  hear  what  he  says,  darling  ?  " 

"Indeed  I  do,  papa — and  understand  it 
perfectly." 

"  That's  my  girl.  Twelve  thousand  a  year 
—and  has  money  lent  out  at  every  rate  of  in- 
terest from  six  jjer  cent,  ujj." 

"  And  yet  I  cannot  consider  him  as  inter- 
esting on  that  account,  paj^a." 

"You  do,  Helen — nonsense,  my  love — you 
do,  I  tell  you — it's  all  make-believe  when  you 
speak  to  the  contrary — don't  you  call  the 
curve  on  his  shoulders  the  line  of  beauty  ? 
Come — come — ^j-ou  know  I  only  want  to  make 
you  happy." 

"It  is  time,  papa,  that  I  should  withdraw," 
she  rephed,  rising. 

EeiUy  rose  to  open  the  door. 

"Good-night,  papa — dear,  dear  papa,"  she 
added,  puttmg  her  snowy  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissing  him  tendei'ty.  "  I  know," 
she  added,  "  that  the  gi'eat  object  of  yoiu'  hfe 
is  to  make  your  Cooleen  Baivii  hajjpy — and  in 
doing  so,  dear  papa — there  now  is  another 
kiss  for  you — a  little  bribe,  papa — in  doing 
so,  consult  her  heart  as  well  as  your  own. 
Good-night. " 

"  Good-night,  my  treasure." 

Diu'uig  this  little  scene  of  affectionate  ten- 
derness Reillj-  stood  holding  the  door  023eu, 
and  as  she  was  going  out,  as  if  recollecting 
herself,  she  turned  to  him  and  said,  "Pardon 
me,  Ml".  Eeilly,  I  fear  you  must  think  me 
ungrateful ;  I  have  not  yet  thanked  you  for 
the  service — a  seiwice  indeed  so  important 
that  no  language  could  find  expression  for  it 
— which  you  have  rendered  to  dear  papa,  and 
to  me.  13ut,  Mr.  Eeilly,  I  jivaj  you  do  not 
think  me  ungi-ateful,  or  insensible,  for,  in- 
deed, I  am  neither.  Suffer  me  to  feel  what 
I'owe  you,  and  do  not  blame  me  if  I  cannot 
express  it." 

"  If  it  were  not  for  the  value  of  the  life 
which  it  is  probable  I  have  saved,  and  if  it 
were  not  that  your  happiness  was  so  deeply 
involved  in  it,"  replied  EeiUy,  "I  would  say 
that  you  overrate  what  I  have  done  this  even- 
ing. But  I  confess  I  am  myself  now  forced 
to  see  the  value  of  my  sei-vices,  and  I  thank 
heaven  for  having  made  me  the  humble  in- 
stniment  of  savmg  j-our  father's  life,  not  only 
for  his  own  sake.  Miss  FoUiard,  but  for  youi-s. 
I  now  feel  a  double  debt  of  gratitude  to 
heaven  for  it." 


The  Cooleen  Bawn  did  not  speak,  but  the 
tears  ran  do^-sTi  her  cheeks.  "  Good-night, 
sir,"  she  said.  "  I  am  utterly  incapable  ol 
thanking  3-0U  as  you  deserve,  and  as  I  ought 
to  thank  you.     Good-night !  " 

She  extended  her  small  snowy  hand  to 
him  as  she  sjioke.  Eeilly  took  it  in  his,  and 
by  some  voluntary  impulse  he  could  not 
avoid  giving  it  a  certain  degree  of  pressure. 
The  fact  is,  it  was  such  a  hand — so  white — 
so  small — so  soft — so  warm — so  j)rovocative 
of  a  squeeze — that  he  felt  his  own  pressing 
it,  he  knew  not  how  nor  wherefore,  jit  least 
he  thought  so  at  the  time  ;  that  is  to  say,  if 
he  were  capable  of  thinking  distinctly  of  any 
thing.  But  heaven  and  earth  !  Was  it  true  ! 
No  delusion  ?  No  dream  ?  The  jiressure 
retiu'ned !  the  sUghtest,  the  most  gentle,  the 
most  delicate  j^ressui-e — the  barely  perceijti- 
ble  pressiu'e  !  Yes  !  it  was  bej'ond  all  doubt ; 
for  although  the  act  itself  was  light  as  deU- 
cacy  and  modesty  could  make  it,  yet  the 
sjsirit — the  hghtenuig  spii'it — which  it  shot 
into  his  bounding  and  enrajitui-ed  heart  could 
not  be  for  a  moment  mistaken. 

As  she  was  running  up  the  stairs  she  re- 
tiirned,  however,  and  again  ajjproaching  her 
father,  said — whilst  EeDly  could  observe  that 
her  cheek  was  Hushed  with  a  feeling  that 
seemed  to  resemble  ecstasy — "Paj^a,"  .said 
she,  "  what  a  stupid  girl  I  am !  I  scarcely 
know  what  I  am  saying  or  doing." 

"  By  the  great  BojTie,"  rciilied  her  father, 
"  I'll  describe  him  to  you  every  night  in  the 
week.  I  knew  the  curve — the  line  of  beauty 
—  would  get  into  your  head  ;  but  what  is  it, 
darhng?'' 

"  Will  j-ou  and  Mr.  EeUly  have  tea  in  the 
drawmg-room,  or  shall  I  send  it  doTNTi  to 
you?" 

"I  am  too  comfortable  in  my  easy  chair, 
dear  Helen  :  no,  send  it  down." 

"  After  the  shock  you  have  received,  papa, 
perhaps  you  might  wish  to  have  it  from  the 
hand  of  your  own  Cooleen  Bawn  ?  " 

As  the  old  man  tiu'ned  his  eyes  uj)on  her 
they  liter;dly  danced  with  delight.  "  Ah, 
AVilly  !  "  said  he,  "is  it  any  wonder  I  should 
love  her  ?  " 

"I  have  often  heard,"  rephed  Eeilly, 
"  that  it  is  impossible  to  know  her,  and  not 
to  love  her.     I  now  believe  it." 

"  Thank  you,  EeiUy  ;  thank  you,  Willy  , 
shake  hands.  Co:iie,  Helen,  shake  hands 
with  him.  That's  a  compliment.  Shake 
hands  with  him,  darling.  There,  now,  that's 
all  right.  Yes,  my  love,  by  all  means,  come 
dovvii  and  give  vis  tea  here." 

Innocent  old  man — the  die  is  now  in-evo- 
cably  cast !  That  miitmd  pressure,  and  that 
mutual  glance.  Alas !  alas  !  how  strange 
and  incomprehensible  is  human  destiny  ! 


WILLY  ItEILLY. 


23 


After  she  had  pone  upstairs  the  old  man 
said,  "  You  see,  Willy,  how  my  heart  aud 
8011I  are  in  that  anprelic  creatiire.  The 
great  object,  the  preat  dehpht  of  lier  life,  is 
to  anticipate  all  luy  want.s,  to  study  whatever 
is  agreeable  to  me — in  fcict,  to  make  me 
happy.  And  she  succeeds.  Everything  she 
does  pleases  me.  By  the  grave  of  Schom- 
berg,  she's  beyond  all  price.  It  is  true  wo 
never  had  a  baronet  in  the  family,  and  it 
would  gi-atif\-  me  to  hear  her  called  Lady 
Whitecraf  t ;  stQl.  I  say,  I  don't  care  for  rank  or 
ambition ;  Tior  would  I  sacrifice  my  child's  hap- 
piness to  either.  And,  between  you  aud  me, 
if  she  declines  to  have  him,  she  shan't,  that':-. 
all  that's  to  be  said  about  it.  He's  quite  round 
in  th»  shoulders  ;  and  yet  so  inconsistent 
are  women  that  she  calls  a  protuberance  that 
resembles  the  letter  C  the  Uno  of  beauty. 
Then  again  he  bit  me  in  '  Hop-and-go-con- 
stant  ; '  and  you  know  yourself,  Willy,  that 
no  person  hkes  to  be  bit,  especiallj-  by  the 
man  he  uitcnds  for  his  son-in-law.  If  he 
gives  me  the  hilf  before  man-iage,  what 
would  he  not  do  after  it '?  " 

"  Tliis,  sir,  is  a  subject,"  replied  Rcilly, 
"  on  which  I  mu.st  decline  to  give  an  opin- 
ion :  but  I  think  that  no  f  ithcr  should  s.icri- 
fiee  the  happiness  of  his  datighter  to  his  ovai 
inclinations.  However,  setting  tliis  matter 
aside,  I  have  something  of  deep  importance 
to  mention  to  you."  I 

"  To  me  !     Good  heavens  !     Wliat  is  it  ?  " 

"The  Red  Itapparee,  su",  has  formed  a 
pliii  to  rob,  possibly  to  murder,  you,  and 
what  is  worse — "  j 

"  Worse  !  ^^^ly,  what  the  deuce — worse  ' 
'VN'hy,  what  vitnhl  be  woi-se  ?  " 

"  The  dislionor  of  your  daughter.  It  is 
his  intention  to  cairy  her  off  to  the  moun- 
tains ;  but  pardon  me,  I  cannot  bear  to  dwell 
up')n  the  diab(jlical  project."  i 

The  old  man  fell  back,  pale,  and  almost 
insensible,  in  liis  cliair. 

"  Do  not  be  aliunned,  sir,"  proceeded 
Reilly,  "  he  will  be  disappointed.  I  have 
taken  care  of  that." 

"  But,  Mr.  Roilly,  what — how — for  heaven's 
Bake  tell  nic  wh  it  you  know  about  it.  Ai'e 
you  sure  f)f  this?  How  did  you  come  to 
hear  of  it '?  Tell  me — tell  me  every  thing 
al)outit!  We  must  prepare  to  receive  the 
villains— we  mu.st  instantly  get  a.ssist."ince. 
My  child — my  life — my  Helen,  to  fidl  into 
the  hands  of  this  monster !  " 

"Heir  me,  sir,"  s'lid  Beilly,  "hear  me, 
nnd  you  will  perceive  I  have  taken  measures 
to  frustr.ite  all  his  designs,  and  to  have  him 
a  prisoner  before  to-moiTow's  sun  arises." 

He  then  related  to  him  the  plan  laid  by 
the  Red  Rapparee.  as  overheard  l>v  Tom 
Steeple,  and  as  it  w.as  communicated  to  liim-  1 


self  by  the  same  individual  subsequently, 
after  which  he  proceeded  : 

"The fact  is,  sir,  I  have  sent  the  poor  fool, 
who  is  both  faithful  and  trustworthv,  to 
summon  here  forty  or  fifty  of  my  laborers 
and  tenants.  They  must  be  placed  in  the 
out-houSes,  and  whatever  arms  and  ammu- 
nition you  can  spnre,  in  addition  to  the 
weapons  which  they  shall  bring  along  with 
them,  must  be  made  available.  I  sent  orders 
that  they  should  be  here  about  nine  o'clock. 
I,  myself,  will  remain  in  this  house,  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  your  life,  your  prop- 
erty, and  your  child  shall  be  all  sife.  I  know 
the  strength  of  the  rufhan's  band  :  it  only 
consists  of  about  twelve  men,  or  rather  twelve 
devils,  but  he  imd  they  will  find  themselves 
mistaken." 

Before  Jliss  FoUiard  came  down  to  make 
tea,  Roilly  had  summoned  the  servants,  and 
given  them  instructions  as  to  their  conduct 
during  the  expected  attack.  Having  ar- 
ranged this,  ho  went  to  the  yard,  and  found 
a  large  body  of  his  tenants  armed  with  such 
rude  weapons  as  they  could  j)roc.ure  ;  for,  at 
this  period,  it  was  a  felony  for  a  Ronr.iu  Cath- 
olic to  have  or  carry  arms  at  all.  The  old 
scpiire,  however,  was  well  provided  in  that 
respect,  and,  accordingly,  such  as  could  be 
spared  from  the  house  were  distributed 
among  them.  Mr.  FoUiard  himself  felt  hia 
s})irit  animated  by  a  sense  of  the  danger,  luid 
V)ustled  aV)Out  with  unconnnon  energy  and 
activity,  considering  what  he  liad  sulU^red  in 
the  course  of  tlio  (evening.  At  idl  events, 
they  both  resolved  to  conceal  the  matter  ft'om 
Helen  till  the  last  moment,  in  order  to  spare 
lier  the  terror  and  alarm  wliich  she  must 
necessarily  feel  on  hearing  of  the  contem- 
pl.ated  violence.  At  tea,  however,  she  coidd 
not  avoid  observing  that  something  had  dis- 
turbed her  father,  who,  from  his  naturally 
impetuous  character,  ejaculded,  from  time 
to  time,  "  Tiie  bloodthii-sty  scoundrel !  — 
murdering  laithan  !  We  shall  hang  him, 
though  ;  we  can  hang  him  for  the  conspir- 
acy. Would  the  fool's,  Tom  Steeples',  evi- 
dence be  taken,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not,  sir,"  replie<l  Roilly.  "In  the 
meantime,  don't  think  of  it,  don't  further 
distress  yourself  about  it." 

"  To  think  of  attacking  my  house,  though  ; 
and  if  it  were  only  I  myself  that  —however, 
wo  are  jirepared,  that's  one  comfort  ;  we  are 
pr<  paved,  and  let  thom — hoiu  ! — Helen,  my 
darling,  now  that  we've  had  our  tea.  will 
you  retire  to  your  own  room.  I  wish  to  talk 
to  Mr.  Reilly  hero,  on  a  j)irti<-ular  and  im- 
])ortant  subject,  in  wlii<-h  you  yourself  are 
(lee])ly  ivincenied.  ^\'itlldr,lw.  my  love,  but 
don't  go  to  bod  until  I  see  you  agiin.  " 

Helen  went  uiisUiirs  with  u  liyht  foot  niv* 


24 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


a  hounding  heart.  A  certain  liope,  like  a 
dream  of  far-off  and  unexjiected  happiness, 
rushed  into  and  filled  her  bosom  -with  a 
crowd  of  sensations  so  delicious  that,  on 
reaching  her  own  room,  she  felt  comjiletely 
overj)owered  by  them,  and  was  onlj'  reheved 
by  a  burst  of  tears.  There  was  now  but  one 
image  before  her  imagination,  but  one  im- 
age impressed  upon  her  pure  and  fervent 
heart  ;  that  image  was  the  first  that  love  had 
ever  stamped  there,  and  the  last  that  suffer- 
ing, sorrow,  madness,  and  death  were  ever 
able  to  tear  fi'om  it. 

A\"hen  the  night  had  advanced  to  the  asual 
hour  tor  retiring  to  rest,  it  was  deemed  ne- 
cessary to  make  Helen  acquainted  with  the 
meditated  outrage,  in  order  to  jjrevent  the 
consequences  of  a  nocturnal  alarm  for  which 
she  might  be  altogether  unjjrejiared.  This 
was  accordingly  done,  and  her  natm-al  ter- 
rors were  soothed  and  combated  by  Eeilly 
and  her  father,  who  succeeded  in  reviving 
her  courage,  and  in  enabling  her  to  contem- 
plate what  was  to  happen  with  tolerable 
composure. 

Until  about  the  hour  of  two  o'clock  evei-y 
thing  rer:  allied  silent.  Nobody  went  to  bed 
— the  male  sei-vants  were  aU  prepared — the  j 
females,  some  in  tears,  and  others  sustainuig 
and  comforting  those  who  were  more  feeble- 
heai'ted.  ]\Iiss  FoUiard  was  in  her  own 
room,  dressed.  At  about  half  past  two  she 
heard  a  stealthy  foot,  and  having  extin- 
guished the  Ught  in  her  apartment,  with 
gi'eat  jjreseuce  of  mind  she  rang  the  bell, 
whilst  at  the  same  moment  her  door  was 
broken  in,  and  a  man,  as  she  knew  by  his 
step,  entered.  In  the  meantime  the  house 
was  alarmed  ;  the  man  having  hastily  pro- 
jected his  arms  about  in  several  directions, 
as  if  searching  for  her,  instantly  retreated,  a 
scuffle  was  heard  outside  on  the  lobby,  and 
when  lights  and  assistance  ajijjeared,  there 
were  foimd  eight  or  ten  men  variously 
armed,  aU  of  whom  jjroved  to  be  a  portion 
of  the  guard  selected  by  Reilly  to  protect 
the  house  and  family.  These  men  main- 
tained that  they  had  seen  the  Eed  Eajiparee 
on  the  roof  of  the  house,  throiigh  winch  he 
had  descended,  and  that  having  procm-ed  a 
ladder  fi-om  the  farmyard,  they  entered  a 
back  window,  at  a  distance  of  about  forty 
feet  from  the  ground,  in  hope  of  securing 
his  jserson — that  they  came  in  contact  ^dth 
some  powerful  man  in  +he  dark,  who  disap- 
peared from  among  them — but  by  what 
means  he  had  contrived  to  escape  they  could 
not  guess.  This  was  the  substance  of  all 
they  knew  or  understood  upon  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  whole  house  was  immediately  and 
tlioi 'jughly  searched,  and  no  trace  of  him 


could  be  found  until  they  came  to  the  sky- 
hght,  which  was  discovered  to  be  opened — • 
wrenched  off  the  hinges — and  lying  on  the 
roof  at  a  distance  of  two  or  three  yards  fi-om 
its  place. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  the  Eaj^paree 
and  his  party  had  taken  the  alai'm.  In  an 
instant  those  who  were  outside  awaitmg  to 
pounce  upon  them  in  the  moment  of  attack 
got  orders  to  scour  the .  neighborhood,  and 
if  possible  to  secure  the  Eapparee  at  every 
risk  ;  and  as  an  inducement  the  squire  him- 
self offered  to  jjay  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
jjounds  to  any  one  who  should  bring  him  to 
Corbo  Castle, '*'  which  was  the  name  of  his 
residence.  This  was  accordingly  attemjDted, 
the  country  f;U'  and  wide  was  seai'chec^  p>ur- 
suit  given  in  every  direction,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  Not  only  was  the  failure  comjjlete, 
but,  what  was  still  more  unaccountable  and 
mysterious,  no  single  mark  or  trace  of  them 
could  be  found.  This  escape,  however,  did 
not  much  surprise  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country  at  large,  as  it  was  only  in  keejjing 
with  many  of  a  far  more  difficult  character 
which  the  Eajjparee  had  often  effected.  The 
only  cause  to  which  it  could  be  ascribed  was 
the  sujjposed  fact  of  his  having  taken  such 
admirable  jsrecautions  against  surjsrise  as 
enabled  his  gang  to  disappear  upon  a  pre- 
concerted plan  the  moment  the  friendly 
guards  were  discovered,  whilst  he  himself 
daringly  attempted  to  secure  the  squii'e's 
cash  and  his  daughter. 

Whether  the  supposition  was  right  or 
wrong  will  appear  subsequently  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  we  may  add  here,  that  the  event 
in  question,  and  the  disapjjearance  of  the 
burglars,  was  fatal  to  the  happmess  of  our 
lovers,  for  such  they  were  in  the  tenderest 
and  most  devoted  sense  of  that  strange  and 
ungovernable  jjassion. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  squire  was  so 
comijletely  exliausted  by  the  consequences 
of  watching,  anxiety,  and  want  of  rest,  that 
he  felt  himself  overcome  by  sleep,  and  was 
obliged  to  go  to  bed.  Before  he  went,  how- 
ever, he  made  Eeilly  jjromise  that  he  would 
not  go  until  he  had  breakfasted,  then  shook 
him  cordially  by  the  hand,  thanked  him 
again  and  again  for  the  deep  and  important 
obhgations  he  had  imjDosed  upon  him  and 
his  child,  and  concluded  by  givuig  him  a 
general  invitation  to  his  house,  the  doors  of 
which,  he  said,  as  well  as  the  heart  of  its 
owner,  should  be  ever  ready  to  receive  him. 

"As  for  Helen,  here,"  said  he,  "I  leave 
her  to  thank  you  herself,  which  I  am  svu'e 
she  win  do  in  a  manner  becoming  the  ser 
vices  you  have  rendered  her,  before  you  go.' 

Tkis  name  is  fictitioua. 


WILLY  REILLY 


%% 


She  then  kissed  him  tenderly  and  he  retired 
to  rest 

At  breakfast,  Reilly  and  Miss  Folliard 
were,  of  coiu'se,  alone,  if  we  may  say  so. 
Want  of  rest  auil  apprelieusion  h;ul  given  a 
oast  of  paleness  to  lier  features  that,  so  far 
fi'om  diniinisliing,  only  added  a  new  and 
tender  chiu'aeter  to  her  beauty.  Eeilly  ob- 
served the  exquisite  loveliness  of  her  hand 
as  she  poured  out  the  tea  ;  and  when  he  re- 
membered tlie  gentle  but  signilieant  j)ressui'e 
which  it  had  given  to  his,  more  than  once  or 
twice,  on  the  preceding  night,  he  felt  as  if  he 
experienced  a  personal  interest  in  her  fate — 
as  if  their  destinies  were  to  be  imited — as  if 
his  growing  spirit  could  enfold  hers,  and 
mingle  with  it  forever.  The  love  he  felt  for 
her  pen-aded  and  softened  his  whole  being 
with  such  a  feeling  of  tenderness,  timidity, 
and  ecstasy,  that  his  voice,  always  manly  and 
tinu.  now  became  tremulous  in  its  tones  ; 
such,  in  tnith,  as  is  always  occasioned  by  a 
full  and  overflowing  heart  when  it  trembles 
at  the  very  oj)portunity  of  2)ouring  forth  the 
first  avowal  of  its  ail'ection. 

"  ^liss  Folliard,"  said  he,  after  a  pause, 
and  witli  some  confusion,  "  do  you  believe  in 
Fate  V  " 

The  question  appeared  to  take  her  some- 
what by  surprise,  if  one  could  judge  by  the 
look  she  bestowed  upon  him  with  lier  dai'k, 
fiasliing  eyes. 

"  In  Fate,  ilr.  Reilly  ?  that  is  a  subject,  I 
fear,  too  deep  for  a  girl  like  me.  I  beheve 
in  Providence." 

"  All  this  moniing  I  have  been  thinking  of 
the  subject.  Should  it  be  Fate  that  br(jught 
me  to  the  rescue  of  your  father  last  night,  I 
cannot  but  feel  gliul  of  it ;  but  though  it  be 
a  Fate  that  has  i)rcserved  liim— and  I  tha)ik 
Almighty  (lod  for  it — yet  it  is  one  that  I  feai' 
has  destroyed  my  hii)piness." 

"  Destroyed  your  happiness,  JL\  Reilly ! 
why,  liow  could  the  service  you  rendered 
papa  List  night  have  such  an  effect  V  " 

"I  will  l)c  candid,  and  tell  you,  Jliss  Fol- 
liard. I  know  that  wjiat  I  am  about  to  say 
will  olTend  you— it  was  by  making  me  ac- 
(juainted  with  his  daughter,  and  by  Inijiging 
nie  under  the  influence  of  beauty  which  has 
unmanned — distracted  me — l)eauty  which  I 
could  not  resist — wliich  has  overcome  me — 
subdued  me — and  whicli.  because  it  is  be- 
yond my  re-vch  ami  my  deserts,  will  occasion 
me  an  unhai)py  hfe — how  long  soever  that 
lif(!  my  la.st." 

"  JL-.  Reilly,"  exiilaimed  the  CmAcen  fiairn, 
"  this — this — is — I  am  (juit*'  unj>repai'ed  for 
—I  mean — to  hear  tliat  such  noble  and  gen- 
eriHis  conduct  to  my  father  .should  end  in 
thi.s.  Rut  it  cannot  be.  Nay,  I  will  not 
pretend  to  misunderstand  you.     After  the 


sei-vice  you  have  rendered  to  liim  and  to 
myself,  it  would  be  uncandid  in  me  and  un- 
worthy of  you  to  conceal  the  disti-ess  which 
j-oiu-  words  have  caused  me." 

"I  am  sciuvely  in  a  condition  to  speal: 
reasonably  and  calmly,"  rephed  Reilly,  "  but 
I  cannot  regi'et  that  I  have  luiconsciously  mu  • 
rificed  my  happiness,  when  that  sivciiiice  hf.< 
saved  you  from  distress  and  grief  luid  sorrow. 
Now  that  I  know  you,  I  would  otil'er — laj 
down — my  life,  if  the  sacrifice  could  savi 
yours  fi-om  one  moment's  care.  I  liave  ofte'! 
heard  of  what  love — love  in  its  highest  am! 
noblest  sense — is  able  to  do  and  to  sufTe! 
for  the  good  and  hajipiness  of  its  object,  bu( 
now^  I  know  it." 

She  si)oke  not,  or  rather  she  was  unable  1 1 
speak  ;  but  as  she  pidled  out  her  snow-whitj 
h-.indkerchief,  Reilly  could  obsen-e  the  ex< 
traoi-dinary  tremor  of  her  himds  ;  the  face, 
too,  was  deatUy  p:ile. 

"I  am  not  nuiking  love  to  you,  Hiss  Fol. 
Uai'd,"  he  atlded.  "  No,  my  religion,  njy  po. 
sition  in  life,  a  sense  of  my  own  unworthi- 
uess,  would  iireveut  that ;  but  I  could  nol 
rest  unless  you  knew  that  there  is  one  heiu't 
which,  in  the  midst  of  unhiiiipiness  and  de- 
spair, can  understand,  appreciate,  and  lovo 
you.     I  urge  no  chiim.     I  am  without  hope." 

The  f.iir  girl  (Conlrca  Jlawu)  could  not  re- 
strain her  tears  ;  but  wept — yes,  she  wejit. 
"I  was  not  prepwed  for  this,"  she  rephed. 
"  I  did  not  think  that  so  short  lui  acquaint- 
ance could  have — Oh,  I  know  not  what  to 
say — nor  how  to  act.  My  father's  prejudices. 
You  are  a  C'atliolic." 

"  And  will  die  one,  i\Iiss  Folliard." 

"  liut  why  should  you  be  uidiappy  '?  You 
do  not  deserve  to  be  so." 

"That  is  precisely  what  made  me  a.sk  you 
just  now  if  you  believed  in  Jhlr." 

"  Oh,  I  know  not.  I  ciuinot  answer  such 
a  question  ;  but  whj'  should  you  be  imhap- 
py,  with  your  brave,  generous,  and  noble 
heai"t  ?  Sui'elv,  siu'ely,  you  do  not  deserve 
it" 

"  I  said  Ijefore  that  I  have  no  hope.  Miss 
Folliard.  I  shall  carry  with  me  my  love  of 
you  through  life  ;  it  is  my  first,  and  I  feel  it 
will  be  my  Lust — it  will  be  the  melancholy 
liglit  that  will  burn  in  the  sejiuli'lire  of 
my  heart  to  show  your  image  there.  .Vnd 
now,  ^liss  Folhard,  I  will  biil  you  fai-ewelL 
Your  father  has  proffered  me  hospitality, 
but  I  have  not  strength  nor  resohition  t*)  ac- 
cept it.  You  now  know  my  secret — a  ho|)&- 
less  jjassion." 

"  Reilly,"  she  replied,  weeping  bitterly, 
"  our  acquaintance  has  been  short — we  liave 
not  seen  much  of  each  other,  yet  I  will  not 
deny  tliat  I  believe  you  to  be  all  tliat  any  fe- 
male  heart  could  — piu'don  me,  1  am  with<.)ut 


2(y 


WILLLAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


experience— I  kno  vv  not  much  of  the  world. 
You  have  travelled,  papa  told  me  last  night ; 
I  do  not  wdsh  that  you  should  be  uuhapjsy, 
aud,  least  of  all,  that  I,  who  owe  you  so 
much,  should  be  the  occasion  of  it.  No,  you 
talk  of  a  hopeless  passion.  I  know  not  what 
I  ought  to  say — but  to  the  preserver  of  my 
father's  life,  and,  jjrobably  my  own  honor,  I 
will  say,  be  not— but  why  should  love  be 
sej)arated  from  truth '? "  she  said — '•'  No,  Beil- 
ly,  be  ni)l  hopeless." 

"  Oh,"  replied  EeiUy,  who  had  gone  over 
near  her,  "  but  my  soul  will  not  be  satisfied 
without  a  stronger  affirmation.  Tliis  mo- 
ment is  the  great  crisis  oi  my  life  and  hap- 
piness. I  love  you  beyond  all  the  jiower  of 
language  or  expression.  You  tremble,  dear 
Miss  FoUiard,  and  you  weep ;  let  me  wipe 
those  precious  tears  away.  Oh,  would  to 
God  that  you  loved  me  !  " 

He  caught  her  hand — it  was  not  with- 
di'awn — he  pressed  it  as  he  had  done  the 
evening  before.  The  pressure  was  return- 
ed— his  voice  melted  into  tenderness  that 
was  contagious  and  irresistible  :  "  Say,  deai'- 
est  Helen,  star  of  my  hfe  and  of  my  fate,  oh, 
only  say  that  I  am  not  indifferent  to  you." 

They  were  both  standing  ueai-  the  chim- 
ney-piece as  he  spoke — "  only  say,"  he  re- 
peated, "  that  I  am  not  indifferent  to  you." 

"Well,  then,"  she  replied,  "you  are  not 
indifferent  to  me." 

"  One  admission  more,  my  dearest  life, 
and  I  am  happy  forever.  You  love  me  ?  say 
it,  dearest,  say  it — or,  stay,  whisjjer  it,  whis- 
per it — you  love  me  !  " 

"  I  do,"  she  whispered  in  a  burst  of  teai's. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  Sapient  Vrnjcclfor  our  Ilero's  Convenion — His  Ri- 
val makes  his  Ajipearaiice,  and  its  Consequences. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  tu- 
mult of  delight  which  agitated  ReHly's  heart 
on  his  way  home,  after  this  tender  interview 
with  the  most  celebrated  Irish  beauty  of  that 
period.  The  term  Cooleen  Bawn,  in  native 
Irish,  has  two  meanings,  both  of  which  were 
justly  apj)lied  to  her,  and  met  in  her  person. 
It  signifies  /ai?'  locks,  or,  as  it  may  be  pro- 
nounced/air  girl ;  and  in  either  sense  is  ■pe- 
culiarly  applicable  to  a  blonde  beauty,  which 
she  was.  The  name  of  Cooleen  Bawn  was 
applied  to  her  by  the  populace,  whose  talent 
for  finding  out  aud  bestowing  epithets  indic- 
ative either  of  personal  beauty  or  deformity, 
or  of  the  quaUties  of  the  mind  or  character, 
be  they  good  or  evil,  is,  in  Ii-eland,  singular- 
ly feUcitous.     In  the  higher  rimks,  however, 


she  was  known  as  "  The  Lily  of  the  Plains 
of  Boyne,"  aud  as  such  she  was  toasted  by 
iill  jmrties,  not  only  in  her  own  native  coun- 
ty, but  throughout  Ii-eland,  and  at  the  ^iee-  ' 
regal  entertainments  in  the  Castle  of  Dub* 
lin.  At  the  time  of  which  we  write,  the  pe- 
nal laws  were  in  operation  against  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  population  of  the  country,  and 
her  father,  a  good-hearted  man  by  nature, 
was  wordy  and  violent  by  prejudice,  and  yet 
secretly  kind  and  fiiendly  to  many  of  that 
unhapipy  creed,  though  by  no  means  to  all. 
It  was  weU  kno'wn,  however,  that  in  every 
thing  that  was  generous  and  good  in  hia 
character,  or  m  the  discharge  of  his  jjubhc 
duties  as  a  magistrate,  he  was  chiefly  influ- 
enced by  the  benevolent  and  liberal  jsrinci- 
ples  of  his  daughter,  who  was  a  general  ad- 
vocate for  the  oppressed,  and  to  whom,  more- 
over, he  could  deny  nothing.  This  account- 
ed for  her  pojiularity,  as  it  does  for  the  ex- 
traordinary veneration  and  affection  with 
which  her  name  and  misfortunes  are  men- 
tioned down  to  the  jwesent  day.  The  worst 
point  in  her  father's  character  was  that  he 
never  could  be  i^revailed  on  to  forgive  an 
uijuiy,  or,  at  least,  any  act  that  he  conceiv- 
ed, to  be  such,  a  weakness  or  a  vice  which 
was  the  means  of  all  his  angeUc  and  lovely 
daughter's  calamities. 

ReUly,  though  fuU  of  fervor  and  enthu- 
siasm, was  yet  by  no  means  deficient  in  strong 
sense.  On  his  way  home  he  began  to  ask 
himself  in  what  this  overwhelming  passion 
for  Cooleen  Beam  must  end.  His  religion, 
he  was  well  aware,  placed  an  imjjassable  guU 
between  them.  Was  it  then  generous  or 
honorable  in  him  to  abuse  the  confidence 
and  hosijitality  of  her  father,  by  engaging 
the  affections  of  a  daughter,  on  whose  wel- 
fare his  whole  happiness  was  placed,  and  to 
whom,  moreover,  he  could  not,  without  com- 
mitting an  act  of  apostasy  that  he  abhon-ed, 
ever  be  imited  as  a  husband  ?  Reason  and 
prudence,  moveover,  suggested  to  him  the 
danger  of  his  jDosition,  as  well  as  the  imgen- 
erous  nature  of  his  conduct  to  the  grateful 
and  tiiisting  father.  But,  away  with  reason 
and  piiidence — away  -ndth  everything  but 
love.  The  rapture  of  his  heart  triumphed 
over  every  argimient ;  and,  come  wejil  or 
woe,  he  resolved  to  win  the  f!U--famed  "  Star 
of  Connaught,"  another  epithet  which  she 
derived  from  her  wonderful  and  exti'aordi- 
nary  beauty. 

On  apjjroaching  his  own  house  he  met  a 
woman  named  IMaiy  Mahon,  whose  character 
of  a  fortune-teller  was  extraordinary  in  the 
country,  and  whose  pi'edictions,  come  from 
what  source  they  might,  had  gained  her  a 
reputation  which  filled  the  common  mind 
with  awe  and  fear. 


WILLY  liEILLT. 


27 


"  Well,  Man-,"  said  he,  "  what  news  from 
futiu-ity  ?  And,  In-  tlie  way,  where  (.<  fiitui-- 
itj'?  Because  if  yon  don't  know,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, laupfhinpf,  "I  think  I  could  tell  you." 

"  Well,"  replied  ILu-v,  "  let  me  hear  it. 
\\\iere  is  it,  Mr.  ReiUy?" 

"  ^^^ly,"  he  replied,  "just  at  the  point  of 
yoiu"  own  nose,  Mary,  and  you  must  admit 
it  is  not  a  very  long  one  ;  jjiu-e  iiilesian, 
Mary ;  a  good  deal  of  the  saddle  in  its 
shape." 

The  woman  stood  and  looked  at  him  for  a 
few  moments. 

"My  nose  may  be  short,"  she  replied, 
"  but  shorter  wiU  be  the  course  of  your 
happiness." 

"  Well.  Maiy,"  he  said,  "  I  think  as  regards 
my  happiness  that  you  know  as  little  of  it  as 
I  do  myself.  If  you  tell  me  any  thing  that 
has  passed,  I  may  give  you  some  credit  for 
the  future,  but  not  otherwise." 

"  Do  you  wsh  to  have  your  foi-tune  tould, 
then,"  she  asked,  "upon  them  tei-ms?" 

"  Come,  then,  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  "\Miat 
has  haj)pened  me,  for  instance,  within  the 
last  forty-eight  hours?" 

"  That  has  happened  you  within  the  last 
forty-eight  hom-s  that  will  make  her  j-ou  love 
the  jjity  of  the  world  before  her  time.  I  .see 
how  it  will  happen,  for  the  complaint  I 
speak  of  is  m  the  f;uuily.  A  li\-ing  death  she 
win  have,  and  you  yomself  during  the  same 
time  will  have  little  less." 

"  But  what  )iax  happened  me,  Mar^?  " 

"I  needn't  tell  you — you  knoiv  it.  A 
proud  heart,  and  a  joyful  heart,  and  a  lovin' 
heart,  you  caiTV  now,  but  it  will  be  a  broken 
heart  before  long." 

"  ^Miy,  Mary,  this  is  an  evil  prophecy  ; 
have  you  nothing  good  to  foretell '?  " 

"  If  it's  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  know,  I  will 
tell  you  :  her  love  for  you  is  as  strong,  and 
stronger,  than  death  itself ;  and  it  is  llw  mif- 
fennrj  of  what  is  worse  than  death,  Willy 
Reilly.  that  will  unite  you  both  at  List." 

Iteilly  started,  and  after  a  ])ause,  in  whii'h 
he  took  it  for  granted  that  Mary  sj'oke  mere- 
ly from  one  of  those  shi-ewd  conjectui-es 
which  practised  impostoi-s  are  so  fi-equently 
in  the  habit  f)f  liiizarding,  replied,  "  Tlmt 
won't  do,  Man- ;  you  have  toM  me  notliing 
yet  that  hivs  happened  witliiu  the  last  forty- 
eight  hoiu-8.  I  deny  the  truth  of  what  you 
sjiy." 

"  It  won't  be  lont;  so,  then,  'Sir.  Reilly ; 
yo\i  saved  the  life  of  the  old  half-mad  sipiire 
of  Corbo.  Yes,  you  saved  his  life,  and  you 
have  taken  his  daughter's !  for  indeed  it 
would  be  lietter  for  her  to  die  at  wanst  than 
to  sull'cr  wliat  will  li;ij)pcn  to  you  and  her." 

"  \W\\.  what  is  to  liapjien  ';' " 

"  You'll  know  it  too  soon,"  she  rephed, 


"and  there's  no  use  in  making  you  unhappy. 
Good-by,  ^Ir.  Reilly  ;  if  you  tjike  a  friend's 
(ulvice  you'll  give  her  up  ;  thuik  no  more  of 
her.  It  may  cost  you  an  aching  he:u-t  to  dn 
so,  but  by  doiu'  it  you  may  save  her  from  a 
great  deal  of  son-ow,  and  both  of  you  fi-om  a 
long  and  hea\';\-  term  of  suft'ering." 

Reilly,  though  a  young  man  of  stron,'^ 
reason  in  the  ordinary  atfaii-s  of  life,  and  of  i 
highly  cultivated  intellect  besides,  yet  fell 
himself  influenced  by  tlie  gloomy  forebodings 
of  this  notorious  woman.  It  is  ti-ue  he  saw, 
by  the  force  of  his  own  sagacity,  tliat  .she  haij 
uttered  notliing  which  any  person  acquainted 
with  the  relative  position  of  himself  and  (Joo- 
Icpii  Jiairn,  and  the  pohtical  cii-cumstances  oi 
the  country,  might  not  have  inferred  as  a 
naturi\l  and  probable  consequence.  Ir  fact 
he  ha<l,  on  his  w.ay  home,  aii-ived  at  nearly' 
the  same  conclusion.  Marriage,  as  the  laws 
of  the  countn*  then  stood,  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  could  not  be  legitimately  ef- 
fected. AMiat,  then,  must  the  consequence 
of  this  ii-re.sistible  but  ill-fated  passion  be? 
An  elopement  to  th.c  Continent  would  not 
only  be  difKcidt  but  dangerous,  if  not  alto- 
gether ini])ossible.  It  was  obviously  evident 
that  ^lary  ilahon  had  tlrawn  her])redictiou3 
from  the  same  circum.stances  which  led  liim- 
stlf  to  similar  conclusions  ;  yet,  notwitlistand- 
inj,''  all  tJiis.  lie  felt  that  licr  words  ha<l  tln-i)«-n 
a  foreshadowing  of  calamity  and  sorrow  over 
his  spirit,  and  iie  piissed  up  to  his  own  house 
in  deep  gloom  and  heaviness  of  heart.  It  is 
true  he  remembered  that  this  same  i^Iiu-y 
^lalion  beloufjcd  to  a  family  that  had  been 
inimical  to  his  house.  She  w.os  a  womim 
w-ho  had,  in  her  early  life,  been  degraded  by 
crime,  the  remembrance  of  which  had  been 
by  no  means  forgotten.  Slie  was,  besides,  a 
2)ai-amour  to  the  Red  Ripi)aree,  and  he  at- 
tributed much  of  her  dark  and  ill-boding 
prophecy  to  a  hostile  and  malignant  sjiirit. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  probably 
about  the  same  hour,  the  old  scjuire  having 
recruited  himself  by  sleep,  and  felt  refreshed 
and  invigorated,  sent  for  liis  daughter  to  sit 
with  him  as  was  her  wont ;  for  indeed,  ag 
the  reader  may  now  fully  understand,  his 
hai)piness  iJtogether  dei)ende<l  ujion  her  so- 
ciety, and  those  ten<ler  attentions  to  liiin 
which  constituted  the  chief  soLxce  of  his  life. 

"  Well,  my  girl,"  siiid  he.  wlien  she  entered 
the  dining-room,  for  he  sehlom  left  it  uidess 
when  they  had  company.  "  Well,  darling, 
what  do  you  tliink  of  tliis  Mr.  ^Faiion  pooh  ! 
— no — oil,  Reilly  —  he  who  saved  my  life,  and, 
probably,  w.is  the  meims  of  rescuing  you 
from  woi-se  tlian  death?  Isn't  ho  a  fine — a 
noble  young  f<>llow  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  tliink  so,  pajia  ;  he  appears  ta 
be  a  jxjrfect  gentleman." 


28 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WOBKS. 


"  Hang  perfect  geutlemen,  Helen !  tliey 
are,  some  of  them,  the  most  contemjjtible 
whelps  ujjon  earth.  Hang  me,  but  any  fel- 
low with  a  long-bodied  coat,  tight-kneed 
breeches,  or  stockings  and  j)autaloons,  with 
a  watch  in  each  fob,  and  a  fiizzled  wig,  is 
considered  a  perfect  geutlemaii— a  jierfect 
piipi^y,  Helen,  an  accomplished  trifle.  Reilly, 
however,  is  none  of  these,  for  he  is  not  only 
a  perfect  gentleman,  but  a  brave  man,  who 
would  not  hesitate  to  risk  his  Ufe  in  order  to 
save  that  of  a  fellow-creature,  eveu  although 
he  is  a  Papist,  and  that  fellow-creatui-e  a 
Protestant." 

"Well,  then,  papa,  I  gi-ant  j'ou,"  she  re- 
plied with  a  smile,  wliich  our  readers  wiU 
imderstand,  "I  grant  you  that  he  is  a — 
ahem  ! — all  you  say." 

"  WTiat  a  jjity,  Helen,  that  he  is  a  Papist." 

"Why  so,  papa?  "• 

"  Because,  if  he  was  a  staunch  Protestant, 
by  the  gi-eat  Deliverer  that  saved  us  from 
brass  money,  wooden  shoes,  and  so  forth,  I'd 
maiTy  you  and  him  together.  I"U  teU  you 
what,  Helen,  by  the  memory  of  Schomberg, 
I  have  a  project,  and  it  is  you  that  must 
work  it  out." 

"WeU,  pajja,"  asked  his  daughter,  put- 
ting the  question  with  a  smile  aud  a  blush, 
"  pray  what  is  this  sijeculation  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  I'll  put  him  into  your 
hands  to  convert  him — make  him  a  staunch 
Protestant,  and  take  him  for  your  pains. 
Aceom23lish  this,  and  let  long-legged,  knock- 
kneed  "WTiitecraft,  aud  his  twelve  thousand 
a  year,  go  and  bite  some  other  fool  as  he 
bit  me  in  'Hoji-and-go-constant.'  " 

"  What  are  twelve  thousand  a  year,  fiapa, 
when  you  know  that  they  could  not  secure 
me  hajDpiness  with  such  a  WTetch '?  Such  a 
union,  sir,  could  not  be — cannot  be — must 
not  be,  and  I  wiU  add,  whilst  I  am  in  the 
possession  of  will  and  reason,  shall  not  be." 

"  WeU,  Helen,"  said  her  father,  "  if  you 
are  obstinate,  so  am  I  ;  but  I  trust  we  shall 
never  have  to  light  for  it.  We  nmst  have 
Keilly  here,  aud  you  must  endeavor  to  con- 
vert him  from  Poperj'.  If  you  succeed,  I'll 
give  long-shanks  his  nunc  dimiUis,  and  send 
him  home  on  a  trot." 

"  Papa,"  she  replied,  "  this  will  be  useless 
— it  will  be  ruin — I  know  Reilly." 

"  The  devil  you  do  !  When,  may  I  ask, 
did  you  become  acquainted '?  " 

"  I  mean,"  she  replied,  blushing,  "  that  I 
have  seen  enough  of  him  during  his  short 
stay  here  to  feel  satisfied  that  no  eartlily 
persuasion,  no  argument,  could  induce  him, 
at  this  moment  esiDecially,  to  change  his  re- 
ligion. And,  sir,  I  will  add  myself — yes,  I 
will  say  for  myself,  dear  papa,  iuid  for  Reilly 
too,  that  if  fi'om  any  imbecoming  motive — if 


for  the  sake  of  love  itself,  I  felt  satisfied  that 
he  could  give  uj)  smd  abandon  his  religion, 
I  would  despise  him,  I  should  feel  at  once 
that  his  heart  was  hollow,  and  that  he  was 
unworthy  either  of  my  love  or  my  respect," 

"  WeU,  by  the  great  Boj-ne,  Plelen,  you 
have  knocked  my  iiiteUects  uj),  I  hope  in 
God  you  have  no  Papist  predilections,  girl. 
However,  it's  only  fair  to  give  ReiUy  a  trial ; 
long-legs  is  to  dine  with  us  the  day  after  to- 
morrow— now,  I  wUl  ask  EeiUy  to  meet  him 
here — perhaps,  if  I  get  an  opjjortunity,  I 
wUl  sound  him  on  the  point  myself — or, 
perhaps,  you  wiU,  WiU  you  jJi'omise  to 
make  the  attempt  ?  I'll  take  cai'e  that  you 
and  he  shaU  have  an  oi^portimity." 

"  Indeed,  p.ipa,  I  shaU  certainly  mention 
the  subject  to  him." 

"  By  the  soul  of  Schomberg,  Helen,  if  you 
do  you'U  convert  liim." 

Helen  was  about  to  make  some  good- 
natured  reply,  when  the  noise  of  cai-ria.ge 
wheels  was  heard  at  the  liaU-door,  and  her 
father,  going  to  the  window,  asked,  "^Miat 
noise  is  that  ?  A  c.irriago  ! — who  can  it  be  '? 
"\^^litecraft,  by  the  Boyne  !  WeU,  it  can't  be 
helped." 

"I  \%iU  leave  you,  papa,"  she  said  ;  "I  do 
not  wish  to  see  this  unfeeUng  and  repulsive 
man,  unless  when  it  is  unavoidable,  aud  in 
your  presence." 

She  then  withdrew. 

Before  we  introduce  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft,  we  must  beg  our  readers  to  accom- 
pany us  to  the  residence  of  that  worthy 
gentleman,  which  was  not  more  than  thi'ee 
mUes  fi'om  that  of  ReiUy.  Sir  Robert  had 
large  estates  and  a  sumptuous  residence 
in  Ii-eland,  as  weU  as  in  England,  and  had 
made  the  former  principally  his  place  of 
abode  since  he  became  enamored  of  the 
celebrated  Cuoleen  Baicn.  On  the  occasion 
in  question  he  was  walking  about  through 
his  grounds  when  a  female  approached  him, 
whom  we  beg  the  reader  to  recognize  as 
Mary  Mahon,  This  miscliievous  woman, 
implacable  aud  without  principle,  had,  with 
the  utmost  secrecy,  seiTed  Sir  Robert,  and 
many  others,  in  a  capacity  discreditable  alike 
to  virtue  and  her  sex,  by  luring  the  weak  or 
the  innocent  A\ithin  their  toUs, 

"  WeU,  Mary,"  said  he,  "  what  news  in 
the  country '?  You,  who  are  always  on  the 
move,  should  know," 

"  No  very  good  news  for  you.  Sir  Robert," 
she  replied. 

"  How  is  that,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  WiUy  Redly — the  famous  Willy 
ReiUy — has  got  a  tooting  in  the  house  of  old 
Squire  FoUiard." 

"  And  how  can  that  be  1)ad  news  to  )?!(', 
Mary '? " 


WILLY  REILLY. 


29 


"Well,  1  don't  know,"  said  she,  with  a 
cunninj^  leer  ;  "  but  this  I  know,  that  they 
liail  it  love  si-ene  to;j;ether  tliis  ven-  morning, 
and  that  he  kissed  her  very  sweetly  near  tlie 
chimney-piece." 

Sir  Robert  '\Miiteri-aft  did  not  get  into  a 
ra^'c  ;  lie  neither  cursed  nor  swore,  nor  even 
looked  Migrily,  but  he  pfiive  a  pecuUar  smile, 
whicli  should  be  seen  in  order  to  be  under- 
stood. "'\\niereisyoiu' — ahem — your  friend 
now  ?  "  he  asked  ;  and  as  he  did  so  he  began 
to  whistle. 

'•  Have  you  another  job  for  him  ?  "  she  in- 
quired, m  her  turn,  with  a  pccidiar  mean- 
ing. "  Whenever  I  fail  by  fair  play,  he  tries 
it  by  foul." 

"  Well,  and  have  not  I  often  saved  his 
neck,  as  well  by  my  influence  as  by  jillowing 
him  to  take  shelter  under  my  roof  whenever 
he  was  hard  pressed  ?  " 

'•  I  know  that,  your  honor  ;  and  hasn't  he 
and  I  often  saned  you.  on  tlie  other  hand?" 

"I  gi-ant  it,  Molly;  but  that  is  a  matter 
known  only  to  ourselves.  You  know  I  have 
the  reputation  of  being  verj-  correct  and 
virtuous." 

''I  know  you  have,"  said  MoUy,  "with 
most  people,  but  not  ^\'ith  all." 

"  Well,  iloUy,  you  know,  as  far  as  we  are 
concerned,  one  good  timi  deserves  another. 
Wlicre  is  your  friend  now.  I  ask  again  ?  " 

"Why,  then,  to  tell  you  thft  truth,  it's 
more  th:m  I  know  at  the  jwesent  si^eak- 
ing." 

"Follow  me,  then,"  replied  the  wUy  baro- 
net ;  "  I  wish  you- to  see  him  ;  he  is  now  con- 
cealed in  my  house  ;  but  iu-st,  mark  me,  I 
don't  beheve  a  word  of  what  you  have  just 
rejieated." 

"  It's  as  true  as  Gospel  for  all  that,"  she 
replied  ;  "  and  if  you  wish  to  hear  how  I 
found  it  out  ni  tell  you." 

"Well,"  said  the  baronet  calmly,  "let  us 
hear  it." 

"  You  must  know,"  she  proceeded,  "  that 
I  have  a  cousin,  one  Betty  lieatty,  who  is  a 
housemaiil  in  the  squire's.  Now,  this  same 
lietty  ]3c;itty  was  in  the  front  parlor^ — for 
the  sfpiire  always  dines  in  the  ba<>k — and, 
from  a  kind  of  natural  curiositj-  she's  afflicted 
witli,  slie  jMits  her  ear  to  tlie  keyhole,  and 
uftcrwards  her  eye.  I  happened  to  be  at  the 
squire's  at  the  time,  and,  a.s  blood  is  thicker 
tliat  wather,  and  a.s  she  knew  I  was  a  friend 
f)f  youi-s,  she  tould  me  what  she  had  both 
he.ird  and  seen,  what  they  said,  and  how  he 
kissed  lier." 

Sir  Robert  seemed  very  calm,  and  merely 
said,  "  Follow  me  into  tlic  house,"  which  she 
accordingly  did,  and  remained  in  consultn- 
ti<in  with  him  and  the  Ke<l  Rqiparee  for 
ne.irly  an  hour,  after  which  Sir  llobert  or- 


dered his  carriage,  and  went  to  pay  a  visit, 
as  we  have  seen,  at  Corbo  Castle. 

Sir  Robert  Whitecmft,  on  entering  the 
parlor,  shook  hands  as  a  matter  of  course 
with  the  squii-e.  At  this  particular  crisis 
the  vehement  but  whimsical  old  man,  whose 
mind  was  now  full  of  another  project  with 
reference  to  his  dnuglitcr,  experienced  no 
great  gratification  from  this  visit,  and.  ;is  tbc 
baronet  shook  hands  with  him,  he  exclaimed 
somewhat  testily. 

"Hang  it.  Sir  Robert,  why  don't  you 
shake  hands  like  a  man '?  You  put  that  long 
yellow  paw  of  youi-s,  aU  skin  and  Iwnes, 
into  a  niim's  hand,  and  there  j'ou  let  it  lie. 
But,  no  matter,  eveiy  one  to  his  nature. 
Be  seated,  and  tell  me  what  news.  Are  the 
Pai')ists  quiet '? " 

"  There  is  Uttle  news  stirring,  sir ;  at 
least  if  there  be,  it  does  not  come  my  way, 
with  the  excej^tion  of  this  i-eport  about  your- 
self, which  I  hojie  is  not  true  ;  tliat  tliere  wan 
an  attempt  made  on  your  life  yesterday 
evening '? "  Wiilst  Sir  Robert  spoke  he  ap- 
proached a  looking-glass,  before  which  he 
presented  himself,  and  commenced  adjusting 
ins  dress,  esjieeially  his  wig,  a  jiiecc  of  vanity 
which  nettled  the  quick  ;uid  irritable  feel- 
ings of  the  squire  exceedingly.  Tlie  infer- 
ence  he  diTW  was,  that  tliis  wealthy  suitor 
of  his  daughter  felt  more  aliout  liis  own  per- 
sonal aj>pcarance  before  her  tlian  about  tlie 
dreadful  fate  which  he  himself  had  so  nar- 
rowly escaped. 

"  What  signifies  that,  my  dear  fellow, 
wlien  your  wig  is  out  of  balance  '?  it's  a  Uttlo 
to  the  one  side,  like  the  ear  of  an  empty 
jug,  as  they  say." 

"  AMiy,  sir,"  replied  the  baronet,  "  the 
fact  is,  that  I  felt — hum  ! — hum — so  much 
— so  much — a — anxiety — hum  ! — to  see  you 
and — a — a — to  know  all  about  it — tliat^ — a — I 
didn't  take  time  to — a — look  to  my  dress. 
And  besides,  as  I — hum  ! — ex]>ect  to  liave — 
a — the  pleasure  of  an  iuterriew  with  llisR 
FoUiard — a— hum  ! — now  that  I'm  here — I 
feel  anxious  to  appear  to  the  best  advantage 
— a — hum  !  " 

"Wliile  speaking  he  proceeded  wth  the  re- 
adjustment of  his  toilet  at  the  large  mirror, 
an  oj)cration  which  appeared  to  constitute 
the  gi'eat  object  on  which  his  mind  was  en- 
gaged, the  atVair  of  the  s<iuire's  life  or  death 
coming  in  only  parentlietically,  or  hs  a  con- 
siilenition  of  minor  importance. 

In  height  Sir  Robert  AMiiteci-nft  was  fidly 
six. feet  two  ;  but  being  extrenicly  tliiii  and 
lank,  and  to  all  aj>pcarance  utterly  devoid  ol 
substance,  and  of  even-  tiling  like  ])ro]>ortion, 
he  ajipearcd  much  taller  than  even  nature 
hiul  made  him.  His  forehead  was  low.  and 
his  whole  character  felonious  ;  his  eves  wore 


30 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETOlY'S   WOIiKS. 


small,  deep  set,  and  cunning  ;  his  nose  was 
hooked,  his  mouth  was  wide,  but  his  hjis 
thin  to  a  miracle,  and  such  as  always  are 
to  be  found  under  the  nose  of  a  miser  ;  as 
for  a  chin"  we  could  not  conscientiously 
allow  him  any  ;  his  under-Up  sloped  oii'  viutil 
it  met  the  tlu-oat  with  a  curve  not  larger 
than  that  of  an  oyster-shell,  which  when 
open  to  the  tide,  his  mouth  very  much  re- 
sembled. As  for  his  neck,  it  was  so  long 
that  no  portion  of  tb-ess  at  that  time  dis- 
covered was  capable  of  covering  more  than 
one  third  of  it ;  so  that  there  were  always 
two  parts  out  of  three  left  stark  naked,  and 
helplessly  exposed  to  the  elements.  When- 
ever he  smiled  he  looked  as  if  he  was  about 
to  weep.  As  the  squire  said,  he  was  di'ead- 
fully  round-shouldered — had  danghng  arms, 
that  kept  flapj)ing  about  him  as  if  they  were 
moved  by  some  machinery  that  had  gone  out 
of  order — was  close-kneed — had  the  true 
telescoijic  leg — and  feet  that  brought  a  very 
large  portion  of  him  into  the  closest  possible 
contact  with  the  earth. 

"Ai'e  you  succeeding,  Sir  Robert?"  in- 
quired the  old  man  sarcastically,  "  because, 
if  you  are,  I  swear  you're  achievuig  wonders, 
considering  the  slight  materials  you  have  to 
work  upon." 

"Ah!  sir,"  replied  the  baronet,  "I  per- 
ceive you  are  in  one  of  your  biting  humors 
to-day." 

"  Biting  !  "  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Egad, 
it's  very  well  for  most  of  j-our  sporting  ac- 
quaintances that  you're  fi'ee  fi-om  hydropho- 
bia ;  if  you  were  not,  I'd  have  died  pleasantly 
ijetween  two  feather  beds,  leaving  my  child 
an  orphan  long  before  this.  Egad,  you  bit 
me  to  some  purpose." 

"  Oh,  ay,  you  allude  to  the  affair  of  '  Hoj)- 
and-go-constant '  and  '  Pat  the  Spanker  ; ' 
but  you  know,  my  dear  sir,  I  g;ive  you  heavy 
boot ; "  and  as  he  spoke,  he  i>ulled  up  the 
lapels  of  his  coat,  and  glanced  complacently 
at  the  profile  of  his  face  and  person  in  the 
glass. 

"  Pray,  is  jVEss  Folliard  at  home,  sir  ?  " 

"  Again  I'm  forgotten,"  thought  the  squire. 
"All,  what  an  affectionate  son-in-law  he'd 
make  !  What  a  tender  husband  for  Helen  ! 
AMiy,  hang  the  fellow,  he  has  a  heart  for  no- 
body but  himself.  She  w  at  home.  Sir  Rob- 
ert, but  the  truth  is,  I  don't  think  it  would 
become  me,  as  a  father  anxious  for  the  hap- 
piness of  his  child,  and  that  child  an  only 
one,  to  sacrifice  her  happiness — the  hajapi- 
ness  of  her  whole  life — to  wealth  or  ambition. 
You  know  she  herself  entertains  a  strong 
prejudice — no,  that's  not  the  word — " 

"  I  begyoiu-  pardon,  sir  ;  that  is  the  word  ; 
her  distaste  to  me  is  a  prejudice,  and  nothing 
else." 


"No,  Sir  Robert;  it  is  not  the  word. 
Antipathy  is  the  word.  Now  I  tell  you,  once 
for  all,  that  I  will  not  force  my  child." 

"  This  change,  Mr.  Folliard,"  obsei-ved  the 
baronet,  "is  somewhat  of  the  suddenest. 
Has  any  tiling  occurred  on  my  jiart  to  oc- 
casion it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  may  have  other  views  for  her. 
Sir-  Robert." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  is  such  conduct  either 
fail'  or  honorable  towards  me,  IVIi-.  FolUard  ? 
Have  I  got  a  rival,  and  if  so,  who  is  he  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  teU  you  tliat  for  the 
world." 

"And  wlij'  not,  pray?" 

"Because,"  replied  the  squire,  "if  you 
found  out  who  he  was,  you'd  be  hanged  for 
canuibahsm." 

"I  really  don't  understand  you,  j\Ir.  FoUi- 
ard.  Excuse  me,  but  it  would  seem  to  me 
that  somethmg  has  jiut  you  into  no  vei-y 
agreeable  humor  to-day." 

"  You  don't  understand  me !  Why,  Sir 
Robert,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  know  you  so 
well  that  if  you  heard  the  name  of  your  rival 
you  W'ould  first  kill  him,  then  powder  him, 
and,  lastty,  eat  him.  Y^ou  are  such  a  terrible 
fellow  that  you  care  about  no  man's  life,  not 
even  about  mme." 

Now  it  was  to  this  very  point  that  the 
calculating  baronet  wished  to  bring  him. 
The  old  man,  he  knew,  was  whimsical,  ca- 
pricious, and  in  the  habit  of  bilcuig  aU  his 
strongest  and  most  enduring  resolutions 
fi-om  sudden  contrasts  p)i'oduced  by  some 
mistake  of  his  o\\ti,  or  fi'om  some  discovery 
made  to  liiiii  on  the  part  of  others. 

"As  to  your  life,  Mr.  Folliard,  let  me 
assui'e  you,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  "  that  there 
is  no  man  living  prizes  it,  and,  let  me  add, 
you  character  too,  more  higlily  than  I  do  ; 
but,  my  dear  sir,  your  life  was  never  in  dan- 
ger." 

"  Never  in  danger !  what  do  you  mean, 
Sir  Robert  ?  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  the  mur- 
dering miscreant,  the  Red  Rapparee,  had  a 
loaded  gim  levelled  at  me  last  evening,  after 
dark." 

"  I  know  it,"  rejiUed  the  other  ;  "  I  am  well 
awai-e  of  it,  and  jou  were  rescued  just  in  the 
nick  of  time." 

"True  enough,"  s.aid  the  squu'e,  "just  in 
the  nick  of  time  ;  by  that  glorious  j'oung 
feUow — a — a — yes — ReiUy — Willy  Reilly. " 

"  This  WUly  ReiUy,  sir,  is  a  veiy  accom- 
pUslied  jierson,  I  tlmik." 

"A  gentleman.  Sir  Robert,  eveiy  inch  of 
him,  and  as  handsome  and  fine-looking  a 
young  fellow  as  ever  I  laid  my  eyes  upon." 

"  He  was  educated  on  the  Continent  by 
the  Jesuits." 

"  No ! "  repHed  the  sqirire,  dreadfully  alarm- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


31 


ed  at  ILis  piece  of  iufoi-mation,  "  he  was  not ; 
by  tlie  grre;it  Boyne,  lie  wiisii't." 

This  luipfhty  asseveration,  liowever,  wasex- 
eeedinptly  feeljle  in  moral  streuj^tli  and  en- 
erj,'y,  lor,  in  point  of  fact,  it  came  out  of  tlio 
squire's  lips  more  iu  the  sLape  of  a  questiou 
than  an  oath. 

"It  is  unqiiostioiiably  true,  sir,"  said  the 
bai-ouet ;  "'ask  himself,  and  he  wUl  admit 
it." 

"  Well,  and  granting  that  lie  was,"  replied 
the  squire,  "what  else  trould  he  do,  when  the 
laws  would  not  permit  of  his  being  educated 
here  ?  I  speak  not  against  the  laws,  God  for- 
bid, but  of  his  individual  case." 

"  AVe  are  travelling  from  the  point,  sir,"  re- 
turned the  biu'onet.  "  I  was  obser\'ing  that 
Keilly  is  an  accomplished  person,  as  indeed 
every  Jesuit  is.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  again 
beg  to  assure  you  that  youi-  hfe  stood  in  no 
risk." 

"  I  don't  understand  you.  Sir  Eobert. 
You're  a  perfect  oi-acle  ;  by  the  great  De- 
Uverer  from  Poj)e  and  Popery,  wooden  shoes, 
and  so  fortli,  only  tliat  IxeiUy  made  his  ap- 
peiu-iuice  at  that  moment  I  was  a  dead  man." 

"  Not  the  slightest  danger,  AL".  FoUiard. 
I  am  aware  of  that,  and  of  the  whole  Jesuiti- 
Cid  plot  from  the  beginning,  base,  ingenious, 
but  diabolical  as  it  wjis." 

Tlie  squire  rose  up  luid  looked  at  him  for 
a  minute,  without  speaking,  then  sat  down 
again,  and,  a  second  time,  was  i);u"ti:dlj-  up, 
but  resumed  his  seat. 

"  A  plot  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  a  i)lot,  Sir 
Robert!  A\  hat  plot'?" 

"A  plot,  Air.  Folliard,  for  the  puiijose  of 
creating  an  ojiportuiiity  to  make  your  ae- 
quaintuice,  and  of  ingratiating  lum.self  into 
the  good  graces  and  all'ections  of  your  lovely 
daughter  ;  a  plot  for  the  purjwse  of  maiu-y- 
ing  her." 

Tlie  Squire  seemed  for  a  moment  thunder- 
struck, but  in  a  little  time  he  recovered. 
'■  JLua\ving  her  !  "  he  excrlainied  ;  "  that,  j'ou 
know,  could  not  be  done,  uide.sa  he  tiu-ned 
Protestant." 

It  was  now  time  for  the  baronet  to  feel 
thunders  trickcn. 

"  //«'  tuni  Protestant !  I  don't  understand 
you,  Mr.  l''olliard.  Could  amj  change  on 
lieUly's  part  involve  such  a  probabilitv  as  a 
marriage  between  him  and  your  <laughter'!'"  I 

'■  I  can't  believe  it  was  a  jjlot.  Sir  llobert,"  j 
said  the  s(iuire,  shifting  the  (pie-stion,  "nor 
I  won't  believe  it.  There  was  too  much  [ 
truth  and  sinc^erity  in  his  conduct.  And, 
what  is  more,  my  house  would  have  been 
attacked  last  night;  I  myself  robbeil  and 
murdered,  and  my  daughter— my  child,  car- 
ried ofl',  only  for  him.  Nay,  indeed,  it  was 
partlidly  uttaickcd,  but  when  the  vilLiius  found 


us  prepared  they  decamped  ;  but,  as  for  man 
riage,  he  could  not  marry  my  daughter,  \ 
say  agaui,  so  long  sis  he  remains  a  Papist." 

"  Unless  he  might  prevail  on  her  to  turn 
Papist." 

"  By  the  life  of  my  body,  Sir  Robert,  I 
won't  stand  this.  Did  you  come  here,  sir, 
to  in.sult  me  and  to  di-ive  me  into  madness? 
AAHiat  devil  could  have  put  it  into  your  head 
that  my  daughter,  sir,  or  any  one  with  n 
ch-oj)  of  my  blood  iu  their  veins,  to  the  tenth 
generation,  could  ever,  for  a  single  moment, 
think  of  turning  Papist "?  Sir,  I  hoped  that 
you  would  have  resjjccted  tlie  name  both  oj 
my  daughter  and  myself,  and  have  foreborno 
to  add  this  double  insult  both  to  her  and 
me.  The  insolence  even  to  dream  of  imput- 
ing such  an  act  to  her  I  cannot  overlook. 
You  yourself,  if  you  could  gain  a  point  at 
feather  your  nest  by  it,  are  a  thousand  times 
much  more  likely  to  turn  Pajjist  than  eithei 
of  us.  Apologize  instantly,  sir,  or  leave  my 
house." 

"I  can  cei-tainly  apologize,  AL\  Folliju'd," 
replied  the  baronet,  "  and  with  a  good  con« 
science,  inasmuch  as  I  had  not  the  most  re- 
mote intention  of  otlendiiig  you,  much  lesa 
Aliss  Folliard — I  accordingly  do  so  promptly 
and  at.  once ;  but  as  for  my  allegations 
against  Reilly,  I  am  in  a  position  to  estib- 
hsh  their  truth  in  the  cleai-est  miumer,  and 
to  prove  to  you  that  tiiere  wasn't  a  single 
robber,  nor  Rapparee  either,  at  or  about 
your  house  last  night,  ■with  the  exception  o! 
Reilly  and  his  gang.  If  there  were,  why 
were  they  neither  heard  nor  seen '? " 

"  One  of  them  was — the  Red  Rapjiiu-eu 
liimself. " 

"  Do  not  be  deceived,  Mr.  Folliard  ;  did 
you  jourself,  or  any  of  your  family  or  house- 
hold, see  him '? " 

"  AVh}',  no,  cei"tainly,  we  did  not ;  I  lulmit 
that." 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  a<lmit  more  soon.  I 
shall  prove  the  whole  conspinicy." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  then'?" 

"  Simply  because  the  matter  must  be 
brought  about  with  gi'eat  caution.  You 
must  allow  me  a  few  days,  say  three  or  fotir, 
and  the  proofs  shall  be  given." 

"Very  well.  Sir  Robert,  but  in  the  mean- 
time I  shall  not  throw  Reilly  overljoard." 

"  Could  I  not  be  ])ermitted  to  pay  my  re- 
spects to  Aliss  FoUiaiil  before  1  go,  sii-'i'" 
asked  Sir  Robert. 

"  Don't  insist  ujion  it,"  replied  her  father ; 
"you  know  jierfcctly  well  that  she — that  you 
are  no  favorite  with  her." 

"  Nothing  on  earth,  sir,  grieves  me  so 
much,"  .said  the  baronet,  njrecting  a  mebin- 
choly  expression  of  couuteuiuice,  which  wa* 
ludicrous  to  look  ut 


32 


WILL/AM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  man,  "as  you 
can't  see  her  now,  come  and  meet  Reilly  here 
at  dinner  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  you 
shaU  have  that  jileasure." 

"It  -tt-ill  be  with  pain,  sir,  that  I  shall 
force  myself  into  that  person's  society  ;  how- 
ever, to  obhge  you,  I  shall  do  it." 

"  Consider,  i^ray  consider,  Sir  Robert," 
replied  the  old  squu-e,  aU  his  pride  of  family 
glowing  strong  within  him,  "  just  consider 
that  my  table,  sir,  and  my  countenance,  sir, 
and  my  sense  of  gratitude,  sir,  are  a  sufficient 
guarantee  to  the  worth  and  resjjectabilitj^  of 
any  one  whom  I  may  ask  to  my  house. 
And,  Sir  Robert,  in  addition  to  that,  just  re- 
flect that  I  ask  him  to  meet  my  daughter, 
and,  if  I  don't  mistake,  I  think  I  love,  honor, 
and  respect  her  nmrhj  as  much  as  I  do  j'ou. 
Will  you  come  then,  or  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,  sir,  I  shall  do  myself 
the  honor." 

"  Very  well,"  rephed  the  old  squire,  clear- 
ing up  at  once — undergoing,  m  fact,  one  of 
those  rajiid  and  imaccountable  changes  which 
constituted  so  prominent  a  jjortion  of  his 
character.  "  Veiy  well,  Bobby  ;  good-by,  mj' 
boy  ;  I  am  not  angiy  with  you  ;  shake  hands, 
and  curse  Popery." 

Until  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the 
two  rivals  were  to  meet.  Miss  PoDiard  began 
to  entertain  a  di-eadfnl  apprehension  that  the 
flight  into  which  the  Red  Rapjiaree  had 
thrown  her  father  was  likely  to  terminate,  ere 
long,  in  insanity.  The  man  at  best  was  ec- 
centric, and  full  of  the  most  unaccountable 
changes  of  tamiser  and  pui"pose,  hot,  jias- 
sionate,  vindictive,  generous,  imijlacable,  and 
benevolent.  What  he  had  seldom  been  ac- 
customed to  do,  he  commenced  soliloquizing 
aloud,  and  talking  to  hunself  in  svich  broken 
hints  and  dark  mysterious  allusions,  drawing 
fi'om  unkuo\\ni  jiremises  such  odd  and  ludi- 
crous inferences  ;  at  one  time  bnishing  him- 
self ujj  in  Scripture  ;  at  another  moment 
questioning  his  daughter  about  her  ojjinion 
on  Popery — sometimes  dealing  about  politi- 
cal ancl  religious  allusions  with  great  sarcasm, 
in  which  he  was  a  master  when  he  wished, 
and  sometimes  mth  considerable  humor  of 
illustration,  so  far,  at  least,  as  he  could  be 
understood. 

"  Confound  these  Jesuits,  "said  he  ;  "I  wish 
they  were  scourged  out  of  Europe.  Every 
man  of  them  is  siu'e  to  put  his  finger  in  the 
pie  and  then  into  his  mouth  to  taste  what 
it's  like  ;  not  so  the  parsons — HaUo !  where 
am  I  ?  Take  care,  old  FoUiard ;  take  care, 
you  old  dog  ;  what  have  you  to  say  in  favor 
of  these  same  parsons— laz^',  neghgent  fel- 
lows, who  snore  and  slumber,  feed  well, 
clothe  well,  and  thmk  first  of  number  one '? 
Egad,  I'm  in  a  mess  between  them.      One 


makes  a  slave  of  you,  and  the  other  aUowa 
you  to  jjlay  the  tyrant.  A  plague,  as  I  heard 
a  feUow  say  in  a  ploy  once,  a  23lag"ue  o'  both 
yom*  hoiises :  if  you  paid  more  attention  to 
your  duties,  and  scrambled  less  for  wealth 
and  power,  and  this  world's  honors,  you 
would  not  turn  it  uj)side  down  as  you  do. 
Helen ! " 

"  Well,  jiapa." 

"  I  have  doubts  whether  I  shall  allow  you 
to  sound  Reilly  on  Popery." 

"  I  would  rather  decline  it,  sir." 

"  I'll  teU  you  what ;  I'U  see  Andy  Cum« 
miskey — Andy's  opinion  is  good  on  any 
thing."  And  acconlingly  he  proceeded  to  see 
his  confidential  old  servant.  With  this  piu:- 
j^ose,  and  in  his  own  original  mannei',  he 
went  about  consulting  every  servant  imder 
his  roof  upon  their  respective  notions  of 
Pojiery,  as  he  called  it,  and  striving  to  allure 
them,  at  one  time  by  kindness,  and  at  an- 
other by  threatening  them,  into  an  avowal 
of  its  idolatrous  tendency.  Those  to  whom 
he  spoke,  however,  knew  very  httle  about  it, 
and,  hke  those  of  all  creeds  in  a  similar  pre- 
dicament, he  found  that,  in  proportion  to 
then-  ignorance  of  its  doctrines,  arose  the 
vehemence  and  sincerity  of  their  defence  of 
it.  This,  however,  is  human  nature,  and  we 
do  not  see  how  the  learned  can  condenm  it. 
Upon  the  day  appointed  for  dinner  only 
four  sat  down  to  it — that  is  to  say,  the  squire, 
his  daughter,  Sir  Robert  Wliitecralt,  and 
ReUly.  They  had  met  in  the  cb-amng-room 
some  time  before  its  announcement,  and  as 
the  old  man  introduced  the  two  latter,  Reil- 
ly's  bow  was  covirteons  and  gentlemanly, 
whilst  that  of  the  baronet,  who  not  only  de- 
tested ReLUy  with  the  hatred  of  a  demon,  but 
resolved  to  make  him  feel  the  sujDeriority  of 
rank  and  wealth,  was  fiigid,  supercilious,  and 
ofl'ensive.  Reilly  at  once  saw  this,  and,  as 
he  knew  not  that  the  baronet  was  in  posses- 
sion of  his  secret,  he  felt  his  ill-bred  inso- 
lence the  more  deeply.  He  was  too  much  of 
a  gentleman,  however,  and  too  well  acquaint- 
ed with  the  jjrmciples  and  forms  of  good 
breeding,  to  seem  to  notice  it  m  the  slight- 
est degree.  The  old  squire  at  this  time  had 
not  at  all  given  ReLUy  up,  but  still  his  confi- 
dence in  him  was  consitlerably  shaken.  He 
saw,  moreover,  that,  notwithstanding  what 
had  occun-ed  at  their  last  interview,  the  bar- 
onet had  forgotten  the  respect  due  both  to 
himself  and  his  daughter  ;  and,  as  he  had,< 
amidst  all  his  eccentricities,  many  strong 
touches  of  the  old  L-ish  gentleman  about 
him,  he  resolved  to  jiunish  him  for  his  un- 
gentlemanly  deportment.  Accordingly,  when 
!  dinner  was  announced,  he  said  : 
1  "Mr.  Reilly,  you  will  give  Miss  FoUiard 
:  your  arm." 


LIBRARY 

M   THE 

UNIVERSIU  Of  ILLINOIS 


<TH  THE    READJUSTMENT   OF    HIS   TOILET,    AT    THK    LARGE    MIRRUU. — p.  29. 


WILLY  RFALLY. 


33 


We  do  not  say  that  the  worthy  baronet 
squinted,  but  thoie  was  a  bad,  ^•indictive 
look  in  his  suia'd,  cunning  eyes,  which,  as 
they  turned  upon  Reilly,  was  ten  times  more 
repidsivc  thiiu  tlie  worst  s(|uint  that  ever 
disfiffiux'd  u  human  countenance.  To  add 
to  liis  chanfriu.  too,  the  squii-e  came  out  with 
a  bit  of  his  usual  sarcasm. 

'•  Come,  baronet,"  said  he,  "  here's  my  arm. 
I  an)  the  old  man,  and  you  are  the  old  lady  ; 
anil  now  for  dinner." 

In  the  meantime  Reilly  and  the  Codeen 
Bawn  had  pone  fur  euouj;;h  in  advance  to 
be  in  a  condition  to  speiik  without  being 
heai-d. 

"  That,"  said  she,  "  is  the  husband  my  fath- 
er intends  for  me,  or,  rather,  ilid  intend  ; 
for,  do  you  know,  that  you  have  found  such 
favor  in  his  si^ht  that — that — "  she  hesitat- 
ed, and  Keilly.  looking,'  into  her  face,  saw 
that  she  blushed  deeply,  and  he  felt  by  her 
arm  that  her  whole  frame  trembled  with 
emotion. 

"  Proceed,  dearest  love,"  said  he  ;  "  what 
is  it?" 

"I  Imve  not  time  to  tell  you  now,"  she  re- 
plied, "  but  he  mentioned  a  project  to  me 
whicli,  if  it  could  be  accomplished,  would 
seal  both  youi'  happiness  juid  mine  forever. 
Yo\ir  rehgion  is  the  only  obstacle." 

"^Vnd  that,  my  love,"  he  rephed,  "is  an 
insurmountable  one." 

"  Alas !  I  feared  as  much,"  she  replied, 
sifrhiiif,'  bitterly  as  she  s|)oke. 

Tlie  old  scpiire  took  tlie  head  of  the  table, 
and  requested  Sir  Robert  to  take  the  foot  ; 
his  daughter  wius  at  his  right  hand,  and  Reil- 
ly oj)posite  her,  by  which  means,  although 
(lenied  any  confidentud  use  of  the  tongue, 
their  eyes  enjoyed  very  gi'atifving  advjtn- 
tngcs,  and  there  pa.sse«l  between  them  occa- 
sionally some  of  those  nipid  glances  which, 
esj)ecially  when  lovei-s  are  xmder  KiirveiUance, 
concentrate  in  their  lightning  flash  more  sig- 
nificance, more  hope,  more  joy,  anil  more 
love,  thim  ever  was  conveyed  by  the  longest 
and  ten<lerest  gaze  of  aifection  under  other 
circumstances. 

"  Mr.  Reilly,"  said  the  squire.  "  I'm  told 
that  you  an;  a  veiy  well  educated  man  ;  in- 
deed, the  tiling  is  evident.  What,  let  me  ask, 
is  your  opinion  of  education  in  genend  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  re])lied  Reilly.  "  I  think  there 
can  be  but  one  opinion  about  it.  Witliout 
education  a  people  can  never  be  moral,  pros- 
perous, or  happy.  Without  it,  how  are  they 
to  learn  tlie  duties  of  tliis  life,  or  those  still 
more  important  ones  that  jireparethem  for  a 
bbtter  ?  " 

"  You  would  entrust  the  conduct  and  con- 
trol of  it,  I  presume,  sir,  to  the  clergy  ? " 
asked  Sir  Robert  insidiously. 


"  I  would  give  the  priest  such  control  in 
education  as  becomes  his  position,  whicli  is 
Qot  only  to  educate  the  youth,  but  to  in- 
atruct  the  man,  in  all  the  duties  enjoined  by 
religion." 

The  sqiure  now  gave  a  triumjihiuit  look  at 
the  baronet,  and  a  very  kind  and  gracious 
one  at  ReiUy. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  continued  the  baronet,  in  hi.s 
cold,  supercQious  manner,  "  from  the  pecu- 
Uarity  of  your  riews,  I  feel  anxious,  if  you 
wiU  pardon  me,  to  ask  where  you  yourself 
have  received  your  very  accomphshed  edu- 
cation." 

"Mliether  my  education,  sir,  has  been  an 
accomplished  one  or  otherwise,"  re^ihed 
Reilly,  "  is  a  point,  I  apprehend,  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  opportunity  you  ever  had  to 
know.  I  received  my  education,  sir.  such  as* 
it  is,  and  if  it  be  not  better  the  fault  is  u' 
own,  in  a  Jesuit  seminary  on  the  Continent. 

It  was  now  the  baronet's  time  to  triumph  ; 
and  indeed  the  bitter  glancing  look  he  gave 
at  the  squire,  although  it  wa.s  intemled  for 
Reilly,  resembled  tliat  which  cme  of  the  more 
cunning  and  ferocious  beasts  of  prey  makes 
prerious  to  its  death-spring  upon  its  rictim. 
The  old  man's  countenancio  instantly  fell. 
He  lot)ked  with  suiprise,  not  uuniinj^ded  with 
sorrow  and  distrust,  at  Reilly,  a  circumstance 
which  did  not  escape  his  daughter,  who  coulil 
not,  for  the  Ufe  of  her,  avoid  ti.King  her  eyes, 
loveUer  even  in  the  disdain  they  exjjresseil. 
with  an  indignant  look  at  the  baronet. 

The  latter,  lK)we^•er,  felt  resolved  to  bring 
his  rival  still  further  within  the  toils  he  was 
prepiunng  for  him,  an  object  which  Reilly 's 
candor  very  much  facilibited. 

"Ml-.  Reilly,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  was  not 
prepared  to  heai" — a — a — hem  I — (iod  bless 
me,  it  is  very  odd,  very  deplorable,  very 
much  to  be  regi'etted  indeed  ! " 

"  \\niat  is,  sir"?"  a-sked  RciUy. 

"  ^^'hy,  that  you  should  be  a  Jesuit.  I 
must  confess  I  wa.s  not — idiem  I — (iod  bless 
me.  I  can't  doubt  your  own  word,  cer- 
taiidy." 

"  Not  on  this  subject,"  obsei-ved  the  bar- 
onet coolly. 

"On  no  subject,  sir,"  rei)iied  Reilly,  look- 
ing him  sternly,  and  with  an  indignation  that 
was  kept  within  bounds  only  by  his  resjiect 
for  tlie  other  jiarties.  and  tlu'  roof  that  cov- 
(?red  him  ;  "  on  no  subject.  Sir  Robert  Wliite- 
cnift,  is  my  word  to  lie  doubted." 

"  I  lieg  your  pardon,  sir,"  replied  the 
other,  "I  did  not  say  so." 

"  I  will  neither  have  it  said,  sir.  nor  insin- 
uated," rejoined  Reilly.  "I  received  my 
education  on  the  Continent  becausf;  the  lawf 
of  this  country  iireventjHl  me  froni  receivinfi 
it  hei-e.     I  was  placed  in  a  Jesuit  semiiiarj, 


34 


WILLIAM  CARLETbN'S  WOIil^S. 


not  by  my  own  choice,  but  by  that  of  my 
father,  to  whom  I  owed  obedience.  Youi- 
oppressive  laws,  sir,  first  keej)  us  ignorant, 
and  then  j)unish  ns  for  the  crimes  which  that 
ignorance  produces." 

"  Do  you  call  the  laws  of  the  covmtry  op- 
pressive ?  '  asked  the  baronet,  with  as  much 
of  &  sneer  as  cowai'dice  would  permit  him  to 
indulge  in. 

"  I  do,  sir,  and  Qver  wiU  consider  them  so, 
at  least  so  long  as  they  deprive  myself  and 
my  CathoUc  fellow-countrymen  of  theii-  ci\'il 
and  religious  rights." 

"That  is  strong  language,  though,"  ob- 
served the  other,   "  at  this  time  of  day." 

"  Ml-.  ReiUy,"  said  the  squire,  "  you  seem 
to  be  very  much  attached  to  your  religion." 

"  Just  as  much  as  I  am  to  my  life,  sir,  and 
would  as  soon  give  uj:)  the  one  as  the  other." 

The  squire's  countenance  literally  became 
pale,  his  last  hope  was  gone,  and  so  great 
was  his  agitation  that,  in  bringing  a  glass  of 
wine  to  his  Ups,  his  hand  trembled  to  such  a 
degree  that  he  spilled  a  jiart  of  it.  This,  how- 
ever, was  not  all.  A  settled  gloom — a  morose, 
dissatisfied  exjDression — soon  overshadowed 
his  features,  fi-om  which  disappeared  all 
trace  of  that  benignant,  open,  and  friendly 
hospitality  towards  Eeilly  that  had  hitherto 
beamed  fiom  them.  He  and  the  baronet 
exchanged  glances  of  whose  imijort,  if  EeUly 
was  ignorant,  not  so  his  beloved  Gooleen 
Bawn.  For  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
the  squire  treated  Reilh'  with  great  coolness, 
always  addressing  him  as  IVIister,  and  evi- 
dently contemf)lating  Jiim  in  a  S23irit  which 
partook  of  the  feehng  that  animated  Sir 
Robert  A^Tiitecraft. 

Helen  rose  to  withdraw,  and  contrived,  by 
a  sudden  glance  at  the  door,  and  another  as 
quick  in  the  direction  of  the  drawiug-room, 
to  let  her  lover  know  that  she  wished  him  to 
foUow  her  soon.  The  htut  was  not  lost,  for 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  Eerily,  who  was  of 
very  temperate  habits,  joined  her  as  she  had 
hinted. 

"Redly,"  said  she,  as  she  ran  to  him, 
"dearest  ReiUy !  there  is  httle  time  to  be 
lost.  I  perceive  that  a  secret  understanding 
respecting  you  exists  between  pai^a  and  tliat 
detestable  baronet.  Be  on  yoiu-  guard,  es- 
pecially against  the  latter,  who  has  evidently, 
ever  since  we  sat  do^\•n  to  dinner,  contrived 
to  bring  papa  round  to  his  o^vn  way  of 
thinking,  as  he  will  ultimately,  perhaps,  to 
worse  designs  and  daiker  pui-poses.  Above 
all  things,  speak  nothing  that  can  be  con- 
strued against  the  existing  laws.  I  fiind  that 
danger,  if  not  positive  injury,  awaits  j'ou.  I 
shall,  at  any  risk,  give  you  warning." 

"  At  no  risk,  beloved  !  " 

"At    every    risk — at    all    risks,    dearest 


Reilly  !  Nay,  more — whatever  danger  ma\ 
encompass  you  shaU  be  shared  by  me,  even 
at  the  risk  of  my  life,  or  I  shall  extricat* 
you  out  of  it.  But  ijerhaps  you  ^ill  not  be 
faithfid  to  me.  If  so,  I  shudder  to  think 
what  might  haj)pen." 

"Listen,"  said  ReiUy,  taking  her  by  the 
hand,  "In  the  presence  of  heaven,  I  am  yours, 
and  yours  only,  until  death  !  " 

She  repeated  his  words,  after  which  they 
had  scarcely  taken  their  seats  when  the 
squire  and  Sii-  Robert  entered  the  drawing- 
room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

T/te  Plot  and  the  Victims. 

Sir  Robert,  on  entering  the  room  along 
■with  the  squire,  foimd  the  Cooleen  Bawn  at 
the  si^innet.  Taking  his  j)lace  at  the  end  of 
it,  so  as  that  he  covild  gain  a  fidl  ^iew  of  her 
countenance,  he  thought  he  could  obser\'e 
her  comjilexion  considerably  heightened  in 
color,  and  fi-om  her  his  glance  was  dii'ected 
to  Reilly.  The  squire,  on  the  other  hand, 
sat  duU,  silent,  and  imsociable,  unless  when 
addi'essing  himself  to  the  baronet,  and  im- 
mediately his  genial  manner  returned  to 
him. 

With  his  iisual  impetuosity,  however, 
when  laboring  luider  what  he  suj)posed  to 
be  a  sense  of  injury,  he  soon  brought  mat^ 
ters  to  a  crisis. 

"  Sii'  Robert,"  said  he,  "  are  the  Papists 
quiet  now '? " 

"They  are  quiet,  sir,"  replied  the  othei-, 
"because  they  dare  not  be  otherwise." 

"By  the  great  Deliverer,  that  saved  lis 
fi'om  Pojje  and  Popery,  brass  money  and 
wooden  shoes,  I  tliiiik  the  country  wiU  never 
be  quiet  tiU  they  are  banished  out  of  it." 

"Indeed,  IVIi-.  Folliard,  I  agree  with  you." 

"And  so  do  I,  Sir  Robert,"  said  ReiUy. 
"  I  wish  from  my  soul  there  was  not  a  Pa- 
pist, as  you  call  them,  in  this  unfortunate 
country  !  In  any  other  country  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  British  dominions  they  could 
enjoy  fi-eedom.  But  I  wish  it  for  another 
reason,  gentlemen  ;  if  they  were  gone,  yoii 
would  then  be  taught  to  your  cost  the  value 
of  your  estates  and  the  source  of  yom-  in- 
comes. And  now,  Mr.  Folliard,  I  am  not 
conscious  of  having  given  you  any  earthly 
oiienee,  but  I  cannot  possibly  pretend  to 
misunderstand  the  object  of  your  altered 
conduct  and  language.  I  am  your  guest,  at 
your  ox^Ti  express  invitation.  You  know 
I  am  a  Roman  Catholic — Papist,  if  you  wUl 
— yet,  with  the  knowledge  of  this,  you  have 
not  oiUy  insulted  me  persouaUy,  but  also  in 


JNIVERSnir  OF   IL||N0|< 


WILLY  REILLY. 


bo 


the  creed  to  wiitch  I  belong.  As  for  that 
gentleman,  I  can  only  saj-  that  this  roof  and 
the  presence  of  those  who  are  under  it  con- 
stitute his  protection.  But  I  envy  not  the 
man  who  could  avail  himself  of  such  a  posi- 
tion, for  the  purfiose  of  insinuating  an  in- 
sult which  he  dare  not  offer  luider  other 
circumstances.  I  will  not  apologize  for  tak- 
ing my  departure,  for  I  feel  that  I  have  been 
too  long  here." 

C'oolivn  Bawn  arose  in  deep  agitation. 
"Dear  papa,  what  is  this?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  WTiat  can  be  the  cause  of  it  ?  ^\1iy  forget 
the  laws  of  hospitality  ?  Why,  above  all 
things,  deliberately  insult  the  man  to  whom 
you  and  I  both  owe  so  much  ?  Oh,  I  can- 
not understand  it.  Some  demon,  equally 
cowardly  and  mahguant,  must  have  poisoned 
your  own  naturally  generous  mind.  Some 
villain,  equally  profligate  and  h^'pocritical, 
has,  for  some  dark  purjjose,  given  this  un- 
worthy bias  to  youi-  mind." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  it,  Helen.  You're 
altogether  in  the  dai-k,  gii-l ;  but  in  a  day  or 
two  it  wUl  all  be  made  clear  to  you." 

"  Do  not  be  discomposed,  my  deai-  Miss 
Folhard,"  said  Sir  Robert,  striding  over  to 
her.  "  Allow  me  to  jjrevaU  u^Jon  you  to 
suspend  yoiu-  judgment  for  a  little,  and  to 
return  to  the  beautiful  air  you  were  enchant- 
ing us  with." 

As  he  spoke  he  attempted  to  take  her 
hand.  Reilly,  in  the  meantime,  was  waiting 
for  an  opportunity  to  bid  his  love  good- 
night. 

"Touch  me  not,  su*,"  she  replied,  her 
glorious  eyes  flashing  with  indignation.  "I 
charge  you  as  the  base  cause  of  drawing 
down  the  disgi'ace  of  shame,  the  sin  of  in- 
gratitude, on  my  father's  head.  But  here 
that  father  stands,  and  there  you,  sii-,  stand  ; 
and  sooner  than  become  the  wife  of  Sir 
Robert  Whiteeraft  I  would  dash  myself  fi-om 
the  battlements  of  this  castle.  WUham 
Reilly,  brave  and  generous  young  man,  good- 
night !  It  matters  not  who  may  forget  the 
debt  of  gi'atitude  which  this  family  owe  you 
— /  will  not.  No  cowardly  slanderer  shall 
instil  his  poisonous  calumnies  against  you 
into  my  ear.  My  oj^inion  of  you  is  un- 
changed and  unchangeable.  Farewell !  WU- 
liani  Reilly  ! " 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  com- 
motions of  love,  of  happiness,  of  rapture, 
which  fiUed  ReOly's  bosom  as  he  took  his 
departure.  As  for  Cocjh'en  Bawn,  she  had 
now  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  there  remained 
nothing  for  her  but  constancy  to  the  truth 
of  her  affection,  be  the  result  what  it  might. 
She  had,  indeed,  much  of  the  vehemence  of 
her  father's  character  in  her ;  much  of  his 
unchangeable    purpose,   when    she    felt   or 


thought  she  was  right ;  but  not  one  of  hia 
unfounded  whims  or  prejudices ;  for  she 
was  too  noble-minded  and  sensible  to  be 
influenced  by  imbecoming  or  inadequate 
motives.  With  an  indignant  but  beautiful 
scorn,  that  gave  grace  to  resentment,  she 
bowed  to  the  baronet,  then  kissed  her  father 
affectionately  and  retired. 

The  old  man,  after  she  had  gone,  sat  for  a 
considerable  time  silent.  In  fact,  the  supe- 
rior force  of  his  daughter's  character  had 
not  only  siu-prised,  but  overpowered  him  for 
the  moment.  The  baronet  attempted  to  re- 
sume the  conversation,  but  he  found  not  his 
his  intended  father-in-law  in  the  mood  for  it. 
The  light  of  tmth,  as  it  flashed  fi'om  the 
spirit  of  his  daughter,  seemed  to  disjjel  the 
darkness  of  lus  recent  susjjicions  ;  he  dwelt 
ujjou  the  possibility  of  ingi-atitude  with  a 
temjjnrary  remorse. 

"  I  cannot  speak  to  you.  Sir  Robert,"  he 
said  ;  "I  am  confused,  distui'bed,  distressed. 
If  I  have  treated  that  young  man  ungrate- 
fully, God  may  forgive  me,  but  I  will  never 
forgive  myself" 

"  Take  care,  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  "  that 
!  you  are  not  under  the  Sf)ell  of  the  Jesuit 
and  your  daughter  too.  Perhajjs  you  will 
fln<l,  when  1';  is  too  late,  that  she  is  the  more 
spellbound  of  the  two.  If  I  don't  mistake, 
the  sjieU  begins  to  work  already.  In  the 
meantime,  as  Miss  Folhard  will  have  it,  I 
withdraw  all  claims  upon  her  hand  and 
affections.  Good-night,  su- ; "  and  as  he 
sf)oke  he  took  his  departui-e. 

For  a  long  time  the  old  man  sat  looking 
into  the  lire,  where  he  began  gradually  to 
picture  to  himself  strange  forms  and  objects 
in  the  glowing  embers,  one  of  whom  he 
thought  resembled  the  Red  Rajiparee  about 
to  shoot  him  ;  another,  Willy  Reilly  making 
love  to  his  daughter ;  and  behind  aU,  a 
high  gallows,  on  which  he  beheld  the  said 
WiUj'  hanging  for  his  crime. 

In  about  sm  hour  afterwards  Miss  Folliard 
returned  to  the  dra\\ing-room,  where  she 
found  her  father  asleep  in  his  arm-chair. 
Having  awakened  him  gentlj'  firom  what  ajj- 
peared  a  disturbed  dream,  he  looked  about 
him,  and,  forgetting  for  a  moment  aU  that 
had  happened,  incjuired  in  his  usual  eager 
manner  where  Reilly  and  Whiteeraft  were, 
and  if  they  had  gone.  In  a  few  moments, 
however,  he  recollected  the  circumstances 
that  had  taken  jjlace,  and  after  heaving  a  deep 
sigh,  he  ojjened  his  arms  for  his  daughter, 
and  as  he  embraced  her  burst  into  tears. 

"Helen,"  said  he,  "I  am  unhappy  ;  I  am 
distressed  ;,  I  know  not  what  to  do  ! — may 
God  forgive  me  if  I  have  treated  this  young 
man  with  ingratitude.  But,  at  aU  events,  a 
few  days  will  clear  it  all  up." 


36 


WILLIAM  C'ARLETOX\S   WORKS. 


His  daughter  was  melted  by  the  dejith  of 
his  sorrow,  and  the  more  so  as  it  was  seldom 
she  had  seen  him  shed  tears  before. 

"  I  would  do  every  thing — any  thing  to 
make  you  happy,  my  dear  treasiu-e,"  said  he, 
"if  I  only  knew  how." 

"  Deal- papa,"  she  rei^Ued,  "of  that  I  am 
conscious  ;  and  as  a  firoof  that  the  heart  of 
your  daughter  is  incaj^able  of  veiling  a  single 
thought  that  jsasses  iii  it  fi-om  a  parent  who 
loves  her  so  well,  I  will  ^slace  its  most  cher- 
ished secret  in  yom*  own  keejjiug.  I  shall 
not  be  outdone  even  by  you,  dear  papa,  in 
generosity,  in  confidence,  in  affection.  Papa," 
she  added,  placing  her  head  ujjon  his  bosom, 
whilst  the  tears  flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks, 
"  25apa,  I  love  Wilham  Eerily — love  him  with 
a  pure  and  disinterested  jJassion  ! — ^with  a 
passion  which  I  feel  constitutes  my  des- 
tiny in  this  hfe — either  for  haiipiness  or 
misery.  That  passion  is  irrevocable.  It  is 
useless  to  ask  me  to  control  or  suppress  it, 
for  I  feel  that  the  task  is  beyond  my  pow- 
er. My  love,  however,  is  not  base  nor  self- 
ish, j)apa,  but  foimded  on  vii'tue  and  honor. 
It  may  seem  strange  that  I  should  make 
such  a  confession  to  you,  for  I  know  it  is  un- 
usual in  young  persons  like  me  to  do  so  ; 
but  remember,  dear  jaaj^a,  that  exeejit  joui-- 
self  I  have  no  fiieud.  If  I  had  a  mother, 
or  a  sister,  or  a  cousin  of  mj'  own  sex,  to 
whom  I  might  confide  and  unbiu'den  my 
feelings,  then  indeed  it  is  not  jsrobable  I 
would  make  to  you  the  confession  which  I 
have  made  ;  but  we  are  alone,  and  you  are 
the  only  being  left  me  on  whom  can  rest  my 
sorrow — for  indeed  my  heai-t  is  fuU  of  sor- 
row." 

"  "Well,  well,  I  know  not  what  to  say.  You 
are  a  trae  gii'l,  Helen,  and  the  very  eiTor,  if 
it  be  one,  is  diminished  by  the  magnanimity 
and  tmith  which  j)romj)ted  you  to  disclose  it 
to  me.  I  win  go  to  bed,  dearest,  and  sleep 
if  I  can.  I  ti-ust  in  God  there  is  no  calamity 
about  to  overshadow  our  house  or  destroy 
our  hajopiuess." 

He  then  sought  his  o'wa  chamber  ;  and 
Cooleen  Bawn,  after  attending  him  thither, 
left  him  to  the  care  of  his  attendant  and  re- 
tired herself  to  her  apartment. 

On  reachiug  home  EeiUy  found  Fergus, 
one  of  his  o\\-u  relatives,  as  we  have  said,  the 
same  who,  warned  by  his  remonstrances,  had 
abandoned  the  gang  of  the  Red  Eapparee, 
waiting  to  see  him. 

"  Well,  Fergus,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  that 
you  have  followed  my  ad\dce.  You  have  left 
the  lawless  employment  of  that  blood-stained 
man  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  rejDhed  the  other,  "  and  I'm  here 
to  tell  you  that  you  can  now  seciu'e  him  if 
you  like.     J  don't  look  upon  sayin'  this  as 


treachery  to  him,  nor  would  I  mention  it 
only  that  Paudeen,  the  smith,  who  shoes  and 
doctors  his  horses,  tould  me  something  that 
you  ought  to  know." 

"  Well,  Fergus,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  There's  a  j^lot  laid,  sir,  to  send  you  out 
o'  the  country,  and  the  Red  Eai^ijai-ee  has  a 
hand  in  it.  He  is  promised  a  pardon  fi'om 
government,  and  some  kind  of  a  jilace  as 
thief-taker,  if  he'll  engage  in  it  against  you. 
Now,  you  know,  there's  a  price  upon  his 
head,  and,  if  you  like,  you  can  have  it,  and 
get  an  enemy  jjut  out  of  your  way  at  the 
same  time." 

" No,  Fergus,"  replied  ReUly  ;  "in  a  mo- 
ment of  indignation  I  threatened  him  in  order 
to  .save  the  life  of  a  feUow-creatui-e.  But  let 
the  laws  deal  with  him.  As  for  me,  you  know 
what  he  deserves  at  my  hands,  but  I  shall 
never  become  the  hound  of  a  government 
wliicli  ojj^'resses  me  unjustly.  No,  no,  it  is 
jjrecisely  because  a  price  is  laid  upon  the  im- 
fortunate  miscreant's  head  that  /  would  not 
betray'  him." 

"He  A\U1  betray  you,  then." 

"  And  let  him.  I  have  never  violated  any 
law,  and  even  though  he  should  betray  me, 
Fergus,  he  cannot  make  me  guilty.  To  the 
laws,  to  God,  and  his  own  conscience,  I  leave 
him.  No,  Fergns,  all  sympathy  between  me 
and  the  laws  that  oppress  us  is  gone.  Let 
them  ■^'indicate  themselves  against  thieves  and 
robbers  and  murderers,  with  as  much  vigi- 
lance and  energy  as  they  do  against  the  harm- 
less forms  of  rehgion  and  the  rights  of  con- 
science, and  the  country  wOI  soon  be  free 
from  such  hcentious  jjests  as  the  Red  Eap- 
paree and  his  gang." 

"You  speak  warmly,  'Mi:  Eeilly." 

"  Yes,"  repUed  Eeilly,  "I  am  warm,  I  am 
indignant  at  mj'  degradation.  Fergus,  Fer- 
gus, I  never  felt  that  degradation  and  its  con- 
sequences so  deepily  as  I  do  this  unhappy 
night." 

"  Well,  will  you  hsten  to  me  '? " 

"  I  win  strive  to  do  so  ;  but  you  know  not 
the — you  know  not — alas !  I  have  no  language 
to  express  what  I  feel.  Proceed,  however," 
he  added,  atteuqjting  to  calm  the  ttmiult  that 
agitated  his  heart ;  "  what  about  this  plot  or 
j)lan  for  ijuttnig  me  out  of  the  country  ?  " 

"  WeU,  sir,  it's  determuied  on  to  send  you, 
by  the  means  of  the  same  laws  you  speak  of, 
out  of  the  country.  The  red  villain  is  to 
come  in  with  a  charge  against  you  and  sui-- 
render  himself  to  government  as  a  penitent 
man,  and  the  jjerson  who  is  to  protect  him  is 
Sir  Eobert  "Wliitecraft." 

"  It's  all  ti-ue,  Fergus,"  said  ReUly  ;  "  I  see 
it  at  a  glance,  and  understand  it  a  great  deal 
better  than  you  do.  They  may,  however,  be 
disappointed.     Fergus,  I  have  a  fi-iend — a 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


37 


ftiend — oil,  such  a  Mend  !  and  it  wall  go  hard 
with  that  friend,  or  I  shall  hear  of  their  pro- 
ceedings. In  the  meantime,  what  do  you 
intend  to  do  ?  '' 

"I  scai-cely  know,"  rephed  the  other.  "  I 
must  he  <£uiet  for  a  while,  at  any  rate." 

"Do  so,"  said  Keilly  ;  "and  hsten,  Fer- 
gus. See  Paudeen,  the  smith,  from  time  to 
time,  and  get  whatever  he  knows  out  of 
him.  His  father  was  a  tenant  of  ours,  and  he 
ought  to  remember  our  kindness  to  him  and 
his." 

"Ay,"  said  Fergus,  "and  he  does  too." 

"  Well,  it  is  clear  he  does.  Get  from  him 
all  the  information  you  can,  and  let  me  hear 
it.  I  would  give  you  shelter  in  my  house, 
but  that  now  would  be  dangerous  both  to 
you  and  me.  Do  you  want  money  to  sup- 
port you '? " 

"  Well,  indeed,  Mi-.  Eeilly,  I  do  and  I  do 
not.     I  can — " 

"  That's  enough,"  said  Reilly  ;  "you  want 
it.  Here,  take  this.  I  would  recommend 
you,  as  I  did  iJefore,  to  leave  this  unhappy 
countiy  ;  but  as  circumstances  have  turned 
out,  you  may  for  some  time  yet  be  usefril  to  me. 
Good-night,  then,  Fergus.  Serve  me  in  this 
matter  as  far  as  you  can,  for  I  stand  in  need 
of  it." 

As  nothing  like  an  organized  poUce  ex- 
isted La  Ii-eland  at  the  jjeriod  of  which  we 
Bpeak,  an  outlaw  or  Eapparee  might  have  a 
price  laid  upon  his  head  for  months — nay, 
for  years — and  yet  contmue  his  outrages  and 
defy'  the  executive.  Sometimes  it  hajipened 
that  the  authorities,  feeluig  the  we.ikness  of 
their  resources  and  the  iuadequaey  of  their 
power,  did  not  hesitate  to  propose  terms  to 
the  leaders  of  these  banditti,  and,  by  afford- 
ing them  personal  j^rotection,  succeeded  in 
inducing  them  to  betray  their  former  asso- 
ciates. Now  Reilly  was  well  aware  of  this, 
and  oui'  readers  need  not  be  surprised  that 
the  communication  made  to  him  by  his  kius- 
man  fillerl  him  not  only  with  anxiety  but 
alarm.  A  very  slight  charge  indeed  brought 
forward  by  a  man  of  rank  and  proj)erty — 
such  a  charge,  for  instance,  as  the  possession 
of  firearms — was  fjuite  sufficient  to  get  a 
Roman  Cathohc  banished  the  country. 

On  the  third  evening  after  this  our  friend 
Tom  Steeple  was  met  by  its  proi^rietor  in 
the  avenue  leading  to  Corbo  Castle. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  the  squire,  "are  j'ou 
for  the  Big  House  ?  "  for  such  is  the  general 
term  ai^plied  to  all  the  ancestral  mansions  of 
the  counti-y. 

Tom  stopped  and  looked  at  him — for  we 
need  scarcely  obsei-\e  here  that  with  poor 
Tom  there  was  no  resj^ect  of  persons  ;  he 
then  shook  his  head  and  replied,  "  Me  don't 
know  whether  you  tall  or  not.     Tom  tall — 


will  Tom  go  to  Big  House — get  bully  dinner 
— and  Tom  sleejj  under  the  stafrs — eh  ?  Say 
ay,  an'  you  be  tall  too." 

"To  be  sure,  Tom ;  go  into  the  house, 
and  your  cousin  Larry  Lanigan,  the  cook, 
toII  give  you  a  bully  dinner ;  and  sleej) 
where  you  Uke." 

The  squii'e  walked  up  and  down  the 
avenue  iu  a  thoughtful  mood  for  some 
moments  until  another  of  our  chai'acters 
met  him  on  his  way  towards  the  entrance 
gate.  This  person  was  no  other  than  Molly 
Mahon. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  he,  "  here  is  another  of  them 
— well,  poor  devils,  they  must  hve.  This, 
though,  is  the  great  fortune-teller.  I  will 
try  her." 

"  God  save  your  honor,"  said  Molly,  as 
she  approached  him  and  drojjped  a  courtesy. 

"An,  Molly,"  said  he,  "you  can  see  into 
the  futiu'e,  they  saj'.  Well,  come  now,  tell 
me  my  fortune  ;  but  they  say  one  must 
cross  your  jjalm  with  silver  before  you  can 
manage  the  fates  ;  here's  a  shilhng  for  you, 
and  let  us  hear  what  j'ou  have  to  say." 

"No,  su',"  rephed  MoUy,  puttiug  back  his 
hand,  "  imf>osthors  may  do  that,  because 
they  secure  themselves  first  and  tell  you 
nothing  worth  knowin'  afterwards.  I  take 
no  money  tUl  I  first  tell  the  fortune." 

"  Well,  MoUy,  that's  honest  at  all  events  ; 
let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  tell  me." 

"  Show  me  your  hand,  sii-,"  said  she,  and 
taking  it,  she  looked  into  it  with  a  solemn 
asj)ect.  "There,  sir,"  she  said,  "  that  will  do. 
I  am  Sony  I  met  you  this  evening." 

"  Why  so,  MoUy  ?  " 

"  Because  I  read  in  your  hand  a  gTeat 
deal  of  sorrow." 

"  Pooh,  you  foohsh  woman — nonsense  !  " 

"  There's  a  misfortime  likely  to  hapisen  to 
one  of  your  family  ;  but  I  think  it  may  be 
prevented." 

"  How  will  it  be  prevented  ?  " 

"  By  a  gentleman  that  has  a  title  and 
great  wealth,  and  that  loves  the  member  of 
your  family  that  the  misfortune  is  likelj'  to 
hajjpen  to." 

The  squire  j^aused  and  looked  at  the 
woman,  who  seemed  to  speak  seriouslj^,  and 
even  with  pain. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  Molly  ;  but 
gTanting  that  it  be  true,  how  do  vou  know 
it?" 

"  That's  more  than  I  can  tell  myself,  sir," 
she  rej)Ued.  "A  feehn'  comes  over  me,  and 
I  can't  heljj  speakiu'  the  words  as  they  rise 
to  my  lips." 

"Well,  jMoUy,  here's  a  shilling  for  you 
now  ;  but  I  want  you  to  see  my  daughter's 
hand  till  I  hear  what  you  have  to  say  for  her 
Ai'e  you  a  Papist,  Molly  '?  " 


•38 


WJLLIAM  CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


'•  No,  yoiii-  lionor,  I  was  one  wanst ;  but 
the  moment  we  take  to  this  way  of  hfe  we 
mvistu't  beloii}!;  to  any  reUgion,  otherwise  we 
couldn't  tell  the  futui-e." 

"  Sell  yourself  to  the  de\'il,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  uo,  sir  ;  but — " 

"But  what ?     Out  with  it. " 

"I  can't,  sir  ;  if  I  did,  I  never  could  tell  a 
fortime  agin." 

"  Well — well ;  come  up  ;  I  have  taken  a 
fancy  that  you  shall  tell  my  daughter's  for  all 
that." 

"  Sm-ely  there  can  be  nothing  but  hajJfii- 
ness  before  her,  su' ;  she  that  is  so  good  to 
the  poor  and  distressed  ;  she  that  has  all  the 
world  admirin'  her  wonderful  beautj'.  Sure, 
they  say,  her  health  was  di'unk  in  the  Lord 
Lieutenant's  house  in  the  great  Castle  of  Dub- 
lin, as  the  Lily  of  the  Plains  of  Boyle  and  the 
Star  of  Ii-eland." 

"And  so  it  was,  Molly,  and  so  it  was; 
there's  another  shilhng  for  you.  Come  now, 
come  up  to  the  house,  and  tell  Iter  fortime  ; 
and  mark  me,  Molly,  uo  flattery  now — noth- 
ing but  the  truth,  if  you  know  it." 

"Did  I  flatter  you,  sir?" 

"Uj)on  my  honor,  any  thing  but  that, 
Molly  ;  and  all  I  ask  is  that  you  won't  flatter 
her.  Sjseak  the  truth,  as  I  said  before,  if  you 
know  it." 

Miss  Folliard,  on  being  called  down  by  her 
father  to  have  her  fortune  told,  on  seeing 
Molly,  drew  back  and  said, 

"Do  not  ask  me  to  come  in  dii'ect  contact 
with  this  woman,  jsapa.  How  can  you,  for 
one  moment,  imagine  that  a  jjerson  of  her 
life  and  habits  could  be  gifted  with  that  which 
has  never  yet  been  commtmicated  to  mortal 
(the  holy  iM-oj^hets  excepted) — a  knowledge 
of  futurity  ?  " 

"No  matter,  my  darlmg,  no  matter;  give 
her  your  hand  ;  you  will  obUge  and  gratify 
me." 

"  Here,  then,  dear  papa,  to  please  you — 
certainly." 

Molly  took  her  lovely  hand,  and  having 
looked  into  it,  said,  turaing  to  the  squire, 
"It's  very  odd,  sir,  but  here's  nearl}'  the 
same  thing  that  I  tould  to  you  awhile 
ago." 

"Well,  Molly,"  said  he,  "let  us  hear  it." 

Miss  Folhard  stood  -ndth  her  snowy  hand 
in  that  of  the  fortune-teller,  perfectly  indif- 
ferent to  lier  art,  but  not  without  strong  feel- 
ings of  disgust  at  the  ordeal  to  which  she 
submitted. 

"  Now,  Molly,"  said  the  squu-e,  "  what  have 
you  to  say  ?  " 

."  Here's  love,"  she  rei^lied,  "  love  in  the 
wi'ong  direction — a  false  step  is  made  that 
will  end  in  misery — and — and — and — " 

"And  what,  woman  ?  "  asked  Miss  Folliard, 


with  an  indignant  glance  at  the  fortune-teller. 
"What  have  you  to  add  ?  " 

"No!"  said  she,  "I  needn't  speak  it,  foi 
it  won't  come  to  jiass.  I  see  a  man  of  wealth 
and  title  who  wiU  just  come  in  in  time  to  save 
you  from  shame  and  destruction,  and  with 
him  you  will  be  hajiiiy." 

"  I  could  i^rove  to  you,"  re^jlied  the  Cooleen 
Jkavn,  her  face  manthng  with  blushes  of  in- 
dignation, "that  I  am  a  better  jn-ophetess 
than  you  are.  Ask  her,  jjapa,  where  she  last 
came  from." 

"  Where  did  you  come  fi-om  last,  MoUy  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"VvTiy,  then,"  she  rephed,  "fi-om  Jemmy 
Hamilton's  at  the  foot  of  Cullamore." 

"  False  prophetess,"  replied  the  Cooleen 
Bawn,  "  you  have  told  an  imtruth.  I  know 
where  you  came  from  last." 

"  Then  where  did  I  come  fi-om.  Miss  Fol- 
hard ? "  said  the  woman,  with  unexijected 
effrontery. 

"From  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,"  replied 
Miss  Folliard,  "and  the  wages  of  your  dis- 
honesty and  his  coriiiption  are  the  soiu-ces  of 
your  inspu'ation.  Take  the  woman  away, 
papa." 

"  That  will  do,  MoUy— that  wiU  do,"  ex- 
claimed the  squire,  "  there  is  something  ad- 
ditional for  you.  What  you  have  told  us  is 
very  odd — very  odd,  indeed.  Go  and  get 
youi-  dinner  in  the  kitchen." 

IMiss  Folliai'd  then  withdrew  to  her  own 
room. 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock  that 
night  a  carriage  drew  up  at  the  grand  en- 
trance of  Corbo  Castle,  out  of  which  stejjped 
Su'  Robert  WTiitecraft  and  no  less  a  personage 
than  the  Red  Eapparee.  They  apjiroached 
the  hall  door,  and  after  giving  a  single  knock, 
it  was  opened  to  them  by  the  squire  himself, 
who  it  would  seem  had  been  waiting  to  receive 
them  privately.  They  followed  him  in  sUence 
to  his  study. 

Mr.  Folliard,  though  a  healthy-looking 
man,  was,  in  j)oint  of  fact,  by  no  means  so. 
Of  a  nen'ous  and  plethoric  habit,  though 
brave,  and  even  intrejiid,  yet  he  was  easUy 
affected  by  anj-thiug  or  aiiiy  person  that  was 
disagreeable  to  liim.  On  seeing  the  man 
whose  hand  had  been  raised  against  his  life, 
and  what  was  still  more  atrocious,  whose 
criminal  designs  upon  the  honor  of  his  daugh- 
ter had  been  proved  by  his  violent  irruption 
into  her  chamber,  he  felt  a  suffocating  sen- 
sation of  rage  and  horror  that  nearly  over- 
came him. 

"Sir  Robert,"  he  said,  "excuse  uk  ;  the 
sight  of  this  man  has  sickened  me.  I  got 
your  note,  and  in  yoin-  society  and  at  yoiu 
request  I  have  sufl'ered  him  to  come  here ; 
imder  your  protection,  too.     May  God  for- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


39 


give  me  for  it !  The  room  is  too  close — I 
feel  uuwell — pray  open  the  door." 

"  Will  there  be  no  risk,  sir,  in  lea%'ing'  tlie 
door  oijen '?  "  said  the  baronet. 

"None  iu  the  world!  I  have  sent  the 
senants  aU  to  bed  nearlj^  an  Lour  ago.  In- 
deed, the  fact  is,  thej'  are  seldom  up  so  late, 
imless  when  I  have  comj^any." 

Sii'  Robert  then  opened  the  door — that  is 
to  say,  he  left  it  a  little  more  than  ajai',  and 
returning  again  took  his  seat. 

"  Don't  let  the  sight  of  me  fi-ighten  you, 
sir,"  said  the  Eajiparee.  "  I  never  was  yom- 
enemy  nor  intended  you  harm." 

"Frighten  me.'"  rephed  the  courageous 
old  squire  ;  "no,  sir,  I  am  not  a  man  very 
easily  frightened  ;  but  I  ^vill  confess  that  the 
sight  of  you  has  sickened  me  and  filled  me 
with  horror." 

"  Well,  now,  ilr.  Folliai'd,"  said  the  baro- 
net, "  let  this  matter,  this  misunderstanding, 
this  mistake,  or  rather  this  deej.)  ami  diaboli- 
Cid  plot  on  the  jDart  of  the  Jesuit,  ReiUy,  be 
at  once  cleared  up.  W^e  wish,  that  is  to  say 
I  wish,  to  prevent  yoirr  good  natiu-e  from 
being  plaj'ed  upon  by  a  desigiihig  vUlaiu. 
Now,  O'Donnel,  relate,  or  rather  disclose, 
candidly  and  tiaily,  all  that  took  j)lace  with 
respect  to  this  damnable  plot  between  you 
and  ReUly." 

"  ^^liy,  the  thing,  sh%"  said  the  Rp.j)paree, 
addressing  himself  to  the  squire,  "is  very 
plain  and  simple  ;  but,  Sir  Robert,  it  was 
not  a  plot  between  me  and  Redly — the  plot 
was  his  ovm.  It  ajjpears  that  he  saw  jour 
daugliter  and  fell  desperately  ia  love  with 
her,  and  knowin'  yoiu-  strong  feeUng  against 
Catholics,  he  gave  up  aU  hopes  of  being  made 
acquainted  with  IMiss  FoUiard,  or  of  getting 
into  her  company.  Well,  sir,  awai-e  that  you 
were  often  in  the  habit  of  goia"  to  the  town 
of  Boyle,  lie  comes  to  me  and  saj-s  iu  the 
early  jjart  of  the  day,  '  Randal,  I  wdl  give 
you  fifty  goolden  guineas  if  you  help  me 
iu  a  plan  I  have  in  my  head.'  Now,  fifty 
goolden  guineas  isn't  easdy  earned  ;  so  I,  not 
knowing  what  the  plan  was  at  the  time, 
tould  him  I  could  not  say  nothing  tiU  I 
heai'd  it.  He  then  tould  me  that  he  was 
over  head  and  eai-s  in  love  with  your  daugh- 
ter, and  that  have  her  he  should  if  it  cost 
him  his  life.  '  Well,'  says  I,  '  and  how  can 
I  help  you?'  'Why,'  said  he,  '  I'U  show 
you  that :  her  ould  persecuting  scouuih-el  of 
a  father  ' — excuse  me,  sir — I'm  gi\iu'  his 
own  words — " 

"  I  believe  it,  Jlr.  FoUiard,"  said  the  bai-o- 
net,  "  for  these  ai-e  the  identical  terms  in 
which  he  told  me  the  story  before  ;  proceed, 
O'Donnel." 

"  '  The  oidd  scoundrel  of  a  father,'  says 
he,    '  on  his  return  fi-om  Boyle,  generally 


comes  by  the  ould  road,  because  it  is  the 
shortest  cut.  Do  you  and  your  men  he  in 
wait  in  the  rains  of  the  ould  chapel,  near 
Loch  na  Garran ' — it  is  called  so,  su-,  because 
they  say  there's  a  wild  horse  in  it  that  comes 
out  of  moonlight  nights  to  feed  on  the 
patches  of  green  that  are  here  and  there 
among  the  moors — 'uesx  Loch  na  (runrin,' 
says  he  ;  '  and  when  he  gets  that  far  turn  out 
upon  him,  charge  him  with  transportin' 
youi'  uncle,  and  when  you  are  leveUin'  yoiu- 
gun  at  him,  I  wiO.  come,  by  the  way,  and 
save  him.  You  and  I  must  speak  angi-y  to 
one  another,  you  know  ;  then,  of  course,  I 
must  see  him  home,  and  he  can't  do  less 
than  ask  me  to  dine  with  him.  At  all  events, 
thinkin'  that  I  saved  his  Ufe,  we  vnR  become 
acquainted.' " 

The  squire  jjaused  and  mused  for  some 
time,  and  then  asked,  "Was  there  no  more 
than  this  between  you  and  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more,  sir." 

"  And  teU  me,  did  he  pay  you  the  money  ?  " 

"Here  it  is,"  repUed  the  Rajji^aree,  j)ull- 
ing  out  a  rag  iu  which  were  the  precise 
number  of  guineas  mentioned. 

"But,"  stiid  the  squii'e,  "we  lost  our  way 
in  the  fog." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Rapparee.  "Every- 
thing turned  out  in  his  favor.  That  made 
very  little  difiference.  You  would  have  been 
attacked  in  oi*  about  that  place,  whether  or 
not." 

"Yes,  but  did  you  not  attack  my  house 
that  night  ?  Did  not  you  yourself  come 
down  by  the  .skyhght,  and  enter,  by  vio- 
lence, into  my  daughter's  apartment  ?  " 

"  Well,  when  I  heard  of  that,  su",  I  said, 
'I  give  ReUly  up  for  iugeuuitj'.'  No,  sir, 
that  was  his  own  trick  ;  but  afther  all  it  was 
a  bad  one,  and  tells  aginst  itself.  "\^liy,  sir, 
neither  I  nor  any  of  my  men  have  the  power 
of  makin'  ourselves  in^dsible.  Do  you  think, 
sir — I  put  it  to  your  own  common-sense — 
that  if  we  had  been  there  no  one  would  have 
seen  us?  Wasn't  the  whole  countrj'  for 
mUes  round  seaix'hed  and  scoui'ed,  and  I 
ask  you,  sir,  was  there  hilt  or  hah'  of  me  or 
any  one  of  mj'  men  seen  or  even  heard  of? 
Sir  Robert,  I  must  be  going  now,"  he  added. 
"IhopeSquu-e  FoUiard  understands  what 
kind  of  a  man  Redly  is.  As  for  myself,  I 
have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"Don't  go  yet,  O'Donnel,"  said  "UTiite- 
craft ;  "  let  us  determine  what  is  to  be  done 
with  him.  You  see  clearly  it  is  necessaiy, 
]Mi\  FoUiiu-d,  that  this  deep-designing  Jes- 
uit shoidd  be  sent  out  of  the  coiuitrj-." 

"  I  would  give  half  my  estate  he  was  fairly 
out  of  it,"  said  the  squire.  "  He  baa 
brought  calamity  and  miseiy  into  my  fam- 
ily.    Created  world  !    how  I  and  mine  have 


40 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WOBKS. 


been  deceived  and  imposed  upon !  Away 
vdth  him — a  thousand  leagues  away  with 
him  !  And  that  quicklj'  too  !  Oh,  the  plaus- 
ible, deceitful  villain  !  My  child  !  my  child  !  " 
and  here  the  old  man  burst  into  tears  of 
the  bitterest  indignation.  "  Su-  Robert,  that 
cursed  villaia  was  born,  I  feai-,  to  be  the 
shame  and  destruction  of  my  house  and 
came." 

"Don't  dream  of  such  a  thing,"  said  the 
baronet.  "  On  the  day  he  dined  here — and 
you  cannot  forget  my  strong  disinclination 
to  meet  him — but  even  on  that  day  you  will 
recollect  the  treasonable  language  he  used 
against  the  laws  of  the  realm.  After  my  re- 
tiu-n  home  I  took  a  note  of  them,  and  I  trust 
that  you,  sir,  T\ill  corroborate,  with  respect 
to  this  fact,  the  testimony  which  it  is  my 
puiijose  to  give  against  him.  I  say  this 
the  rather,  IVIr.  FoUiard,  because  it  might 
seriously  compromise  your  own  character 
with  the  Government,  and  as  a  magistrate, 
too,  to  hear  treasonable  and  seditious  lan- 
guage at  your  own  table,  fi'om  a  Papist  Jes- 
uit, and  yet  decline  to  report  it  to  the  au- 
thorities." 

"  The  laws,  the  authoritief ,  and  you  be 
hanged,  su- !  "  replied  the  squire  ;  "my  table 
is,  and  has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  the  altar 
of  confidence  to  my  gtiests  ;  I  shall  never  ^^- 
olate  the  laws  of  hospitixhty.  Treat  the  man 
faii'ly,  I  say,  concoct  no  ]Aot '  against  him, 
bribe  no  false  witnesses,  and  if  he  is  just- 
Ij'  amenable  to  the  law  I  will  sj^end  ten  thou- 
sand poimds  to  have  him  sent  anywhere 
out  of  the  country." 

"  He  keeps  arms,"  observed  Sir  Eobert, 
"  contrary  to  the  penal  enactments." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  he  told 
me  he  was  on  a  duck-shooting  expedition 
that  night,  and  when  I  asked  him  where 
he  got  his  arms,  he  said  that  his  neighbor. 
Bob  Gosford,  always  lent  him  his  gun  when- 
ever he  felt  disposed  to  shoot,  and,  to  my  own 
knowledge,  so  did  many  other  Protestant 
magistrates  in  the  neighborhood,  for  this 
wily  Jesuit  is  a  favorite  with  most  of  them." 

"  But  I  know  where  he  has  arms  con- 
cealed," said  the  EajDjiaree,  looking  signifi- 
cantly at  the  baronet,  "  and  I  wUl  be  able  to 
find  them,  too,  when  thejiroper  time  comes." 

"  Ha  !  indeed,  O'Donnel, '  said  Su-  Rob- 
ert, with  well-feigned  sui'prise  ;  "  then  there 
vsdll  be  no  lack  of  proof  against  him,  you 
may  rest  assui-ed,  Sli'.  Folliard  ;  I  chai-ge 
myself  ^\dth  the  management  of  the  whole 
aflair.  I  trust,  sir,  you  will  leave  it  to  me, 
and  I  have  only  one  favor  to  ask,  and  that  is 
the  hand  of  your  fair  daughter  when  he  is 
disposed  of.  " 

"  She  shall  be  yom-s.  Sir  Robert,  the  mo- 
ment that  tlas  treacherous  %allain  can  be  re- 


moved by  the  fair  operation  of  the  laws  ;  biit  \ 
wiU  never  sanction  anj'  dishonorable  treat- 
ment towards  him.  By  the  laws  of  the  land 
let  him  stand  or  fall." 

At  this  moment  a  sneeze  of  tremendous 
strength  and  loudness  was  heard  immedi- 
ately outside  the  door  ;  a  sneeze  which  made 
the  hair  of  the  baronet  almost  stand  on 
end. 

""\\Tiat  the  devil  is  that?"  asked  the 
squii-e.  "  By  the  great  Boyne,  I  fear  some 
one  has  been  hsteniug  after  all." 

The  Rapj)aree,  always  apprehensive  of  the 
"authorities,"  started  behind  a  screen,  and 
the  baronet,  although  unconscious  of  any 
cause  for  terror,  stood  ri^ther  undecided. 
The  sneeze,  however,  was  rejseated,  and  this 
time  it  was  a  double  one. 

"  Curse  it.  Sir  Robert,"  said  the  squire, 
"have  you  not  the  use  of  youi-legs?  Go 
and  see  whether  there  has  been  an  eaves- 
dropper." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  FoUiard,"  rephed  the  doughty 
baronet,  "  but  youi"  house  has  the  character 
of  being  haunted  ;  and  I  have  a  terror  of 
ghosts." 

The  squire  himseU'  got  up,  and,  seizing  a 
candle,  went  outside  the  door,  but  nothing 
in  human  shape  was  visible. 

"  Come  here,  Sir  Eobert,"  said  he,  "  that 
sneeze  came  fiom  no  ghost,  I'll  swear.  'Who 
ever  heaixl  of  a  ghost  sneezing?  Never 
mind,  though  ;  for  the  cimosity  of  the  thing 
I  will  examine  for  myself,  and  retiu'n  to  you 
in  a  few  minutes." 

He  accordingly  left  them,  and  in  a  short 
time  came  back,  assiu'ing  them  that  every 
one  in  the  house  was  in  a  state  of  the  most 
23rofound  repose,  and  that  it  was  his  ojjiuion 
it  must  have  been  a  cat. 

"  I  might  think  so  myself,"  observed  the 
baronet,  "  were  it  not  for  the  double  sneeze. 
I  am  afi'aid,  Mr.  Folliard,  that  the  rei^ort  is 
too  true — and  that  the  house  is  haunted. 
O'Donnel,  you  must  come  home  ■with  me 
to-night." 

O'Donnel,  who  entertained  no  apprehen- 
sion of  ghosts,  finding  that  the  "  authori- 
ties "  were  not  in  question,  agreed  to  go  with 
him,  although  he  had  a  small  matter  on  himd 
which  required  his  presence  in  another  pai-t 
of  the  country. 

The  bai-onet,  however,  had  gained  his 
point.  The  heai-t  of  the  hasty  and  unreflect- 
ing squire  had  been  poisoned,  and  not  one 
shadow  of  doubt  remained  on  his  mind  of 
ReiUy's  treachery.  And  that  which  con 
vinced  him  beyond  all  arguments  or  asser- 
tions was  the  fact  that  on  the  night  of  the  jire 
meditated  attack  on  his  house  not  one  of  the 
Red  Rapparee's  gang  was  seen,  or  any  trace 
of  them  discovered. 


WILLY  ME  ILLY. 


41 


CHAPTEE  \l. 

The  Warning — an  Escape. 

Redllt,  in  the  meantime,  was  not  insensi- 
ble to  his  danger.  About  eleven  o'clock  the 
next  day,  as  he  was  walking  in  his  giU'den, 
Tom  Steeple  made  his  apjsearauce,  and  ap- 
proached him  with  a  look  of  caution  and  sig- 
nificance. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  he,  "  what's  the  news  ?  " 
Tom  made  no  reply,  but  catchiag  him 
gently  by  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  said,  "  Come 
wid  Tom  ;  Tom  hm  news  for  you.  Here  it 
is,  in  de  paj^er ; "  and  as  he  spoke,  he  hand- 
ed him  a  letter,  the  contents  of  which  we 


"  Dumbest  Eeiixt  :  Tlie  di-eadful  discov- 
erj"  I  have  made,  the  danger  and  treachery 
and  vengeance  by  which  you  are  surrounded, 
but,  above  all,  my  inexpressible  love  for 
you,  will  surely  justify  me  in  not  losing  a 
moment  to  ^xTite  to  you  ;  and  I  select  this 
poor  creature  as  my  messenger  because  he  is 
least  hkely  to  be  susj)ected.  It  is  thi-ough 
him  that  the  discovery  of  the  accui-sed  jDlot 
against  you  has  been  mixde.  It  ajijseai'S  that 
he  slept  in  the  castle  last  night,  as  he  often 
does,  and  ha^•ing  observed  Sii*  Thomas 
"UTiitecraft  and  that  terrible  man,  the  Red 
Eapparee,  coming  into  the  house,  and  going 
along  with  pajia  into  his  study,  e^adently.upou 
some  private  business,  he  resolved  to  Usten. 
He  did  so,  and  overheard  the  Eajsjiaree  stat- 
ing to  23apa  that  every  thing  wliich  took 
place  on  the  evening  you  saved  his  life  and 
frusti-ated  his  other  designs  u2)ou  the  castle, 
was  a  plan  preconcerted  by  you  for  the  pm-- 
pose  of  making  pajja's  acquaintance  and 
getting  introduced  to  the  family  in  order  to 
gain  my  affections.  Alas  !  if  you  have  re- 
sorted to  such  a  plan,  you  have  but  too  well 
succeeded.  Do  not,  however,  for  one  mo- 
ment imagme  that  I  vield  any  credit  to  this 
atrocious  falsehood.  It  has  been  concocted 
by  your  base  and  unmanly  rival,  "WTiitecraft, 
by  whom  all  the  proceedings  against  you  ai'e 
to  be  conducted.  Some  violation  of  the 
penal  laws,  in  connection  with  canying  or 
keeping  arms,  is  to  be  brought  against  you, 
and  unless  you  are  on  your  guard  you  will 
be  arrested  and  thro^vn  into  prison,  and  if 
not  convicted  of  a  capital  offence  and  execu- 
ted hke  a  felon,  you  will  at  least  be  sent  for- 
ever out  of  the  country.  What  is  to  be 
done  ?  If  j'ou  have  arms  in  or  about  your 
liouse  let  them  be  forthwth  removed  to 
some  place  of  concealment.  The  Rapparee 
is  to  get  a  pai'don  fi-om  government,  at  least 
he  is  promised  it  by  Sir  Robert,  if  he  tiu-ns 
ugaiust  you.     In  one  word,  dearest  ReiUy, 


you  cannot,  with  safety  to  j'our  life,  remain 
in  this  country.  You  must  fly  fi'om  it,  and 
immechately  too.  I  wish  to  see  you.  Come 
this  night,  at  half-past  ten.  to  the  Ijack  gate 
of  our  garden,  which  you  ^^ill  find  shut,  but 
unlocked.  Something — is  it  my  heart? — 
tells  me  that  oui"  fates  are  henceforth  insep- 
ai'able,  whether  for  joy  or  sorrow.  I  ought 
to  tell  you  that  I  confessed  my  affection  for 
you  to  jDapa  on  the  evening  you  dined  here, 
and  he  was  not  angiy  ;  but  this  morning  he 
insisted  that  I  should  never  think  of  you 
more,  nor  mention  youi'  name  ;  and  he  says 
that  if  the  laws  can  do  it  he  will  lose  ten 
thousand  pounds  or  he  wiU  have  you  sent 
out  of  the  country.  Lanigau,  our  cook,  fi'om 
what  motive  I  know  not,  mentioned  to  me 
the  substance  of  what  I  have  now  ^witten. 
He  is,  it  seems,  a  cousin  to  the  bearer  of  this, 
and  got  the  information  fi-om  him  after  hav- 
ing had  much  difiiculty,  he  says,  in  putting 
it  together.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  I  can 
as.'sure  you  that  every  servant  in  the  castle 
seems  to  know  that  I  am  attached  to  you. 

"Ever,  my  dearest  ReiUy,  yom-s,  and 
yours  only,  until  death, 

"Helen  Foluaed." 

We  need  not  attemi^t  to  describe  the  sen- 
sations of  love  and  indigTiation  produced  by 
this  letter.     But  we  shall  state  the  facts. 

"Here,  Tom,"  said  ReiUy,  "is  the  rewai'd 
for  your-  fidehty,"  as  he  handed  him  some 
silver ;  "  and  mark  me,  Tom,  don't  breathe 
to  a  human  being  that  you  have  brought 
me  a  letter  fi-om  the  Coolcea  Baim.  Go 
into  the  house  and  get  sometliing  to  eat ; 
there  now — go  and  get  one  of  your  bully 
dinners." 

"It  is  tme,"  said  he,  "too  true  I  am 
doomed — devoted.  If  I  remain  in  this 
coimtry  I  am  lost.  Yes,  my  hfe,  my  love, 
my  more  than  life — I  feel  as  j'ou  do,  that 
our  fates,  whether  for  good  or  e^-il,  ai'e  in- 
seisarable.  Yes,  I  shall  see  you  this  night 
if  I  have  life." 

He  had  scarcely  concluded  this  sohloquy 
when  his  namesake,  Fergus  ReiUy,  disguised 
in  such  a  way  as  prevented  him  fi-om  being 
recognized,  approached  him,  in  the  lowly 
gai'b  of  a  baccali  or  mendicant. 

"Well,  my  good  feUow,"  said  he,  "what 
do  you  want '?  Go  uj)  to  the  house  and  you 
will  get  food." 

"  Keejj  c[uiet,"  re^^hed  the  other,  disclos- 
ing himself,  "  keep  quiet :  get  all  yoiu- 
money  into  one  jDiu'se,  settle  your  affairs  as 
quickly  as  you  can,  and  fly  the  country  this 
night,  or  otherwise  sit  do-mi  and  niiike  yom- 
will  and  your  peace  -svith  (iod  Almighty,  for 
if  you  are  found  here  by  to-morrow  night 
you  sleep  in  Shgo  jail.     Thi-ow  me  a  few 


42 


WILLIAM   VARLETOJSI'6    WORKS. 


halfpence,  making  as  it  were  charity.  AVhite- 
craft  has  spies  among  your  own  laborers, 
and  you  know  the  danger  I  run  in  comiu' 
to  you  by  daylight.  Indeed,  I  could  not  do 
it  without  this  disguise.  To-morrow  night 
you  are  to  be  taken  upon  a  warrant  from 
Sir  Kobert  Whitecraft ;  but  never  mind  ;  as 
to  '\Miitecraft,  leave  him  to  me — I  have  a 
crow  to  pluck  vrith  him." 

"How  is  that,  Fergus?" 

"  My  sister,  man  ;  did  you  not  hear  of 
it?" 

"  No,  Fergtis,  nor  I  don't  wish  to  hear  of 
it,  for  your  sake  ;  spare  your  feelings,  my 
poor  fellow  ;  I  know  perfectly  weU  what  a 
hypocritical  scoundrel  he  is." 

"  Well,"  replied  Fergus,  "  it  was  only  yes- 
terday I  heard  of  it  myself  ;  and  are  we  to 
bear  this? — we  that  have  hands  and  eyes 
and  limbs  and  hearts  and  courage  to  stand 
nobljr  upon  the  gallows-tree  for  striking 
down  the  riUain  who  does  whatever  he  Hkes, 
and  then  threatens  us  with  the  laws  of  the 
land  if  we  murmui-  ?  Do  you  think  this  is 
to  be  borne  ?  " 

"  Take  not  vengeance  into  youi-  own  hand, 
Fergus,"  rephed  EeOly,  "for  that  is  contrary 
to  the  laws  of  God  and  man.  As  for  me,  I 
agree  with  you  that  I  cannot  remain  in  this 
couutiy.  I  know  the  vast  influence  which 
Wliiteeraft  j)ossesses  with  the  government. 
Against  such  a  man  I  have  no  chance  ;  this, 
taken  in  connection  with  my  education 
abroad,  is  quite  sufficient  to  make  me  a 
marked  and  suspected  man.  I  yn]\  there- 
fore leave  the  country,  and  ere  to-morrow 
night,  I  trust,  I  shall  be  beyond  his  reach. 
But,  Fergus,  listen :  leave  "\^'^^itecraft  to 
God  ;  do  not  stain  youi'  soul  -nith  human 
blood  ;  keejj  a  piu-e  heart,  and  whatever  may 
hapj)en  be  able  to  look  up  to  the  Almighty 
with  a  clear  conscience." 

Fergus  then  left  him,  but  mth  a  resolu- 
tion, nevertheless,  to  have  vengeance  upon 
the  baronet  verj*  unequivocally  exjjressed  on 
his  countenance. 

Having  seriously  considered  his  position 
and  all  the  eu'cumstances  of  danger  con- 
nected mth  it,  Keilly  resolved  that  his  in- 
terview that  night  mth  his  beloved  Cooleen 
Bmon  should  be  his  last.  He  accordingly 
communicated  his  aijprehensions  to  an  aged 
uncle  of  his  who  resided  with  him,  and  en- 
trusted the  management  of  his  property  to 
him  until  some  change  for  the  better  might 
take  place.  Having  heard  fi'om  Fergus 
EeUly  that  there  were  sjjies  among  his  o^^'n 
laborers,  he  kej)t  moriug  about  and  making 
such  observations  as  he  could  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  When  the  night  came 
he  prepared  himself  for  his  appomtment, 
and  at,  or  rather  before,  the  horn-  (5f  half- 


past  ten,  he  had  reached,  the  back  gate,  oi 
rather  door  of  the  garden  attached  to  Corbo 
Castle.  Having  ascertained  that  it  was  un- 
locked, he  entered  with  no  difficulty,  and 
traversed  the  garden  without  being  able  to 
l^erceive  her  whose  love  was  now,  it  might 
be  said,  all  that  life  had  left  him.  After 
liaving  satisfied  himseH  that  .she  was  not  in 
the  garden,  he  withdrew  to  an  arbor  or 
summer-house  of  evergreens,  where  he  re- 
solved to  await  until  she  should  come.  He 
did  not  wait  long.  The  latch  of  the  entrance 
gate  fi-om  the  front  made  a  noise  ;  ah,  how 
his  heart  beat !  what  a  commotion  agitated 
his  whole  fi-ame  !  In  a  few  moments  she 
was  ■with  him. 

"Reilly,"  said  Cooleen  Bawn,  "I  have 
dreadful  news  to  communicate." 

"I  know  all,"  said  he  ;  "I  am  to  be  ar- 
rested to-morrow  night." 

"  To-night,  deai-est  EeiUy,  to-night.  Papa 
told  me  this  evening,  in  one  of  liis  moods  of 
anger,  that  before  to-morrow  morning  you 
would  be  in  Shgo  jail." 

"  WeU,  dearest  Helen,"  he  rej)Ued,  "  that 
is  certainly  making  quick  work  of  it.  But, 
even  so,  I  am  jn-epai'ed  this  moment  to  es-' 
cape.  I  have  settled  my  ali'airs,  left  the  man- 
agement of  them  to  my  tmele,  and  tliis  in- 
tei'view  with  you,  my  beloved  girl,  must  be 
oiu'  last." 

As  he  uttered  these  melancholy  words  the 
tears  .came  to  his  eyes. 

"  The  last !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  no  ;  it 
must  not  be  the  last.  You  shall  not  go  alone, 
dearest  William.  My  mind  is  made  up.  Be 
it  for  life  or  for  death,  I  shall  accompany 
you." 

"  Dearest  hfe,"  he  rephed,  "  tliink  of  the 
consequences." 

"I  think  of  nothing,"  said  Cooleen  Baivn, 
"  but  my  love  for  you.  If  you  were  not  sm-- 
rouuded  by  danger  as  you  are,  if  the  whooj) 
of  vengeance  were  not  on  your  trail,  if  death 
and  a  gibbet  were  not  m  the  background,  I 
could  2^ai-t  with  you  ;  but  now  that  danger, 
vengeance,  and  death,  ai"e  hovering  about 
you,  I  shall  and  must  partake  of  them  with 
you.  And  hsten,  EeiUy  ;  after  all  it  is  the 
best  ijlan.  Papa,  if  I  accompany  you — sujj- 
l^osing  that  we  ai-e  taken — wiU  relent  for  my 
sake.  I  know  his  love  for  me.  His  affection 
for  me  will  overcome  all  his  pre]  udices  against 
you.  Then  let  us  fly.  To-uiglit  you  will  be 
"taken.  Yoiu-  rival  will  triumph  over  both  of 
us  ;  and  I — I,  oh  !  I  shall  not  survive  it.  Save 
me,  then,  KeUly,  and  let  me  fly  with  you." 

"God  knows,"  rephed  Reilly,  with  deep 
emotion,  "  if  I  suft'ered  myself  to  be  guided 
by  the  imjsulse  of  my  heart,  I  would  yield  to 
wishes  at  once  so  noble  and  disinterestecL 
I  cannot,   however,   sufl'er  my  aliection,  ab- 


WILLY  liEILLY. 


4:i 


eorbinpf  and  inexpressible  as  it  is,  to  pre- 
cipitate your  ruin.  I  si>eak  not  of  myself, 
nor  of  what  I  may  suffer.  AMien  we  reHect, 
however,  my  beloved  fj;irl,  upon  the  state  of 
the  country,  and  of  the  law,  as  it  operates 
against  the  liberty  and  property  of  Catholics, 
we  must  botli  admit  the  present  imj)ossil)il- 
ity  of  an  elopement  without  invohinjjyou  in 
disfJTi'ace.  You  know  that  until  some  relaxa- 
tion of  the  laws  ail'ectin<f  maiTia<;;e  between 
Catholics  and  Protestjint.s  takes  place,  an 
union  between  us  is  imjOTSsible  ;  and  this 
fact  it  is  which  would  attach  disgrace  to  you, 
and  a  want  of  honor,  principle,  and  gi'atitude 
to  me.  ^^'e  slujuld  necessaiily  leatl  the  lives 
of  the  guilty,  and  seek  tlu^  wildest  fastnesses 
of  the  mountain  solitudes  and  the  oozj'  cav- 
eiTJS  of  the  bleak  and  solitary  hills." 

"  But  I  care  not.  I  am  willing  to  endui-e 
it  all  for  your  sake." 

"  Wint  I — the  shame,  the  misintei-preta- 
tion,  the  imputed  guilt?" 

"  Neither  care  I  for  shame  or  imputed 
guilt,  so  long  iLS  I  am  innocent,  and  you 
safe." 

"  Con<-ealment,  my  dearest  girl,  would  be 
iniposKil)le.  Sucli  a  hue  and  cry  wouLl  be 
raised  after  us  as  would  render  nothing  short 
of  j)ositive  invisibility  capable  of  protecting 
us  from  oiu'  enemies.  Then  yf)iu'  father  I — 
such  a  step  might  possibly  break  his  heart; 
a  calamity  which  would  till  your  mind  with 
remorse  to  the  la.st  day  of  your  hfe  !  " 

She  biu'st  again  into  tears,  and  repUed, 
"  But  as  for  you,  what  can  be  done  to  save 
you  from  tlie  toils  of  your  uuscniijulous  and 
jiowerfnl  enemies  ?  " 

'•  To  that,  my  beloved  Helen,  I  must  forth- 
with look.  In  the  meantime,  let  me  gather 
patience  and  await  some  more  fcivorable  re- 
laxation in  the  penal  code.  At  present,  the 
step  you  propose  would  be  utter  destruction 
to  us  botli,  and  an  iiTetiievable  stain  ujion 
our  reputation.  You  will  return  to  your 
fatlier's  house,  and  I  shall  seek  some  secure 
j)lace  of  concealment  until  I  can  safely  reach 
the  continent,  fi-oni  whence  I  shidl  contrive 
to  let  you  hear  from  me,  and  in  due  time 
may  possiljly  lie  able  to  jiroposo  some  mode  ' 
of  meeting  in  a  country  where  the  oppressive 
l.iws  that  separate  us  hero  shall  not  stand  in 
the  way  of  our  happiness.  In  the  meanwhile 
let  our  hearts  be  guided  by  hope  and  con- 
8t;incy."  After  a  mournful  and  tender  em- 
brace they  sepai-ated. 

It  would  1)0  impossible  to  describe  the 
agony  of  tiie  lovers  after  a  separation  which 
might  probably  be  their  last.  Our  readers, 
lunvever,  may  ven'  well  r-onccive  it,  and  it  is 
not  our  intention  to  descrilw  it  here.  At 
tliis  stage  of  our  story,  Beilly,  who  was,  as 
.ve  have  8.aid,  in  consequence  of  his  geutle- 


I  manly  manners  and  libcnJ  princijiles,  a  fa- 
vorite with  all  classes  and  all  jiarties,  and 
entertained  no  ai)prehensions  from  tlie  dom- 
inant piuty,  took  his  way  homewiu'ds  deeply 
imjjressed  with  the  generous  aft'ectious 
which  his  Coiilrt'i)  Ikwa  had  expressed  for 
him.  He  consc^iuently  looked  upon  himself 
as  perfectly  siife  in  his  own  house.  The 
state  of  society  in  Ireland,  however,  was  at 
that  melancholy  period  so  uncertain  that  no 
Roman  Catholic,  however  jjopular,  or  how- 
ever innocent,  could  for  one  week  calculate 
upon  safety  either  to  his  jiroperty  or  person, 
if  he  happened  t(}  have  an  enemy  who  pos- 
sessed any  inHuence  in  the  opposing  Church, 
lieligiou  thus  was  made  the  stalking-horse, 
not  only  of  jjower,  but  of  persecution,  ra- 
pacity, and  sellisluiess,  and  the  unfortunate 
lioman  Catholic  who  considered  himself 
safe  to-day  might  tind  himself  ruined  to- 
morrow, owing  to  the  cupidity  of  some  man 
who  turned  a  lustful  (ye  ujion  his  property, 
or  who  may  have  entertained  a  feeling  of 
jjersonal  ill-will  against  him.  lie  this  as 
it  may,  Beilly  wended  his  melancholy  way 
homewards,  and  had  got  within  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  his  owii  house  wlien  he 
was  met  by  Fergus  in  his  mendicant  habit, 
who  startled  him  by  the  information  he  dis- 
closed. 

"^^^lere  ai-e  you  bound  for,  Mi\  Reilly?" 
said  the  latter. 

"For  liome,"  replied  Reilly,  "in  order  to 
secure  my  mone\-  and  the  papers  connected 
with  the  family  property." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  other,  "if  you  go 
home  now  you  are  a  lost  man." 

"  How  is  that  V  "  aske.l  Heilly. 

"Your  house  at  this  moment  is  filled  with 
sogers,  and  surrounded  by  them  too.  You 
know  that  no  human  being  could  make  me 
out  in  this  disguise  ;  I  had  heard  that  they 
were  on  their  w;iy  to  your  place,  and  afeered 
that  they  might  catch  you  at  home,  I  was 
goin'  to  let  you  know,  in  ordlier  that  you 
might  escape  them,  but  I  Wiis  too  late  ;  the 
rillains  were  there  before  me.  I  took  heart 
o'  gi'ace,  however,  an<l  went  up  to  beg  a  lit- 
tle cliarity  for  the  love  and  lionor  of  (lod. 
Seein'  the  kind  of  creature  I  was,  thev  took 
no  notice  of  me  ;  for  to  tell  you  lh<^  trutli, 
they  were  too  much  bent()n  sciU'chiil'  for,  and 
findin'  you.  (lod  protect  iis  from  such  men. 
Mr.  lieillv,"and  the  name  he  uttereil  in  alow 
and  cautious  voice  ;  "  l)nt  at  all  events  tiiis  is 
no  couiitn'  for  you  to  live  in  now.  But  wlio 
do  you  think  was  the  busiest  and  the  bit- 
tlierest  man  among  tliem  ?  " 

"  Why  Whitecr.'ift.  I  sujiposc." 

"  No  ;  he  wasn't  tiieri-  liimself— no  ;  but 
that  <loublo  ili.stilled  tniitor  and  villain,  the 
lie<l  Kapparee,  luid  biul  luck  to  liim.       You 


u 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'8  WORKS. 


see,  then,  that  if  you  attempt  to  go  near  your 
own  house  you're  a  lost  man,  as  I  said." 

"I  feel  the  tmth  of  what  you  say,"  replied 
Reilly,  "but  ai'e  you  aware  that  they  com- 
mitted any  acts  of  violence  ?  Are  you  aware 
that  they  disturbed  my  property  or  ran- 
sacked my  house?" 

"  Well,  that 's  more  than  I  can  say,"  rei^Ued 
Fergus,  "  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was 
afi'aid  to  trust  myself  inside,  in  regard  of 
that  scoundi-el  the  Rapparee,  who,  bein'  him- 
self accustomed  to  all  sorts  of  disguises,  I 
dreaded  might  find  me  out." 

"Well,  at  all  events,"  said  Eeilly,  "with 
respect  to  that  I  disregard  them.  The  fam- 
ily papers  and  other  available  proj^erty  are 
too  well  secreted  for  them  to  secure  them. 
On  discovei-mg  Whitecraft's  jealousy,  and 
knowing,  as  I  did  before,  his  vindictive  spir- 
it and  jjower  in  the  country,  I  lost  no  time 
in  putting  them  in  a  safe  j^lace.  Unless 
they  burn  the  house  they  could  never  come 
at  them.  But  as  this  fact  is  not  at  all  an 
improbable  one — so  long  as  Whitecraft  is 
my  unscitipulous  and  relentless  enemy — I 
shall  seize  u23on  the  first  opportunity  of 
placing  them  elsewhere." 

"You  ought  to  do  so,"  said  Fergus,  "for 
it  is  not  merely  'WTiitecraft  you  have  to  deal 
wid,  but  ould  Folliard  himself,  who  now 
swears  that  if  he  should  lose  half  his  fortune 
he  will  either  hang  or  transport  you." 

"Ah!  Fergus,"  rejjlied  the  other,  "there 
is  an  essentiixl  difference  between  the  charac- 
ters of  these  two  men.  The  father  of  Coohen 
Bami  is,  when  he  thinks  himself  injured,  im- 
petuous and  unsparing  in  his  resentment  ; 
but  then  he  is  an  open  foe,  and  the  man 
whom  he  looks  upon  as  his  enemy  alwaj's 
knows  what  he  has  to  expect  fi'om  him.  Not 
so  the  other  ;  he  is  secret,  cautious,  cowardly, 
and  consequently  doubly  \'iudictive.  He  is 
a  combination  of  the  fox  and  the  tiger,  with 
all  the  treacherous  cunning  of  the  one,  and 
the  indomitable  ferocity  of  the  other,  when 
he  finds  that  he  can  make  his  sirring  vsdth 
safety." 

This  conversation  took  place  as  Eeilly  and 
liis  companion  bent  their  steps  towards  one 
of  those  antiquated  and  obsolete  roads  which 
we  have  described  in  the  opening  portion  of 
this  nari'ative. 

"  But  now,"  asked  Fergus,  "  where  do  you 
intend  to  go,  or  what  do  you  intend  to  do 
with  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  rephed  Eeilly,  "  but  on 
one  thing  my  mind  is  determined — that  I 
will  not  leave  this  country  imtil  I  know  the 
ultimate  fate  of  the  Vooleen  Bawn.  Eatlier 
than  see  her  become  the  wife  of  that  diaboh- 
cal  scoundrel,  whom  she  detests  as  she  does 
hell,  I  would  lose  my  life.     Let  the  conse- 


quences then  be  what  they  may,  I  wiU  not 
for  the  present  leave  Ireland.  This  resolu- 
tion I  have  come  to  since  I  saw  her  to-night. 
I  am  her  only  fiiend,  and,  so  help  me  God, 
I  shall  not  suffer  her  to  be  sacriiii;ed — miu'- 
dered.  In  the  covu'se  of  the  night  we  shall 
return  to  my  house  auJ  look  about  us.  If 
the  coast  be  clear  I  will  secui'e  my  cash  and 
papers  as  I  said.  It  is  possible  that  a  few 
stragglers  may  liU'k  behind,  \uider  the  ex- 
jJectation  of  securing  me  wliile  making  a 
stolen  visit.  However,  we  shall  try.  We  are 
under  the  scoui'ge  of  irresponsi])]e  power, 
Fergus  ;  and  if  Whitecraft  should  burn  my 
house  to-night  or  to-morrow,  who  is  to  bring 
him  to  an  account  for  it '?  or  if  thej'  should, 
who  is  to  convict  him  ?  " 

The  night  had  now  become  very  dark,  but 
they  knew  the  countiy  well,  and  soon  found 
themselves  uj)on  the  old  road  they  were  seek- 
ing. 

"  I  T\ill  go  up,"  said  Reilly,  "  to  the  cabin 
of  poor  widow  Bucklej',  where  we  will  stop 
until  we  think  those  blood-hounds  have  gone 
home.  She  has  a  fi-ee  cottage  and  gai'den 
fi'om  me,  and  has  besides  been  a  pensioner 
of  mine  for  some  time  back,  and  I  know  I  can 
dei^end  upon  her  discretion  and  fidelity.  Her 
httle  jjlace  is  remote  and  solitary,  and  not 
more  than  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  us." 

The^-  accordingly  kept  the  old  road  -for 
some  time,  until  they  reached  a  j)oiut  of  it 
where  there  was  an  abrupt  angle,  when,  to 
theu'  utter  alarm  and  consternation,  they 
fovmd  themselves  within  about  twenty  or 
thirty  yards  of  a  militaiy  jjarty. 

"  Fly,"  whisjjered  Fergus,  "and  leave  me 
to  deal  with  them — if  you  don't  it's  all  up 
with  you.  Thej'  won't  know  me  from  Adam, 
but  they'll  know  you  at  a  ghuice." 

"  I  cannot  leave  you  in  danger,"  said  Eeilly. 

"You're  mad,"  rephed  the  other.  "  Is  it 
an  ould  beggiu-  man  they'd  meddle  withV 
Off'  with  you,  unless  you  wish  to  slee2}  in 
SUgo  jail  before  mornin'." 

Eeilly,  who  felt  too  deej^ly  the  tiiith  of 
what  he  said,  boiuided  across  the  bank  which 
enolosed  the  road  on  the  right-hand  side,  aaid 
which,  by  the  way,  was  a  tolerably  high  one, 
but  fortunately  without  bushes.  In  the  meim- 
time  a  voice  cried  out,  "  Who  goes  there  ? 
Stand  at  your  ijeiil,  or  you  will  have  a  dozen 
bullets  in  yoiu-  Ciwcass." 

Fergus  advanced  towai'ds  them,  whilst  they 
themselves  approached  him  at  a  rajjid  pace, 
until  they  met.  In  a  moment  they  were  all 
about  him. 

"Come,  my  customer."  said  their  leader, 
"who  and  what  are  you?  Quick — give  an 
account  of  yoiu'self." 

"  A  poor  creatiu'e  that's  lookiu'  for  my  bit, 
sir,  God  help  me." 


WILLY   REILLY. 


45 


"  WTiat's  your  name  ?  " 

"One  Paddy  Brennan,  sii',  please  your 
honor." 

"  Ay — one  Paddy  Brennan  (hiccough),  and 
— and — one  Paddy  Brennan,  where  do  you 
go  of  a  Sunday  ?  " 

"I  don't  go  out  at  all,  sh-,  of  a  Sunda' ; 
■whenever  I  stop  of  a  Saturday  night  I  always 
stop  until  Monday  momin'." 

"  I  mean,  are  you  a  Papish  ?  " 

"  Troth,  I  oughtn't  to  say  I  am,  yoiu-  honor 
— or  at  least  a  very  bad  one." 

"  But  you  arf  a  Pajjish." 

"A  kind  of  one,  sir." 

"  Cui'se  me,  the  fellow's  humbuggin'  you, 
sergeant,"  said  one  of  the  men  ;  "to  be  sure 
he's  a  Papish." 

"  To  be  sui'e,"  rejslied  several  of  the  others 
— "  doesn't  he  admit  he's  a  Papish  ?  " 

"  Blow  me,  if — if — lU  bear  this,"  repUed 
the  sergeant.  "  I'm  a  senior  off — off — offi- 
cer coiiductin'  the  examination,  and  1 11  suf- 
fer no — no — man  to  intherfare.  I  must  have 
subor — or — ordination,  or  I'U  know  what  for. 
Leave  him  to  me,  then,  and  I'll  work  him 
U23,  never  fear.  George  Johnston  isn't  the 
blessed  babe  to  be  imposed  uj^ou — that's 
what  I  saj'.  Come,  my  good  feUow,  mark — 
mark  me  now.  If  you  let  but  a  quarter  of 
— of — an  inch  of  a  he  out  of  yoiu"  Ups, 
you're  a  dead  man.  Are  you  all  charged, 
gentlemen  ?  " 

"  All  charged,  sergeant,  with  loyalty  and 
poteen  at  anj'  rate  ;  hang  the  Pope." 

"  Shoulder  arms — well  done.  Present 
arms.  ^Tiere  is — is — this  rascal  ?  Oh,  yes, 
here  he  is.     Well,  you  are  there — ai:e  you  ?  " 

"I'm  here,  captain." 

"  Well  blow  me,  that's  not — not — bad,  my 
good  fellow  ;  if  I'm  not  a  captain,  worse  men 
have  been  so  (hiccough) ;  that's  what  I  say." 

"Hadn't  we  better  make  a  prisoner  of 
him  at  once,  and  bring  him  to  Sir  Robert's  ?  " 
observed  another. 

"  Simpson,  hold — old — yoiu'  tongue,  I 
say.  Curse  me  if  I'll  suffer  any  man  to  iu- 
therfere  with  me  in  the  discharge  of  my 
duty." 

"How  do  we  know,"  said  another,  "but 
he's  a  Rnpparee  in  disguise  ? — for  that  mat- 
ter, he  may  be  Reilly  himself." 

"  Captain  and  gentlemen,"  said  Fergus, 
"  if  you  have  any  suspicion  of  me,  I'm  wilhn' 
to  go  an}T\'here  j'ou  like  ;  and,  above  all 
things,  I'd  hke  to  go  to  Sir  Eoberi's,  bekaise 
they  know  me  there — many  a  good  bit  and 
sup  I  got  in  his  kitchen." 

"  Ho,  ho  !  "  exclaimed  the  sergeant ;  "  now 
I  have  you — now  I  know  whether  you  can 
teU  tinath  or  not.  Answer  me  this.  Did 
ever  Su*  Robert  himself  give  you  charity  ? 
Come,  now." 


Fergus  perceived  the  diift  of  the  question 
at  once.  The  penurious  chai'acter  of  the 
bai'onet  was  so  well  kno^vn  thi'oughout  the 
whole  bai-ony  that  if  he  had  replied  in  the 
affirmative  everj'  man  of  them  would  have 
felt  that  the  assertion  was  a  lie,  and  he  would 
consequently  have  been  detected.  He  was 
prepared,  however. 

"  Throth  then,  gintlemen,"  he  replied, 
"  since  you  must  have  the  tnitu,  and  although 
maybe  what  I'm  goin'  to  saj-  won't  be  jilaisin' 
to  you,  as  Sii"  Robert's  friends,  I  must  come 
out  wid  it  ;  devil  resave  the  color  of  his 
money  ever  I  seen  yet,  and  it  isn't  but  I 
often  axed  him  for  it.  No — biit  the  sarriuts 
often  sind  me  uj)  a  bit  fi'om  the  kitchen  be- 
low." 

"  Well,  come,"  said  the  sergeant,  "  if  you 
have  been  hin'  all  your  life,  you've  spoke  the 
tmth  now.     I  think  we  may  let  him  go." 

"I  don't  tliink  we  ought,"  said  one  of 
them,  named  Steen,  a  man  of  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  and  of  Dutch  descent ;  "as 
Bamet  said,  '  we  don't  know  what  he  is,'  and 
I  agree  with  him.  He  may  be  a  Rapj)aree 
in  disguise,  or,  what  is  worse,  Reilly  him- 
self." 

"  A\1iat  ReiUy  do  yez  mane,  gintlemen, 
wid  submission  '?  "  asked  Fergus. 

"^Tiy,  WOly  Reilly,  the  famous  Papish," 
repUed  the  sergeant.  (We  don't  wish  to  fatigue 
the  reader  with  his  drunken  stutterings.) 
"  It  has  been  sworn  that  he's  framing  the 
Papishes  every  night  to  i^rejjare  them  for  re- 
beUion,  and  there's  a  warrant  out  for  his  ajj- 
preheusion.     Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Throth  I  do,  well  ;  and  to  tell  yez  the 
truth,  he  doesn't  stand  very  high  wid  his  own 
sort." 

"  Why  so,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  they  think  that  he  keejis  too 
much  comjjany  wid  Prodestans,  an'  that  he's 
half  a  Prodestan  himself,  and  that  it's  only 
the  shame  that  prevents  huu  fi'om  goin'  over 
to  them  altogether.  Indeed,  it's  the  general 
opinion  among  the  Cathohcs — '' 

"  Papishes  !  you  old  dog." 

"  Well,  then,  PajDishes — that  he  vc\i\. — an' 
thi'oth,  I  don't  think  the  Papishes  woidd  j^ut 
much  tiTist  in  the  same  man." 

"  ^Miere  ai-e  you  boimd  for  now  ?  and 
what  biings  you  out  at  an  illegal  hour  on 
this  lonely  road  '?  "  asked  Stceu. 

"  Troth,  then,  I'm  on  my  way  to  Mi". 
Graham's  above  ;  for  sure,  whenever  I'm 
near  him,  poor  Paddy  Brennan  never  wants 
for  the  good  bit  and  sup,  and  the  comforta- 
ble straw  bed  in  the  barn.  May  God  re- 
ward him  and  his  for  it !  " 

Now,  the  ti-uth  was,  that  Graham,  a 
wealthy  and  respectable  Protestant  farmer, 
was   uncle  to   the   sergeant ;   a  fact  which 


46 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Fergus  well  knew,  in  consequence  of  lla^'ing 
been  a  house  servant  ■with  him  for  two  or 
three  years. 

"  Sergeant,"  said  the  Williamite  settler,  "I 
think  this  matter  may  be  easQy  settled.  Let 
two  of  the  men  go  back  to  your  uncle's  with 
.him,  and  see  whether  they  know  him  there 
or  not." 

''  Very  well,"  replied  the  sergeant,  "  let  you 
and  Simpson  go  back  with  him — I  have  no 
objection.  If  my  uncle's  jieople  donl  know 
him,  why  then  bring  him  down  to  Sir 
Roberts'." 

"  It's  not  fair  to  put  such  a  task  upon  a 
man  of  mj'  age,"  replied  Steen,  "  when  you 
know  that  you  have  younger  men  here." 

"It  was  you  i^roposed  it,  then,"  said  the 
sergeant,  "  and  I  say,  Steen,  if  you  be  a  true 
man  you  have  a  right  to  go,  and  no  right  at 
all  to  shirk  your  duty.  But  stoj) — I'll  settle 
it  in  a  word's  speaking  :  here  you — you  old 
Pajnsh,  where  are  you? — oh,  I  see — you're 
there,  are  you  ?  Come  now,  gentlemen, 
shoulder  anns — all  right — jsresent  arms. 
Now,  you  confounded  Papish,  3'ou  say  that 
j'ou  have  often  slept  in  my  uncle's  bam  ?  " 

"Is  j\Ii\  Graham  your  uncle,  sir  "? — bekaise, 
if  he  is,  I  know  that  I'm  in  the  hands  of  a 
resjjeetable  man." 

"  Come  now — was  there  anything  par- 
ticular in  the  inside  of  that  barn  ? — Gentle- 
men, are  you  ready  to  slap  into  him  if  we 
find  him  to  be  an  imposther  ?  " 

"All  ready,  sergeant." 

"Come  now,  you  blasted  Papish,  answer 
me — "' 

"Troth,  and  I  can  do  that,  sargin'.  You 
say  Mr.  Graham's  your  uncle,  an'  of  coorse 
you  have  often  been  in  that  barn  yourself. 
Very  well,  sir,  don't  you  know  that  there's  a 
prop  on  one  side  to  keep  up  one  of  the  cup- 
pies  that  gave  way  one  stormy  night,  and 
there's  a  round  hole  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
door  to  let  the  eats  in  to  settle  accounts  wid 
the.  mice  and  rats." 

"  Come,  come,  boys,  it's  all  right.  He  has 
•described  the  barn  to  a  hair.  That  mil  do, 
my  Papish  old  cock.  Come,  I  say,  as  every 
man  must  have  a  rehgion,  and  since  the 
Papishes  won't  have  ours,  why  the  devil 
shouldn't  they  have  one  of  their  own  ?  " 

"That's  dangerous  talk,"  said  Steen,  "to 
proceed  from  your  lips,  sergeant.  It  smells 
of  treason,  I  teU  you  ;  and  if  you  had  spoken 
these  words  in  the  days  of  the  great  and 
good  King  WiUiam,  you  might  have  felt  the 
consecjuences." 

"Treason  and  King  WilUam  be  hanged  !" 
repUed  the  sergeant,  who  was  natm-aUy  a 
good-L.'itured,  but  out-spoken  feUow — 
"  sooner  than  I'd  take  uji  a  j)oor  devil  of  a 
beggar  that  has  enough  to  do  to  make  out  his 


bit  and  sup.  Go  on  about  your  business, 
poor  de^'il ;  you  shan't  be  molested.  Go  to 
my  uncle's,  where  you'll  get  a  bellj'full,  and  r 
comfortable  bed  of  straw,  and  a  -ndnnow- 
cloth  in  the  barn.  Zounds  ! — it  would  be  a 
nice  night's  work  to  go  out  for  WUly  ReOly 
and  to  bring  home  a  beggar  man  in  his  jslace." 

This  was  a  narrow  eseajje  ujsou  the  part  of 
Fergus,  who  knew  that  if  they  had  made  a 
jjrisoner  of  liim,  and  produced  him  before 
Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  who  was  a  notorious 
persecutor^  and  with  whom  the  Red  Rappiu-ee 
was  now  located,  he  would  imquestionably 
have  been  hanged  like  a  dog.  The  officer  of 
the  party,  however — to  ■ndt,  the  worthy  ser- 
geant--was  one  of  those  men  who  love  a 
drop  of  the  native,  and  whose  heart  besides 
it  expands  into  a  sort  of  surly  kindness  that 
has  something  comical  and  not  disagreeable 
in  it.  In  addition  to  this,  he  never  felt  a 
confidence  in  his  owai  authority  with  half  the 
swagger  which  he  did  when  three  quai'ters 
gone.  Steen  and  be  were  never  fiiends,  nor 
indeed  was  Steen  ever  a  23opular  man  among 
his  acquaintances.  Ii\  matters  of  trade  and 
business  he  was  notoriously  dishonest,  and 
in  the  moi-al  and  social  relations  of  Hfe, 
selfish,  uncaiidid,  and  treacherous.  The  ser- 
geant, on  the  other  hand,  though  an  out- 
sjJOJien  and  flaming  anti-Papist  in  theory, 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  good  friend  to  his 
Roman  Cathohc  neighbors,  who  used  to  say 
of  him  that  his  bark  was  worse  than  his  Inte. 

When  his  party  had  passed  on,  Fergus 
stood  for  a  moment  uncertain  as  to  where  he 
should  direct  his  steps.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait,  however.  ReiUy,  who  had  no  thoughts 
of  abandoning  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  mih- 
tai-y,  ■without  at  least  knowing  his  fate,  nor, 
we  may  add,  ■without  a  firm  determuiation  to 
raising  his  tenantry,  and  rescuing  the  gen- 
erous fellow  at  every  risk,  imniediately 
sprung  across  the  ditch  and  joined  him. 

"  Well,  Fergais,"  said  he,  clasping  his  hand, 
"  I  heai'd  everything,  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
every  nerve  in  my  body  trembled  whilst  you 
wei'e  among  them." 

"  AMiy, "  said  Fergus,  "  I  knew  them  at  once 
by  their  voices,  and  oulj'  that  I  changed  my 
own  as  I  did  I  won't  say  but  they'd  have 
nabbed  me.'" 

"The  test  of  the  bam  was  frightfid ;  I 
thought  you  were  gone  ;  but  you  must  ex- 
plain that." 

"Ay,  but  before  I  do,"  rephed  Fergus, 
"  where  are  we  to  go  ?  Do  you  still  stand  for 
■widow  Buckley's  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  that  woman  may  be  useful  to 
me." 

"  Well,  then,  we  may  as  well  jog  on  in  that 
direction,  and  as  we  go  I  ■will  teU  you." 

"  How  then  did  you  come  to  describe  tlif 


WILLY  RE  ILLY 


bam — or  rather,  was  yom-  deseiiption  cor- 
rect ?  " 

"  Ay,  as  Gospel.  You  dou't  know  that  by 
the  best  of  luck  and  providence  of  God,  I  was 
two  years  and  a  half  an  inside  laborer  with 
]\Ir.  Graham.  As  is  usual,  all  the  inside  men- 
sei-v'ants  slept,  winther  and  summer,  in  the 
barn  ;  and  that  accounts  for  our  good  fortune 
this  night.  Only  for  that  scoundi-el,  Steen, 
however,  the  whole  thing  would  not  have 
signified  much  ;  but  he's  a  black  and  deep 
villain  that.  Nobody  likes  him  but  his  broth- 
er scouudi'el,  "\Miitecraft,  and  he's  a  favorite 
■with  him.  bekaise  he's  an  active  and  unsciiipu- 
lous  tool  in  his  hands.  Many  a  time,  when 
these  men^mihtary — mihtia — yeomen,  or 
whatever  they  call  them,  are  sent  out  by  this 
same  Sir  Robert,  the  poor  fellows  don't  ^ish  to 
catch  what  they  call  the  unfortunate  Papish- 
es,  and  before  they  come  to  the  house  they'll 
fire  off  their  gims,  pretinding  to  be  in  a  big 
passion,  but  only  to  give  theii-  poor  neighbors 
notice  to  escape  as  soon  as  they  can." 

In  a  short  time  they  reached  widow  Buck- 
ley's cabin,  who,  on  understanding  that  it  was 
Eeilly  who  sought  admittance,  lost  not  a 
moment  in  ojieniug  the  door  and  letting  them 
in.  There  was  no  candle  lit  when  they  enter- 
ed, but  there  was  a  bright  tiu-f  fire  "  blinkin' 
bonnilie  "  in  the  firejDlace,  fi-om  which  a  mel- 
low light  emanated  that  danced  upon  the  few 
plain  plates  that  were  neatly  ranged  upon 
her  humble  dresser,  but  which  fell  still  more 
strongly  upon  a  clean  and  well-swejit  hearth, 
on  one  side  of  which  was  an  humble  arm- 
chair of  straw,  and  on  the  other  a  grave,  but 
placid-looking  cat,  f)urring,  with  half-closed 
ej'es,  her  usual  song  for  the  evening. 

"  Lord  bless  us  !  Mr.  Eeilly,  is  this  you  ? 
Sui-e  it's  httle  I  expected  you,  any  way  ;  but 
come  when  you  will,  you're  welcome.  And 
who  ought  to  Ipe  welcome  to  the  poor  ould 
widow  if  you  wouldn't  ?  " 

"Take  a  stool  and  sit  down,  honest  man," 
she  said,  addressing  Fergus  ;  "  and  you,  Mr. 
Eeilly,  take  my  chair  ;  it's  the  one  you  sent 
me  3'ourself,  and  if  anybody  is  entitled  to  a 
sate  in  it,  siu'ely  you  ai-e.  I  must  Hght  a 
rash." 

"  No,  MoUy,"  repUed  EeUly,  "  I  would  be 
too  hea\T  for  yom-  frail  chair.  I  will  take 
one  of  those  stout  stools,  which  will  answer 
me  better." 

She  then  Ut  a  rash-hght,  which  she  pressed 
against  a  small  cleft  of  iron  that  was  di-iven 
into  a  wooden  shaft,  about  three  feet  long, 
which  stood  upon  a  bottom  that  resembled 
the  head  of  a  churn-staff.  Such  are  the  lights, 
and  such  the  candlesticks,  that  are  to  be 
found  in  the  cabins  and  cottages  of  Ii-eland. 

"I  suppose,  Molly,"  said  EeLUj',  "you  ai'e 
surprised  at  a  visit  from  me  just  now?" 


"You   know.    Mr.   Eeilly,"     she    rephed, 

"  that  if  you  came  in  the  deadest  hours  of  the 

night  you'd  be  welcome,  as  I  said — and  this 

poor  man  is  welcome  too — sit  over  to  the 

I  tire,  poor  man,  and  warm  yourself.     Maybe 

!  you're  hungiy  ;  if  you  are  I'LL  get  you  some- 

I  thing  to  eat." 

j       "Many   thanks   to   you,  ma'am,"   rephed 
i  Fergus,  "  I'm  not  a  taste  hungi-y,  and  could 
{  ait  nothing  now  ;  I'm  much  obhged  to  you 
at  the  same  time." 

"Mr.  Eeilly,  maj'be  you'd  hke  to  ait  a  bit. 

I  can  give  you  a  farrel  of  bread,  and  a  sup  o' 

j  nice  goat's  milk.     God  f)reserve   hira  from 

I  evil  that  gave  me  the  same  goats,  and  tliat's 

I  your  four  quarthers,  Mi-.  EeiUy.     But  sure 

eveiy  thing  I  have  either  came  or  comes  from 

yoiu-  hand  ;  and  if  I  can't  thank  you,   God 

vnU  do  it  for  me,  and  that's  betther  still." 

"  No  more  about  that,  MoUy — not  a  word 
more.  Your  long  residence  with  my  poor 
mother,  and  youi-  affection  for  her  in  all  her 
trials  and  troubles,  entitle  you  to  more  than 
that  at  the  hands  of  her  son." 

"Mi's.  Buckley,"  observ'ed  Fergus,  "this 
is  a  quiet-looking  httle  place  you  have  here." 
"  And  it  is  for  that  I  hke  it,"  she  replied. 
"I  have  pace  here,  and  the  noise  of  the 
wicked  world  seldom  reaches  me  in  it.  My 
only  fi-iend  and  companion  here  is  the  Al- 
mighty— praise  and  glory  be  to  his  name  ! " — • 
and  here  she  de*  outly  crossed  herself — "bar- 
rin',  indeed,  when  the  light-hearted  girshas* 
come  a  kaili/eef  vdd  their  wheels,  to  keep  the 
230or  ould  woman  company,  and  rise  her  ould 
heart  by  their  hght  and  merry  songs,  the 
cratui'es." 

"That  must  be  a  rehef  to  you,  MoUy," 
observed  EeiUy,  who,  however,  could  with 
difficulty  take  any  part  in  this  httle  dia- 
logue. 

"And  so  indeed  it  is,"  she  rephed  ;  "  and, 
poor  things,  sure  if  their  sweetheaiis  do 
come  at  the  dusk  to  help  them  to  carry  home 
then-  spinning-wheels,  who  can  be  angry 
with  them '?  It's  the  way  of  life,  sui'e,  and 
of  the  world." 

She  then  went  into  another  Uttle  room — 
for  the  cabin  was  divided  into  two — in  order 
to  find  a  ball  of  wooUen  thread,  her  principia] 
occupation  being  the  knitting  of  mittena 
and  stockings,  and  while  bustling  about 
Fergus  observed  with  a  smile, 

"Poor  MoUy!  little  she  thinks  that  it's 
the  bachelors,  rather  than  any  particular 
love  for  her  company,  that  brings  the  thieves 
here." 


*  Young  girls. 

f  This  means  to  spend  a  portion  of  the  day,  or  a 
few  hours  of  the  night,  in  a  neighbor's  house,  in 
agreeable  and  amusing  couversaciou. 


48 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Yer>  but,"  said  Eeilly,  "  you  know  it's  the 
custom  of  tlie  coimtiT. " 

"  Mi's.  Buckley,"  asked  Fergus,  "  did  the 
sogers  ever  jDay  you  a  visit  ?  " 

"  They  did  once,"  she  rephed,  "  about  six 
mouths  ago  or  more." 

"  What  in  the  name  of  VFondher,"  he  re- 
peated, "  could  bring  them  to  you  ?  " 

"They  were  out  him  tin'  a  priest,"  she 
rephed,  "  that  had  done  something  contraiy 
to  the  law." 

"  What  did  thej'  say,  Mrs.  Buckley,  and 
how  did  they  behave  themselves  ?  " 

"  Why,"  she  answered,  "  they  axed  me  if  I 
had  seen  about  the  country  a  tight-looking 
fat  Uttle  man,  wid  black  twinklin'  eyes  and  a 
rosy  face,  vsid  a  isair  o'  i^riest's  boots  upon 
him,  greased  wid  hog's  lard  ?  I  said  no,  but 
to  the  revarse.  Thej'  then  searched  the 
cabin,  tossed  the  two  beds  about — poor 
Jemmy's — God  rest  my  boy's  sowl !  —  an' 
afterwards  my  own.  There  was  one  that 
seemed  to  hould  authority  over  the  rest, 
and  he  axed  who  was  my  landlord  ?  I  said 
I  had  no  landlord.  They  then  said  that 
sui'ely  I  must  2>ay  rent  to  some  one,  biit  I 
said  that  I  paid  rent  to  nobody  ;  that  jMr. 
ReiUy  here,  God  bless  him,  gave  me  this 
house  and  garden  free." 

"And  what  did  they  say  when  you  named 
Ml-.  ReiUy?" 

""VMiy,  they  said  he  was  a  dacent  Papish, 
I  think  they  called  it ;  and  that  there  wasn't 
sich  another  among  them.  They  then 
lighted  their  j)ipes,  had  a  smoke,  went  about 
their  business,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  them 
Ii'om  that  day  to  this." 

lleiily  felt  that  this  conversation  was  sig- 
nificant, and  that  the  widow's  cabin  was  any 
thing  but  a  safe  place  of  refuge,  even  for  a 
few  hours.  We  have  ah'eady  said  that  he  had 
been  jjopular  with  all  parties,  wliich  was  the 
fact,  untU  his  acquaintance  v\ith  the  old 
squire  and  his  lovely  daughter.  In  the 
meantime  the  loves  of  WiUy  Eeilly  and  the 
fai'-famed  Coole.en  Banm  had  gone  abroad 
over  the  whole  country  ;  and  the  natural 
result  was  that  a  large  majority  among  those 
who  were  anxious  to  exterminate  the  Cathohc 
Church  by  the  rigor  of  bigoted  and  inhuman 
laws,  looked  upon  the  fact  of  a  tolerated 
Papist  daring  to  love  a  Protestant  hen-ess, 
and  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  was  con- 
sidered such  a  stout  prop  of  the  Establish- 
ment, as  an  act  that  deserved  death  itself. 
Reilly's  affection  for  the  Cuoh'cn  Bawn  was 
con.sidered,  therefore,  not  only  daring  but 
treasonable.  Those  men,  then,  he  reflected, 
who  had  called  upon  her  while  in  pvirsuit  of 
the  unfortunate  priest,  had  become  acquain- 
ted with  the  fact  of  her  dependence  upon 
his  boimty  ;  and  he  took  it  for  granted,  very 


naturally  and  very  properly,  as  the  event  will 
show,  that  now,  while  "on  his  keeping,"  it 
would  not  be  at  all  extraordinai-j-  if  they 
occasionally  seai-ched  her  remote  and  sohtary 
cabin,  as  a  place  where  he  might  be  Ukely  to 
conceal  himself.  For  this  night,  however, 
he  experienced  no  aioprehension  of  a  visit 
fi'om  them,  but  with  what  correctness  of  cal- 
culation we  shiill  soon  see. 

"  MoUy,"  said  he,  this  poor  man  and  I 
must  sit  with  you  for  a  couple  of  houra, 
after  which  we  will  leave  you  to  j'our  rest." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Eeilly,"  she  rephed,  "fi-om 
what  I  heai-d  this  day  I  can  make  a  purty 
good  guess  at  the  raison  why  you  are  here 
now,  instead  of  bein'  in  your  own  comfort- 
able house.  You  have  bitther  enemies  ;  but 
God — blessed  be  his  name — is  stronger  than 
any  of  them.  However,  I  wish  you'd  let  me 
get  you  and  that  jjoor  man  son_ethiug  to 
eat." 

This  kind  oft'er  they  declined,  and  as  the 
short  TOsh-hght  was  nearly  biu-ued  out,  and 
as  she  had  not  another  ready,  she  got  what 
is  called  a  cam  or  grisset,  put  it  on  the 
heai-th-stone,  with  a  portion  of  hog's  lard  in 
it ;  she  then  i:)laced  the  lower  end  of  the 
tongs  in  the  fire,  imtil  the  broad  jjortion  of 
them,  with  which  the  tiu-f  is  gripjsed,  became 
red  hot ;  she  then  jJaced  the  lard  in  the  gi'is- 
set  between  them,  and  squeezed  it  imtU  noth- 
ing remamed  but  pure  oil ;  thi-ough  this  she 
slowly  drew  the  jjeeled  rushes,  which  were 
instantly  saturated  with  the  grease,  after 
which  she  left  them  on  a  Uttle  table  to  cool. 
Among  the  poorer  classes — smtdl  far-mers 
and  others — this  process  is  performed  every 
eveniug  a  little  before  dusk.  Ha\Tng  thus 
supjaUed  them  with  these  hghts,  the  pious 
wdow  left  them  to  their  own  conversation 
and  retu-ed  to  the  little  room  in  order  to  re- 
peat her  rosary.  We  also  ■will  leave  them  to 
entertain  themselves  as  best  they  can,  and 
request  oui-  readers  to  follow  us  to  a  different 
scene. 


CH-iPTEE   Vn. 

An  Accidental  Incident  favorable  to  ReiUy,  and  a 
C'urioun  Converaation. 

We  return  to  the  pai-ty  fi-om  whom  Fer- 
gus Eeilly  had  so  nan-ow  an  escajae.  As  oui 
readers  may  expect,  they  bent  then-  stejis  to 
the  magnificent  residence  of  Sir  Eobert 
Whitecraft.  That  gentleman  was  alone  in 
his  libnu-y,  surrounded  by  an  immense  col 
lection  of  books  which  he  never  read.  He 
had  also  a  tine  coUeetion  of  ijaiutiugs,  of 
which  he  knew  no  more  than  his  butler,  nor 
perhaps  so  much.     At  once  sensual,  penuii 


W/JiLT  RE  ILLY. 


49 


ous,  and  bigoted,  lie  spent  his  whole  time 
in  private  protUgacy — for  he  was  a  hj^jocrite, 
too — in  racking  his  tenantry,  and  exhibiting 
himself  as  a  champion  for  Protestant  piiu- 
ciples.  Whenever  au  ixnfortunate  Romaii 
Cathohc,  whether  priest  or  layman,  happened 
to  infringe  a  harsh  and  cruel  law  of  which 
probably  he  had  never  heard,  who  so  active 
in  collecting  his  myrmidons,  in  order  to  un- 
cover, hunt,  and  rim  down  his  luckless  \-ic- 
tim  ?  Aiid  yet  he  was  not  popular.  No 
one,  whether  of  his  own  class  or  any  other, 
liked  a  bone  in  his  skin.  Nothing  could  in- 
fect him  with  the  genial  and  hospitable  spirit 
jf  the  country,  wliilst  at  the  same  time  no 
man  U^'ing  was  so  anxious  to  partake  of  the 
hospitahty  of  others,  merely  because  it  saved 
him  a  meal.  All  that  sustained  his  character 
at  the  melancholj'  period  of  which  we  write 
was  what  peoj)le  called  the  uncompromising 
energy  of  his  principles  as  a  sound  and  ^'ig- 
orous  Protestant. 

"  Sink  them  all  together,"  he  exclaimed 
upon  this  occasion,  in  a  kind  of  sohloquy — 
"  Chui'ch  and  bishop  and  parson,  what  are 
they  worth  unless  to  make  the  best  use  we 
can  of  them  ?  Here  I  am  j)revented  fi-om 
going  to  that  gii'l  to-night — and  that  bar- 
bai'ous  old  blockhead  of  a  squii-e,  who  was 
so  near  throwing  me  off  for  a  beggarly  Papist 
rebel ;  and  doubly,  trebly,  quadiiiply  cursed 
be  that  same  rebel  for  crossing  my  path  as 
he  has  done.  The  ciu-sed  hght-headed  jade 
loves  him  too — there's  no  doubt  of  that — but 
wait  untU  I  get   him  in  my  clutches,  as  I 

certainly  shall,  and,  by ,  his  rebel  carcass 

shall  feed  the  crows.  But  what  noise  is  that  ? 
They  have  retru-ned ;  I  must  go  down  and 
learn  theii'  success." 

He  was  right.  Our  friend  the  tipsy  ser- 
geant and  his  party  were  at  the  hah-door, 
which  was  opened  as  he  went  down,  and  he 
ordF'ired  lights  mto  the  back  j^arlor.  In  a 
few  minutes  they  were  ushered  in,  where  they 
found  him  seated  as  magisterially  as  possible 
in  a  large  anu-chair. 

"WeD,  Johnston,"  said  he,  assuming  as 
much  digTiity  as  he  could,  "  what  has  been 
your  success  ?  " 

"A  bad  evening's  sport,  sir;  we  bagged 
nothing — didn't  see  a  feather." 

"  Talk  sense,  Johnston,"  said  he  sternly, 
"  and  none  of  this  cant.  Did  you  see  or  hear 
any  thing  of  the  rebel  ?  " 

"  WTiy,  su",  we  did  ;  it  would  be  a  derilish 
nice  busmess  if  a  pai'ty  led  and  commanded 
by  George  Johnston  should  go  out  without 
hearin'  and  seein'  something." 

"  Well,  but  what  did  you  see  and  hear,  sir  ?  " 

*"  Wliy,  we  saw  Reilly's  house,  and  a  veiy 
comfortable  one  it  is  ;  and  we  heard  fifom 
the  servants  that  he  wasn't  at  home." 


"You're  drunk,  Johnston." 

"No,  sir,  begging  volU-  pardon,  I'm  only 
heaiii/  ;*  besides,  I  never  discharge  my  duty 
half  so  well  as  when  I'm  drimk  ;  I  feel  no 
colors  then." 

"Johnston,  if  I  ever  know  you  to  get  cbamk 
on  duty  again  I  shall  have  you  reduced." 

"  Reduced !  "  repMed  Johnston,  "  curse  the 
fig  I  care  whether  you  do  or  not ;  I'm  actin' 
as  a  volunteer,  and  I'U  resign." 

"  Come,  sir,"  repUed  Sir  Robert,  "  be 
quiet ;  I  will  overlook  this,  for  you  are  a  very 
good  man  if  you  could  teej)  yourself  sober.'' 

"  I  told  you  before,  Su-  Robert,  that  I'm  a 
better  man  when  I'm  ckunk." 

"  Silence,  sir,  or  I  shall  order  you  out  of 
the  room." 

"Please  yom-  honor,"  observed  Steen,  "I 
have  a  chai'ge  to  make  against  George  John- 
ston." 

"  A  chai-ge,  Steen — what  is  it  ?  You  are 
a  staimch,  steady  fellow,  I  know  ;  what  is 
this  cliarge '? " 

"  AMiy,  sir,  we  met  a  suspicious  character 
on  the  old  bridle  road  beyond  Reilly's,  and 
he  refused  to  take  him  prisoner." 

"  A  poor  half-Papist  beggarman,  sir,"  re 
pUed  -Johnston,  "  who  was  on  his  wav'  to  mj 
tmcle's  to  stop  there  for  the  night.  Divil  a 
scarecrow  in  Europe  would  exchange  clothes 
with  him  without  boot." 

Steen  then  related  the  circumstances  with 
which  our  readers  are  acquainted,  adding 
that  he  suggested  to  Johnston  the  necessity 
of  sending  a  couple  of  men  up  with  him  to 
ascertain  whether  what  he  said  was  tnie  or 
not  ;  but  that  he  flatly  refused  to  do  so — and 
after  some  nonsense  about  a  barn  he  let  liim 
off. 

"  I'U  tell  you  what,  sir-,"  said  Johnston, 
"I'U  hunt  a  priest  or  a  Papish  that  breaks 
the  law  with  any  man  livin',  but  hang  me  i£ 
ever  I'll  hunt  a  harmless  beggarman  lookin' 
for  his  bit." 

At  this  period  of  the  conversation  the  Red 
Rapi^aree,  now  in  mUitarj;  uniform,  entered 
the  parlor,  accompanied  by  some  others  of 
those  violent  men. 

"  Steen,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what  or  who 
do  you.  suppose  this  ragged  i-uflian  was  ?  " 

"Either  a  Rapparee,  su-,  or  ReiUy  him- 
seH." 

"  O'Donnel,"  said  he,  addi-essing  the  Red 
Robber,  "  what  description  of  disguises  do 
these  ■(T.Uains  usually  assume  ?  Do  they  of- 
ten go  about  as  beggarmen  ?  " 

"  They  may  have  changed  their  hand,  sir, 
since  I  became  a  legal  subject,  but,  liefore 
that,  three-fourths  of  us— of  them — the  vU- 

*"  Hearty  "  means  when  a  raan  is  slightly  affecteo 
by  dri:.k  so  as  to  feel  his  spirits  elevated. 


50 


WILLIAM    CARLETOJST'S   WORKS. 


lains,  I  mane — went  about  in  the  shape  of 
beggars." 

"  That's  important,"  exclaimed  the  baronet. 
"  Steeu,  take  half  a  dozen  mounted  men — a 
cavahy  party  have  arrived  here  a  little  while 
ago,  and  are  waiting  fiu-ther  orders — I 
thought  if  Eeilly  had  been  secured  it  might 
have  been  necessary  for  them  to  escort  him 
to  SUgo.  Well,  take  half  a  dozen  mounted 
men,  and,  as  you  very  pro]3erly  suggested, 
proceed  with  all  haste  to  farmer  Graham's, 
and  see  whether  this  mendicant  is  there  or 
not ;  if  he  is  there,  take  him  into  custody  at 
all  events,  and  if  he  is  not,  then  it  is  clear  he 
is  a  man  for  whom  we  ought  to  be  on  the 
lookout." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  ■nith  them,  your  hon- 
or," said  the  Red  Eapparee. 

"  O'Donuel,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "I have  oth- 
er business  for  you  to-night." 

"  Well,  plaise  your  honor,"  said  O'Don- 
nel,  "as  they're  goin' in  that  direction,  let 
them  turn  to  the  left  after  passui'  the  little 
strame  that  crosses  the  road,  I  mane  on  their 
way  home  ;  if  they  look  sharp  they'll  find  a 
Sttle  boreen  that — but  indeed  they'll  scarcely 
_3ake  it  out  in  the  dark,  for  it's  a  good  way- 
back  in  the  fields — I  m;ine  the  cabin  of 
widow  Buckley.  If  there's  one  house  more 
than  another  in  the  whole  countryside  where 
ReiUy  is  likely  to  take  shelter  in,  that's  it. 
He  gave  her  that  cabin  and  a  large  garden 
free,  and  besides  allows  her  a  small  yearly 
pension.  But  remember,  you  can't  bring 
your  horses  wid  you — you  must  lave  some 
of  the  men  to  take  charge  of  them  in  the 
boreen  tiU  you  come  back.  I  wish  you'd  let 
me  go  with  them,  sir." 

"  I  cannot,  O'Donnel  ;  I  have  other  occu- 
pation for  you  to-night." 

Three  or  four  of  them  declared  that  they 
knew  the  cottage  right  well,  and  could  find  it 
out  withovit  much  difficulty.  "  They  had  been 
there,"  they  said,  "  some  six  or  eight  months 
before  upon  a  priest  chase."  The  matter  was 
so  arranged,  and  the  party  set  out  ujion  their 
expedition. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  these  men 
had  their  journey  for  nothing  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  ope  fact  resulted  from  it,  which 
was,  that  the  ragged  mendicant  they  had 
met  must  have  been  some  one  well  worth 
looking  after.  The  deuce  of  it  was,  however, 
that,  owing  to  the  darkness  of  tlie  night, 
there  was  not  one  among  them  who  could 
have  known  Fergus  the  next  day  if  they  had 
met  him.  They  knew,  however,  that  O'Don- 
nel, the  Rajiparee,  was  a  good  authority  on 
the  subject,  and  the  discovery  of  the  jire- 
tended  mendicant's  imposture  was  a  proof 
of  it.  On  this  account,  when  they  had 
I'eached  the  horeeii  alluded  to,  on  their  re- 


turn from  Graham's,  they  came  to  the  reso- 
lution of  lea\iug  their  horses  in  charge,  as 
had  been  suggested  to  them,  and  in  silence, 
and  with  steidthy  stej^s,  jjouuce  at  once  into 
the  widow's  cabin.  Before  they  arrived 
there,  however,  we  shall  take  the  hberty  of 
jn-eceding  them  for  a  few  minutes,  and  once 
more  transport  our  readers  to  its  bright  but 
humble  hearth. 

About  tln-ee  houi-s  or  better  had  elapsed 
and  our  two  fi'iends  were  stUl  seated,  main- 
taining the  usual  chat  with  Mrs.  Buckley. 
who  had  finished  her  prayers  and  once  more 
rejoined  them. 

"Fergus,  like  a  good  fellow,"  whispered 
ReUly,  "  sli])  out  for  a  minute  or  two  ;  there's 
a  circumstance  I  wish  to  mention  to  Molly 
— I  assure  you  it's  of  a  very  private  and  par- 
ticular nature  and  only  for  her  o\^'n  ear." 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  Fergus  ;  "I  want,  at 
all  events,  to  stretch  my  legs,  aud  to  see 
what  the  night's  about." 

He  accordingly  left  the  cabin. 

"Mrs.  Buckley,"  said  ReiUy,  "it  was  not 
for  nothing  I  came  here  to-night.  I  have  a 
favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"Youi"  favor's  granted,  sir,"  she  rephed— ■ 
"  granted,  ]Mi\  ReiUy,  even  before  I  hear  it — 
that  is,  supiijosiu'  always  that  it's  in  my  jiower 
to  do  it  for  you." 

"It  is  simply  to  cany  a  letter — and  be 
certain  that  it  shall  be  delivered  to  the  proper 
person." 

"W'ell,"  she  reislied,  "sm-e  that's  aisilj- 
done.  And  where  am  I  to  dehver  it  ? " 
she  asked. 

"  That  I  shall  let  you  know  on  some  future 
occasion — perhaps  within  the  course  of  a 
week  or  so." 

"Well,  sir,"  she  replied,  "I'd  go  twenty 
miles  to  deliver  it — and  will  do  so  wid  a 
heart  and  a  half." 

"  Well,  MoUy,  I  can  tell  you  your  journey 
won't  be  so  far  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  you 
are  to  observe — you  must  never  breathe  it 
to  a  human  creature." 

"  I  thought  you  knew  me  better,  Mi". 
ReiUy." 

"  It  would  be  imjiossible,  however,  to  be 
too  strict  here,  because  you  don't  know  how 
much  depends  upon  it." 

At  this  moment  Fergus  j)ut  in  liis  head, 
and  said,  "  For  Chi'ist's  sake,  snufi"  out  the 
candle,  and  Redly — fly  ! — There  ai-e  peoijle 
in  the  next  field  ! — quick  ! — quick  !  " 

ReiUy  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  whispereo 
to  the  widow,  "Deny  that  you  saw  me,  oi 
tliat  there  was  any  one  here ! — Put  out  the 
candle  !  —  they  might  see  our  figures  darken- 
ing the  hght  as  we  go  out !  " 

Fergus  and  ReiUy  immediately  plantea 
themselves  behind  a  whitethorn  hedge,  in  o 


^YILLY  REILLY. 


51 


dekl  adjoining  the  cabin,  in  order  to  recon- 
noitre the  party,  whoever  they  might  be, 
which  they  cou]d  do  in  safety.  This  act  of 
reconuoitering,  however,  was  performed  bj' 
the  ear,  and  not  at  all  by  the  eye ;  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  rendered  that  impossible. 
Of  coiu-se  the  search  in  the  widow's  cabin 
was  equally  ffuitless. 

"  Now,"  whispered  Reilly,  "we'll  go  in  a 
line  parallel  with  the  road,  "  but  at  a  safe 
distance  from  them,  imtil  they  reach  the 
cross-roads.  If  they  turn  towards  my  house, 
we  are  forewarned,  but  if  they  turn  towards 
Sir  Robert's,  it  is  Ukely  that  I  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  securing  my  cash  and  jjapers." 

On  reaching  the  cross-roads  alluded  to, 
the  party,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  Reilly 
and  his  comjianion,  did  turn  towards  the 
residence  of  Sir  Robert  ^Miitecraft,  thus 
giving  the  fugitives  full  assm-auee  that  no- 
thing further  was  to  be  apprehended  fi-om 
them  that  night.  The  men  in  fact  felt 
fatigued  and  were  anxious  to  get  to  bed. 

After  approaching  Reilly's  house  very 
cautiously,  and  with  much  cu-cumspeetion — 
not  an  outhouse,  or  other  place  of  conceal- 
ment. ha'VTUg  been  left  unexamined — they 
were  about  to  enter,  when  Reilly,  thinking 
that  no  precaution  on  such  an  occasion 
ought  to  be  neglected,  said  : 

"  Fergus,  we  are  so  fai"  safe  ;  but,  under 
aU  circumstances,  I  think  it  right  and  jnai- 
deut  that  you  should  keej)  watch  outside. 
Hark  me,  I  will  j)laee  Tom  Corrigan — you 
know  him — at  this  window,  and  if  you  hap- 
pen to  see  anything  in  the  shajje  of  a  hu- 
man being,  or  to  hear,  for  instance,  any 
noise,  give  the  shghtest  possible  tap  upon 
the  glass,  and  that  will  be  sufficient." 

It  was  so  an-anged,  and  Reilly  entered  the 
house  ;  but,  as  it  haj^jjened,  Fergus's  office 
proved  a  sinecure  ;  although,  indeed,  when 
we  consider  his  care  and  anxiety,  we  can 
scarcely  say  so.  At  all  events,  Reilly  retiu-ned 
in  about  half  an  hour,  beaiing  under  his  arm 
a  large  dark  portfolio,  which,  by  the  way, 
was  secureh'  locked. 

"Is  all  right?  "  asked  Fergus, 

"All  is  right,"  repUed  the  other.  "The 
servants  have  entered  into  an  aiTangement  to 
sit  up,  two  in  tui-n  each  night,  so  as  to  be 
rea/ly  to  give  me  instant  admittance  whenever 
1  may  chance  to  come." 

"But  now  where  are  you  to  place  these 
papers  ?  "  asked  his  companion.  "  That's  a 
difficulty." 

"It  is,  I  grant,"  replied  Reilly,  "but  after 
what  has  happened,  I  think  widow  Buckley's 
cabin  the  safest  place  for  a  day  or  two.  Only 
that  the  hoirr  is  so  imseasonable,  I  cotild 
feel  little  difficulty  in  finding  a  proper  j)lace 
of  secui-ity  for  them,  but  as  it  is,  we  must 


only  dejDosit  them  for  the  present  with  the 
widow." 

The  roads  of  Ii-eland  at  this  period-  -i( 
roads  they  could  be  called — were  not  only  in 
a  most  shameful,  but  dangerous,  state.  In 
summer  they  were  a  foot  deej)  with  dust, 
and  in  winter  at  least  eighteen  inches  -n-ith 
mud.  This,  however,  was  by  no  me;ms  the 
worst  of  it.  They  were  studded,  at  due 
intervals,  with  nits  so  deep  that  if  a  horse 
hapjjened  to  get  into  one  of  them  he  went 
down  to  the  sadiUe-skii-ts.  They  were 
treacherous,  too,  and  such  as  no  caution 
could  guard  against ;  because,  where  the 
whole  siu'face  of  the  road  was  one  mass  of 
mud,  it  was  inipossible  to  distinguish  these 
horse-traps  at  aU.  Then,  in  addition  to 
these,  were  deep  gullies  across  the  roads, 
worn  away  by  small  lills,  proceeding  from 
ri\'ulets  iu  the  adjouiing  ujjlands,  wliich  were 
principally  dry,  or  at  least  mere  threads  of 
water  in  summer,  but  in  winter  became 
pigmy  torrents  that  tore  up  the  roads  across 
which  they  passed,  leaving  them  in  the  dan- 
gerous state  we  have  described. 

As  Reilly  and  his  companion  had  got  out 
uf)on  the  road,  they  were  a  good  deal  sui-- 
firised,  and  not  a  little  alai-med,  to  see  a 
horse,  -without  a  rider,  struggling  to  extri- 
cate himself  out  of  one  of  the  ruts  in  ques- 
tion. 

"  "^Miat  is  this  ?  "  said  Fergus.  "Be  on 
your  guard." 

"The  horse,"  observed  Reilly,  "is-nathout' 
a  rider  ;  see  what  it  means." 

Fergus  approached  with  ah  due  caution, 
and  on  examining  the  place  discovered  a  man 
lying  apjjarently  iu  a  state  of  insensibUity. 

"I  fear,"  said  he,  on  retuiTiing  to  Reilly, 
"  that  his  rider  has  been  hurt ;  he  is  lyiug 
senseless  about  two  or  three  yards  before 
the  horse." 

"  My  God  ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  "  jjerhajjs 
he  has  been  killed ;  let  us  instantly  assist 
him.  Hold  this  portfoho  whilst  I  render 
him  whatever  assistance  I  can." 

As  he  sjjoke  they  heard  a  heavy  gi-oan, 
and  on  apjjroachiug  found  the  man  sitting, 
but  still  unable  to  rise. 

"You  have  unfoi-timately  been  thi'owTi, 
sir,"  said  Reilly  ;  "Itiiistiu  God  you  are  not 
seriously  hiu-t." 

"I  hope  not,  sir,"  repHed  the  man,  "  but  I 
was  stunned,  and  have  been  insensible  for 
some  time  ;  how  long  I  cannot  say." 

"Good  gi-acious,  su"!"  exclaimed  ReiUy, 
"  is  this  Mr.  Bro\A7i  ?  " 

"  It  is,  ]Mi-.  Reilly ;  for  heaven's  sake  aid 
me  to  my  hmbs — that  is,  if  I  shaU  be  able  to 
stand  upon  them." 

ReiUy  did  so,  but  found  that  he  could  not 
stand    or    walk  without    assistance.      The 


52 


WILLIAM    UARLETON'S   WORKS. 


horse,  in  the  meantime,  had  extricated  him- 
self. 

"Come,  llr.  Brown,"  said  Reilly,  "you 
must  allow  me  to  assist  you  home.  It  is 
very  fortunate  thatyoii  have  not  many  perches 
to  go.  This  poor  man  wiU  lead  your  horse 
up  to  the  stable." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  EeiUy,"  replied  the 
gentleman,  "  and  iu  requital  for  your  kind- 
ness you  must  take  a  bed  at  my  house  to- 
night. I  am  aware  of  your  position,"  he 
added  in  a  confidential  voice,  "  and  that  you 
cannot  safely  sleep  in  youi-  own ;  with  me 
you  win  be  secui'e.'' 

EeiUy  thanked  him,  and  said  that  this 
kind  oli'er  was  most  welcome  and  acceptable, 
as,  in  point  of  fact,  he  scarcely  knew  that 
night  where  to  seek  rest  with  safety.  They 
accordingly  j)roceeded  to  the  pai'sonage — 
for  Mr.  Brown  was  no  other  than  the  Prot- 
estant rector  of  the  parish,  a  man  with  whom 
Reilly  was  on  the  most  fi'ieudly  and  intimate 
terms,  and  a  man,  we  maj^  add,  who  omitted 
no  opportunity  of  extending  shelter,  pro- 
tection, and  countenance  to  such  Roman 
Catholics  as  fell  under  the  suspicion  or  ojjer- 
ation  of  the  law.  On  this  occasion  he  had 
been  called  very  suddenly  to  the  deathbed  of 
a  parishioner,  and  was  then  on  his  retui-n 
home,  after  having  administered  to  the  dying 
man  the  last  consolations  of  reUgion. 

Ou  reaching  the  parsonage,  Fergus  handed 
the  portfolio  to  its  ovraer,  and  withdrew  to 
■  seek  shelter  in  some  of  his  usual  haunts  for 
the  night ;  but  Mr.  Brown,  aided  bj-  his 
wife,  who  sat  njj  for  him,  contrived  that 
Reilly  should  be  conducted  to  a  f)rivate  room, 
without  the  knowledge  of  the  sei-vants,  who 
were  sent  as  soon  as  possible  to  bed.  Before 
Reilly  withdrew,  however,  that  night,  he  re- 
quested Mr.  Brown  to  take  charge  of  his 
money  and  family  papers,  which  the  latter 
did,  assuring  him  that  they  should  be  forth- 
coming whenever  he  thought  iirojjer  to  call 
for  them.  Mr.  Brown  had  not  been  seriously 
hurt,  and  was  able  m  a  day  or  two  to  p.ay 
the  usual  attention  to  the  discharge  of  his 
duties. 

RciUy,  having  been  told  where  to  fuid  his 
bedroom,  retired  with  confidence  to  rest. 
Yet  we  can  scarcely  term  it  rest,  alter  con- 
sidering the  tumultuous  and  disagreeable 
events  of  the  evening.  He  began  to  ponder 
iipou  the  hfe  of  j^ersecution  to  which  Miss 
FoUiard  must  necessarily  be  exposed,  iu  con- 
sequence of  her  father's  impetuous  and  fierj' 
temper  ;  and,  indeed,  the  fact  was,  that  he 
felt  tliis  reflection  infinitely  more  bitter 
than  any  that  touched  himseK.  In  these 
affectionate  calculations  of  her  domestic  per- 
secution he  was  a  good  deal  mistaken, 
however.     Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  had   now 


gained  a  complete  ascendancy  over  the  dis. 
position  and  j)assions  of  her  father.  The 
latter,  like  many  another  coimtiy  squire — es- 
pecially of  that  day — when  his  word  and  ^■ill 
were  law  to  his  tenants  and  dependants,  was 
a  very  gi-eat  man  indeed,  when  <lealing  with 
them.  He  could  bluster  and  threaten,  and 
even  carry  his  threats  into  execution  with  a 
confident  swagger  that  had  more  of  magis- 
terial jmde  and  the  jjomp  of  j^roperty  in  it, 
than  a  sense  of  either  right  or  justice.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  let,  him  meet  a  man  of  his 
own  rank,  who  cared  nothing  about  his 
authority  as  a  magistrate,  or  his  assumption 
as  a  man  of  large  landed  projjerty,  and  he 
was  nothing  liut  a  poor  weak-minded  tool  in 
his  hands.  So  fai-  oui-  descrii^tion  is  correct  ; 
but  when  such  a  knave  as  Su-  Robert  "Wliite- 
craft  came  iu  liis  way — a  knave  at  once  cal- 
culating, deceitful,  jalausible,  and  cunning — 
why,  oiu-  worthy  old  squire,  who  thought 
himself  a  second  Solomon,  might  be  taken 
by  the  nose  and  led  roimd  the  whole  barony. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  sapienlly 
laid  down  his  jDlans  to  harass  and  persecute 
his  daiighter  into  a  marriage  with  Sir  Robert, 
and  would  have  probably  driven  her  fi'om 
imder  his  roof,vhad  he  not  received  the  irro- 
grammc  of  his  conduct  from  WTiitecraft. 
That  cowardly  caitiff  had  a  double  motive  iu 
this.  He  found  that  if  her  father  should 
"  pepper  her  with  persecution,"  as  the  old 
fellow  said,  before  marriage,  its  consequences 
might  fall  upon  his  own  unlucky  head  after- 
wards— iu  other  words,  that  Helen  would 
most  assuredly  make  him  then  sufi'er,  to  some 
pui'pose,  for  aU  that  his  pretensions  to  her 
hand  had  occasioned  her  to  undergo  pre- 
vious to  their  union  ;  for,  in  truth,  if  there 
was  one  doctruie  which  AMiitecrai't  detested 
more  than  another — and  with  good  reason 
too — it  was  that  of  Retribution. 

"  Mr.  Folliard,"  said  Whitecraft  in  the  very 
last  conversation  they  had  on  this  subject, 
"  3'ou  must  not  persecute  yoiu-  daughter  on 
my  accoimt." 

■"Mustn't  I?  \Miy  hang  it.  Sir-  Robert, 
isn't  persecution  the  order  of  (he  day  ?  If 
she  doesn't  mai-ry  you  quietly  anii  willingly, 
we'n  turn  her  out,  and  hlmt  her  hke  a 
priest." 

"No,  Mr.  Folliai'd,  violence  ■^^^ll  never  do. 
On  the  contrary,  you  must  change  _your 
hand,  and  try  an  opposite  coiu'se.  If  you 
wish  to  rivet  her  affections  u2)on  that  Jes- 
uitical traitor  stiU  more  strongly,  persecute 
her  ;  for  there  is  nothing  iu  this  life  that 
strengthens  love  so  much  as  opposition  and 
violence.  The  fair  ones  begin  to  look  upon 
themselves  as  martyrs,  and  in  proportion  as 
you  are  severe  and  inexorable,  so  in  2)ro2ior- 
tion  are  they  resolved  to  T\Tn  the  crown  tluit 


WILZr  REILLY. 


53 


is  before  them.  I  would  not  press  your 
daughter  but  that  I  behave  love  to  be  a  thing 
that  exists  before  mari'iage  —  never  after. 
There's  the  honeymoou,  for  instance.  Did 
ever  mortal  man  or  mortal  vroman  hear  or 
dream  of  a  second  honeymoon  '?  No,  sir,  for 
'lipid,  Kke  a  large  blue-bottle,  falls  into, 
nd  is  drowned,  in  the  honey-pot." 

"  Confound  me,"  rephed  the  sqixire,  "if  I 
understand  a  word  you  say.  However,  I  dare 
say  it  may  be  very  good  sense  for  aU  that, 
for  you  always  had  a  long  noddle.     Go  on." 

"  My  advice  to  you  then,  su-,  is  this — make 
as  few  allusions  to  her  maniage  with  me  as 
possible  ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  you  may 
praise  me  a  little,  if  you  wish  ;  but,  above  all 
things,  don't  run  down  EeiUy  immediately 
after  pacing  either  my  mind  or  person  any 
eomjjliment.  Allow  the  young  lady  to  re- 
main quiet  for  a  time.  Treat  her  with  yom* 
usual  kindness  and  affection  ;  for  it  is  possi- 
ble, after  all,  that  she  may  do  more  fi'om  her 
tenderness  and  affection  for  you  than  we 
could  expect  fiom  any  other  motive  ;  at  all 
events,  until  we  shall  succeed  in  hanging  or 
transporting  this  rebellious  scoundi-el." 

'•  Very  good — so  he  is.  Good  WOham  ! 
what  a  son-in-law  I  should  have !  I  who 
transjjorted  one  priest  already  !  " 

"  Well,  SU",  as  I  was  saying,  until  we  shall 
have  succeeded  in  hanging  or  transporting 
him.  The  first  would  be  the  safest,  no 
doubt ;  but  uutd  we  shall  be  able  to  ac- 
comj^hsh  either  one  or  the  other,  we  have  not 
much  to  expect  in  the  shape  of  compUance 
fi'om  your  daughter,  ^^^leu  the  ■villain  is  re- 
moved, however,  hope,  on  her  part,  ■nnll  soon 
die  out — love  ■nill  lose  its  2Mbulum." 

"Its  what?"  asked  the  squire,  staring  at 
him  ^vith  a  pair  of  roimd  eyes  that  were  fuU 
of  jDerplexity  and  wonder. 

"  WTiy,  it  means  food,  or  rather  fodder." 

"  Curse  you,  sir,"  rephed  the  squii'e  in- 
dignantlj' ;  "do  you  want  to  make  a  beast 
of  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  But  it's  a  word,  sir,  ai^pUed  by  the  poets, 
as  the  food  of  Cupid." 

"Cupid!  I  thought  he  was  drowned  in 
the  honey-pot,  yet  he's  up  again,  and  as 
brisk  as  ever,  it  aj)pears.  However,  go  on — 
let  us  imderstand  fairly  what  you're  at.  I 
tliink  I  see  a  ghmpse  of  it ;  and  knowing 
your  character  upon  the  subject  of  persecu- 
tion as  I  do,  it's  more,  I  must  say,  than  I 
expected  from  you.     Go  on — I  bid  you." 

"I  say,  then,  sir,  that  if  ReiUj'  were  either 
b.anged  or  out  of  the  country,  the  conscious- 
ness of  this  would  soon  alter  matters  ^^■ith 
i\Iiss  FoUiard.  If  you,  then,  sir,  will  enter 
into  an  agi-eemeut  ^rith  me,  I  shah,  under- 
take so  to  make  the  laws  bear  upon  Eeilly 
as  to  rid  either  the  world  or  the  country  of 


him  ;  and  you  shall  promise  not  to  press 
upon  youi'  daughter  the  subject  of  her 
marriage  -nith  me  until  then.  Still,  there  is 
one  thing  you  must  do  ;  and  that  is,  to  keep 
her  under  the  strictest  surveillance." 

"  What  the  de-vdl's  that  ?  "  said  the  squire. 

"  It  means,"  retui-ned  his  expected  son-in- 
law,  "  that  she  miist  be  well  watched,  but 
vrithoiit  feeling  that  she  is  so." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  to  lock  her  up  at 
once '?  "  said  her  father.  "  That  would  be 
making  the  matter  sure." 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  WTutecraft.  "So 
sure  as  you  lock  her  up,  so  sure  she  will 
break  prison." 

"  Well,  upon  my  soul,"  repUed  her  father, 
"I  can't  see  that.  A  strong  lock  and  key 
are  certainly  the  best  surety  for  the  due  ap- 
f)earance  of  any  young  woman  disposed  to 
rim  awaj'.  I  think  the  best  way  would  be  to 
make  her  feel  at  once  that  her  father  is  a 
magistrate,  and  commit  her  to  her  own  room 
imtU  called  iipon  to  ajipear." 

WTiitecraft,  whose  object  was  occasionally 
to  puzzle  his  friend,  gave  a  cold  grin,  and 
added : 

"I  suppose  your  next  step  would  be  to 
make  her  put  in  security.  No — no.  Mi'. 
FoLhard  ;  if  you  will  be  advised  by  me,  tn^ 
the  soothing  system  ;  antiphlogistic  remedies 
ai-e  always  the  best  in  a  case  like  hers." 

"  Anti — what  ?  Cui'se  me,  if  I  can  under- 
stand eveiy  tenth  word  you  say.  However, 
I  give  you  credit,  'V\Tiitecraft  ;  for  iipon  my 
soul  I  didn't  think  you  knew  half  so  mucli 
as  you  do.  That  last,  however,  is  a  tickler — 
a  nut  that  I  can't  crack.  I  wish  I  could  only 
get  lily  tongue  about  it,  tiU  I  send  it  among 
the  Grand  Jury,  and  maybe  there  wouldn't 
be  wigs  on  the  green  in  maldug  it  out." 

"  Yes,  I  fancy  it  would  teach  them  a  httle 
sujjererogation. " 

"  A  little  what  ?  Is  it  love  that  has  made 
3'ou  so  learned,  "WTiitecraft,  or  so  unmteUigi- 
ble,  which  ?  ^Vhy,  man,  if  your  jmssion  in- 
creases, in  another  week  there  won't  be  three 
men  out  of  Trinity  CoUege  able  to  under- 
stand you.  You  will  become  a  perfect 
oracle.  But,  in  the  meantime,  let  us  see 
how  the  aiTangement  stands.  FniprimKSy 
you  are  to  hang  or  transiiort  EeiUy  ;  and, 
until  then,  I  am  not  to  annoy  mj'  daughter 
^ith  any  allusions  to  this  marriage  :  but, 
above  all  things,  not  to  comjiare  you  and 
Eeilly  -n-ith  one  another  in  her  presence,  lest 
it  might  strengthen  her  prejudices  against 
you." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir.  FoUiard.  I  did 
not  say  so  ;  I  fear  no  compaiison  with  the 
fellow." 

"No  matter.  Sir  Eobert,  if  you  did  not 
knock  it  down  you  staggered  it.       Omitting 


54 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  comparison,  however,  I  sni^pose  that  so 
f;ir  I  am  right." 

"  I  think  so,  sii,"  replied  the  other,  con- 
scious, after  all,  that  he  had  got  a  touch  of 
"Roland  for  his  Oliver." 

Then  he  proceeded:  "I'm  to  vrateh  her 
closely,  only  she's  not  to  know  it.  Now,  I'll 
tell  you  what,  Sir  Kobert,  I  know  you  can-y  a 
long  noddle,  with  more  hard  words  in  it  than 
I  evejr  gave  you  credit  for — but  with  regard 
to  what  you  expect  fi-om  me  now — " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  should  watch  her 
personally  yoiu'seK,  Mr.  Folliard." 

"  I  suj^pose  you  don't ;  I  ditln't  think  you 
did  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what — -^Yikce.  the  twelve 
labors  of  Hercules  before  me,  and  I'U  imder- 
take  to  perform  them,  if  you  msli,  but  to 
watch  a  woman,  Sir  Eobert. — and  that  wo- 
man keen  and  sharjj  upon  the  cause  of  such 
vigilance — without  her  knowing  it  in  one 
half  hour's  time — that  is  a  task  that  never 
was,  can,  or  mil  be  accomi^lished.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must  only  come  as  near  its 
accomplishment  as  we  can.'' 

"Just  so,  sii- ;  we  can  do  no  more.  Re- 
member, then,  that  you  perform  yotu'  part 
of  this  arrangement,  and,  with  the  blessing 
of  God,  I  shall  leave  nothing  undone  to  per- 
form mine." 

Thus  closed  this  rather  extraordinary  con- 
versation, after  which  Sir  Robert  betook 
himself  home,  to  reflect  upon  the  best 
means  of  joerforming  his  part  of  it,  with 
what  quickness  and  dispatch,  and  with  what 
success,  oiu'  readers  ah-eadj^  know. 

The  old  squire  was  one  of  those  chai-acters 
who  never  are  so  easily  jiersuaded  as  when 
they  do  not  fully  comprehend  the  argument 
used  to  cou-\ince  them.  "Whenever  the  squire 
found  himself  a  Uttle  at  fault,  or  confounded 
by  either  a  difficult  word  or  a  hard  sentence, 
he  always  took  it  for  granted  that  there  was 
something  unusually  profound  and  clever  in 
the  matter  laid  before  him.  Sir  Robert 
knew  this,  and  on  that  accoimt  j)layed  him 
off  to  a  certain  extent.  He  was  too  cunning, 
however,  to  darken  any  jsart  of  the  main  ar- 
gument so  far  as  to  jirevent  its  drift  fi'om 
being  fully  imderstood,  and  thereby  defeat- 
ing his  own  pm-pose. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

A  Conflagration — .1//  Excape — And  an  Adventure. 

We  have  said  that  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft 
was  am^thing  but  a  jiopular  man — and  we 
might  h.ave  added  that,  unless  among  his 
own  clique  of  bigots  and  persecutor.s,  he 
was   decidedly    unj)opular    among    Protes- 


tants in  general.  In  a  few  days  after  the 
events  of  the  night  we  have  described,  Reilly, 
by  the  ad\dce  of  Mr.  Brown's  brother,  an 
able  and  distinguished  la^\'yer,  gave  ujo  the 
jjossession  of  his  immense  fai'm,  dwelling- 
house,  and  offices  to  the  landlord.  In  jioint 
of  fact,  this  man  had  taken  the  fann  for 
ReiUy's  father,  in  his  own  name,  a  stejj 
which  many  of  the  Uberal  .and  generous 
Protestants  of  that  iseriod  were  in  the  habit 
of  taking,  to  protect  the  property  for  the 
Roman  Catholics,  from  such  rapacious  scoun- 
drels as  AVhitecraft,  and  others  like  him,  who 
had  accumulated  the  gi-eater  portion  of  their 
wealth  and  estates  by  the  blackest  and  most 
iniquitous  p)oUtical  in-ofligacy  and  ojjiiression. 
For  about  a  mouth  after  the  first  night  of 
the  vmsuccessfiil  pursuit  after  Reilly,  the 
whole  country  was  oveiTun  with  military 
parties,  and  such  miserable  inefficient  poUce 
as  then  existed.  In  the  meantime.  Reilly 
escajjed  eveiy  toil  and  snare  that  had  been 
laid  for  him.  Sir  Robert  "\Miitecraft,  seeing 
that  hitherto  he  had  set  tliem  at  defiance,  re- 
solved to  glut  his  vengeance  on  his  property, 
since  he  could  not  arrest  himself.  A  de- 
scription of  his  j^erson  had  been,  almost 
from  the  commencement  of  the  proceedings, 
jjubhshed  in  the  Hue-and-Crt/,  and  he  had 
been  now  outlawed.  As  even  this  failed,  Sii 
Robert,  as  we  said,  came  with  a  numerous 
party  of  his  mjTmidons,  bringing  along  wtb 
them  a  large  number  of  horses,  carts,  and 
cars.  The  house  at  this  time  was  in  the  jjos- 
session  onlj'  of  a  keej^er,  a  poor,  feeble  man, 
with  a  vnSe  and  a  numerous  family  of  small 
children,  the  other  servants  ha'ving  fled  from 
the  danger  in  which  their  connection  with 
Reilly  involved  them.  Sir  Robert,  however, 
very  dehberately  brought  up  his  cai's  and 
other  vehicles,  and  having  di-agged  out  !iU 
the  most  valuable  jiart  of  the  fiu-uiture,  jailed 
it  xxp,  and  had  it  conveyed  to  his  own  out- 
houses, where  it  was  carefully  stowed.  This 
act,  however,  excited  comjjaratively  little  at- 
tention, for  such  outrages  were  not  unfre- 
quently  committed  bj'  those  who  had,  or  at 
least  who  thought  they  had,  the  law  in  their 
own  hands.  It  was  now  dusk,  and  the  house 
had  been  gvitted  of  all  that  had  been  most 
valuable  in  it^ — but  the  most  briUiant  part  of 
the  performance  was  yet  to  come.  We 
mean  no  contemptible  jjun.  The  young 
man's  dwelling-house,  and  office-houses 
were  ignited  at  this  moment  by  this  man  s 
military  and  other  offici;i.l  minions,  and  in 
about  twentj-  minutes  they  were  idl  ^\Tappcl  i 
in  one  red,  merciless  mass  of  flame.  Tlu 
covmtry  jjeople,  on  observing  this  fearful 
conflagration,  flocked  fi'om  aU  cjuarters  ;  bui 
a  cordon  of  outposts  was  stationed  at  some 
distance  .around  the  premises,  to  prevent  the 


WILLY  EEILLY 


55 


peasantry  from  marking  the  chief  actors  in 
this  nefarious  outrage.  Two  gentlemen, 
however,  aisi^roached,  who,  ha\'iug  given  their 
names,  were  at  quce  admitted  to  the  bm'ning 
premises.  These  were  JIi'.  Brown,  the  cler- 
gj^man,  and  Mi'.  Hastings,  the  actual  and 
legal  proprietor  of  all  that  had  been  consid- 
ered KeiUy's  jJi'opei'ty-  Both  of  them  ob- 
served that  Sir  Robert  w-as  the  busiest  man 
among  them,  and  upon  making  inquiries 
from  the  party,  they  were  informed  that  they 
acted  1)y  his  orders,  and  that,  moreover,  he  was 
himself  the  very  lirst  individual  who  had  set 
lire  to  the  j)remises.  The  clergyman  made  Iiis 
way  to  Sir  Robert,  on  whose  villainous  coun- 
tenance he  could  read  a  dark  and  diaboUcal 
triumph. 

"  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,"  said  Mr.  Brown, 
"  how  comes  such  a  wanton  and  unneces- 
sary waste  of  projierty  ?  " 

"Because,  sir,"  repKed  that  gentleman,  "it 
is  the  property  of  a  popish  re'jel  and  outlaw, 
and  is  confiscated  to  the  State." 

"  But  do  you  possess  authority  for  this 
conduct  ? — Are  you  the  State  '?  " 

"  In  the  sjiirit  of  our  Protestant  Constitu- 
tion, certainly.  I  am  a  loyal  Protestant  ma- 
gistrate, and  a  man  of  rank,  and  wU  hold 
myself  accountable  for  what  I  do  and  have 
done.  Come  you,  there,"  he  added,  "who 
have  knocked  down  the  pumj),  take  some 
straw,  light  it  vijj,  and  j)ut  it  with  pitchforks 
upon  the  lower  end  of  the  stable  ;  it  has  not 
yet  caught  the  flames." 

This  order  was  accordingly  complied  with, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  scene,  if  one  could 
dissociate  the  mind  from  the  hellish  spirit 
which  created  it,  had  something  terribly  sub- 
lime in  it. 

J\lr.  Hastings,  the  gentleman  who  accom- 
panied the  clergyman,  the  real  o^vner  of  the 
property,  looked  on  with  ajjjjarent  indiffer- 
ence, but  uttered  not  a  word.  Lideed,  he 
seemed  rather  to  enjoy  the  novelty  of  the 
thing  than  otherwise,  and  passed  with  Mi\ 
Brown  from  place  to  jjlace,  as  if  to  obtain 
the  best  points  for  vie\ring  the  fire. 

Reilly's  residence  was  a  Vjug,  large,  two- 
story  house,  deeply  thatclied  ;  the  kitchen, 
containing  pantry,  laundry.  seuIleiT,  and  all 
the  usual  appurtenances  connected  with  it, 
was  a  continuifion  of  the  larger  house,  but 
it  was  a  story  k)wer,  and  also  deeply  thatched. 
The  out-ofdces  ran  in  a  long  line  behind  the 
dwelling  house,  so  that  both  ran  parallel  with 
each  other,  and  stood  jJi'etty  close  besides, 
for  the  yard  was  a  narrow  one.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  night,  though  dry,  was  dark  and 
stormy.  The  wind  howled  through  the  ad- 
joining trees  like  thunder,  roared  along  the 
neighboring  hills,  and  swept  down  in  savage 
whu'lwinds  to  the  bottom  of  the  lowest  val- 


leys. The  greater  portion  of  the  crowd  who 
were  standuig  outside  the  cordon  we  have 
spoken  of  fled  home,  as  the  awful  gusts  gi-ew 
stronger  and  stronger,  in  order  to  jirevent 
thefr  own  houses  from  being  stripped  or  un- 
roofed, so  that  very  few  remained  to  \vitness 
the  rage  of  the  conflagration  at  its  full  height. 
The  Irish  jieasantry  entertiiin  a  superstition 
that  whenever  a  strong  storm  of  wind,  with- 
out rain,  arises,  it  has  been  occasioned  by  the 
necromantic  sj)ell  of  some  guilty  sorcerer, 
who,  first  having  sold  himself  to  the  devil, 
afterwards  raises  him  for  some  wicked  pur- 
j)ose  ;  and  nothing  but  the  sacrifice  of  a  black 
dog  or  a  black  cock — the  one  without  a  white 
hair,  and  the  other  without  a  white  feather — 
can  jirevent  him  from  eari'nng  away,  body 
and  soul,  the  individual  who  called  him  up, 
accompanied  by  such  terrors.  In  fact  the 
night,  independently  of  the  terrible  accessory 
of  the  fire,  was  indescribably  a-n-ful.  Thatch 
jiortions  of  the  ribs  and  roofs  of  houses  were 
whirled  along  through  the  air ;  and  the 
sweeping  blast,  in  addition  to  its  own  bowl- 
ings, was  burdened  with  the  loud  screamings 
of  women  and  children,  and  the  stronger 
shoutings  of  men,  as  they  attempted  to  make 
each  other  audible,  amidst  the  roaring  of  the 
tem23est. 

This  was  terrible  indeed  ;  but  on  such  a 
night,  what  must  not  the  conflagration  have 
Ijeen,  feci  liy  such  pulniliim — as  Sir  Robert 
himself  would  have  said — as  that  on  which 
it  glutted  its  fiery  and  consuming  appetite. 
We  have  said  that  the  offices  and  dwelling- 
house  ran  parallel  with  each  other,  and  such 
was  the  fact.  What  appeared  singular,  and 
not  without  the  jJossibility  of  some  dark  su- 
pernatural causes,  according  to  the  imj)res- 
sions  of  the  people,  was,  that  the  wind,  on  the 
night  in  question,  started,  as  it  were,  along 
v\dth  the  tire  ;  but  the  truth  is,  it  had  been 
gamlioling  in  its  gigantic  play  before  the 
fire  commenced  at  aU.  In  the  meantime,  as 
we  said,  the  whole  j^remises  presented  one 
fiery  mass  of  red  and  waving  flames,  that 
shot  and  drifte<l  ii]),  from  time  to  time,  to- 
wards the  sky,  with  the  rapidity,  and  more 
than  the  terror,  of  the  aurora  borealix.  As 
the  conflagration  proceeded,  the  high  flames 
that  arose  from  the  mansion,  and  those  that 
leaped  uji  from  the  offices,  several  times  met 
across  the  yard,  and  mingled,  as  if  to  exult 
in  thefr  fearful  task  of  destruction,  forming 
a  long  and  distinct  arch  of  flame,  so  exact 
and  regular,  that  it  seemed  to  jirocecd  from 
the  skill  and  eflbrt  of  some  powerful  demon, 
who  had  made  it,  as  it  wei-e,  a  fiery  arbor 
for  his  kind.  The  whole  country  was  vis- 
ible to  an  astonishing  distance,  and  over- 
head, the  evening  sky,  into  which  the  xqt- 
rushing  pyramids  seemed  to  pass,  looked  as 


so 


WILL/AM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


if  it  had  ci'Jiglit  tlie  conflagration,  and  was 
one  red  mass  of  glowing  and  burning  cop- 
per. Ai'ound  the  house  and  jsremises  the 
eye  could  distinguish  a  pin  ;  but  the  strong 
light  was  so  fearfully  red  that  the  deep  tinge 
it  communicated  to  the  earth  seemed  hke 
blood,  and  made  it  appear  as  if  it  had  been 
sprinkled  w;»th  it. 

It  is  impossible  to  look  iijJon  a  large. and 
extensive  conflagi-atiou  mthout  feeling  the 
mind  filled  Tvith  imageiy  and  comparisons, 
di'awu  from  moral  and  actual  hfe.  Here, 
for  instance,.  '\s  a  t^Tant,  in  the  rmrestrained 
exercise  of  I'is  jsower — he  now  has  his  en- 
emy in  his  g7  ip,  and  hear  how  he  exults  ;  Us- 
ten  to  the  n'  irthful  and  crackling  laughter 
with  wliich  the  fiendish  despot  rejoices,  as 
he  gains  th  t.  \'ictory  ;  mark  the  diaboUcal 
gambols  wit/i  which  he  sports,  and  the  de- 
mon glee  with  which  he  performs  his  capri- 
cious but  frightful  exultations.  But  the  ty- 
rant, after  all,  will  become  exhausted — his 
strength  and  j)ower  will  fail  him  ;  he  will 
destroy  his  o^vn  subjects  ;  he  wUl  become 
feeble,  and  when  he  has  nothing  fiu'ther  on 
which  to  exercise  his  jiower,  he  wiU,  hke 
many  another  t\Tant  before  him,  sink,  and 
be  lost  ii3  the  ruin  he  has  made. 

Again  :  Would  you  behold  Industry  '? 
Here  have  its  terrible  spirits  been  apijointed 
their  tasks.  ObseiTe  the  energy,  the  activ- 
ity, the  persevering  fury  with  which  they 
discharge  their  separate  duties.  See  how 
that  eldest  son  of  ApoUyon,  with  the  apjie- 
tite  of  hell,  licks  into  his  burning  maw  ever}- 
thing  that  comes  in  coutnct  with  his  tongnie 
of  fire.  What  quickness  of  execution,  and 
how  rapidly  they  pass  from  place  to  jjlace  ! 
how  they  ran  about  in  quest  of  emiiloj-ment ! 
how  diligently  and  eiiectually  they  search 
every  nook  and  corner,  lest  anything  might 
escape  them  !  Mark  the  activity  with  wliich 
that  strong  fellow  leaf)s  across,  from  beam 
to  beam,  seizing  upon  each  as  he  goes.  A  dif- 
ferent task  has  been  assigned  to  another  :  he 
attacks  the  rafters  of  the  roof — he  fails 
at  first,  but,  like  the  constrictor,  he  first 
licks  over  his  victim  before  he  destroys  it — 
bravo  ! — he  is  at  it  again — it  gives  way — 
he  is  upon  it,  and  about  it ;  and  now  his 
difficulties  are  over — the  red  wood  glows, 
splits  and  crackles,  and  ihes  ofl"  in  angi-y 
flakes,  in  order  to  become  a  minister  to  its 
active  and  devouring  master.  See  !  ob- 
serve !  What  business  —  what  a  coil  and 
turmoil  of  industry !  Every  flame  at  work 
— no  idle  hand  here — no  lazy  lounger  re- 
posing. No,  no — the  industiy  of  a  hive 
of  bees  is  nothing  to  this.  Running  ujj 
— running  down — running  in  all  directions  : 
now  they  unite  together  to  accomphsh 
some  general  task,  and  again  disperse  them- 


selves to  perform  their  individual  appoint- 
ments. 

But  hark  !  what  comes  here  V  1  jiom  foi 
another  element.  'Tis  the  ;t\-iud-st(>rm,  that 
conies  to  partake  in  the  triumph  of  the 
victory  wliich  his  ministers  have  assisted  to 
gain.  But  lo  !  here  he  comes  in  iierson ; 
and  now  they  unite — or  how  ? — Do  they  op- 
pose each  other  ?  Here  does  the  Avind-storni 
drive  back  the  god  of  tire  from  his  -sictim  ; 
again  tlie  fiery  god  attemjits  to  reach  it ; 
and  again  he  feels  that  he  has  met  more 
than  his  match.  Once,  twice,  tluice  he  has 
failed  in  getting  at  it.  But  is  tliis  conftict 
real — this  fierce  battle  between  the  ele- 
ments '?  Alas,  no  ;  they  are  both  tyrants, 
and  what  is  to  be  expected '? 

The  wind  god,  alwaj-s  imsteady,  wheels 
round,  comes  to  the  assistance  of  his  op- 
ponent, and  gives  him  new  courage,  new 
vigor,  and  new  strength.  But  his  inferior 
ministers  must  have  a  share  of  this  dreadful 
rejjast.  Off  go  a  thousand  masses  of  burn- 
ing material,  whirling  along.  Off  go  the 
glowing  timbers  and  rafters,  on  the  v.ind. 
by  which  they  are  bonie  in  thousands  of 
red  meteors  across  the  skj'.  But  hark, 
again  !  Room  for  the  whirlwind  !  Here  it 
comes,  and  addresses  itself  to  yon  tiiii  and 
waging  pjTamid  ;  they  embrace  ;  the  in-ra^- 
mid  is  twisted  into  the  figure  of  a  gigantic 
corkscrew — round  they  go,  rapid  as  thought ; 
the  thunder  of  the  wind  supjjUes  them  with 
the  approjiriate  music,  and  continues  until 
this  terrible  and  gigantic  waltz  of  the  ele- 
ments is  concluded.  But  now  these  fearful 
ravagers  are  satisfied,  because  they  have 
nothing  more  on  which  they  can  glut  them- 
selves. They  appear,  however,  to  be  seated. 
The  wind  has  become  low,  and  is  only  able 
to  work  up  a  feeble  effort  at  its  former 
strength.  The  flames,  too,  are  subsiding — 
their  j^ower  is  gone  ;  occasional  jets  of  tire 
come  forth,  but  they  instantly  disajipear. 
By  degrees,  and  one  after  another,  they 
vanish.  Nothing  now  is  %T.sible  but  smoke, 
and  every  thuig  is  considered  as  over — when 
lo  !  like  a  great  general,  who  has  achieved  a 
triumphant  victoiy,  it  is  deemed  ii;;ht  to 
talce  a  last  look  at  the  position  of  the  enemy. 
Up,  therefore,  stai'ts  an  unexj)ected  burst  of 
flame — blazes  for  a  while  ;  looks  about  it,  as 
it  were  ;  sees  that  the  victoiy  is  comjilete, 
and  di-ojis  down  into  the  darkness  from 
which  it  came.  The  couflagration  is  over ; 
the  wind-storm  is  also  appeased.  Small 
lioUow  gusts,  amoiifijst  the  trees  and  else- 
where, are  now  all  that  are  heard.  By  de- 
grees, even  these  cease  ;  and  the  wind  is 
now  such  as  it  was  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  when  the  elements  were  compara^ 
tiveh"  quiet  and  stUl. 


WILLY  REILLY 


57 


IVIi-.  Bro-wn  and  Ms  friend,  Mr.  Hastings, 
fiftving  waited  until  they  saw  the  last  rafter 
of  unfortunate  Reilly's  house  and  j)reniisea 
sink  into  a  black  mass  of  smoking  ruiiis, 
turned  their  steps  to  the  parsonage,  which 
they  had  no  sooner  entered  than  they  went 
immediately  to  Reilly's  room,  w-ho  was  still 
there  under  concealment.  jNIr.  Bro'mi,  how- 
ever, went  o\it  again  and  returned  with 
some  wine,  which  he  placed  upon  the  table. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  KeiUy,  "this  has  be- 
come an  a'w'ful  night  ;  the  wind  has  been 
tremendous,  and  has  done  a  good  deal  of 
damage,  I  feai-,  to  youi-  house  and  j)reinises, 
111-.  Bro-mi.  I  heai-d  the  slates  falling  about 
in  gi'ent  numbers  ;  and  the  inmates  of  the 
house  were,  as  far  ae  I  could  judge,  exceed- 
ingly alarmed." 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  night  in  more  senses 
than  one,"  replied  Mi".  Bro^-u. 

"By  the  by,"  said  Eeilly,  "was  there  not 
a  fire  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  ?  I 
oljser\'ed  through  the  ^^•iudows  a  strong  hght 
flickering  and  ^dbrating,  as  it  were,  over 
the  whole  country.  'What  must  it  have 
been? " 

"  My  dear  ReUly,"  rephed  Mr.  Brown, 
"be  calm  ;  your  house  and  piremises  are,  at 
this  moment,  one  dai'k  heap  of  smouldei-ing 
ruins." 

"  Oh,  yes — I  understand,"  repUed  ReUly 
. — "  Sir  Robert  Whiteeraft." 

"  Sir  Robert  AMiitecraft,"  rej)lied  Mi\ 
Brown  ;  it  is  too  tme,  Reilly — you  are  now 
houseless  and  homeless  ;  and  may  God  for- 
give him  !  " 

ReiUy  got  up  and  paced  the  room  several 
times,  then  sat  down,  and  filling  himself  a 
glas.5  of  wiue,  drank  it  off;  then  looking  at 
each  of  them,  said,  in  a  voice  rendered 
hoarse  by  the  indignation  and  resentment 
which  he  felt  himself  compeUed,  out  of  re- 
spect for  his  kind  fi-iends,  to  restrain,  "  Gen- 
tlemen," he  repeated,  "  what  do  yoa  call 
this?" 

' '  MaUce  —  256i"SS<^ution  —  vengeance, "  re- 
pUed Ml-.  Bro^\ii,  whose  resentment  was 
scarcel}'  less  than  that  of  Reilly  himself. 
"In  the  presence  of  God,  and  before  all  the 
world.  I  would  i^rouounce  it  one  of  the  most 
diabolical  acts  ever  committed  in  the  his- 
tory of  ei\il  society.  But  you  have  one  con- 
solation, Reilly  ;  your  money  and  papers  ai-e 
safe." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  repUed  Eeilly  ;  "I  think 
not  of  them.  It  is  the  vindictive  and  j:)er- 
secuting  spirit  of  that  man — that  monster — 
and  the  personal  motives  fi-om  wliich  he 
acts,  that  tortiu-e  me,  and  that  jjlant  in  my 
heart  a  principle  of  vengeance  more  fearful 
than  his.  But  you  do  not  understand  me, 
gentlemen ;  I  could  smile  at  all  he  has  done 


to  myself  yet.  It  is  of  the  sei-pent-tooth 
which  ■naU  destroy  the  i^eace  of  others,  that 
I  think.  All  these  motives  being  considered, 
what  do  vou  think  that  man  deserves  at  my 
hand  ? "  ' 

"  My  dear  Reilly,"  said  the  clergyman, 
"  recollect  that  there  is  a  Providence  ;  and 
that  we  cannot  assume  to  ourselves  the  dis- 
l^osition  of  His  judgments,  or  the  knowledge 
of  His  wisdom.  Have  jjatience.  Your  situ- 
ation is  one  of  great  distress  and  almost  im- 
exampled  difficulty.  At  aU  events,  you  ai-e, 
for  the  present,  safe  under  this  roof ;  and 
although  I  grant  you  have  much  to  suffer, 
stm  you  have  a  free  conscience,  and,  I  dare 
say,  would  not  exchange  your  j)osition  for 
that  of  your  persecutor." 

"No,"  said  Reilly  ;  "most  assiu-edly  not — 
most  assuredly  not  ;  no,  not  for  worlds.  Yet 
is  it  not  strange,  gentlemen,  that  that  man 
TNoU  sleep  sound  and  hapj^Uy  to-night,  whilst 
I  will  lie  ui)on  a  bed  of  thorns  ?  "  • 

At  this  moment  !Mi's.  Bro'svn  tapj^ed  gently 
at  the  door,  which  was  cautiously  opened  bj' 
her  husband. 

"John,"  said  she,  "here  is  a  note  which 
I  was  desired  to  give  to  you  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay." 

"  Thank  vou,  my  love  ;  I  will  read  it  in- 
stantly." 

He  then  bolted  the  door,  and  coming  to 
the  table  took  up  one  of  the  candles  and 
read  the  letter,  which  he  handed  to  Mi\ 
Hastings.  Now  we  have  ah-eady  stated  that 
this  gentleman,  whilst  looking  on  at  the  de- 
struction of  Reilly's  proiJerty,  never  once 
opened  his  lips.  Neither  did  he,  fi'om  the 
moment  they  entered  Eeilly  s  room.  He  sat 
like  a  dumb  man,  occasionally  helping  him- 
self to  a  glass  of  wine.  After  having  pe- 
rused the  note  he  merely  nodded,  but  said 
not  a  word  ;  he  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
faculty  of  speech.  At  length  Mi\  Bro-mi 
spoke  : 

"  This  is  really  too  bad,  my  dear  Eeilly  ; 
here  is  a  note  signed  '  H.  F.,'  wluch  informs 
me  that  your  residence,  concealment,  or 
whatever  it  is,  has  been  discovered  by  Sir 
Eobert  'Wliiteeraft,  and  that  the  militaiy  ai-e 
on  their  way  here  to  aiTest  you  ;  you  must 
instantly  fly." 

Hastings  then  got  up,  and  taking  ReUly's 
hand,  said : 

"  Yes,  Reilly,  you  must  escajie — disguise 
yourself — take  aU  shapes — since  you  will 
not  leave  the  country  ;  but  there  is  one  fact 
I  wish  to  impress  ujion  you  :  meddle  not 
with — injure  not — Sii-  Robert  "Wliiteeraft. 
Leave  mm  to  me." 

"  Go  out  by  the  back  waj',"  said  Mr. 
Brown,  "  and  fly  into  the  fields,  lest  they 
should  suiTouud  the  house  and  render  es- 


58 


WILLIAM.    CARLETOI^'h^    WORKS. 


cajje  impossible.  God  bless  you  and  pre- 
seiTe  you  from  the  violence  of  your  ene- 
mies !  " 

It  is  unnecessary  to  relate  what  subsequent- 
ly occurred.  !Mi'.  Brown's  premises,  as  he  had 
anticipated,  were  completely  suiTounded  ere 
the  jjarty  in  search  of  Keilly  had  demanded 
admittance.  The  whole  house  was  seai-ched 
from  toj)  to  bottom,  but,  as  usual,  without 
success.  Sfr  Robert  Whitecraft  himself 
was  not  with  them,  but  the  party  were  all 
but  intoxicated,  and,  were  it  not  for  the 
calm  and  unshi-inking  firmness  of  Mr.  Brown, 
would  have  been  guilty  of  a  very  offensive 
degree  of  msolence. 

Keilly,  m  the  meantime,  did  not  pass  far 
from  the  house.  On  the  eontraiy,  he  re- 
solved to  watch  from  a  safe  jDlace  the  mo- 
tions of  those  who  were  in  pursuit  of  him. 
In  order  to  do  this  more  sectu-ely,  he 
mounted  into  the  branches  of  a  magnificent 
o*k  tiee  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  field 
adjoining  a  kind  of  back  lawn  that  stretched 
fr'om  the  walled  gaixleu  of  the  jjarsonage. 
The  fact  is,  that  the  clergj'man's  house 
had  two  hidl-doors — one  in  fr-ont,  and  the 
other  in  the  reiir — and  as  the  rooms  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  scenery  behind  the 
house,  which  was  much  finer  than  that  in 
fi'ont,  on  this  account  the  back  hall-door  was 
necessary,  as  it  gave  them  a  fr'ee  and  easy 
egress  to  the  lawn  we  have  mentioned,  fr-om 
which  a  magnificent  jjrospect  was  visible. 

It  was  ob\'ious  that  the  i^arty,  though  im- 
suceessful,  had  been  very  accui'ately  in- 
formed. Fmding,  however,  that  the  bml 
had  flowTi,  several  of  them  galloped  across 
the  lawTi — it  was  a  cavahy  party,  having 
been  sent  out  for  sjoeed — and  jsassed  into 
the  field  where  the  tree  gi-ew  in  which 
Reilly  was  concealed.  After  a  useless  search, 
however,  they  retiu'ned,  and  pulled  ujd  their 
horses  under  the  oak. 

"  Well,"  said  one  of  them,  "  it's  a  clear 
case  that  the  scoundrel  can  make  himself  in- 
visible. We  have  orders  from  Sir  Robert  to 
shoot  him,  and  to  j^ut  the  matter  upon  the 
piincijale  of  resistance  against  the  law,  on 
his  side.  Sir  Robert  has  been  most  credi- 
bly informed  that  that  disloyal  iiarson  has 
concealed  him  in  his  house  for  neai'ly  the 
last  month.  Now  who  could  ever  think  of 
lookuig  for  a  Popish  rebel  in  the  house  of  a 
Protestant  parson  ?  What  the  deuce  is 
keeping  those  fellows  ?  I  hope  they  won't 
go  too  far  into  tJie  coimtiT." 

"  Any  man  that  says  Mr.  Bro\vn  is  a  dis- 
loyal parson  is  a  Uai-,"  said  one  of  them  in  a 
stern  voice. 

"And  I  say,"  said  another,  with  a  hiccough, 
"  that,  hang  me,  but  I  think  this  same 
Kt'illy  is  as  loval  a  man  as  e'er  a  one  amongst 


us.  My  name  is  George  Johnston,  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  it ;  and  the  truth  is,  that  onlj- 
Miss  FoUiai-d  feU  in  love  with  ReOlj-,  and 
refused  to  maiTy  Sir  Robert,  Redly  would 
have  been  a  loyal  man  still,  and  no  01-wiU. 

agamst  him.     But,  by .  it  was  too   bad 

to  bm-n  his  house  and  place — and  see  whether 
Su-  Robert  will  come  off  the  better  of  it.  1 
myself  am  a  good  Protestant — show  me  the 
man  that  will  deny  that,  and  I'U  become  his 
schoolmaster  onl}'  for  five  minutes.  I  do  say, 
and  I'U  tell  it  to  Sfr  Robert's  face,  that  there's 
somethmg  ■\\Tong  somewhere.  Give  me  a 
Pajsish  that  breaks  the  law,  let  him  be  priest 
or  layman,  and  I'm  the  boy  that  will  take  a 
gi'ip  of  him  if  I  CiUi  get  him.  But,  confound 
me,  if  I  hke  to  be  sent  out  to  hunt  innocent, 
inoffensive  Pajiishes,  who  commit  no  crime 
except  that  of  having  property  that  chaps 
hke  Sir  Robert  have  thefr  eye  on.  Now  sujo- 
pose  the  Pajiishes  had  the  upper  hand,  and 
that  they  treated  us  so,  what  would  you  say  ?  " 

"All  I  can  say  is,"  rejilied  another  of  them, 
"that  I'd  wish  to  get  the  reward." 

"Curse  the  reward,"  said  Johnston,  "I 
like  fair  play." 

"  But  how  did  Sir  Robert  come  to  know '? " 
asked  another,  "  that  Reilly  was  with  the 
parson  ?  ' 

"Who  the  deuce  here  can  tell  that?"  re- 
jjlied  several. 

"  The  thing  was  a  hoax,"  said  Johnston, 
"  and  a  cursed  uncomfortable  one  for  us. 
But  here  comes  these  fellows,  just  as  they 
went,  it  seems.  Well,  boys,  no  trail  of  this 
cvmning  fox  ?  " 

"  Ti-ail !  "  exclaimed  the  others.  "  Gad, 
you  might  as  weU  hvmt  for  your  gi'and- 
mother's  needle  in  a  bottle  of  straw.  The 
truth  is,  the  man's  not  in  the  coimtry,  and 
whoever  gave  the  information  as  to  the  pai-- 
son  keeping  him  was  some  enemy  of  tlie 
23arson's  more  than  of  Reilly 's,  I'U  go  baU. 
Come,  now,  let  us  go  back,  and  give  an 
account  of  oiu"  luck,  and  then  to  our  bar- 
racks." 

Now  at  this  j^eriod  it  was  usual  for  men 
who  were  prominent  for  rank  and  loyalty, 
and  whose  attachment  to  the  Constitution 
and  Government  was  indicated  by  such  acts 
and  jDrinciples  as  those  which  we  have 
hitherto  read  in  the  life  of  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft — we  say,  it  was  usujd  for  such  as  him 
to  be  aUowed  a  smidl  detachment  of  militaiy, 
whose  numbers  were  mostly  rated,  according 
to  the  seniees  he  reijuh-ed  of  them,  by  the 
zeal  and  activity  of  their  emi^loyer,  as  weU 
as  for  his  protection  ;  and,  in  order  to  their 
accommodation,  some  uninhabited  house  in 
the  neighborhood  was  converted  into  a  bai-- 
rack  for  the  inu-jjose.  Such  was  the  case  in 
the  instance  of  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  who. 


WILLY  EEILLY. 


independently  of  liis  zeal  for  the  jiublic  good, 
was  supposed  to  have  an  eye  in  this  dispo- 
sition of  tlmigs,  to  his  owti  personal  safety. 
He.  consequently,  had  his  Uttle  barrack  so 
closely  adj  ( lining  his  house  that  a  notice  of  five 
minutes  could  at  any  time  have  its  inmates 
at  his  jjremises,  or  in  his  presence. 

After  these  men  went  away,  Eeilly,  having 
waited  a  few  minutes,  until  he  was  satisfied 
that  they  had  actually,  one  and  aU  of  them, 
disa^jpeared,  came  down  from  the  tree,  and 
once .  more  betook  himself  to  the  road. 
^Miither  to  go  he  knew  not.  In  consecjuence 
of  ha%-iug  received  his  education  abroad,  his 
l^ersoual  knowledge  of  the  inhabitants  be- 
longing to  the  neighborhood  was  very  limited. 
Go  somewhere,  however,  he  must.  Accord- 
ingly, he  resolved  to  advance,  at  all  events, 
as  far  as  he  might  be  able  to  travel  before 
bed-time,  and  then  resign  himself  to  chance 
for  a  night's  shelter.  One  might  imagine, 
inileed.  that  his  position  as  a  wealthy  Roman 
CathoHc  gentleman,  suffering  persecution 
from  the  tool  and  scourge  of  a  hostile  gov- 
ernment, might  have  calculated  ujjon  shelter 
and  secrecy  fi'om  those  belonging  to  his  own 
creed.  And  so,  indeed,  in  nineteen  cases 
out  of  twenty  he  might ;  but  in  what  pre- 
dicament should  he  find  himself  if  the 
twentieth  proved  treacherous  ?  And  against 
this  he  had  no  guarimtee.  That  age  was 
Ijeculiarly  marked  by  the  foulest  personal 
perfidy,  iH-ecijiitated  into  action  by  rapacity, 
ingratitude,  and  the  blackest  ambition.  The 
son  of  a  Roman  Catholic  gentleman,  for 
instance,  had  notliing  more  to  do  than  change 
his  creed,  attach  himself  to  the  government, 
become  a  spy  and  informer  on  his  family, 
and  he  ousted  his  own  father  at  once  out  of 
his  hereditary  projierty — an  ungi'ateful  and 
heinous  proceeding,  that  was  too  common  in 
the  time  of  which  we  write.  Then,  as  to 
the  people  themselves,  they  were,  in  general, 
steejjed  in  poverty  and  ignorance,  and  this 
is  certainly  not  suqn-ising  when  we  consider 
that  no  man  durst  educate  them.  The  gov- 
ei-ument  rewards,  therefore,  assailed  them 
with  a  double  temptation.  In  the  first,  the 
amount  of  it — fcikiug  their  poverty  into  con- 
sideration— was  calculated  to  gi-apple  with 
and  overcome  theii-  sci-ujjles  ;  and  in  the 
next,  they  were  certain  by  then-  treaeheiy  to 
secui'e  the  protection  of  government  for 
themselves. 

Such,  exactly,  was  the  state  of  the  coimtry 
on  the  night  when  ReiUj'  found  himself  a 
soUtary  traveller  on  the  road,  ignoriint  of 
his  destiny,  and  uncertain  where  or  in  what 
]uarter  he  might  seek  shelter  until  morning. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  overtook 
another  traveller,  ^^ith  whom  he  entered  into 
conversation. 


"  God  save  you,  my  friend." 

"  God  save  you  kindly,  sir,"  replied  the 
other  ;  "  was  not  this  an  awful  night  ?  " 

"If  you  maj-  say  so,"  retiu-ned  ReiUy  un- 
consciously, and  for  the  moment  forgetting 
himself,  "  well  may  I,  my  fiiend." 

Indeed  it  is  probable  that  Reilly  was 
thrown  somewhat  off  Ms  gTiard  by  the  accent 
of  his  companion,  from  which  he  at  once  in- 
ferred that  he  was  a  CathoUc. 

"  ^Tiy,  su',"  rejshed  the  man,  "  how  could 
it  be  more  awful  to  you  than  to  any  othei- 
man?" 

"  Sujjpose  my  house  was  blown  down," 
said  Reilly,  "  and  that  yours  was  not,  would 
not  that  be  cause  sufficient  ?  " 

"J/*/  house !  "  exclaimed  the  man  with  a 
deep  sigh ;  "  but  sure  you  ought  to  know, 
sir,  that  it's  not  every  man  haa  a  house." 

"  And  perhaps  I  do  know  it." 

"  "Wasn't  that  a  teiiible  act,  su- — the  bm-n- 
ing  of  Mr.  ReiUy's  house  and  jDlace  ?  " 

"Who  is  JIi-.'ReiUy?"  asked  the  other. 

"  A  Cathohc  gintleman,  sii-,  that  the  sol- 
diers are  afther,"  repHed  the  man. 

"And  perhaps  it  is  light  that  thev  should 
be  after  him.  "\^^lat  did  he  do?  The 
Catholics  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  violat- 
ing the  law,  especially  their  priests,  who 
jsersist  in  marrving  Protestants  and  Papists 
together,  although  they  know  it  is  a  hanging 
matter.  If  they  dehberately  jiut  their  necks 
into  the  noose,  who  can  pity  them  ?  " 

"  It  seems  they  do,  then,"  rejshed  the  man 
in  a  subdued  voice  ;  "  and  what  is  stiU  more 
strange,  it  very  often  haj^pens  that  persons 
of  their  own  creed  are  somewhat  too  ready 
to  come  do^\-n  wid  a  hai'sh  word  ujjon  'em." 

""^"eU,  my  friend,"  responded  ReiUy,  "let 
them  not  deserve  it ;  let  them  obey  the 
law." 

"  And  are  you  of  opinion,  sir,"  asked  the 
man  with  a  significant  emphasis  u^oon  the  jier- 
sonal  pronoun  which  we  have  put  in  italics  ; 
"  ai-e  you  of  opinion,  sir,  that  obedience  to  the 
law  is  alimys  a  secmity  to  either  2Jeriion  or 
property  1 " 

The  direct  force  of  the  question  could  not 
be  easily  parried,  at  least  by  Reilly,  to  whose 
cii-eumstances  it  appHed  so  powerfully,  and 
he  consequently  23aused  for  a  httle  to  shape 
his  thoughts  into  the  language  he  wshed  to 
adopt ;  the  man,  however,  proceeded  : 

"  I  wonder  what  j\Ii'.  Reilly  would  say  if 
such  a  question  was  put  to  him  ?  " 

"I  suppose,"  repUed  Reilly,  "he  would 
say  much  as  I  say — that  neither  innocence 
nor  obedience  is  always  a  security  under  ani) 
law  or  any  constitution  either." 

His  companion  made  no  reply,  and  they 
walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence.  Such 
indeed  was  the  precarious  state  of  the  coimtry 


60 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiJZS. 


then  that,  although  the  stranger,  from  the 
opening  words  of  their  conversation,  sus- 
pected his  companion  to  be  no  other  than 
Willy  Reilly  himself,  yet  lie  hesitated  to 
avow  the  suspicious  he  entertained  of  his 
identity,  although  he  felt  anxious  to  rejDOse 
the  fullest  confidence  in  him  ;  and  ReiUy,  on 
the  other  hand,  though  ijerfeetly  aware  of  the 
true  character  of  his  companion,  was  influ- 
enced in  their  conversation  by  a  similar 
feeling.  Distrust  it  could  not  be  termed  on 
either  side,  but  simply  the  oi^eration  of  that 
generiil  caution  which  was  generated  hy  the 
state  of  the  times,  when  it  was  extremely 
difficult  to  know  the  individual  on  whom  you 
could  2)lace  dejjendence.  Reilly 's  generous 
nature,  however,  covild  bear  this  miserable 
manoeuvring  no  longer. 

"  Come,  my  fiiend,"  said  he,  "  we  have  been 
beating  about  the  bush  with  each  other  to 
no  jJui'pose  ;  although  I  know  not  your 
name,  yet  I  think  I  do  j-our  profession." 

"Vbid  I  would  hold  a  wager,"  rejiUed  the 
other,  "that  Mr.  Reilly,  whose  house  was 
bui'ned  down  In*  a  %dllain  this  night,  is  not 
a  thovisaud  miles  ti'om  me." 

"And  snpjiose  you  are  right?" 

"  Then,  upon  my  veracity,  you're  safe,  if  I 
am.  It  would  iU  become  my  cloth  and 
character  to  act  dishonorably  or  contrary  to 
the  spirit  of  my  religion. 

'  Non  iguara  mali  miseris  succunere  disco.' 

You  see,  Mr.  Reilly,  I  couldn't  make  use  of 
any  other  gender  but  the  feminine  without 
\'iolating  prosody ;  for  although  I'm  not  so 
shai-p  at  my  Latin  as  I  was,  still  I  couldn't 
use  ignar».<,  as  you  see,  without  fiiirly  com- 
mitting myself  as  a  scholar  ;  and  indeed,  if  I 
went  to  that,  it  would  siu'ely  be  the  fu'st 
time  I  have  been  mistaken  for  a  dunce." 

The  honest  j)riest,  now  that  the  ice  was 
broken,  and  conscious  that  he  was  in  safe 
hands,  fell  at  once  into  his  easj'  and  natural 
manner,  and  rattled  away  very  much  to  the 
amusement  of  his  companion.  "Ah!"  he 
proceeded,  "  many  a  character  I  have  been 
forced  to  assume." 

"How  is  that?"  inquii-ed  Reilly.  "How 
did  it  happen  that  you  were  forced  into  such 
a  variety  of  characters  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  you  see,  Mr.  ReiUy — troth  and 
maybe  I  had  better  not  be  naming  you  aloud  ; 
walls  have  ears,  and  so  may  hedges.  How, 
you  ask  ?  Why,  you  see,  I'm  not  registered, 
and  consequently  have  no  permission  from 
government  to  exercise  my  functions." 

"  Wliy,"  said  ReiUy,  "  you  labor  under  a 
mistake,  my  friend  ;  the  bUl  for  registering 
Catholic  priests  did  not  pass  ;  it  was  lost  by 
a  majority  of  two.  So  far  make  your  mind 
easy.     The  consequence  is,  that  if  you  labor 


under  no  ecclesiastical  censure  you  may 
exercise  all  the  functions  of  your  ofiice — that 
is,  as  weU  as  you  can,  and  as  far  as  you  dare." 

"Well,  that  same's  a  comfort,"  said  the 
j)riest ;  "  but  the  report  was,  and  is,  that  we 
are  to  be  registered.  However,  be  that  as  it 
may,  I  have  been  a  perfect  Proteus.  The 
metamor[)hoses  of  0\id  were  nothing  to 
mine.  I  have  represented  eveiy  character  in 
society  at  large  ;  to-dny  I've  been  a  farmer, 
and  to-morrow  a  jjoor  man,*  sometimes  a 
fool — a  rare  character,  you  know,  in-  this 
world — and  sometimes  a  fiddler,  for  I  play 
a  little." 

"  And  which  character  did  you  prefer 
among  them  all  ?  "  asked  ReiUy,  with  a  smUe 
which  he  could  not  repress. 

"  Oh,  in  troth,  you  needn't  ask  that,  Mr. 
R — hem — you  needn't  ask  that.  The  fii-st 
morning  I  took  to  the  fiddle  I  was  about  to 
give  mj'self  up  to  government  at  once.  As 
for  my  part,  I'd  be  ashamed  to  teU  you  how 
I  sent  those  that  were  unltickj"  enough  tc 
hear  my  music  scampeiing  across  the  coun- 
try." 

"  And,  pray,  how  long  is  that  since  ?  " 

"  Why,  something  better  than  three  weeks, 
the  Lord  pity  me  !  " 

"  And  what  description  of  dress  did  you 
wear  on  that  occasion  ?  "  asked  Reilly. 

"  Dress — why,  then,  an  old  j-eUow  caubeen, 
a  blue  fi-ieze  coat,  and — movi-one,  oh !  a 
strij)ed  breeches.  And  the  woi-st  of  it  was, 
that  big  Paddy  MuUin,  fi'om  MuU.aghmore, 
having  met  me  in  old  Darby  Doyle's,  poor 
man,  where  I  went  to  take  a  little  refi-esh- 
ment,  ordered  in  something  to  eat,  and  began 
to  make  me  play  for  him.  There  was  a 
Protestant  in  the  house,  too,  so  that  I  couldn't 
teU  him  who  I  was,  and  I  accordingly  began, 
and  soon  cleared  the  house  of  them,  (lod 
bless  you,  sir,  you  could  Uttle  dream  of  all  1 
went  through.  I  was  one  day  set  in  the 
house  I  was  concealed  in,  in  the  town  of 
BaUvrogan,  and  only  for  the  town  fool,  Art 
M'Kenna,  I  suppose  I'd  have  swung  before 
this." 

"How  was  that?"  asked  ReiUj'. 

"  AATiy,  sir,  one  day  I  got  the  hard  word 
that  they  would  be  into  the  house  where  I 
was  in  a  few  minutes  To  escape  them  in  my 
own  dress  I  knew  was  impossible  ;  and  what 
was  to  be  done  ?  The  pioor  fool,  who  was  as 
true  as  steel,  came  to  my  rehef.  '  Here,' 
said  he, '  exchange  wid  me.  I'U  put  on  your 
black  clothes,  and  you'U  put  on  my  red  ones' 
— he  was  dressed  like  an  old  soldier — '  then 
I'U  take  to  my  scrajDers,  and  whUe  they  ai-o  in 
pursuit  of  me  you  cixn  escape  to  some  frieud'.s 
house,  where  you   may  get   another   dress 


'  A  mendicant. 


WILLY  li LILLY 


God  knows,'  said  he,  ■with  a  grin  on  him  I 
didn't  hke,  '  it's  a  poor  exchange  on  my  j)ai-t. 
You  can  filay  the  fool,  and  cock  your  caj), 
without  any  one  to  ask  you  for  authority,' 
says  he,  '  and  if  I  only  marry  a  wrong  eouj)le 
I  may  be  hanged.  Go  off  now.'  Well,  sir, 
out  I  walked,  clressed  in  a  red  coat,  militaiy 
hat,  white  knee-breeches,  and  ])lack  leggings. 
As  I  was  going  out  I  met  the  soldiers.  '  Is 
the  priest  inside,  Ai-t  ?  '  they  asked.  I  pointed 
in  a  T\-iong  du-ection.  '  Up  by  Kilchtj' ?  '  I 
nodded.  They  first  searched  the  house,  how- 
ever, but  found  neither  priest  nor  fool ;  only 
one  of  them,  something  shai-per  than  the 
rest,  went  out  of  the  back  door,  and  saw  un- 
fortunate Ai't,  di'essed  in  black,  running  for 
the  bai'e  life.  Of  course  they  thought  it  was 
me  they  had.  Off  they  started  ;  and  a  tol- 
erable chase  Ai-t  put  them  to.  At  last  he 
was  caught,  after  a  run  across  the  country  of 
about  foiu-  mUes  ;  but  ne'er  a  word  came  out 
of  his  hjis,  till  a  keen  feUow,  on  looking 
closely  at  him,  discovered  the  mistake.  Some 
of  them  were  then  going  to  kill  the  j^oor  fool, 
but  others  interfered,  and  wouldn't  allow 
him  to  be  touched ;  and  many  of  them 
laughed  heartily  when  they  saw  Ai-t  turned ' 
into  a  clergyman,  as  thej'  said.  Ai't,  how- 
ever, was  no  coward,  and  tlii'eatened  to  read 
every  man  of  them  out  fiom  the  altar.  '  I'U 
exkimnicate  every  mother "s  son  of  you,'  said 
he.  'I'm  a  reverend  clargy  ;  and,  by  the 
contents  of  my  soger's  cap,  I'll  close  the 
mouths  on  youi-  faces,  so  that  a  blessed 
pratie  or  a  boult  of  fat  bacon  wiU  never  go 
down  one  of  your  vOlainous  thi'oats  again  ; 
and  then,'  he  added,  'I'll  sell  you  for  scare- 
crows to  the  Pope  o'  Room,  who  wants  a 
dozen  or  two  of  you  to  sweep  out  his  palace.' 
It  was  then,  sir,  that,  while  I  was  getting  out 
of  my  red  clothes,  I  was  transformed  again  ; 
but,  indeed,  the  most  of  us  are  so  now,  God 
help  us ! " 

They  had  now  arrived  at  a  naiTow  part  of 
the  road,  when  the  priest  stood. 

"Mr.  Keilly,"  said  he,  "lamveiy  tired; 
but,  as  it  is,  we  must  go  on  a  couple  of  miles 
fiu'ther,  until  we  reach  Glen  Dhu,  where  I 
tliink  I  can  promise  you  a  night's  lodging, 
such  as  it  will  be." 

"lameasdj'  satisfied,"  replied  his  com- 
panion ;  "  it  would  be  a  soft  bed  that  would 
win  me  to  repose  on  this  night,  at  least." 

"It  will  certainly  be  a  rade  and  a  rough 
one,"  said  the  priest,  "and  there  wU  be  few 
hearts  there  fi'ee  fi'om  care,  no  more  than 
yours,  Ml".  ReUly.  Alas !  that  I  should  be 
obhged  to  say  so  in  a  Christian  countiT." 

"  You  say  you  are  fatigued,"  said  Eeilly. 
"Take  my  arm;  I  am  strong  enough  to 
j-ield  you  some  sujjport." 

The  priest  did  so,  and  they  proceeded  at  a 


slower  pace,  until  they  got  over  the  next  twr 
miles,  when  the  j)riest  stopped  again. 

"  I  must  rest  a  httle,"  said  he,  "  although 
we  are  now  within  a  hundred  yards  of  our 
berth  for  the  night.  Do  you  know  where 
you  are  ?  " 

" Perfectly,"  rephed  Reilly  ;  "but,  good 
mercy  !  sure  there  is  neither  house  nor 
home  witliin  two  miles  of  us.  AVe  ai'e  in 
the  moors,  at  the  very  mouth  of  Glen  Dhu." 

"Yes,"repUed  his  comjmnion,  and  I  am 
glad  we  are  here." 

The  poor  hunted  priest  felt  himself,  in- 
deed, very  much  exhausted,  so  much  so 
that,  if  the  termination  of  his  journey  had 
been  at  a  much  longer  distance  fi'om  thence, 
he  would  scai'cely  have  been  able  to  reach  it. 

"  God  heljj  our  unhappy  Chiu'ch,"  said  he, 
"for  she  is  suffering  much  ;  but  still  she  is 
suffering  nobly,  and  with  such  Chi'istian 
fortitude  as  vnJl  make  her  days  of  trial  and 
endnrance  the  brightest  in  her  annals.  All 
that  power  and  persecution  can  direct  against 
us  is  put  in  force  a  thousand  ways  ;  but  we 
act  under  the  consciousness  that  we  have 
God  and  truth  on  our  side,  and  this  gives  us 
strengih  and  coui-age  to  suffer.  And  if  we 
fly,  jVIi-.  Eeilly,  and  hide  ourselves,  it  is  not 
fi'om  any  moral  cowardica  we  do  so.  It  cer- 
tainl}-  is  not  tiaie  courage  to  esj)ose  our  hves 
wantonly  and  unnecessarily  to  the  vengeance 
of  our  enemies.  Eead  the  Old  Testament 
and  history,  and  you  will  find  how  many 
good  and  pious  men  have  sought  shelter  in 
wildernesses  and  caves,  as  we  have  done. 
The  truth  is,  we  feel  ourselves  called  upon, 
for  the  sake  of  oui-  suffering  and  neglected 
flocks,  to  remain  in  the  coimtry,  and  to  af- 
ford them  all  the  consolation  and  religious 
support  in  our  power,  God  help  them." 

"I  admu'e  the  justice  of  your  sentiments," 
repHed  Eeilly,  "and  the  spirit  in  which  they 
are  expressed.  Indeed  I  am  of  oi^inion 
that  if  those  wno  foster  and  stimulate  this 
detestable  spirit  of  persecution  agaiust  you 
only  knew  how  certainly  and  surely  it  de- 
feats theii-  purj)ose,  hj  cementing  youi- 
hearts  and  the  heai-ts  of  your  flocks  together, 
they  would  not,  fi'om  principles  even  of  world- 
ly policy,  persist  in  it.  The  man  who  attempt- 
ed to  break  dovvii  the  arch  by  heaping  ad- 
ditional weight  ujjon  it  ultimately  found 
that  the  greater  the  weight  the  stronger  the 
arch,  and  so  I  trust  it  will  be  with  us." 

"It  would  seem,"  said  the  priest,  "  to  be 
an  attempt  to  exterminate  the  religion  of  the 
people  by  depriving  them  of  their  jsastors, 
and  consequently  of  theu-  Chiu'ch,  in  order 
to  bring  them  to  the  imjjression  that,  upon 
the  j)rinciple  of  any  Church  being-  better 
than  no  Church,  they  may  gradually  be  ab- 
sorbed into  Protestantism.      This  seems  to 


82 


WILLI  A  Jd  CARLETON'S  WOBA^^^. 


be  their  policy ;  but  how  can  any  fioUcy, 
based  ujJon  such  persecution,  and  so  gi'ossly 
at  variance  with  human  hberty,  ever  suc- 
ceed ?  As  it  is,  we  go  out  in  the  dead  hours 
of  the  night,  when  even  persecution  is  asleejJ, 
and  administer  the  consolations  of  rehgion 
to  the  sick,  the  dying,  and  the  destitute. 
Now  these  stolen  \'isits  are  sweeter,  perliaps, 
and  more  efficacious,  than  if  they  took  jil^ce 
in  fi'eedom  and  the  ojien  daj-.  Again,  we 
educate  their  children  in  the  i^rinciples  of 
their  creed,  diu'ing  the  same  lonely  hours,  in 
waste  houses,  where  we  are  oljliged  to  keep 
the  windows  stuffed  with  straw,  or  covered 
with  bhnds  of  some  sort,  lest  a  chance  of 
discovery  might  ensue.  Such  js  the  life  we 
lead — a  Ufe  of  want  and  misery  and  suffer- 
ing, but  we  complain  not ;  on  the  contrary, 
we  submit  ourselves  to  the  ■n'ill  of  God,  and 
receive  this  severe  visitation  as  a  chastise- 
ment intended  for  our  good." 

The  necessities  of  our  narrative,  however, 
compel  us  to  leave  them  here  for  the  present; 
but  not  -ndthout  a  hope  that  they  foimd 
shelter  for  the  night,  as  we  tnist  we  shall  be 
able  to  show. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

Seitty's  Adrenture  Continued — A   Prospect  of  By- 
gone.    'I'lineji — Reilly   gets  a  Bed   in  a   Cwioua 

Estahlishnuiit. 

We  now  beg  our  readers  to  accompany  us  to 
the  library  of  Sir  Eobert  Whitecraft,  where 
that  worthy  gentleman  sits,  ■with  a  bottle  of 
Madeira  before  him  ;  for  Sir  Robert,  in  ad- 
dition to  his  many  other  good  quahties,  pos- 
sessed that  of  being  a  j)rivate  drinker.  The 
bottle,  we  say,  was  before  liim,  and  with  a 
smile  of  triumj^h  and  satisfactiou  on  his  face, 
he  arose  and  rang  the  bell.  In  a  few  minutes 
a  hveried  servant  attended  it. 

"  Carson,  send  O'Donnel  here." 

Carson  bowed  and  retired,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  Red  Rapjiaree  entered. 

"  How  is  this,  O'Donnel  ?  Have  you  thrown 
aside  your  luiiform  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  I'd  be  called  out  on  duty 
again  to-night,  sir." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,  O'Donnel — it  doesn't 
matter.     What  do  you  think  of  the  bonfii-e '? " 

"Begad,  it  was  a  beauty,  sir,  and  well 
managed." 

"  Ay,  but  I  am  afi-aid,  O'Donnel,  I  went  a 
httle  too  fai- — that  I  stretched  my  authority 
somewhat." 

"  But  isn't  he  a  rebel  and  an  outlaw,  Su- 
Kobevt  ?   and  in  that  case — " 

"  Yes,  O'Donnel ;  and  a  rebel  and  an  out- 
law of  my  ovvTi  making,  which  is  the  best  of 


it.  The  fellow  might  have  lain  therfc  jjn- 
coctiag  his  treason,  long  enough,  only  fcr  my 
vigilance.  However,  it's  all  right.  The 
government,  to  which  I  have  rendered  such 
important  services,  will  stand  by  me,  and 
fetch  me  out  of  the  burning — that  is,  if  there 
has  been  any  transgi-ession  of  the  law  in  it. 
The  Papists  are  privately  recmitiug  for  the 
French  sei'sdce,  and  that  is  felony ;  EeiUy 
also  was  recruiting  for  the  French  seiTiee — 
was  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  offered  me  a  commission,  sir." 

"Veiygood;  that's  all  right,  but  can  you 
l^rove  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  can  s^vear  it,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Better  stUl.  But  do  you  think  he  is  in 
the  country,  O'Donnel?" 

"  I  woidd  rather  swear  he  is,  sir,  than  that 
he  is  not.     He  won't  lave  Iwr  aisUy." 

"  "\^^lo  do  you  mean  by  her,  sir?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not  name  her,  your  honor, 
in  connection  with  the  vagabond." 

"  That's  delicate  of  you,  O'Donnel ;  I  highly 
apj)rove  of  yoiu:  sentiment.  Here,  have  a 
glass  of  wine." 

"  Thank  you.  Sir  Robert  ;  but  have  you 
any  brandy,  sir  ?  My  tongue  is  as  dry  as  a 
stick,  md  that  glorious  bonfire  we  had  ;  but, 
besides,  sir,  I  ■«ish  to  di'ink  success  to  you 
in  all  youi-  undertakings.  A  happj'  marriage, 
sir  !  "  and  he  accompanied  the  words  with  a, 
ferocious  grin. 

"You  shall  have  one  glass  of  brandy, 
O'Donnel,  but  no  more.  I  wish  you  to  de- 
hver  a  letter  for  me  to-night.     It  is  to  the 

sheriff,  who  dines  with  Lord ,  a  friend 

of  mine  ;  and  I  wish  you  to  dehver  it  at  his 
lordship's  house,  where  you  -niU  be  sui-e  to 
find  him.  The  letter  is  of  the  gi'eatest  im- 
portance, and  you  ^-ill  take  care  to  deliver  it 
safely.  No  answer  by  you  is  recjuired.  He 
was  out  to-day,  levjdng  fines  fi-om  PojHsh 
Ijriests,  and  a  hea^'y  one  fi'om  the  Pojjish 
bishop,  and  I  do  not  think,  -with  a  large  sum 
of  money  about  him,  that  he  -^lll  go  home 
to-night.  Here  is  the  letter.  I  exj)ect  he 
win  call  on  me  in  the  morning,  to  breakfast 
— at  least  I  have  asked  him,  for  we  have 
very  serious  business  to  discuss." 

The  Rjiijparee  took  the  letter,  finished  his 
glass  of  brandy,  and  disappeared  to  fulfil  his 
commission. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  on  that  very  even- 
ing, before  the  j^remises  had  been  set  on  fire, 
Mary  Mahon,  by  O'Dounel's  order,  had  en- 
tered the  house,  and  under,  as  it  were,  the 
protection  of  the  miUtary,  gathered  up  as 
much  of  Reilly 's  clothes  and  Unen  as  she 
could  couveuiently  carry  to  her  cottage, 
which  was  in  the  immediate  \dcinity  of  "WTiite- 
craft's  residence — it  being  the  interest  of  this 
hj-poeritical  voluptuary  to  have  the  corinijit 


,     THE 
dN'IVERSlW  Of  ILLINOIS 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


wretch  neai-  him.  The  Rapparee,  ha^-ingleft 
Whitecraft  to  his  reflections,  immediately  di- 
rected his  8tcf)s  to  her  house,  and,  with  her 
connivance,  changed  the  dress  he  had  on  for 
one  which  she  had  taken  from  ReiUr's  ward- 
robe. He  then  went  to  the  house  of  the 
nobleman  where  the  shei-itt  was  dining,  but 
arrived  only  in  time  to  hear  that  he  was  about 
to  tiike  horse  on  his  retiu-u  home.  On  see- 
ing him  preparing  to  mount,  beai-iag  a  lan- 
tern in  his  hand,  as  the  night  was  dark  and 
the  roads  bad,  he  instantly  changed  his  pur- 
pose as  to  the  letter,  and  came  to  the  resolu- 
tion of  not  deUvering  it  at  all. 

"  I  can  easily  say,"  thought  he,  "  that  the 
sheriff  had  gone  home  before  I  came,  and 
that  will  be  a  very  sufficient  excuse.  In  the 
meantime,"  he  added,  "  I  wUl  cross  the  coun- 
tn-  and  be  out  on  the  road  before  him." 

The  sheriff  was  not  imanued,  however,  and 
felt  himself  tolerably  well  prepared  for  any 
attack  that  might  be  made  on  him  ;  and,  be- 
sides, he  was  no  eowai-d.  After  a  ride  of 
about  two  mUes  he  foimd  himself  stopped, 
and  almost  at  the  same  instant  the  lantern 
that  he  carried  was  knocked  out  of  his  hand 
and  extinguished,  but  not  vmtil  he  caught  a 
faint  ghmpse  of  the  robber's  person,  who, 
from  his  cfress,  appeared  to  be  a  man  much 
above  the  common  class.  Quick  as  hghtmng 
he  2)ulled  out  one  of  his  pistols,  and,  cocking 
it,  held  liimself  in  readiness.  The  night  was 
dark,  and  this  preparation  for  self-defence 
was  imkuo^vn  to  his  assailant.  On  feehng 
the  reins  of  his  horse's  bridle  in  the  hands  of 
the  robber,  he  snapped  the  jjistol  at  his 
lead,  biit  alas !  it  only  flashed  in  the  pan. 
The  robber,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  seem 
anxious  to  take  his  Ufe,  for  it  was  a  j)rincij)le 
among  the  Raj^iJai-ees  to  shed,  w'hile  exercis- 
ing their  rapacious  functions,  as  Uttle  blood 
as  possible.  They  have  frequently  taken  hfe 
from  a  feehng  of  private  vengeance,  but  not 
often  whUe  robbing  on  the  king's  highway. 
The  sheriff,  now  finding  that  one  pistol  had 
missed,  was  about  to  draw  out  the  second, 
when  he  was  knocked  insensible  off  his  horse, 
and  on  recovering  found  hunseh  minus  the 
fines  which  he  had  that  day  levied — all  the 
j)rivate  cash  about  him — and  his  case  of 
pistols.  This  indeed  was  a  bitter  incident  to 
him  ;  because,  in  addition  to  the  loss  of  his 
private  purse  and  firearms — which  he  valued 
as  nothing — he  knew  that  he  was  responsible 
to  government  for  the  amotmt  of  the  fines. 

With  considerable  difliculty  he  was  able  to 
remoimt  his  horse,  and  with  a  sense  of  stupoi-, 
which  was  very  painful,  he  recommenced  his 
journey  home.  After  a  ride  of  about  two 
miles  he  met  three  horsemen,  who  immedi- 
ately challenged  him  and  demanded  his  name 
and  residence. 


I 


"I  am  the  sheriff  of  the  coimty,"  he  re- 
phed,  "  and  have  been  robbed  of  a  large  sum 
of  money  and  my  23istols  ;  and  now,"  he  add- 
ed, "  may  I  beg  to  know  who  you  are,  and 
by  what  authority  you  demand  my  name  and 
residence  ?  " 

•' Excuse  us,  Mr.  Sheriff""  they  replied  ; 
"  we  belong  to  the  mihtrtry  detachment  which 
government  has  jJaced  imder  the  control  of 
Sir  Robert  ^^^litecraft." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  sheiiff;  "I 
wish  to  heaven  you  had  been  a  httle  more 
advanced  on  your  journey  ;  you  might  have 
saved  me  fr-om  being  plundered,  as  I  have 
been,  and  probably  secured  the  I'obber." 

"  Could  you  observe,  sir,  what  was  the  vil- 
lain's appearance  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  small  lantern,"  rephed  the  fimc- 
tionary,  "  by  w-hieh  I  caught  a  brief  but  vm- 
certain  glance  of  him.  I  am  not  quite  certain 
that  I  could  recognize  his  feativres,  though, 
if  I  saw  him  again — but  perhaps  I  might : 
certainly  I  could  his  dress." 

"  How  (t'o.s  he  di'essed,  sir  ?  "  they  inquirea. 

"  Quite  beyond  the  common,"  said  the 
sheriti" ;  "I  tliink  he  had  on  a browTi  coat,  oi 
superior  cloth  and  make,  and  I  think,  too, 
the  buckles  of  his  shoes  were  silver." 

"  And  his  featui'es,  Mi'.  Sherift"? " 

"I  cannot  exactly  say,"  he  returned;  "I 
was  too  much  agitated  to  be  able  to  recollect 
them  ;  but  indeed  the  dim  ghmpse  I  got 
was  too  brief  to  afford  me  an  opi^ortunity  of 
seeing  them  with  any  thiag  hke  distinct- 
ness." 

"From  the  description  you  have  given, 
sfr,"  said  one  of  them,  "  the  man  who  robbed 
you  must  have  been  ReUly  the  Outlaw.  That 
is  the  very  cfress  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
wealing.  Was  he  taU,  sfr,  and  stovit  in  jjer- 
son  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  very  large  man,  certainly,"  re- 
phed the  sheriff ;  "  and  I  regret  I  did  not 
see  his  face  more  distinctly." 

"  It  can  be  no  other.  Mi-.  Sheriff,"  obsei-ved 
the  man  ;  "  the  fellow  has  no  means  of  hving 
now,  unless  by  levjing  contributions  on  the 
road.  For  my  part,  I  think  the  scoimdi-el 
can  make  himself  invisible  ;  but  it  must  go 
hard  with  us  or  we  will  secui'e  him  yet. 
Would  you  wish  an  escort  home,  Mr. 
Sheriff  ?  because,  if  you  do,  we  shall  accom- 
pany you." 

"  No,"  rej)hed  the  other,  "  I  thank  you.  I 
would  not  have  ventured  home  unattended 
if  the  Red  Rapparee  had  stiU  been  at  his 
vocation,  and  his  gang  imdispersed  ;  but  as 
he  is  now  on  the  safe  side,  I  apprehend  no 
danger." 

"  It's  not  at  all  impossible  but  Reilly  may 
step  into  his  shoes, "  said  the  cavafrvinan. 

"  I  have  now  neither  money  nor  ai-ms,' 


84 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S   WORKS. 


continued  the  sheriff;  "nothing  the  villain 
robbers  could  covet,  and  what,  then,  have  \ 
to  fear?" 

'You  have  a  life,  sir,"  observed  the  man 
resj)ectfiiUY,  "  and  if  you'll  aUow  me  to  say 
it — the  life  of  a  man  who  is  not  verj-  well 
liked  in  the  covuitiy,  in  consequence  of  certain 
duties  you  are  obliged  to  j)erform.  Come, 
then,  sir,  we  shall  see  you  home." 

It  was  so  arranged,  and  the  sheriff  reached 
his  own  residence,  imder  their  escort,  with 
perfect  safety. 

This  indeed  was  a  night  of  adventure  to 
ReiUy — hunted,  as  he  was,  like  a  beast  of 
prey.  After  what  had  taken  place  akeady  in 
the  early  portion  of  it,  he  ajjjjrehended  no 
further  ^iiu-suit,  and  in  this  respect  he  felt 
his  mind  comparatively  at  ease — for,  in 
addition  to  any  other  con\dction  of  his  safety, 
he  knew  that  the  night  was  far  advanced, 
and  as  the  country  was  unsettled,  he  was  not 
ignorant  that  the  small  military  j)arties  that 
were  in  the  habit  of  scouiing  the  country 
generally — unless  when  in  the  execution  of 
some  express  duty — retired  to  their  cpiarters 
at  an  early  hour,  in  order  to  avoid  the  severe 
retaliations  which  were  frequently  made  upon 
them  by  the  infuriated  peasantry  whom  they 
— or  rather  the  government  which  em2)loyed 
them — had  almost  driven  to  madness,  and 
woidd  have  driven  to  insurrection  had  the 
people  possessed  the  means  of  rising.  As  it 
was,  however,  he  dreaded  no  further  pursuit 
this  night,  for  the  reasons  which  we  have 
stated. 

In  the  meantime  the  sheriff,  feehng  obhged 
by  the  civihty  of  the  three  dragoons,  gave 
them  refi-eshments  on  a  very  Hberal  scale,  of 
which — rather  exhausted  as  they  were — they 
made  a  very  Hberal  use.  Feeling  themselves 
,  now  considerably  stimulated  bj'  licjuor,  they 
mounted  theii*  horses  and  proceeded  towards 
their  barracks  at  a  quick  pace.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  locality  iu  which  the  sheriff 
lived,  it  was  necessary  that  they  should  travel 
in  a  direction  opposite  to  that  by  which  EeUly 
and  the  joriest  were  going.  At  all  events, 
after  riding  a  couple  of  miles,  they  overtook 
three  iufantiy  soldiers  who  were  also  on  theii' 
way  to  quarters.  The  blood,  however,  of  the 
troopers  was  up — thanks  to  the  sheriff  ;  they 
mentioned  the  robbery,  and  requested  the 
three  infantry  to  precede  them  as  an  advanced 
guard,  as  quietly  as  jjossible,  stating  that 
there  might  still  be  a  chance  of  coming  across 
the  \illaiu  who  had  plundered  the  sheiift",  in- 
timating their  impression,  at  the  same  time, 
that  Reilly  was  the  man,  and  adding  that  if 
they  could  secure  him  their  fortune  was  made. 
As  has  always  been  usual  in  executing  cases 
of  the  law  attended  ^vith  peculiar  difficulty, 
these  men — the  infantry — Uke  our  present 


detectives,  had  gone  out  that  night  in  colored 
clothes.  •  On  percei\'ing  two  individuals  ap- 
proaching them  in  the  dim  distance,  they 
immediately  threw  their  guns  into  the  ditch, 
lest  they  should  put  oiu-  friends  upon  their 
guard  and  cause  them  to  escaj^e  if  they  could. 
Reilly  could  have  readily  done  so  ;  but  hav- 
ing, only  a  few  minutes  before  heard  from 
the  jjoor  old  j^riest  that  he  had,  for  some 
months  past,  been  branded  and  pm-sued  as 
a  felon,  he  could  not  tliink  of  abandoning 
him  now  that  he  was  feeble  an<'.  jaded  -ndth 
fatigue  as  weU  as  Mith  age.  No>v  it  so  hap- 
pened that  one  of  these  fellows  had  been  a 
Roman  CathoUc,  and  having  committed  some 
breach  of  the  law,  found  it  as  safe  as  it  was 
convenient  to  change  his  creed,  and  as  he 
sjjoke  the  Irish  language  fluenfly — indeed 
there  were  scarcely  any  other  then  spoken  by 
the  peasantry — he  commenced  clflppiug  his 
hands  on  seeing  the  two  men,  and  fixpi-essing 
the  deejjest  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
from  whose  funeral,  it  ai)j)eared  fi-om  his 
lamentations,  he  was  then  retiu-ning. 

"We  have  nothing  to  apprehen'l  here," 
said  EeQly  ;  "this  poor  feUow  is  in  sorrow, 
it  seems — God  heljj  him  !    Let  us  proceed." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  the  treacherous  villain, 
clapping  his  hands — [we  translate  his  words] 
— "  Oh,  Yeeali  !  Yceali  !  *  what  a  bitther  loss 
you'll  be,  my  darUn'  Madge,  to  me  and  your 
orphan  childher,  now  and  for  evermore  !  Oh, 
where  was  there  sicli  a  wife,  neighbors "?  who 
ever  heard  her  harsh  word,  or  her  loud  voice "? 
And  fi'om  mornin'  till  night  ever,  ever  busy 
in  keepiu'  every  thing  tight  and  clane  and 
regTilar  !  Let  me  alone,  will  yez  ?  I'U  go  back 
and  sleep  upon  her  grave  this  night — so  I 
will ;  and  if  all  the  blasted  sogers  iu  Ii-eland 
— may  sweet  bad  luck  to  them  ! — were  to 
come  to  prevent  me,  I'd  not  allow  them. 
Oh,  Madge,  darlin",  but  I'm  the  lonely  and 
heartbroken  man  widout  you  this  night !  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  priest,  "  have  tirm- 
ness,  i^oor  man  ;  other  people  have  these 
calamities  to  bear  as  weU  as  youi'self.  Be  a 
man." 

"Oh,  are  you  a  priest,  su-?  bekase  if  you 
ai'e  I  want  consolation  if  ever  a  sorrowful  man 
did." 

"I  am  a  priest,"  repUed  the  unsuspecting 
man,  "  and  any  thing  I  can  do  to  calm  your 
mind,  I'll  do  it." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  when 
ReiUy  felt  his  two  arms  strongly  pinioned, 
and  as  the  men  who  had  seized  him  were 
powerful,  the  struggle  between  him  and 
them  was  dreadful.  The  poor  priest  at  the 
same  moment  found  himself  also  a  prisoner  in 
the  himds  of  the  bereaved  widower,  to  whom 


God,  God. 


WILLT  REILLY. 


65 


he  proved  an  easy  victim,  as  he  was  incapable 
of  making  resistance,  which,  indeed,  he  de- 
chned  to  attempt.  If  he  did  not  possess 
bodily  strength,  however,  he  was  not  without 
l^resence  of  mind.  For  whilst  Reilly  and  his 
captors  were  engaged  in  a  fierce  and  i^ower- 
fiil  conflict,  he  jslaced  his  fore-finger  and 
thumb  in  his  mouth,  from  which  proceeded 
a  whistle  so  piercingly  loud  and  shrill  that  it 
awoke  the  midnight  echoes  around  them. 
This  was  considered  by  the  dragoons  as  a 
signal  fi-om  their  friends  in  advance,  and, 
without  the  loss  of  a  moment,  they  set  spurs 
to  their  horses,  and  dashed  up  to  the  scene 
of  struggle,  just  as  Reilly  had  got  his 
right  arm  extricated,  and  knocked  one  of  his 
captors  down.  Li  an  instant,  however,  the 
three  dragoons,  aided  by  the  other  men,  were 
upon  him,  and  not  less  than  three  cavalry 
jjistols  were  levelled  at  his  head.  Unfortu- 
nately, at  this  moment  the  moon  began  to 
lise,  and  the  cb-agoons,  on  looking  at  him 
more  closely,  observed  that  he  was  dressed 
precisely  as  the  sheriff  had  described  the  per- 
son who  robbed  him — the  brovrai  coat,  light- 
colored  breeches,  and  silver  buckles — for  in- 
deed this  was  his  iisual  dress. 

"  You  are  WiUy  ReUly,"  said  the  man  who 
had  been  spokesman  in  then"  interview  with 
the  sheriff:  "you  needn't  deny  it,  sir — I 
know  you ! " 

"If  you  know  me,  then,"  repUed  EeiUy, 
"where  is  the  necessity  for  asking  my  name  ?  " 

"  I  ask  again,  sii",  what  is  your  name  ? 
If  you  be  the  man  I  suspect  you  to  be,  you 
•will  tleny  it." 

"  My  name,"rephed  the  other,  "  is  William 
EeiUy,  and  as  I  am  conscious  of  no  crime 
against  society — of  no  offence  against  the 
State — I  shall  not  deny  it." 

"  I  knew  I  was  right,"  said  the  di-agoou. 
"  Mr.  Reilly,  you  are  our  jmsoner  on  many 
charges,  not  the  least  of  which  is  your  rob- 
bery of  the  sheriff  tliis  night.  You  must 
come  with  us  to  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  ;  so 
must  this  other  person  who  seems  your  com- 
panion." 

"  Not  a  foot  I'll  go  to  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft's  to-night,"  replied  the  piiest.  "  I  have 
made  my  mind  ujj  against  such  a  stretch  at 
such  an  hour  as  this  ;  and,  with  the  help  of 
God,  I'll  stick  to  my  resolution." 

"  ^\^ly  do  you  refuse  to  go  ?  "  asked  the 
man,  a  good  deal  surjmsed  at  such  language. 

"  Just  for  a  reason  I  have  :  as  for  that  fel- 
low being  Willy  Reilly,  he's  no  more  AVilly 
ReiUy  than  I  am  ;  whatever  he  is,  however, 
lie's  a  good  man  and  true,  but  must  be  guided 
by  wiser  heads  than  his  own  ;  and  I  now  tell 
him — ay,  and  you  too — that  he  won't  see  Sir 
Robert  Wiitecraft's  treacherous  face  to-night, 
no  more  than  myself." 


I  "  Come,"  said  one  of  them,  "  di'ag  the 
idolatrous  old  rebel  along.  Come,  my  old 
couple-beggar,  there's  a  noose  before  you. " 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when 
twenty  men,  armed  with  strong  p)ikes,  jumped 
out  on  the  road  before  them,  and  about  the 
same  number,  with  similar  weajjons,  behind 
them.  In  fact,  they  were  completely  hem- 
med in  ;  and,  as  the  road  was  narrow  and 
the  ditches  high,  they  were  not  at  all  in  a 
capacity  to  make  resistance. 

"Siu'reuder  your  prisoners,"  said  a  huge 
man  in  a  voice  of  thunder — "  surrender 
your  prisoners — here  are  we  ten  to  one 
against  you  ;  or  if  you  don't,  I  swear  there 
won't  be  a  liraig  man  amongst  you  m  two 
minutes'  time.  Mark  us  well — we  are  every 
man  of  us  armed — and  I  will  not  ask  you  a, 
second  time." 

As  to  numbers  and  weapons  the  man 
spoke  tmth,  and  the  military  j)ar'ty  saw  at 
once  that  their  prisoners  must  be  given 
up. 

"Let  us  have  full  revenge  on  them  now, 
boys,"  exclaimed  several  voices;  "down 
with  the  tyrannical  villains  that  are  parse- 
cuting  and  murdherin'  the  country  out  of 
a  face.  This  night  closes  their  black  work  ; " 
and  as  the  words  were  uttered,  the  mihtai-y 
felt  themselves  eu\ironed  and  jn-essed  in 
upon  by  upwards  of  five-and-twenty  shai'p 
and  bristling  jjikes. 

"It  is  true,  you  may  mru'der  us,"  replied 
the  dragoon  ;  "but  we  are  soldiers,  and  to 
die  is  a  soldier's  duty.  Stand  back,"  said 
he,  "  for,  by  aU  that's  sacred,  if  you  ajDproach 
another  step,  WiUiam  Reilly  and  that  rebel 
priest  wlU  feill  dead  at  your  feet.  We  may 
die  then ;  but  we  will  sell  our  hves  dearly. 
Cover  the  priest,  Robinson." 

"Boys,"  said  the  priest,  addi'essing  the 
insurgent  party,  "hold  back,  for  God's  sake, 
and  for  mine.  Remember  that  these  men 
are  only  doing  their  duty,  and  that  whoever 
is  to  be  blamed,  it  is  not  they — no,  but  the 
wicked  men  and  cruel  laws  that  set  them 
upon  VIS.  Why,  now,  if  these  men,  out  of 
compassion  and  a  feehng  of  kindness  to 
poor  persecuted  creatures,  as  we  are,  took 
it  into  their  heads  or  their  hearts  to  let  that 
man  and  me  oft"  they  would  have  been,  prob- 
ably, treated  like  dogs  for  neglecting  their 
duty.  I  am,  as  you  know,  a  minister  of 
God,  and  a  man  of  peace,  whose  duty  it  is 
to  prevent  bloodshed  whenever  I  can,  and 
save  human  hfe,  whether  it  is  that  of  a 
Catholic  or  a  Protestant.  Recollect,  my 
fi-iends,  that  you  will,  every-  one  of  you,  have 
to  stand  before  the  judgment  throne  of  Goti 
to  seek  for  mercy  and  salvation.  As  yon 
hope  for  that  mercy,  then,  at  the  moment  of 
your  utmost  need,  I  implore,  I  entreat  you. 


66 


WILLI AiL   CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


to   show  these  men  mercy  now,  and  allow 
them  to  go  their  way  in  safety." 

"  I  agi'ee  -with  every  word  the  priest  has 
said,"  added  ReiUy  ;  "not  from  any  apprelien- 
sion  of  the  threat  held  out  against  myself, 
but  fiom,  I  tiiist,  a  higher  jJiinciple.  Here 
are  only  six  men,  who,  as  his  Eeverence 
justly  said,  are,  after  all,  only  in  the  dis- 
charge of  theii-  public  duty.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  are  at  least  forty  or  fifty  of  you 
against  them.  Now  I  ajjpeal  to  youi'selves, 
whether  it  would  be  a  manly,  or  generous, 
or  Christian  act,  to  slaughter  so  poor  a 
handful  of  men  by  the  force  of  numbers. 
No  :  there  would  be  neither  credit  nor  honor 
in  such  an  act.  I  assure  you,  my  friends, 
it  would  disgrace  your  common  name,  your 
common  credit,  and  your  common  comitry. 
Nay,  it  would  seem  Kke  cowardice,  and  only 
give  a  handle  to  yoiu-  enemies  to  tax  you 
with  it.  But  I  know  you  are  imt  cowards, 
but  brave  and  generous  men,  whose  hearts 
and  spiiits  are  above  a  mean  action.  If  you 
were  cowardly  butchers,  I  know  we  might 
speak  to  you  in  vain  ;  but  we  know  you  are 
incapable  of  imbrviing  your  hands,  and 
steej)ing  youi-  souls,  in  the  guilt  of  tmi'esist- 
ing  blood — for  so  I  may  term  it,  where 
there  are  so  few  against  so  many.  My 
friends,  go  home,  then,  in  the  name  of  God, 
and,  as  this  reverend  gentleman  said,  allow 
these  men   to    pass  their  way  without   in- 

"  But  who  are  you  ? "  said  their  huge 
leader,  in  his  teiTible  voice,  "  who  jjresumes 
to  lecture  us  ?  " 

"I  am  one,"  repUed  Reilly,  "who  has  suf- 
fered more  deeply,  probably,  than  any  man 
here.  I  am  without  house  or  home,  jiro- 
scribed  by  the  vengeance  of  a  villain — a  %'il- 
lain  who  has  left  me  without  a  shelter  for 
my  head — who,  this  night,  has  reduced  my 
habitation,  and  all  that  apiiertained  to  it,  to 
a  heap  of  ashes — who  is  on  my  trail,  night 
and  day,  and  who  wiU  be  on  my  trail,  in 
order  to  glut  his  vengeance  with  my  blood. 
Now,  my  fi-iends,  hsten — I  take  God  to  wit^ 
ness,  that  if  that  man  were  here  at  this  mo- 
ment, I  would  plead  for  his  Ufe  with  as 
much  earnestness  as  I  do  for  those  of  the 
men  who  are  here  at  yoiu-  mercy.  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  cowai-dly  and  iuhuman  to 
take  it  iinder  such  circumstances  ;  yes,  and 
unworthy  of  the  name  of  William  Eeilly. 
Now,"  he  added,  "these  men  will  pass  safely 
to  theu"  quarters." 

As  they  wei'e  about  to  resvime  theii"  jour- 
nej',  the  person  who  seemed  to  have  the  com- 
mand of  the  military  said  : 

"  Mr.  Reilly,  one  word  with  you  :  I  feel 
that  you  have  saved  our  Uves  ;  I  may  requite 
you  for  that   generous  act  yet ; "   and,  Le 


pressed  his  hand  warmly  as  he  spoke,  aftei 
which  they  proceeded  on  their  way. 

That  the  person  of  KeUly  was  not  recog- 
nized by  any  of  these  men  is  accounted  for 
by  a  weU-Known  custom,  peeuhar  to  such 
meetings,  both  then  and  now.  The  individ- 
uals before  and  aroimd  him  were  all  stran- 
gers, fi'om  distant  parts  of  the  country  ;  for 
whenever  an  outrage  is  to  be  committed,  or 
a  noctimial  drilling  to  take  place,  the  peas- 
antiT  start  across  the  country,  in  twos  and 
thi-ees,  until  they  cjuietly  reach  some  lonely 
and  remote  spot,  where  theu-  persons  are  not 
known. 

Ko  sooner  had  he  mentioned  Ms  name, 
however,  than  there  ai'ose  a  peculiar  mur- 
mur among  the  insui-gents — such  a  mru-mur 
indeed  as  it  was  difficult  to  understand : 
there  was  also  a  rapid  considtation  in  Ii'ish, 
which  was  closed  by  a  general  determiuatiou 
to  restriiin  their  vengeance  for  that  night,  at 
least,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  celebrated 
yoimg  martjT — for  as  such  they  looked  upon 
him — to  aUow  the  mUitaiy  to  pass  on  with- 
out injui-y.  Reilly  then  addressed  them  in 
Lish,  and  thanked  them,  both  in  his  own 
name  and  that  of  the  priest,  for  the  resjject 
evinced  by  theii'  observation  of  the  advice 
they  had  given  them.  The  priest  also  ad- 
dressed them  iu  Irish,  aware,  as  he  was,  that 
one  sentence  in  that  language,  esj^ecially 
fi'om  a  person  in  a  superior  rank  of  life,  car- 
ries more  weight  than  a  whole  oration  in  the 
language  of  the  Sasseuagh.  The  poor  old 
man's  mind  was  once  more  at  ease,  and  after 
these  rough,  but  not  intractalile,  men  had 
given  thi'ee  cheers  for  "  boidd  "Willy  EeUlj'," 
three  more  for  the  Cooleen  Bawii,  not  forget- 
ting the  jjriest,  the  latter,  while  retm-ning 
thanks,  had  them  in  con^^llsions  of  laughter. 

"May  I  never  do  harm,"  proceeded  his 
reverence  humorously,  "but  the  first  Chris- 
tian duty  that  every  true  Cathohc  ought  to 
leai-n  is  to  whistle  on  his  fingers.  The  mo- 
ment ever  your  childi'en,  boys,  ai-e  able  to 
give  a  squidi,  clap  their  forefinger  and  thumb 
in  their  mouth,  and  leave  the  rest  to  nature. 
Let  them  talk  of  their  sijinnet  and  sinnet, 
their  fiddle  and  their  diddle,  their  dancing 
and  their  jirancing,  but  there  is  no  genteel 
accomplishment  able  to  be  compai-ed  to  a 
rousing  whistle  on  the  fingers.  See  what  it 
did  for  us  to-night.  My  soul  to  gloiy,  but 
only  for  it,  Mr.  Redly  and  I  woidd  have 
soon  taken  a  joiu'ney  with  oiu'  heels  fore- 
most ;  and,  what  is  worse,  the  villains  would 
have  forced  us  to  tiike  a  bu-d's-eye  view  of 
our  own  fimeral  from  the  three  sticks,  mean- 
ing the  two  that  stand  up,  and  the  third  that 
goes  across  them.*      However,  God's  good. 


'  The  gallows. 


WILLY  B FILLY. 


67 


and,  after  all,  boys,  yoii  see  there  is  nothing 
like  an  accomphshed  education.  As  to  the 
soldiers,  I  don't  think  myself  that  they'll  re- 
cover the  bit  of  fi-ight  they  got  until  the  new 
potatoes  come  in.  Troth,  while  yon  were 
gatheiint;'  in  about  them,  I  felt  that  the  un- 
fortunate vagabonds  were  to  be  pitied  ;  but. 
Lord  help  us,  when  men  ai'e  in  trouble — es- 
jjeciiilly  in  fear  of  their  lives — and  with  twelve 
inches  of  shaiiJ  ii'on  near  their  breasts,  it's 
wonderful  what  elieet  fear  will  have  on  them. 
Troth,  I  wasn't  far  fi-om  feeling  the  same 
thing  myself,  only  I  knew  there  was  relief  at 
hand  ;  at  aU  events,  it's  weU  you  kept  your 
hands  off  them,  for  now,  thank  goodness, 
you  can  stej}  home  without  the  guilt  of  mui'- 
der  on  your  souls." 

Father  Maguire,  for  such  was  his  name, 
possessed  the  art  of  adajsting  his  language 
and  dialect  to  those  whom  he  addressed,  it 
mattered  not  whether  they  were  South, 
West,  or  North  ;  he  was,  in  fact,  a  jjriest 
who  had  never  been  in  any  college,  but  re- 
ceived ordination  in  consequence  of  the  se- 
verity of  the  laws,  whose  operation,  by  ban- 
ishing so  many  of  that  class  from  the  coun- 
try, rendered  the  services  of  such  men  in- 
dispensable to  the  sj^iritual  wants  of  the 
people.  Father  Maguii-e,  jirevious  to  his  re- 
cei'\'ing  holy  orders,  had  been  a  school- 
master, and  exercised  his  functions  on  that 
cajjacity  in  holes  and  corners  ;  sometimes  on 
the  sheltery  or  simny  side  of  a  hedge,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  on  other  occasions  when 
and  where  he  could.  In  his  magisterial  ca- 
pacity, "  the  accomplishment  "  of  whistling 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  him,  because  it 
often  hajjpened  that  in  steaUng  in  the  morn- 
ing fi'om  his  retreat  during  the  preceding 
night,  he  knew  no  more  where  to  meet  his 
httle  flock  of  scholars  than  they  did  where 
to  meet  him,  the  truth  being  that  he  seldom 
fovmd  it  safe  to  teach  two  days  successively 
in  the  same  place.  Having  selected  the  lo- 
cality for  instruction  during  the  day,  he  put 
his  forefinger  and  thumb  into  his  mouth, 
and  emitted  a  whistle  that  went  over  half 
the  country.  Having  thus  given  the  signal 
three  times,  his  scholars  began  gradually 
and  cautiously  to  make  their  aj^pearance, 
radiating  towards  him  from  all  dii-ections, 
reminding  one  of  a  hen  in  a  farm-yard,  who, 
having  fallen  upon  some  wholesome  crumbs, 
she  utters  that  pecuUar  sound  which  imme- 
diately collects  her  eager  Uttle  flock  about 
her,  in  order  to  dispense  among  them  the 
sood  things  she  has  to  give.  Poor  Father 
JNIaguu-e  was  simphcity  itself,  for,  although 
rheei-fid,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  humorist,  yet 
he  was  pious,  inoffensive,  and  chaiitable. 
True,  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  that  he  could 
avoid  bearing  a  verj'  strong  feeling  of    en- 


mity against  the  Establishment,  as,  indeed, 
we  do  not  see,  so  long  as  human  nature  is 
what  it  is,  how  he  could  have  done  other- 
wise ;  he  hated  it,  however,  in  the  aggregate, 
not  in  detail,  for  the  truth  is,  that  he  received 
shelter  and  protection  nearly  as  often  from 
the  Protestants  themselves,  both  lay  and 
clerical,  as  he  did  fi'om  those  of  his  own 
creed.  The  poor  man's  crime  against  the 
State  proceeded  naturally  from  the  simpli- 
city of  his  character  and  the  goodness  of  his 
heart.  A  Protestant  peasant  had  seduced  a 
Catholic  young  woman  of  considerable  at- 
tractions, and  was  prevailed  upon  to  marry 
her,  in  order  to  legitimize  the  infant  which 
she  was  about  to  bear.  Our  poor  priest, 
anxious  to  do  as  much  good,  and  to  jjrevent 
as  much  evU  as  he  could,  was  prevailed  up- 
on to  jDerform  the  ceremony,  contrary  to  the 
law  in  that  case  made  and  provided.  Ever 
since  that,  the  jjoor  man  had  been  upon  his 
keejjiug  like  a  felon,  as  the  law  had  made 
him  ;  but  so  weU  kno^Ti  were  his  harmless 
Hfe,  his  goodness  of  heart,  and  his  general 
benevolence  of  disposition — for,  alas !  he 
was  incapable  of  being  benevolent  in  any 
practical  sense — that,  imless  among  the  big- 
oted officials  of  the  day,  there  existed  no  veiy 
strong  disposition  to  hand  him  over  to  the 
clutches  of  the  terrible  statute  which  he  had, 
good  easy  man,  been  jsrevailed  on  to  violate. 

In  the  meantime,  the  formidable  body  who 
had  saved  KeiU^^'s  hfe  and  his  own  dispersed, 
or  disaj)peared  at  least ;  but  not  u.ntil  they 
had  shaken  hands  most  cordially  with  EeiUy 
and  the  priest,  who  now  found  themselves 
much  in  the  same  position  in  which  they 
stood  previous  to  their  surprise  and  arrest. 

"  Now,"   said    EeiUy,    "  the   question   is, 
what  are  we   to   do  ?  where  are  we  to  go  ? 
and  nest,  how  did  you  come  to  know  of  the 
existence  in  this  precise  locality  of  such  a  , 
body  of  men  '?  " 

"  Because  I  have  set  my  face  against  such 
meetings,"  rejjUed  the  jiriest.  "  One  of 
those  who  was  engaged  to  be  present  hap- 
pened to  mention  the  fact  to  me  as  a  clergy- 
man, but  you  know  that,  as  a  clergyman,  I 
can  proceed  no  further." 

"I  understand,"  said  KeLUy,  "I  perfectly 
understand  you.  It  is  not  necessary.  And 
now  let  me  say — " 

"  Always  trust  in  God,  my  friend,"  repUed 
the  j)riest,  in  an  accent  quite  different  from 
that  which  he  had  used  to  the  peasantry.  "  I 
told  you,  not  long  ago,  that  you  \vould  have 
a  bed  to-night :  follow  me,  and  I  \\ill  lead 
you  to  a  cry[)t  of  nature's  own  making,  which 
was  not  known  to  mortal  man  three  mouths 
ago,  and  which  is  now  known  only  to  those 
whose  interest  it  is  to  keep  the  knowledge 
of  it  sUent  as  the  grave." 


68 


WILLIAM   CAliLETON'S    WORKS. 


They  then  proceeded,  ;md  soon  came  to  a 
gap  or  opening  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
road  through  which  they  passed,  the  jDriest 
leading.  Next  they  found  themselves  in  a 
wld  gully  or  ra'S'ine  that  was  both  deep  and 
narrow.  This  they  crossed,  and  amved  at  a 
ledge  of  precipitous  rocks,  most  of  which 
were  overhimg  to  the  very  ground  with  long 
luxuriant  heather.  The  priest  went  along 
this  until  he  came  to  one  particular  spot, 
when  he  stooped,  and  observed  a  particular 
round  stone  bedded  naturally  in  the  earth. 

"God — blessed  be  his  name — has  made 
nothing  in  vain,"  he  whisj^ered  ;  "  I  must 
go  foremost,  but  do  as  I  do."  He  then 
i-aised  up  the  long  heath,  and  entered  a  low, 
narrow  fissure  in  the  rocks,  Reilly  following 
him  closely.  The  entrance  was  indeed  so 
narrow  that  it  was  caj)able  of  admitting  but 
one  man  at  a  time,  and  even  that  by  his 
working  himself  in  upon  his  knees  and 
elbows.  .In  this  manner  they  advanced  in 
utter  darkness  for  about  thirty  yards,  when 
they  reached  a  second  opening,  about  three 
feet  high,  which  bore  some  resemblance  to 
a  Gothic  arch.  This  also  it  was  necessary  to 
enter  consecutively.  Having  passed  this  they 
were  able  to  proceed  upon  their  legs,  still 
stoojjing,  however,  until,  as  they  got  onwards, 
they  found  themselves  able  to  walk  erect.  A 
third  and  larger  opieniug,  however,  was  still 
before  them,  over  which  hung  a  large  thick 
^^•innow-cloth. 

"  Now,"  said  the  pi-iest,  "leave  every  thing 
to  me.  If  we  were  to  put  our  heads  in 
rashly  here  we  might  get  a  pair  of  bullets 
through  them  that  woidd  have  as  little 
mercy  on  us  as  those  of  the  troopers,  had  we 
got  them.  No  clergyman  here,  or  auwhere 
else,  ever  carries  firearms,  but  there  are 
laymen  inside  who  are  not  bound  by  our 
regulations.  The  only  arms  we  are  allowed 
to  can-y  are  the  tiaiths  of  our  religion  and 
the  integrity  of  oiu-  lives." 

He  then  advanced  a  step  or  two,  and 
shook  the  winnow-cloth  three  times,  when  a 
deep  voice  from  behind  it  asked,  "  Qam 
venil?"  "  Introiho  ad  altare.  Dei,"  replied 
the  priest,  who  had  no  sooner  uttered  the 
words  than  the  cloth  was  ijartially  removed, 
and  a  voice  exclaimed,  "  Jietwdici/e,  dilcde 
frater;  heatux  qui  vrnil  in  nomine  Domini  t'f 
sacrosnncke  E(vlexi(r. " 

Reilly  and  his  companion  then  entered  the 
cave,  which  they  had  no  sooner  done  than 
the  former  was  seized  with  a  degree  of  won- 
der, astonishment,  and  awe,  such  as  he  had 
never  experienced  in  liis  life  before.  The 
whole  cavern  was  one  Hashing  scene  of  light 
and  beauty,  and  reminded  him  of  the  goi-- 
geous  descriptions  that  were  to  be  found  in 
Arabian   literature,  or   the  brilliancy  of  the 


fairy  pidaces  as  he  had  heard  of  them  in  the 
mellow  legends  of  his  own  countrj'.  From 
the  roof  depended  gorgeous  and  immense 
stalactites,  some  of  them  reaching  half  way 
to  the  eai'th,  and  others  of  them  resting  upon 
the  earth  itself.  Several  torches,  comjjosed 
of  dried  bog  fir,  thi-ew  their  strong  light 
among  them  with  such  effect  that  the  eye 
became  not  only  dazzled  but  fatigued  and 
overcome  by  the  radiance  of  a  scene  so  un- 
usual. In  fact,  the  whole  scene  appeared 
to  be  out  of,  or  beyond,  nature.  There  were 
about  fifteen  individuals  present,  most  of 
them  in  odd  and  peculiar  disguises,  which 
gave  them  a  grotetique  and  su})ei'iiatural 
ajijjearance,  as  they  jiassed  about  with  their 
strong  torches  —  some  bright  and  some 
flashing  red  ;  and  as  the  light  of  either  one  or 
other  fell  upon  the  stalactites,  gi\ing  them  a 
hue  of  singular  brilliancy  or  deep  purple, 
Reilly  could  not  utter  a  word.  The  cos- 
tumes of  the  indiriduals  about  him  were  so 
strange  and  varied  that  he  knew  not  what  to 
think.  Some  were  in  the  dress  of  clerg;v- 
men,  others  in  that  of  ill-clad  peasants,  and 
nearly  one-third  of  them  in  the  garb  of 
mendicants,  who,  fi'om  their  careworn  faces, 
ap)peared  to  have  suffered  severely  from  the 
persecution  of  the  times.  Li  a  few  min- 
utes, however,  about  half  a  dozen  diminutive 
beings  made  their  apjiearance,  busied,  as  far 
as  he  could  guess,  in  employments,  which  his 
amazement  at  the  whole  spectacle,  unpre- 
pared as  he  was  for  it,  p)revented  him  from 
understanding.  If  he  had  been  a  man  of 
weak  or  superstitious  mind,  unacquainted 
with  life  and  the  world,  it  is  impossible  to 
say  what  he  might  have  imagined.  lude- 
pendentl^v  of  this— strong-miniled  as  he  was 
— the  imjaression  made  upon  him  by  the  elf- 
hke  sprites  that  ran  about  so  busily,  almost 
induced  him,  for  a  few  moments,  to  siuTender 
to  the  illusion  that  he  stood  among  individ- 
uals who  had  little  or  no  natiiral  connection 
with  man  or  the  external  world  which  he  in- 
habited. Reflection,  however,  and  the  state 
of  the  country,  came  to  his  aid,  and  he  rea- 
sonably inferred  that  the  cavern  in  which  he 
stood  was  a  place  of  concealment  for-  those- 
unfortunate  individuals  who,  like  himself, 
felt  it  necessary  to  evade  the  vengeance  of 
the  laws. 

"Whilst  Reilly  was  absorbed  in  the  novelty 
and  excitement  of  this  strange  and  all  but 
supernatural  sjjectaele,  the  priest  held  a  short 
conversation,  at  some  distance  fi-om  him. 
with  the  strange  figures  which  liud  surorised 
him  so  much.  Whenever  he  felt  himself 
enabled  to  take  his  eyes  fi'om  the  sjjlendor 
and  juagnificence  of  all  he  saw  around  him, 
to  follow  the  motions  of  Father  Maguire,  he 
could  observe  that  that  gentleman,  fi'om  the 


WILLY  REILLY. 


09 


peculiar  vehemence  of  his  attitudes  and  the 
evident  rapidity  of  his  language,  had  made 
either  himself  or  his  presence  there  the 
topic  of  very  earnest  discussion.  In  fact  it 
appeared  to  him  that  the  priest,  from  what- 
ever cause,  appeared  to  be  rather  hard  set  to 
defend  him  and  to  justify  his  presence  among 
them.  A  tall,  stern-looking  man,  with  a 
lofty  forehead  and  i^iile  ascetic  features — 
from  which  all  the  genial  impulses  of 
humanity,  that  had  once  characterized  them, 
seemed  almost  to  have  been  banished  by  the 
sjjirit  of  relentless  persecution — appeared  to 
bear  hard  upon  him,  whatever  the  charge 
might  be,  and  by  the  severity  of  liis  manner 
and  the  solemn  but  unyielding  emphasis  of 
his  attitudes,  he  seemed  to  have  wrought 
liimself  into  a  state  of  deej)  indignation. 
But  as  it  is  better  that  oiu-  readers  should 
be  made  acquainted  with  the  toj^ic  of  their 
discussion,  rather  than  their  attitudes,  we 
think  it  necessary  to  commence  it  in  a  new 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Scenes  that  took  place  in  the  Mountain  Cave. 

•'  I  WILL  not  hear  your  apology,  brother," 
s:iid  the  tall  man  with  the  stem  voice  ;  "  your 
conduct,  knowing  our  joosition,  and  the  state 
of  this  unhappy  and  persecuted  country,  is 
not  only  indiscreet,  but  tooUsh,  indefensible, 
mad.  Here  is  a  joung  man  attached — may 
God  pardon  him — to  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  most  persecuting  heretics  in  the  king- 
dom. She  is  beautiful,  by  every  report  that 
we  have  heard  of  her,  even  as  an  angel ;  but 
reflect  that  she  is  an  heiress — the  inheritress 
of  immense  projaerty — and  that,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  the  temptations  are  a  thousand  to 
one  against  him.  He  will  yield,  I  tell  you,  to 
the  heretic  sjven  ;  and  as  a  jjassport  to  her 
father's  favor  and  her  aliectiou,  he  will,  Uke 
too  many  of  his  class,  abandon  the  faith  of  his 
ancestors,  and  become  an  apostate,  for  the 
sake  of  wealth  and  sensual  ali'ection." 

"  I  ciuestion,  my  lord,"  replied  the  priest, 
"whether  it  is  consistent  with  Clmstian 
charity  to  impute  motives  of  such  heinous 
guilt,  when  we  are  not  in  a  condition  to  bear 
out  our  suspicions.  The  character  of  this 
young  gentleman  as  a  CathoUc  is  firm  and 
faithful,  and  I  will  stake  my  life  upon  his 
truth  and  attachment  to  our  Church." 

"You  know  him  not,  father,"  rephed  the 
bishop,  for  such  he  was  ;  "I  tell  you,  and  I 
speak  from  better  information  than  you 
possess,  that  he  is  ah-eady  suspected.  "Wliat 
has  been  his   conduct?     He  has  associated 


himself  more  with  Protestants  than  with  those 
of  liis  own  Church  ;  he  has  dined  witli  them, 
partaken  of  their  hosjjitality,  joined  in  theif 
amusements,  slept  in  their  houses,  and  been 
with  them  as  a  familiar  friend  and  boon  com- 
jjanion.  I  see,  father,  what  the  result  will 
necessaiily  be  ;  first,  an  apostate — next,  an 
informer — and,  lastly,  a  persecutor  ;  and  all 
for  the  sake  of  wealth  and  the  seductive 
charms  of  a  rich  heiress.  I  say,  then,  that 
deep  in  this  cold  cavern  shall  be  his  grave, 
rather  than  have  an  opportunity  of  betraying 
the  shepherds  of  Christ's  persecuted  flock, 
and  of  hunting  them  into  the  caverns  of  the 
earth  like  beasts  of  prej'.  Our  retreat  here 
is  known  only  to  those  who,  for  the  sake  of 
truth  and  their  o'wii  Uves,  ■will  never  disclose 
the  knowledge  of  it,  bound  as  they  are,  in 
addition  to  this,  by  an  oath  of  the  deepest 
and  most  dreadful  solemnity — an  oath  the 
violation  of  which  would  constitute  a  fearful 
sacrilege  in  the  eye  of  God.  As  for  these 
orjDhans,  whose  parents  were  victims  to  the 
ciiiel  laws  that  are  grinding  us,  I  have  so 
trained  and  indoctrinated  them  into  a  knowl- 
edge of  their  creed,  and  a  sense  of  their  duty, 
that  they  are  thoroughly  trustworthy.  On 
this  very  day  I  administered  to  them  the 
sacrament  of  confirmation.  No,  brother,  we 
cannot  sacrifice  the  interests  and  welfare  of 
our  holy  Church  to  the  safety  of  a  single  life 
— to  the  safety  of  a  person  who  I  foresee  will 
be  certain  to  betray  us." 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  i>riest,  "  I  humbly 
admit  your  authority  and  supeiior  sanctity, 
for  in  what  does  your  precious  life  fall  short 
of  martyrdom  but  by  one  step  to  the  eleva- 
tion which  leads  to  glory  ?  I  mean  the  sur- 
rendering of  that  life  for  the  trae  faith.  I 
feel,  my  lord,  that  in  your  presence  I  am 
nothing  ;  still,  in  our  holy  Chui'ch  there  is 
the  humble  as  well  as  the  exalted,  and  your 
lordsliijj  will  admit  that  the  gradations  of 
piety,  and  the  disijensations  of  the  higher  and 
the  lower  gifts,  j)roceed  not  onlj'  from  the 
wisdom  of  God  but  fi-om  the  necessities  of 
man." 

"  I  do  not  properly  understand  you,  father," 
said  the  bishop  in  a  voice  whose  stern  tones 
were  mingled  with  sometliing  like  contempt. 

"  I  beg  your  lordship  to  hear  me,"  pro- 
ceeded Father  Maguire.  "Yen  say  that 
Reilly  has  associated  more  fi'equently  with 
Protestants  than  he  has  with  persons  of  our 
own  religion.  That  may  be  true,  and  I  grant 
that  it  is  so  ;  but,  my  lord,  are  you  aware 
that  he  has  exercised  the  influence  which  he 
has  possessed  over  them  for  the  protection 
and  advantage  and  safety  of  his  CathoUc 
fi'iends  and  neighbors,  to  the  very  utmost  of 
his  aljility,  and  frequently  with  success  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  they  obliged  him  because  they  cal- 


70 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WOBIiTS. 


culated  upon  bis  accession  to  their  creed  and 
piinciples." 

"  My  lord,"  reislied  the  jniest  ■with  firm- 
ness, "I  am  an  humble  but  independent 
man  ;  if  humanity  and  generosity,  exercised 
as  I  have  seen  them  this  night,  guided  and 
directed  by  the  spirit  of  j)eace,  and  of  the 
word  of  God  itself,  can  aiford  your  lordshiji 
a  guarantee  of  the  high  and  Christian  iiiin- 
cij)les  by  which  this  yotuig  man's  heart  is 
actuated,  then  I  may  with  confidence  recom- 
mend him  to  your  clemency." 

"  "What  would  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  bishop. 

"  My  lord,  he  was  the  jJi'incijsal  means  of 
saving  the  Uves  of  sis  Protestants — heretics, 
I  mean — from  being  cut  off  in  their  iniquities 
and  sins  this  night." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  repUed  the  stern 
bishop  ;  "  explain  yoiu'self !  " 

The  good  priest  then  gave  a  succinct 
account  of  the  circumstances  with  which  the 
reader  is  already  acquainted;  and,  after  having 
finished  his  brief  narrative,  the  unfortunate 
man  perceived  that,  instead  of  having  ren- 
dered Eeilly  a  sei'vdce,  he  had  strengthened 
the  suspicions  of  the  jirelate  against  him. 

"  So  !  "  said  the  bishop),  "you  advance  the 
history  of  this  dastardly  conduct  as  an  argu- 
ment io  his  favor  !  " 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  his  eyes,  which 
had  actually  become  blood.shot,  blazed  again  ; 
his  breath  went  and  came  strongly,  and  he 
ground  his  teeth  wth  rage. 

Father  Mag-uire,  and  those  who  were 
present,  looked  at  each  other  mth  eyes  in 
which  might  be  read  an  exjjression  of  deep 
sorrow  and  compassion.  At  length  a  mdd- 
lookiug,  pale-faced  man,  veith  a  clear,  benig- 
nant eye,  ajJiaroached  him,  and  la;^ing  his 
hand  in  a  gentle  manner  upon  his  arln,  said, 
"Pray,  my  dear  lord,  let  me  entreat  yoiu- 
lordship  to  remember  the  jjrecejjts  of  our 
great  Master  :  '  Love  youi-  enemies  ;  bless 
them  that  curse  you  ;  do  good  to  them  that 
hate  you,  and  Y>raj  for  them  that  despitefully 
use  you,  and  jiersecute  you.'  And  surely, 
my  lord,  no  one  knows  better  than  you  do 
that  this  is  the  sj^irit  of  our  religion,  and 
that  whenever  it  is  violated  the  fault  is  not 
that  of  the  creed,  but  the  man." 

"  Under  any  circumstances,"  said  the  bish- 
op, declining  to  rejjly  to  this,  and  placing 
his  open  hand  across  his  forehead,  as  if  he  felt 
confusion  or  j)ain — "  under  any  circumstan- 
ces, this  person  must  take  the  oath  of  secrecy 
with  resjject  to  the  existence  of  this  cave. 
Call  him  up." 

Eeilly,  as  we  have  said,  saw  at  once  that 
an  angry  discussion  had  taken  place,  and  felt 
all  but  certain  that  he  was  himself  involved 
in  it.  The  jiricst,  in  oliedience  to  the  wish 
expressed    by    the   bishop,    went    down   to 


j  where   he   stood,    and  whispering   to   hin^ 
said : 

"  Salvation  to  me,  but  I  had  a  hard  battle 

for  you.      I  fought,  however,  like  a  trump. 

i  The  strange,  and — ahem — kind  of  man  you 

are  called  upon  to  meet  now  is  one  of  out 

bishojjs — but  don't  you  pretend  to  know  that 

— he  has  heard  of  your  love  for  the  Cooleen 

j  Ilawn,  and  of  her  love  for  you — be  easy  now 

:  — not  a  tiling  it  will  be  but  the  meeting  of 

]  two  thunderbolts  between    you — and    he's 

I  afi-aid  you'll  be  deluded  by  her  charm-s — timi 

apostate  on  om-  hands — and   that  the  fir.st 

thing  you're  likely  to  do,  when  you  get  out 

;  of  this  subterranean  palace  of  ours,  wQl  be 

to   betray  its   existence   to  the  heretics.     I 

have  now  j^ut  you  on  yoiu-  guard,  so  keep  a 

sharj)   lookout ;  be   mild  as  mother's  mUk. 

But   if  you  '  my  lord  '  him,  I'm  dished  as  a 

traitor  bej'oud  redemption." 

Now,  if  the  simple-hearted  priest  had  been 

tempted  by  the  enemy  himself  to  place  these 

two  men  in  a  position  where  a  battle-royal 

between  them  was  most  likely  to  ensue,  he 

could  not  have  taken  a  more  successful  course 

I  for  that  object.      Eeilly,  the  firm,  the  high- 

!  minded,  the  honorable,  and,  though  last  not 

j  least,  the  most  indignant  at  any  imjjutation 

!  against  his  integrity,  now  accoinjjauied  the 

priest   in   a   state   of  indignation  that  was 

nearly  a  match  for  that  of  the  bishop. 

"This  is  Mr.  Eedly,  gentlemen;  a  firm 
and  an  honest  Catholic,  who,  Hke  om-selves, 
is  suffering  for  his  rehgiou." 

"Mr.  Eeilly,"  said  the  bishop,  "it  is  good 
to  sufl'er  for  our  rehgion." 

"It  is  om-  duty,"  rei^Ued  Eeilly,  "when 
we  are  called  ujiou  to  do  so  ;  but  for  my 
pai't,  I  must  confess,  I  have  no  reUsh  what- 
soever for  the  honors  of  martp'dom.  I 
would  rather  aid  it  and  assist  it  than  suffer 
for  it." 

The  bishop  gave  a  stem  look  at  his  fi-iends, 
as  much  as  to  say  :  "  You  heai- !  incipient 
heresy  and  treachery  at  the  first  step." 

"  He's  more  mad  than  the  bishop,"  thought 
Father  Maguii-e  ;  "in  God's  name  what  ^rilI 
come  next,  I  wonder  ?  Eeilly 's  blood,  some- 
how, is  up  ;  and  there  they  are  looking  at 
each  other,  like  a  pair  o'  game  cocks,  with 
their  necks  stretched  out  in  a  eoclqiit — when 
I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  go  to  see  them — ready 
to  dash  upon  one  another." 

"  Are  you  not  now  sufl'ering  for  yoru"  re- 
hgion ?  "  asked  the  jjrelate. 

"No,"  rejiUed  Eeilly,  "it  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  my  religion  that  I  have  suffered  any 
thing.  Eeligion  is  made  only  a  pretext  for 
it ;  but  it  is  not,  in  truth,  on  that  account  that 
I  have  been  persecuted." 

"Pray,  then,  sir,  may  I  inquu'e  the  cause 
of  youi'  persecution '?  " 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


7i 


"You  may,"  replied  Reilly,  "but  I  shall 
decUne  to  answer  you.  It  comes  not  ■within 
youi"  jurisdiction,  but  is  a  matter  altogether 
personal  to  myself,  and  with  which  you  cajj 
have  no  concern." 

Here  a  gi-oan  from  the  priest,  which  he 
could  not  eu^jpress,  was  shivered  off,  by  a 
tremendous  effort,  into  a  series  of  broken 
coughs,  got  up  in  order  to  conceal  his  alarm 
at  the  fatal  jsrogress  which  KeUly,  he  thought, 
was  unconsciously  making  to  his  own  ruin. 

"  Troth,"  thought  he,  "  the  soldiers  were 
nothing  at  aU  to  what  this  will  be.  There 
his  fi'iends  would  have  foimd  the  body  and 
given  him  a  decent  burial ;  but  here  neither 
fi'iend  nor  fellow  will  know  where  to  look  for 
him.  I  was  almost  the  first  man  that  took 
the  oath  to  keep  the  existence  of  this  place 
secret  from  all  lUiless  those  that  were  suffer- 
ing tor  tlieir  religion  ;  and  now,  by  dem-ing 
that,  he  has  me  in  the  trap  along  with  him- 
self." 

A  second  gi-oan,  shaken  out  of  its  con- 
tinuity into  another  comical  shower  of  fi'ag- 
mental  coughs,  closed  this  dreaiy  but  silent 
solUoquy. 

The  bishop  proceeded  :  "  You  have  been 
inveigled,  young  man,  by  the  charms  of  a 
deceitful  and  heretical  s^Ten,  for  the  pui-pose 
of  ahenating  you  from  the  creed  of  youi'  fore- 
fathers." 

"it  is  filse,"  rephed  EeiUy  ;  "false,  if  it 
proceeded  fi-om  the  hjjs  of  the  Pope  himself  ; 
and  if  his  lips  uttered  to  me  what  you  now 
have  done,  I  would  fling  the  falsehood  in  his 
teeth,  as  I  do  now  in  yoiu-s — yes,  if  my  Ufe 
should  pay  the  forfeit  of  it.  ^\Tiat  have  you 
to  do  w^th  my  private  concerns  ?  " 

Beilly's  indignant  and  imjaetuous  reply  to 
the  prelate  struck  all  who  heard  it  with  dis- 
may, and  also  'mih  horror,  when  they  be- 
thought themselves  of  the  consequences. 

"  You  are  a  heretic  at  heart,"  said  the  other, 
knitting  his  brows  ;  "  fi'om  youi-  own  language 
you  stand  confessed — a  heretic." 

"I  know  not,"  reijhed  Reilly,  "by  what 
right  or  authority  you  adopt  this  imgentle- 
manly  and  ilUberal  conduct  towards  me  ;  but 
so  long  as  yoiu-  language  apphes  only  to  my- 
self and  my  rehgion,  I  shall  answer  you  in  a 
different  spirit.  In  the  first  place,  then,  you 
are  gi-ievously  mistaken  in  supjaosing  me  to 
be  a  heretic.  I  am  tme  and  faithful  to  mj' 
creed,  and  will  Uve  and  die  in  it." 

Father  Maguu-e  felt  reheved,  and  breathed 
more  fi'eely ;  a  groan  was  coming,  but  it  ended 
in  a  "hem." 

"Before  we  proceed  any  farther,  sir,"  said 
this  strange  man,   "you  must  take  an  oath." 

"  For  what  pui-pose,  sir  ?  "  inquired  KeU- 
ly. 

"An  oath  of  .secrecy  as  to  the  existence  of 


this  place  of  our  retreat.  There  are  at  pres- 
ent here  some  of  the —  "  he  checked  himself 
as  if  afi'aid  to  jsroceed  farther.  "  In  fact, 
every  man  who  is  admitted  amongst  us  must 
take  the  oath." 

Reilly  looked  at  him  with  indignation. 
"  Surely,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  this  mar 
must  be  mad  ;  his  looks  ai-e  wild,  and  the  fire 
of  insanity  is  in  his  ej'es  ;  if  not,  he  is  noth- 
ing less  than  an  incarnation  of  ecclesiastica; 
bigotry  and  foUy.  The  man  must  be  mad,  or 
worse."     At  length  he  addressed  him. 

"  You  doubt  my  integrity  and  my  honor, 
then,"  he  replied  haughtily. 

"  We  doubt  eveiy  man  until  he  is  bound 
by  his  oath." 

"You  must  continue  to  doubt  me,  then," 
replied  ReiUy ;  "  for,  most  assuredly,  I  will 
not  take  it." 

"  You  must  take  it,  sii',"  said  the  other, 
"  or  you  never  leave  the  cavern  which  covers 
you,"  and  his  eyes  once  more  blazed  as  he 
uttered  the  words. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Reilly,  "  there  appear 
to  be  fifteen  or  sixteen  of  j-ou  present :  may 
I  be  permitted  to  ask  why  you  suffer  this  uu- 
hapijy  man  to  be  at  large  ?  " 

"Win  you  take  the  oath,  sii'?"  persisted 
the  insane  bishojJ  in  a  voice  of  thunder — 
"heretic  and  devH,  will  you  take  the  oath?" 

"  Unquestionably  not.  I  %vill  never  take 
any  oath  that  would  imply  want  of  honor  in 
myself.  Cease,  then,  to  trouble  me  with  it. 
I  shall  not  t;ike  it." 

This  last  rejaly  affected  the  bishop's  reason 
so  deejjly  that  he  looked  about  him  strangely, 
and  exclaimed,  "  We  are  lo.st  and  betrayed. 
But  here  are  angels — I  see  them,  and  will 
join  in  their  blessed  society,"  and  as  he 
sjioke,  he  rushed  towards,  the  stalactites  in 
a  manner  somewhat  wHd  and  riolent,  ,so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  fi-om  an  apjsrehension 
of  his  receiving  iujui-y  in  some  of  the  dark 
interstices  among  them,  they  found  it  neces- 
sary, for  his  sake,  to  grapj)le  with  him  for  a 
few  moments. 

But,  alas !  they  had  very  Httle  indeed  to 
grapi^le  with.  The  man  was  but  a  shadow, 
and  they  found  him  in  their  hands  as  feeble 
as  a  child.  He  made  no  resistance,  but  suf- 
fered himseK  to  be  managed  precisely  as 
they  wished.  Two  of  the  jjei'sons  present 
took  charge  of  him,  one  sitting  on  each  .side 
of  him.  Reilly,  who  lookeil  on  with  amaze- 
ment, now  strongly  blended  \\-ith  pity — for 
the  malacly  of  the  unhajsijy  ecclesiastic  could 
no  longer  be  mistaken — Reilly,  we  say,  was 
addressed  by  an  iuteUigent-looking  indi- 
vidual, with  some  portion  of  the  clerical 
costume  about  him. 

"  Alas  !  sir,"  said  he,  "  it  was  not  too  much 
learning,    but  too   miich   jjersecutiou,    tliat 


T2 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


has  made  him  mad.  That  and  the  ascetic 
habits  of  his  life  have  clouded  or  destroyed 
a  great  intellect  and  a  good  heart.  He  has 
eaten  only  one  spaiing  meal  a  day  during 
the  last  month  ;  and  though  sevei'e  and  self- 
denying  to  himself,  he  was,  until  the  last 
■week  or  so,  like  a  father,  and  an  indulgent 
one,  to  us  ixll." 

At  this  moment  the  pale,  mild-looking 
clergj'man,  to  whom  we  have  alluded,  went 
over  to  where  the  bishop  sat,  and  thi'owing 
himself  upon  his  bosom,  burst  into  tears. 
The  sorrow  indeed  became  infectious,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  there  were  not  many  dry 
eyes  around  him.  Father  Maguire,  who 
was  ignorant  of  the  progressive  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  him  since  his  last  visit  to 
the  cave,  now  wejit  like  a  child,  and  Eeilly 
himself  experienced  something  that  amount- 
ed to  remorse,  when  he  reflected  on  the  ir- 
reverent tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had  re- 
phed  to  him. 

The  jjaroxysm,  however,  ai3j)eared  to  have 
passed  away  ;  he  was  quite  feeble,  but  not 
properly  collected,  though  calm  and  quiet. 
After  a  Utile  time  he  requested  to  be  put  to 
bed.  And  this  leads  us  to  the  description 
of  another  portion  of  the  cave  to  which  we 
have  not  yet  referred.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  stalactite  apai'tment,  which  we  have 
ali-eady  described,  there  was  a  large  i^rojec- 
tion  of  rock,  which  nearly  divided  it  from 
the  other,  and  which  discharged  the  office 
of  a  wall,  or  partition,  between  the  two 
apartments.  Here  there  was  a  good  fii-e 
kept,  but  only  during  the  hours  of  night, 
inasmuch  as  the  smoke  which  issued  from 
a  rent  or  cleft  in  the  toj)  of  this  a23art- 
ment  would  have  discovered  them  by  day. 
Through  this  shgljt  chasm,  wliich  was  strictly 
concealed,  they  received  provisions,  water, 
and  fuel.  In  fact,  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
whole  cave  had  been  expressly  designed  for 
the  purjjose  to  which  it  was  then  ajjjslied, 
or,  at  least,  for  some  one  of  a  similar  nature. 

On  entering  this,  Eeilly  found  a  good  fire, 
on  which  was  jslaced  a  large  j)ot  with  a  mess 
in  it,  which  emitted  a  very  savory  odor. 
Ai'ound  the  sides,  or  walls  of  this  rock,  were 
at  least  a  score  of  heather  shake-down  beds, 
the  fragrance  of  which  was  dehcious.  Pots, 
pans,  and  other  simple  cuhnary  articles  wei-e 
there,  with  a  tolerable  stock  of  provisions, 
not  omitting  a  good-sized  keg  of  mountain 
dew,  wliieh  their  secluded  position,  the 
dampness  of  the  j)lace,  and  their  absence 
fi-om  free  air,  rendered  very  necessary  and 
gratifying. 

"Here  !  "  exclaimed  Father  Maguire,  after 
the  feeble  prelate  had  been  assisted  to  this 
i-wsess,  "here,  now,  put  his  lordshij)  to  bed  ; 
J  fefiVe  tossed  it  ujJ  for  liim  in  gi'eat  style  ! 


I  assure  you,  my  dear  friends,  it's  a  shake- 
down fit  for  a  prince  ! — and  better  than  most 
of  the  thieves  deseiTe.  T\T2at  bed  of  down 
ever  had  the  sweet  fi'agrance  this  flowery 
heather  sends  forth  ?  Here,  my  lord — easy, 
now — lay  him  down  gently,  just  as  a  mother 
would  her  sleeping  child — for,  indeed,  he  is 
a  child,"  he  whispered,  "  and  as  weak  as  a 
child  ;  but  a  sound  sleep  will  do  him  good, 
and  he'll  be  a  new  man  in  the  morning, 
jilease  God." 

Ujjon  this  rough,  but  wholesome  and 
aromatic  couch,  the  exhausted  prelate  was 
2)laced,  where  he  had  not  l^een  uiany  minutes 
until  he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep,  a  fact 
which  gratified  them  verj'  much,  for  they 
assured  Eeilly  and  the  priest  that  he  had 
slept  but  a  few  hours  each  night  during  the 
last  week,  and  that  such  slumber  as  he  did 
get  was  feverish  and  luiquiet. 

Oiu"  good-humored  fi'iend,  however,  was 
now  cordially  welcomed  by  these  unfortunate 
ecclesiastics,  for  such,  iu  fact,  the  majority 
of  them  were.  His  presence  seemed  to  them 
like  a  ray  of  hght  from  the  sun.  His  good 
humor,  Ms  excellent  spirits,  which  nothing 
could  rejiress,  and  his  droUery  kejjt  them 
alive,  and  nothing  was  so  much  regretted  by 
them  as  his  temporary  absences  fi'om  time  to 
time  ;  for,  in  truth,  he  was  their  messenger, 
theu'  steward,  and  their  newsman — in  fact, 
the  only  link  that  connected  them  with 
external  life,  and  the  ongoings  of  the  world 
abroad.  The  bed  in  which  the  bishop  now 
slept  was  in  a  distant  corner  of  this  inner 
apartment,  or  dormitory,  as  it  might  be 
termed,  because  the  situation  was  higher  and 
drier,  and  consec[uently  more  healthy,  as  a 
sleejjing-i^lace,  than  any  other  which  the  rude 
aj)artment  afforded.  The  fii'e  on  which  the 
lai'ge  p)ot  simmered  was  at  least  a  distance  of 
twenty-five  yards  fi'om  his  bed,  so  that  they 
could  indulge  iu  conversation  without  mucli 
risk  of  distui-bing  him. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Eeilly  and  hi.s 
fi-iend  Father  Maguire  felt,  by  this  time,  a 
tolerably  strong  relish  for  something  iu  the 
shape  of  sustenance — a  relish  which  was  ex- 
ceedingly shari^eued  by  the  savory  smeU  sent 
forth  throughout  the  aiJartmeut  by  the  con- 
tents of  whatsoever  was  contained  iu  the  im- 
mense pot. 

"  My  deal-  brethren,"  said  the  iiriest,  "  let 
us  consider  this  cavern  as  a  rich  monastery  ; 
such,  alas  !  as  existed  in  the  good  days  of  old, 
wheu  the  larder  and  refectory'  were  a  -credit 
to  religion  and  a  reUef  to  the  destitute,  but 
which,  alas  ! — and  alas  !  again — we  can  only 
think  of  as  a — in  the  meantime,  I  can  stand 
this  no  longer.  If  I  possess  judgment  or 
penetration  iu  re  culinaria,  I  am  of  opinion,' 
he   added    (stu'ring  up  the  contents  of  it), 


WILLY  REILLT. 


73 


"  that  it  is  fit  to  be  operated  on  ;  so,  in  God's 
name,  let  us  have  at  it." 

In  a  few  minutes  two  or  tlu-ee  immense 
pewter  dishes  were  heaped  ^\dth  a  stew  made 
uj?  of  mutton,  bacon,  hung  beef,  onions,  and 
potatoes,  forming  indeed  a  most  dehcious 
mess  for  any  man,  much  less  the  miserable 
men  who  were  making  it  disajDpear  so  rapid- 
ly- 

Eeillv,  the  very  jnctm-e  of  health,  after 
maintaining  a  pace  inferior  to  that  of  none, 
although  there  were  decidedly  some  handy 
workmen  there,  now  was  forced  to  jjull  uj) 
and  halt.  In  the  meantime  some  slow  but 
steady  operations  went  on  ^^ith  a  perseverance 
that  was  highly  creditable  ;  and  it  was  now 
that,  having  a  httle  agTeeable  leisure  to 
observe  and  look  about  him,  he  began  to 
examine  the  extraordinary  costumes  of  the 
ineongiiious  society  in  which,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, he  found  himseh  a  party.  We  must, 
however,  first  account  for  the  oddness  and 
ineongi-uity  of  the  apparent  chai-acters  which 
they  were  forced  to  assume. 

At  this  period  the  CathoUcs  of  Ireland  were 
indeed  frightfully  oppressed.  A  proclama- 
tion had  recently  been  issued  by  the  Govern- 
ment, who  dreaded,  or  j)retended  to  dread, 
an  insui'rection — by  which  document  con- 
vents and  monasteries  were  sujipressed — 
rewards  offered  for  the  detection  and  appre- 
hension of  ecclesiastics,  and  for  the  punish- 
ment of  such  humane  magistrates  as  were 
reluctant  to  enforce  laws  so  unsparing  and 
opi^ressive.  Increased  rewards  were  also 
ofiered  to  spies  and  informers,  with  whom 
the  country  unfortunately  al:)Ounded.  A 
general  disarming  of  all  Cathohes  took  jDlace  ; 
domiciliary  visits  were  made  in  quest  of 
bishops,  priests,  and  friars,  and  all  the  chapels 
in  the  country  were  shut  uj).  Many  of  the 
clergy  flew  to  the  metroiJoUs,  where  they 
imagined  they  might  be  more  safe,  and  a  vast 
number  to  caverns  and  mountains,  in  order 
to  avoid  the  common  danger,  and  esjjecially 
from  a  wholesome  terror  of  that  class  of  men 
called  i^riest-hiniters.  The  Cathohc  jjeasantry 
having  discovered  then-  clergy  iu  these  mid 
retreats,  flocked  to  them  on  Sundays  and 
festivals,  in  order  to  join  in  private — not 
j)ubHc — worshij},  and  to  partake  of  the  rites 
ixnd  sacraments  of  their'  Church. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  country  at  the 
period  when  the  imfortunate  men  whom  we 
are  about  to  describe  were  pent  up  in  this 
newly  discovered  cavern. 

Now,  Reilly  himself  was  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  all  this,  and  knew  very  well 
that  these  uuhapjiy  men,  ha\'ing  been  fi'e- 
quently  compelled  to  put  on  the  first  dis- 
guise that  came  to  hancl,  had  not  means,  nor 
indeed  disiJosition,  to  change  these  disguises. 


unless  at  the  risk  of  being  recognized,  taken 
into  custody,  and  sim-endered  to  the  mercv 
of  the  law. 

^\nien  their  savoiy  meal  was  concluded. 
Father  ^Xlaguirc,  who  never  forgot  any  duty 
connected  with  his  position — be  that  v/here 
it  might — now  went  over  to  the  lai'ge  pot, 
exclaiming : 

"  It  would  be  too  bad,  my  friends,  to  for- 
get the  creatures  here  that  have  been  so 
faithful  and  so  steady  to  us.  Poor  things,  I 
cotdd  see,  by  the  way  they  fixed  their  long- 
ing eyes  ujjon  us  while  we  were  doing  the 
handy-work  at  the  stew,  that  if  the  matter 
had  been  left  to  themselves,  not  a  sjjoon- 
ful  ever  went  into  our  mouths  but  thej'Vl 
have  ijractised  the  doctrine  of  tithe  upon. 
Come,  darUngs — here,  now,  is  a  little  race 
for  you — every  one  of  you  seize  a  spoon, 
keep  a  hosj^itable  mouth  and  a  supple  wrist. 
These  creatures,  ^Mi-.  Eerily,  are  so  many  ht- 
tle brands  plucked  out  of  the  burning.  They 
ai'e  the  children  of  parents  who  suft'ered  for 
their  faith,  and  were  brought  here  to  avoid 
being  put  into  these  new  traj^s  for  young 
Cathohes,  called  Charter  Schools,  into  which 
the  Government  ^\'ishes  to  hook  in  our  ris- 
ing generation,  under  pretence  of  sujoport- 
ing  and  educating  them  ;  but,  m  point  of 
fact,  to  alienate  them  from  the  aft'ection  of 
their  parents  and  relations,  and  to  train 
them  up  in  the  State  rehgion,  poor  things. 
At  all  events,  they  are  very  handy  to  us  here, 
for  they  shp  out  by  turns  and  bring  us  al- 
most every  thing  we  want — and  not  one  of 
them  ever  opened  his  Ups  as  to  the  exist- 
ence of  this  apelanca." 

The  meal  of  the  poor  things  was  abun- 
dant, but  they  soon  gave  over,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  tumbled  themselves  into  their 
heather  beds,  and  were  soon  sunk  in  their 
iimocent  slumbers. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  that  we  have  eaten  a 
better  meal  than  we  could  expect  in  this 
miserable  place,  thanks  to  the  kindness  of 
our  faitMul  flocks,  what  do  you  think  of  a 
sup  of  what's  in  the  keg  ?  Good  eating  de- 
serves a  drojj  of  mixture  after  it,  to  aid  in 
carrjdng  on  the  process  of  digestion  !  Father 
Hennessy,  what  are  you  at?"  he  exclaimed, 
addressing  an  exceedingly  ill-looking  man, 
with  hea^y  brows  and  a  sinister  aspect.  "  You 
forget,  sir,  that  the  management  of  the  keg 
is  my  duty,  whenever  I  am  here.  You  are 
the  only  person  here  who  violates  our  regula- 
tions in  that  rer,pect.  Walk  back  and  wait 
till  you  are  helped  like  another.  Do  you 
call  that  being  spu'itually  inclined '?  If  so, 
there  is  not  a  doubt  of  it  but  you  ought 
to  be  a  bishoj) ;  and  if  yovi  come  to  that,  I'll 
stake  my  credit  on  it  that  you'll  never  let 
much  wind  into  your  stomach  so  long  as  you 


74 


WILLIAM    CARLETOy\S  WORKS. 


can  get  jslentj'  of  the  solids  and  fluids  to 
keep  it  out." 

"  I'm  weak  in  the  stomach,"  rej)lied  Hen- 
nessy,  w-ith  a  sensual  gi'in,  "  and  requii-e  it." 

"  But  I  say,"  rephed  Fiither  Maguire, 
"  that  it  would  require  stronger  jwoof  than 
any  yoiu-  outward  man  jsresents  to  confii-m 
the  truth  of  that.  As  for  beaiiug  a  load 
either  of  the  liquids  or  solids  aforesaid,  I'll 
back  yoiu'  bit  of  abdomen  there  against  those 
of  any  three  of  us." 

Cuf)s  and  noggins,  and  an  indesci'ibable  va- 
riety of  small  vessels  that  were  never  designed 
for  diinkiug,  were  now  called  into  requisi- 
tion, and  a  modei-ate  portion  of  tlie  keg  was 
distributed  among  them.  EeiUy,  while  en- 
jo^^Tug  his  CU13,  which  as  well  as  the  others 
he  did  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction, 
could  not  help  bemg  amused  by  the  comical 
jjeculiarity  of  theu-  disguises. 

The  smister-looking  clergyman,  whom  we 
have  named  Heuuessy,  subsequently  became 
a  B^y  and  informer,  and,  we  may  add,  an 
enemy  equally  formidable  and  treacherous 
to  the  Catholics  of  the  time,  in  consequence 
of  having  been  deprived  of  his  clerical  func- 
tions by  his  bishop,  who  could  not  overlook 
his  immoral  and  irregular  conduct.  He  is 
mentioned  by  Matthew  O'Connor,  in  his  "  His- 
tory of  the  Irish  Catholics,"  and  consigned 
to  infamy  as  one  of  the  greatest  scourges, 
against  both  the  priesthood  and  the  people, 
that  ever  displaced  the  country.  But  it  must 
be  admitted  that  he  stands  out  in  dark  re- 
lief against  the  great  body  of  the  Cathohc 
priests  at  that  jaeriod,  whose  firmness,  jja- 
tience,  and  fidelity  to  their  trust,  places 
them  above  aU  praise  and  all  suspicion.  It  is, 
however,  very  reasonable,  that  men  so  hunted 
and  persecuted  should  be  forced,  not  only  in 
defence  of  their  own  lives  and  Uberties,  but  al- 
so for  the  sake  of  their  flocks,  to  assume  such 
costumes  as  might  most  efl'ectiially  disguise 
them,  so  that  they  would  be  able  stiU,  even 
in  secret  and  by  stealth,  to  administer  the 
rites  of  their  religion  to  the  poor  and  neg- 
lected of  their  own  creed.  Some  were 
di'essed  in  common  frieze,  some  in  servants' 
cast-ofl'  liveries — however  they  came  by 
them — and  not  a  few  in  military  uniform, 
that  served,  as  it  were,  to  mark  them  staunch 
suijporters  of  the  very  Government  that 
persecuted  them.  A  reverend  archdeacon, 
somewhat  comely  and  corj^ulcnt,  had,  by 
some  means  or  other,  pi'ocured  the  garb  of 
a  recruiting  sergeant,  which  fitted  him  so 
admirabl_y  that  the  illusion  was  coinijlete  ; 
and,  what  bore  it  out  still  more  forcibly,  was 
tlio  presence  of  a  smart-looking  little  friar, 
v.hn  kept  the  sergeant  in  countenance  iu  the 
iiuifonu  of  a  drummer.  JIass  was  celebrat- 
ed every  day,  hymns  were  sung,  and  prayers 


offered  uj)  to  the  Ahnighty,  that  it  mighi 
please  him  to  check  the  flood  of  jiersecution 
which  hatl  overwhehned  or  scattered  them. 
Still,  in  the  inten'als  of  devotion,  they  in- 
dulged in  that  reasonable  cheerfulness  and 
harmless  mu-th  which  were  necessary  to  sup- 
port theii-  spirits,  dej)ressed  as  they  must 
have  been  by  this  di-eadful  and  melancholy 
confinement — a  confinement  where  neither 
the  light  of  the  blessed  sun,  nor  the  fresh 
breezes  of  heaven,  nor  the  air  Ave  breathe, 
in  its  usual  piirity,  could  reach  them.  Sii 
Thomas  More  and  Sir  'Walter  Ealeigh, 
however,  were  cheerful  on  the  scaft'old  ;  and 
even  here,  as  we  have  already  said,  many  a 
rustic  tale  and  legend,  peculiar  to  those 
times,  went  jDleasautly  around  ;  many  a  the- 
ological debate  took  place,  and  many  a  thesis 
was  discussed,  iu  order  to  enable  the  un- 
happy men  to  j)ass  away  the  tedious  monotony 
of  theu'  imjjrisonment  in  this  strange  lurk- 
ing-place. The  only  man  who  kept  aloof  and 
took  no  part  in  these  amusing  recreations 
was  Hennessy,  who  seemed  moody  and  sul- 
len, but  who,  nevertheless,  was  frequently 
detected  in  making  stolen  visits  to  the  barrel. 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  however,  the 
sight  was  a  melancholy  one  ;  and  whatever 
disjjosition  EeUly  felt  to  smile  at  what  he 
saw  and  heard  was  instantly  changed  on 
perceiving  their  unaffected  i^iety,  which  wag 
evident  by  their  manner,  and  a  iiide  altar  in 
a  remote  end  of  the  cave,  which  was  laid  out 
night  and  day  for  the  purpose  of  celebrating 
the  ceremonies  and  mysteries  of  their 
Church.  Before  he  went  to  his  couch  of 
heather,  however,  he  ciilled  Father  Magniiie 
aside,  and  thus  addressed  him  : 

"I  have  been  a  good  deal  struck  to-night, 
my  fi-ieud,  by  all  that  I  have  witnessed  in 
tins  singular  retreat.  The  poor  prelate  I 
pity  ;  and  I  regret  I  did  not  understand  him 
sooner.     His  mind,  I  fear,  is  gone." 

"  Why,  I  didn't  vmderstand  him  myself," 
rejjhed  the  priest ;  "  because  this  was  the 
first  symptom  he  has  shown  of  any  derange- 
ment in  his  intellect,  otherwise  I  would  no 
more  have  contradicted  him  than  I  would 
have  cut  my  left  hand  oil." 

"There  is,  however,  a  man — a  clergj'man 
here,  called  Hennessy  ;  who  is  he,  and  what 

[  has  been  his  life  ?  " 

t  "  Why,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  have  heard 
nothing  to  his  disadvantage.  He  is  a  quiet, 
and,  it  is  said,  a  j)ious  man — and  I  think  he 
is  too.     He   is  natm-aUy  silent,  and  seldom 

I  takes  any  pai-t  in  oui'  conversation.  He  says, 
however,  that  his  conoealment  here  beai-s 
hard  upon  him,  and  is  depressing  his  spirits 
every  day  more  and  more.  The  only  thing 
I  ever  could  obsen'e  in  him  is  what  you  saw 
yourself  to-night  —  a  slight  relisli  for  an  ao 


WILLY  REILLT. 


75 


quaintance  with  the  barrel.  He  sometimes 
if  rains  a  drojJ — indeed,  sometimes  too  much— 
1  "lit  of  it,  when  he  gets  our  backs  turned  ;  but 
then  he  pleads  low  sphits  three  or  four  times 
a  day — indeed,  so  often  that,  upon  my  word, 
he'll  soon  have  the  barrel  pleading  the  same 
complaint." 

"Well,"  replied  Reilly,  after  hstening 
attentively  to  him,  "  I  desire  you  and  your 
fi'iends  to  watch  that  man  closely.  I  know 
something  about  liiin  ;  and  I  tell  you  that  if 
ever  the  laws  become  more  lenient,  the  mo- 
ment this  man  makes  his  appeai'ance  his 
bishop  ■ndll  deprive  him  of  all  spiritual  juris- 
diction for  Ufe.  Mark  me  now,  Father 
Maguire  ;  if  he  jjleads  any  necessity  for 
leaving  this  retreat  and  going  abroad  again 
into  the  world,  don't  let  a  single  individual 
of  you  remain  here  one  hour  after  him. 
Pro\ide  for  your  safety  and  joiu-  shelter 
elsewhere  as  well  as  you  can  ;  if  not,  the 
worst  consequences  may — nay,  will  follow." 

The  priest  promised  to  commmiicate  this 
intflligence  to  his  companions,  one  by  one, 
after  wliieh,  both  he  and  Reilly,  feeling 
fatigued  and  exhausted  by  what  they  had 
undergone  in  the  course  of  the  night,  threw 
themselves  each  upon  his  couch  of  heather, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  not  only  they,  but  all 
their  companions,  were  sunk  in  deep  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Squire's  Dinner  and  7iis  Ouests. 

We  now  retiu'n  to  Cooleen  Bawn,  who, 
after  her  separation  fi'om  Reilly,  retired  to 
her  own  room,  where  she  indulged  in  a 
paroxysm  of  deejj  grief,  in  consequence  of 
her  apprehension  that  she  might  never  see 
him  again.  She  also  calculated  ujjon  the 
certainty  of  being  obliged  to  sustain  a 
domestic  warfare  with  her  father,  as  the 
result  of  ha\Tng  made  him  the  confidant  of 
her  love.  In  this,  however,  she  was  agreeably 
disajjpointed  ;  for,  on  meeting  him  the  next 
morning,  at  breakfast,  she  was  a  good  deal 
siu-prised  to  observe  that  he  made  no  allu- 
sion whatsoever  to  the  circumstance — if,  in- 
deed, an  occasional  muttering  of  some  uuin- 
teUigible  words,  mtto  voce,  might  not  be 
supijosed  to  allude  to  it.  The  truth  was, 
the  old  man  found  the  i^romise  he  had  made 
to  Sir  Robert  one  of  such  difficulty  to  his 
testy  and  violent  disj)osition,  tliat  his  lan- 
guage, and  the  restraint  which  he  felt  him- 
self under  the  necessity  of  putting  on  it, 
rendered  his  conversation  rather  ludicrous. 

"Well,  Helen,"  he  said,  on  enteiing  the 
breakfast-parlor,    "how   did    you   rest  last 


uight,  my  love?  Rested  sound — eh?  But 
you  look  rather  pale,  dai'ling.  (Hang  the 
rascal !)  " 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  slept  as  well  as  usual, 
sir.     I  felt  headache." 

"  Ay,  headache — was  it  ?  (heartache,  rather. 
The  villain.)  Well  come,  let  me  have  a  cup 
of  tea  and  a  mouthful  of  that  toast." 

"  Will  you  not  have  some  chicken,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear — no  ;  just  what  I  said — a 
mouthful  of  toast,  and  a  euj)  of  tea,  with 
plenty  of  cream  in  it.  Thank  you,  love.  (A 
good  swing  for  him  will  be  delightful.  I'U 
go  to  see  it.)  Helen,  my  dear,  I'm  going  to 
give  a  diunei'-party  next  week.  Of  course 
we'll  have  yoiu-  future — hem — I  mean  we'll 
have  Sir  Robert,  and — let  me  see — who  else  ? 
Why,  Oxley,  the  sheriff.  Mi-.  Brown,  the 
parson — I  wish  he  didn't  lean  so  mufli  to  the 
cursed  Pajjists,  though — Mr.  Hastings,  who 
is  tarred  with  the  same  stick,  it  is  whispered. 
Well,  who  next  ?  Lord  Deilmacare,  a  good- 
natiu'ed  jackass — a  fellow  who  would  eat  a 
jacketful  of  cai-rion,  if  jJaced  before  him, 
with  as  much  gout  as  if  it  were  venison.  He 
went  home  one  night,  out  of  this,  with  the 
parson's  outside  coat  and  shovel  hat  upon 
him,  and  did  not  retiu'n  them  for  two  days;." 

"  Does  this  habit  proceed  from  stuj)idity, 
papa  ? " 

"Not  at  all ;  but  fi-om  mere  carelessness. 
The  next  two  days  he  was  out  with  his 
laborers,  and  if  a  cow  or  j^ig  chanced — (the 
viUaui !  we'U  hang  him  to  a  certainty) — • 
chanced,  I  say,  to  stray  into  the  field,  he 
would  shy  the  shovel  hat  at  them,  without 
remorse.  Oh  !  we  must  have  him,  by  all 
means.  But  who  next  ?  Su-  Jenkins  Joram. 
Give  him  plenty  to  drmk,  and  he  is  satis- 
fied." 

"But  what  are  his  jjohtical  principles, 
papa  ?  " 

"They  ai-e  to  be  found  in  the  bottle, 
Helen,  which  is  the  only  creed,  political  oi 
rehgious,  to  which  I  ever  knew  him  to  be 
attached  ;  and  I  tell  you,  girl,  that  if  every 
Protestant  in  Ireland  were  as  deeply  devoted 
to  his  Church  as  he  is  to  the  bottle,  we  would 
soon  be  a  hapjjy  peojile,  uncoiTupted  by 
treacherous  scoundrels,  who  jjrivately  harbor 
Papists  and  foster  Popery  itself.  (The  in- 
fernal scoundrel.) " 

"  But,  pajja,"  re23lied  his  daughter,  with  a 
melancholy  smQe,  "  I  think  I  know  some 
persons,  who,  although  very  loud  and  vehe- 
ment in  then'  outcry  against  Pojsery,  have, 
nevertheless,  on  more  than  one  or  two  oc- 
casions, harljored  Papists  in  theu*  house,  and 
concealed  even  priests,  when  the  minions  of 
the  law  were  in  search  of  them." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  of  this  cursed  crew  of  hol- 
low Protestants  that  I  now  speak — ahem-  —ay 


re 


WILLIAM  CARLETON-'S  WORKS. 


— ha—  well,  what  the  devil — hem.  To  be 
sure  I — I — I — but  it  doesn't  signify  ;  we 
can't  be  wise  at  all  times.  But  after  all, 
Helen  (she  has  me  there),  after  all,  I  say, 
there  are  some  good  Pajjists,  and  some  good 
— ahem — priests,  too.  There  now,  I've  got 
it  out.  However,  Helen,  those  foolish  days 
axe  gone,  and  we  have  notliiug  for  it  now 
but  to  hunt  Poijery  out  of  the  country.  But 
to  jjroceed  as  to  the  dinner." 

"I  think  Pojiery  is  suffering  enough,  sir, 
and  more  than  enough." 

"Ho,  ho,"  he  exclaimed  with  triumph, 
"here  comes  the  next  on  my  list — a  tine  fel- 
low, who  %\-ill  touch  it  up  still  more  vigor-, 
ously — I  mean  Captain  Smellpriest." 

"  I  have  heard  of  that  inhuman  man,"  re- 
pUed  Helen  ;  "  Iwish  you  would  not  ask  him, 
papa.  J  am  told  he  equals  Sir  Robert  ^^liite- 
craft  in  both  cowardice  and  cruelty.  Is  not 
that  a  nickname  he  has  got  in  consequence 
of  his  activity  in  pursuit  of  the  iiufortunate 
priests  ?  " 

"It's  a  nickname  he  has  given  himself,"  re- 
pHed  her  father;  "and  he  has  become  so 
in-oud  of  it  that  he  will  allow  himself  to  be 
called  by  no  other.  He  swears  that  if  a  priest 
.i^ets  on  the  windy  side  of  him,  he  will  scent 
'jim  as  a  hound  would  a  fox.  Oh  !  by  my 
aonor,  Smellpriest  must  be  here.  The  scoun- 
drel hke  AMiitecraft ! — eh — what  am  I  saying? 
Smelljiiiest,  I  sa\',  first  began  his  career  as  a 
friend  to  the  Pajiists  ;  he  took  large  tracts  of 
(and  in  their  name,  and  even  piu'chased  a 
couple  of  estates  with  their  money  ;  and  in 
due  time,  according  as  the  tide  continued  to 
get  strong  against  them,  he  thought  the  best 
plan  to  cover  his  villany — ahem — his  iJolicy, 
I  mean — was  to  oome  out  as  a  tierce  loyaUst ; 
and  as  a  mark  of  his  repentance,  he  claimed 
the  jsroperty,  as  the  real  jnu'chaser,  and  ar- 
i-ested  those  who  were  fools  enough  to  trust 
him." 

"I  think  I  know  another  gentleman  of  my 
acquaintance  who  holds  property  in  some 
similar  ti-ust  for  Pajjists,"  obsened  Helen, 
"  but  who  certainly  is  incapable  of  imitating 
the  villany  of  that  most  unprincii^led  man." 

"  Come,  come,  Helen  ;  come,  my  girl  ;  tiit 
— ahem  ;  come,  you  are  getting  into  jjolitics 
now,  and  that  ■nill  never  do.  A  girl  like  you 
ought  to  have  nothing  to  do  ■uith  politics  or 
rehgion." 

"  Religion  !  papa." 

"  Oh — hem — I  don't  mean  exactly  that. 
Oh,  no  ;  I  except  rehgion  ;  a  girl  may  be  as 
religious  as  she  pleases,  only  she  must  say  as 
little  upon  the  subject  as  jiossible.  Come, 
another  cup  of  tea,  with  a  little  more  sugar, 
lor,  I  give  you  my  honor,  you  did  not  make 
the  last  one  of  the  sweetest ;  "  and  so  say- 
ing,  he  i)ut  over  his  cup  Avith  a  grimace, 


which  resembled  that  of  a  man  detected  in 
a  bad  action,  instead  of  a  good  one. 

At  this  moment  John,  the  butler,  came  in 
with  a  plate  of  hot  toast  ;  and,  as  he  was  a 
privileged  old  man,  he  addressed  his  master 
without  much  hesitation. 

"  That  was  a  c[uare  business,"  he  observed, 
using  the  word  quare  as  an  equivocal  one, 
until  he  should  see  what  views  of  the  circum- 
stance his  master  might  take  ;  "  a  quare  busi- 
ness, BU-,  that  haj)peued  to  ^Ir.  EeiUy." 

"  What  business  do  yoii  allude  to,  you  old 
sinner  ?  " 

"  The  biu'ning  of  his  house  and  place,  su'. 
All  he  has,  or  had,  is  in  a  heaj)  of  ashes." 

Helen  felt  not  for  the  burning,  but  her 
eyes  were  fixed  ujjon  the  features  of  the  ol<l 
man,  as  if  the  doom  of  her  life  dejjended  on 
his  words  ;  whilst  the  paj^er  on  which  we 
write  is  not  whiter  than  were  her  cheeks. 

"  ^^'llat — what — how  was  it?"  asked  his 
master;  "who  did  it? — and  by  whose  au- 
thority was  it  done  ?  " 

"  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  and  his  men  did 
it,  sti\" 

"  Ay,  but  I  can't  conceive  he  had  any  au 
thority  for  such  an  act." 

"  Wasn't  Mr.  Reilly  an  outlaw,  sir  ?  Didn't 
the  Red  Rapjiaree,  who  is  now  a  good  Protest- 
ant, swear  insiu-rection  against  him  ?  " 

"The  red  deAil,  sirra,"  rephed  the  old 
squire,  forgetting  his  animosity  to  ReiUy  in 
the  atrocity  and  oppression  of  the  deed — 
"  the  red  devil,  sirra  !  would  that  justify-  such 
a  cowardly  scoundrel  as  Su-  Rob — eh  ? — ugh 
— ugh — ugh — that  went  against  luy  breath, 
Helen.  Well,  come  here,  I  say,  you  old  sin- 
ner ;  they  burned  the  jjlace,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Sir  Robert  and  his  men  did,  sir." 

"I'm  not  doubting  that,  you  old  house- 
leek.  I  know  Sir  Robert  too  well — I  know 
the  infernal — ahem ;  a  most  excellent  loyal 
gentleman,  with  two  or  three  fine  estates, 
both  here  and  in  England  ;  but  he  prefers 
living  here,  for  reasons  liest  known  to  him- 
self and  me,  and — and  to  somebody  else. 
Well,  they  burned  ReiUy  out — but  tell  me 
this  ;  did  they  catch  the  rascal  himself  ?  eh  ? 
here's  five  poinids  for  you,  if  you  can  say  they 
have  him  safe." 

"  That's  rather  a  loose  bai'gain,  youi-  honor," 
rephed  the  man  with  a  smile  ;  "  for  sajing 
it  ? — whv,  what's  to  jirevent  me  from  sajing 
it,  if  I  washed  ?  " 

"  None  of  your  munqiing,  you  old  snap- 
dragon ;  but  tell  me  the  tiaith,  have  they  se- 
cured him  hai'd  and  fast  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  he  escaped  them,  and  as  rej^ort 
goes  they  know  uothuig  about  him,  excej^t 
that  they  haven't  got  him." 

Deeii  and  speechless  was  the  agony  in 
whi(  h  Helen  sat  during  this  short  clialogue 


TF/ZZF  REILLT. 


77 


her  eyes  having  never  once  been  withcli-awn 
from  the  butler's  conutenanee  ;  but  now  that 
she  had  heard  of  her  lover's  personal  safety, 
a  thick,  smothered  sob,  which,  if  it  were  to 
kill  her,  she  could  not  re23ress,  burst  fi'om 
lier  bosom.  Un\\dUing  that  either  her  father 
or  the  servant  should  •fitness  the  ecstasy 
which  she  could  not  conceal,  and  feehng  that 
another  minute  would  disclose  the  dehght 
which  convulsed  her  heart  and  fi-ame,  she 
arose,  and,  with  as  much  composure  as  she 
could  assume,  went  slowly  out  of  the  room. 
On  entering  her  apartment,  she  signed  to  her 
maid  to  'withdraw,  after  which  she  closed 
and  bolted  the  door,  and  wej^t  bitterly.  The 
poor  girl's  emotion,  in  fact,  was  of  a  twofold 
character  ;  she  wejst  ^\'ith  joy  at  Keilly's  es- 
cajje  from  the  hands  of  his  cruel  and  relent- 
less enemy,  and  with  bitter  grief  at  the  im- 
possibility which  she  thought  there  existed 
that  he  should  ultimately  be  able  to  keep 
out  of  the  meshes  which  she  knew  'White- 
craft  would  spread  for  him.  The  tears,  how- 
ever, which  she  shed  abundantly,  in  due 
time  relieved  her,  and  in  the  coiu'se  of  an 
hour  or  two  she  was  able  to  appear  as  usual 
in  the  family. 

The  reader  may  perceive  that  her  father, 
though  of  an  abrupt  and  c_>Tiical  temper,  was 
uot  a  man  naturaUj'  of  a  bad  or  unfeehng 
heart.  Whatever  mood  of  temjser  chanced 
to  be  upjjermost  influenced  him  for  the  time  ; 
and  indeed  it  might  be  said  that  one  half  of 
his  feelings  were  usually  in  a  state  of  conflict 
with  the  other.  In  matters  of  business  he 
was  the  very  soul  of  integrity  and  honor,  but 
in  his  views  of  pubUc  affairs  he  was  uncertain 
and  inconsistent ;  and  of  course  his  whole 
life,  as  a  magistrate  and  public  man,  was  a 
perpetual  series  of  contradictions.  The  con-  i 
sequence  of  iill  this  was,  that  he  jjossessed 
but  smaU  influence,  as  arising  from  his  per-  I 
sonal  character  ;  but  not  so  fi'om  his  immense 
projjerty,  as  well  as  from  the  fact  that  he  was 
father  to  the  wealthiest  and  most  beautifid 
heiress  in  the  pro^dnce,  or  perhaps,  so  ii\x  as 
beauty  was  concerned,  in  tie  kingdom  itself. 

At  length  the  day  mentioned  for  the  din- 
ner arrived,  and,  at  the  ajjpointed  hour,  so 
also  did  the  guests.     There  were  some  ladies 
asked  to  keep  Helen  in  countenance,  but  we 
need  scarcely  say,  that  as  the  list  of  them  ! 
was  made  out  1>}'  her  thoughtless  father,  he  i 
jjaii]   in  the  selection  of  some  of  them,  very 
little  attention  to  her  feelings.     There  was  i 
the  sherift',  Mr.  O.dey,  and  his  lady — the  lat-  \ 
ter  a  compound  in  whom  it  was   difficnlt  to  I 
determine  whether  pride, vulgarity,  (n-  oljesity 
prevailed.     Wliere  the  sherift'  had  made  his 
captui'e  of  her  was  never  propei'ly  knowii,  as 
neither  of  them  belonged  originally  to  that 
neighborhood  in  which  he  had,  several  years  1 


ago,  jjurchased  large  property.  It  was  said 
he  had  got  her  in  London  ;  and  nothing  was 
more  certain  than  that  she  issued  forth  the 
English  language  clothed  in  an  inveterate 
cockney  accent.  She  was  a  high  moralist, 
and  a  mei'ciless  castigator  of  all  females  who 
manifested,  or  who  were  su]3posed  to  mani- 
fest, even  a  tendency  to  Wiilk  out  of  the  line 
of  her  own  peculiar  theory  on  female  conduct. 
Her  weight  might  be  about  eighteen  stone, 
exclusive  of  an  additional  stone  of  gold  chains 
and  bracelets,  in  which  she  moved  like  a 
walking  gibbet,  only  with  the  felon  in  it ; 
and  to  crown  all,  she  wore  on  her  mountainous 
bosom  a  cameo  nearly  the  size  of  a  fiying- 
pan.  Sir  Jenkins  Joram,  who  took  her  down 
to  dinner,  declared,  on  feeling  the  size  of  the 
bracelets  which  encircled  her  wrists,  that  he 
labored  for  a  short  time  under  the  impression 
that  he  and  she  were  literally  handcufted  to- 
gether ;  an  imjjression,  he  added,  fi'om  which 
he  was  soon  reheved  by  the  consoling  re- 
flection that  it  was  the  sheriff  liimseK  whom 
the  clergyman  had  sentenced  to  stand  in  that 
jjleasant  predicament.  Of  Mrs.  Brown  and 
Mrs.  Hastings  we  have  only  to  .say  that  they 
were  modest,  sensible,  imassuming  women, 
without  either  parade  or  jiretence,  such,  in 
fact,  as  you  ■will  generally  meet  among  oui 
well-bred  and  educated  countrj'Avomen.  Lord 
Deilmacare  was  a  widower,  without  family, 
and  not  a  marrying  man.  Indeed,,  when 
pressed  upon  this  subject,  he  was  never 
known  to  de^date  from  the  one  reply. 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  again,  my  lord  ? — 
will  you  ever  marry  ?  " 

"  No,  madam,  I  got  enough  of  it,"  a  reply 
which,  somehow,  generally  checked  any 
further  inquiry  on  the  subject.  Between 
Lady  Joram  and  Mrs.  Smellpriest  there  sub- 
sisted a  singular  analog}'  with  res23ect  to  their 
conjugal  attachments.  It  was  hinted  that 
her  ladyship,  in  those  secret  but  deliciouo 
moments  ot  matrimonial  felicity  whicli  make 
up  the  sugar-candy  morsels  of  domestic  life, 
used  to  sit  with  Sir  Jenkins  for  the  purpose, 
by  judicious  exercise,  of  easmg,  by  con\dvial 
exercise,  a  rheumatic  aft'ection  which  she 
complained  of  in  her  right  arm.  There  is 
nothing,  however,  so  delightful  as  a  genera] 
and  loving  symj)athy  between  husband  and 
wife ;  and  here  it  was  said  to  exist  in  per- 
fection. Mrs.  Smellpriest,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  said  to  have  been  ec]ually  attaclied  to  the 
poUtical  principles  of  the  noble  captain,  and 
to  wonder  whj'  any  clergyman  should  be 
suffered  to  live  in  the  country  but  those  of 
her  own  Church  ;  such  delightful  men,  foi 
instance,  as  their*  curate,  the  Rev.  Samson 
Strong,  who  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  divine  bonfire  in  the  eyes  of  the  Christian 
world.     Such  was  his  zeal  against  Papists, 


78 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


she  said,  as  well  ais  against  Popery  at  large, 
that  she  never  looked  on  him  without  think- 
ing that  there  was  a  jjriest  to  be  burned. 
Indeed  Captain  Smellpriest,  she  added,  was 
under  great  obligations  to  him,  for  no  sooner 
had  his  reverence  heai'd  of  a  priest  taking 
earth  in  the  neighborhood,  than  he  lost  no 
time  m  communicating  the  fact  to  her  hus- 
band ;  after  which  he  would  kindly  sit  with 
and  comfort  her  whilst  fretting  lest  any  mis- 
chief might  befiill  her  dear  caijtain. 

The  dinner  jjassed  as  all  dinners  usually 
do.  They  hobnobbed,  of  coiu'se,  and  in- 
dulged in  that  kind  of  j)romiseuous  conver- 
sation which  cannot  well  be  rejiorted.  From 
a  feeling  of  resjaect  to  Helen,  no  alliision  was 
made  either  to  the  biu-niag  of  Eeilly's 
proijerty  or  to  Eeilly  i^ersonally.  The  only 
person  who  had  any  difficulty  in  avoiding  the 
subject  was  the  old  squire  himself,  who  more 
than  once  foiuid  the  topic  upon  his  Hps,  but 
with  a  kind  of  short  cough  he  gulped  it  dowu, 
and  got  rid  of  it  for  the  time.  In  what  man- 
ner he  might  treat  the  act  itself  was  a  matter 
which  excited  a  good  deal  of  speculation  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  were  jjresent.  He 
was  known  to  be  a  man  who,  if  the  whim 
seized  him  to  look  upon  it  as  a  cowardly  and 
vindictive  proceeding,  would  by  no  means 
scnijDle  to  express  his  ojsinions  strongly 
against  it ;  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he 
measured  it  in  connection  with  his  daughter's 
forbidden  attachment  to  EeiUj',  he  would,  of 
course,  as  vehemently  express  his  aj^i^roba- 
tion  of  the  outrage.  Indeed,  they  were  in- 
duced to  conclude  that  this  latter  view  of  it 
was  that  which  he  was  most  Ukely  to  take,  in 
consequence  of  the  following  jDrojJosal,  which, 
from  any  other  man,  would  have  been  an' 
extraordinaiT  one  : 

"  Ccme,  ladies,  before  you  leave  us  we 
must  have  one  toast ;  and  I  shall  give  it  in 
order  to  ascertain  whether  we  have  any  fair 
traitresses  among  us,  or  any  who  ai'e  secretly 
attached  to  Popery  or  Papists." 

The  23roposal  was  a  citiel  one,  but  the  squu'e 
was  so  utterly  destitute  of  consideration  or 
delicacy  of  feeHng  that  we  do  not  think  he 
ever  once  reflected  ujjon  the  jjainful  position 
in  wMch  it  placed  his  daughter. 

"  Come,"  he  proceeded,  "  here  is  jn-osperity 
to  Captain  Smellpriest  and  priest-himting ! "  * 


•  We  have  been  charged  by  an  able  and  accom- 
plished writer  with  an  incapacity  of  describing,  mth 
truth,  any  state  of  Irish  society  above  that  of  our 
peasantry ;  and  the  toast  proposed  by  the  eccentric 
old  squire  is,  we  presume,  the  chief  ground  upon 
which  this  charge  is  rested.  We  are,  however,  just 
;i8  well  aware  .as  our  critic,  that  to  propose  toasts 
before  the  female  portion  of  the  company  le.ave  the 
dinner-table,  is  altogether  at  variance  with  the 
usages  of  polite  society.  But  we  really  thought  we 
bad  guarded  our  readers  against  any  such  inference 


"  As  a  Christian  minister,"  rej)hed  Mr. 
Brown,  "and  an  enemy  to  persecution  in 
every  sense,  but  especially  to  that  which 
would  punish  any  man  for  the  gi-eat  principle 
which  we  ourselves  claim — the  rights  of  con- 
science— I  decUne  to  diink  the  toast ; "  and 
he  turned  down  his  glass. 

"And  I,"  said  ]\Ir.  Hastings,  "as  a  Protes- 
tant and  a  Christian,  refuse  it  on  the  same 
principles ; "  and  he  also  tui-ned  down  his 
glass. 

"  But  you  forget,  gentlemen,"  proceeded 
the  sc[uii-e,  "that  I  addressed  myself  princi- 
pally to  the  ladies." 

"But  you  know,  su-,"  repUed  Mrs.  Brown, 
with  a  smile,  "  that  it  is  quite  unvisual  and 
out  of  chai'acter  for  ladies  to  diink  toasts  at 
all,  esjJeciaUy  those  which  involve  reUgious 
or  political  opinions.  These,  I  am  siu-e,  you 
know  too  well,  Mi".  Folliard,  are  matters  with 
which  ladies  have,  and  ought  to  have,  nothing 
to  do.  I  also,  therefore,  on  behalf  of  our  sex, 
dechne  to  drink  the  toast ;  and  I  trust  that 
everj'  lady  who  respects  herself  will  turn 
down  her  glass  as  I  do." 

Mi-s.  Hastings  and  Helen  immediately  fol- 
lowed her  examjjle,  whilst  at  the  same  time 
poor  Helen's  cheeks  and  neck  were  scai-let. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  good- 
humoredly,  "  that  the  sex — at  least  one-half 
of  them — are  against  you." 

"  That's  because  they're  Papists  at  heart," 
replied  the  squire,  laughing. 

Helen  felt  eased  at  seeing  her  father's 
good  humor,  fpr  she  now  knew  that  the  pro- 
posal of  the  toast  was  but  a  jest,  and  did 
not  aim  at  any  thing  calculated  to  disti'ess 
her  feelings. 

"  But,  in  the  meantime,"  jn'oceeded  the 
squii'e,  "  I  am  not  without  support.  Here 
is  Lady  Joram  and  Mi's.  Smellpriest  and 
Mi-s.  Oxley — and  they  are  a  host  in  them- 
selves— each  of  them  wdhug  and  ready  to 
support  me." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Lady  Joram,  "why  a 
lady,  any  more  than  a  gentleman,  should  re- 
fuse to  drink  a  jft-oper  toast  as  this  is  ;  Su" 
Jenkins  has  not  tm-ned  do-mi  his  glass,  and 
neither  shall  I.  Come,  then.  Mi-.  FolUard, 
l^lease  to  fill  mine  ;  I  shall  di-ink  it  in  a 
bumper." 

"  And  I,"  said  Mi'S.  Oxley,  "  always  drinks 
my  'usband's  i^rinciples.  In  Lunnon,  where 
true  'igh  Ufe  is,  ladies  don't  refuse  to  drink 
toasts.  I  know  that  fejiher,  both  before 
and  after  his  removal  to  Lunnon,  used  to 
make  us  all  di-ink  the  '  'Aixl  wai-e  of  Old 

of  our  own  ignorance  by  the  character  which  we  had 
drawn  of  the  squire,  as  well  as  by  the  words  with 
which  the  toast  isintroduced — where  we  said,  ' '  from 
any  other  m.an  would  have  been  an  extraordin.ary 
one."     I  may  also  refer  to  Mrs.  Brown's  reply. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


79 


Hiugland  ' — by  witch,"  she  jjroceeded,  cor- 
recting herself  by  a  repro\diig  glance  from 
the  sheiili' — "  by  witch  he  meant  what  he 
called  the  glorious  sinews  of  the  countiT  at 
lai-ge,  lest^^^se  iu  the  maniifactiuing  districts. 
But  upon  a  subject  Kke  this " — and  she 
looked  with  something  hke  disdain  at  those 
who  had  turned  down  their  glasses — "  every 
lady  as  is  a  lady  ought  to  'ave  no  olijection 
to  iiexplaia  her  piinciples  by  drinking  the 
toast ;  but  p'rajis  it  ain't  fail'  to  iM'ess  it  upon 
some  of  'em." 

"Well,  then,"  proceeded  the  sqiiii'e,  with 
a  laugh  that  seemed  to  have  more  than  mirth 
in  it,  "  are  aU  the  loyal  subjects  of  the  crown 
ready  ?  Lord  Deihnacare,  your  glass  is  not 
filled  ;  won't  you  drink  it  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  his  lordship;  "I 
have  no  hatred  agaiust  Papists  ;  I  get  my 
rent  by  theii-  labor  ;  but  I  never  wish  to 
spoil  sport — get  along — I'U  do  anything." 

With  the  exceptions  ah-eady  mentioned, 
the  toast  was  di'auk  immediately,  after  which 
the  ladies  retii-ed  to  the  drawing-room. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  squii-e,  "fill 
your  glasses,  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves. 
You  have  a  right  to  be  jjroud  of  your  wife, 
Mr.  Sherifl^  and  you  too,  Sir  Jenkins — for, 
upon  my  soul,  if  it  had  been  his  ^Majesty's 
health,  her  ladyshij)  couldn't  have  honored 
it  with  a  fuller  bumper.  And,  SmeUjsriest, 
your  ■n'ife  did  the  tiling  handsomely  as  weU. 
as  the  rest.  Upon  my  soul,  you  ought  to 
be  happy  men,  with  tlu-ee  women  so  deeply 
imbued  with  the  true  sjsirit  of  oiu'  glorious 
Constitution." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  FoUiard,"  said  Smellpriest, 
"  you  don't  know  the  value  of  that  woman. 
When  I  return,  for  instance,  after  a  hunt, 
the  first  question  she  puts  to  me  is — WeU, 
my  love,  how  many  jJriests  did  you  catch  to- 
day ?  And  out  comes  Mi'.  Strong  with  the 
same  question.  Strong,  however,  between 
oiu'selves,  is  a  goose  ;  he  wOl  beheve  any 
thing,  and  often  sends  me  upon  a  cold  trail. 
Now,  I  jiledge  jou  mj-  honor,  gentlemen, 
that  this  man,  who  is  all  zeal,  has  sent  me 
out  dozens  of  times,  with  the  strictest  in- 
structions as  to  where  I'd  catch  my  priest ; 
but,  hang  me,  if  ever  I  caught  a  single  priest 
upon  his  insti-uctions  yet !  stUl,  although 
unfortunate  in  this  kind  of  sport,  his  heart 
is  in  the  right  jslace.  '^liitecraft,  my  worthy 
brother  sportsman,  how  does  it  hapjjen  that 
Reilly  continues  to  escape  j'ou '?  " 

"  \\Tiy  does  he  continue  to  escape  yoiz?- 
^elf,  captain  '? "  rej^Ued  the  baronet. 

"^liy,"  said  the  other,  "  because  I  am 
more  in  the  ecclesiastical  line,  and,  besides, 
he  is  considered  to  be,  in  an  especial  man- 
ner, your  game." 

"I    will    have    him    yet,    though,"    said 


WTiiteeraft,  "if  he  should  assume  as  many 
shapes  as  Proteus." 

"  By  the  way,  ^ATiitecraft,"  observed  Fol- 
hard,  "they  tell  me  you  burned  the  unfor — 
— you  burned  the  scoundrel's  house  and 
offices." 

"  I  wish  you  had  been  present  at  the  bon- 
fire, sir,"  rephed  his  intended  son-in-law ; 
"  it  would  have  done  yoiu-  heart  good." 

"I  dai'esay,"  said  the  squire  ;  "but  stUl, 
what  harm  did  his  hoiise  and  place  do  you  ? 
I  know  the  fellow  is  a  Jesuit,  a  rebel,  and 
an  outlaw — at  least  you  tell  me  so  ;  and  you 
must  know.  But  upon  what  autliority  did 
j'ou  bum  t^  rascal  out  ?  " 

"  As  to  that,"  retiwned  the  baronet,  "  the 
present  laws  against  Popeiy  and  the  general 
condition  of  the  times  are  a  sufficient  justi- 
fication ;  and  I  do  not  think  that  I  am  hkely 
to  be  brought  over  the  coals  for  it  ;  on  the 
contraiy,  I  look  upon  myself  as  a  man  who, 
in  burning  the  villain  out,  have  rendered  a 
very  important  service  to  Government." 

"I  regret,  Sir  Robert,"  obsei-ved  Mr. 
Brown,  "  that  you  should  have  disgraced 
yourself  by  such  an  oppressive  act.  I  know 
that  throughout  the  countiy  your  conduct  to 
this  young  man  ic  attributed  to  personal 
malice  rather  than  to  loyalty." 

"  The  country  may  put  what  constnietion 
on  my  conduct  it  j)leases,"  he  repUed,  "  but 
I  know  I  shall  never  cease  tiU  I  hang  him." 

ill-.  Hastings  was  a  man  of  very  few  words  ; 
but  he  had  an  eye  the  exjiression  of  which 
could  not  be  mistaken — keen,  manly,  and 
firm.  He  sat  slipping  his  wine  in  silence, 
but  tiuTied  fi-om  time  to  time  a  glance  upon 
the  bai'onet,  which  was  not  only  a  searching 
one,  but  seemed  to  have  something  of  tri- 
umph in  it. 

"  'ViTiat  do  you  say,  Hastings  ? "  asked 
WTutecraft ;  "  can  you  not  praise  a  loyal  sub- 
ject, man  ?  " 

"I  say  nothing.  Sir  Robert,"  he  repUed  ; 
"  but  I  think  occasionally." 

"  WeU,  and  what  do  vou  think  occasion- 
aUy?" 

"  Why,  that  the  times  may  change." 

" Whitecraft,"  said  SmeUpriest,  "I  work 
upon  higher  piinciple.?  than  they  say  you 
do.  I  hunt  jsriests,  no  doubt  of  it ;  but 
then  I  have  no  personal  mahce  against  them  ; 
I  proceed  upon  the  broad  and  geneniJ  pi-in- 
ciple  of  hatred  to  Popeiy :  but,  at  the  same 
time,  observe  it  is  not  the  man  but  the  priest 
I  pui-sue." 

"  And  when  you  hang  or  transj)ort  the 
priest,  what  becomes  of  the  man  ?  "  asked  the 
baronet,  with  a  dialiolical  sneer.  "  As  for 
me,  SmeUpriest,  I  make  no  such  distmctions  ; 
they  are  unworthy  of  you,  and  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  you  express  them.     I  say,  the  man." 


80 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"And  I  saj',  the  priest,"  re2Dliecl  the  other. 

"Wliat  do  you  saj-,  my  lord?  "  asked  Mr. 
FolHard  of  the  jjeer. 

"  I  dou't  much  care  which,"  rejjlied  his 
lordshij)  ;  "  mfin  or  priest,  he  it  as  you  cau 
determine  ;  only  I  say  that  when  you  hang 
the  priest,  I  agree  with  Whitecraft  there,  that 
it  is  all  up  with  the  man,  and  when  you  hang 
the  man,  it  is  all  uj)  with  the  priest.  By  the 
way,  Whitecraft,"  he  jjroceeded,  "  how  would 
you  like  to  swing  yourself '? " 

"I  am  sure,  my  lord,"  rejshed  the  baronet, 
"  you  wouldn't  wish  to  see  me  hanged." 

"  WeU,  I  dou't  know — perhaj^s  I  might, 
and  perhaps  I  might  not ;  but  X  kuow  you 
would  make  a  long  corjsse,  and  1  think  you 
would  dangle  handsomely  enough  ;  you  have 
long  hmbs,  a  long  body,  and  half  a  mile  of 
neck  ;  upon  my  soul,  one  would  think  you 
were  made  for  it.  Yes,  I  dare  say  I  should 
like  to  see  you  hanged — I  am  rather  incUued 
to  think  I  would — it's  a  subject,  however,  on 
which  I  am  j)erfectly  indift'ereut  ;  but  if  ever 
you  should  be  hanged,  Sir  Robert,  I  shaU 
certainly  make  it  a  point  to  see  you  thrown 
oft'  if  it  were  only  as  a  mark  of  respect  for 
your  humane  and  excellent  character." 

"  He  would  be  a  severe  loss  to  the  coun- 
try," obsei-ved  Sir  Jenkius  ;  "  the  want  of  his 
hospitahty  would  be  deej)ly  felt  by  the  gen- 
try of  the  neighborhood  ;  for  which  reason," 
he  observed  sarcastically,  "I  hope  he  mil 
be  spai-ed  to  us  as  long  as  his  hospitality 
lasts." 

"In  the  meantime,  gentlemen,"  observed 
the  sheriiF,  "  I  wish  that,  with  such  keen 
noses  for  priests  and  rebels  and  criminals, 
you  could  come  uj^on  the  trail  of  the  scoun- 
di'el  who  robbed  me  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  f)oiuids." 

"Would  you  know  him  again,  Mr.  Sher- 
ifi"? "  asked  Sir  Robert,  "and  could  you 
describe  his  appearance  '?  " 

"  I  have  been  tui'ning  the  matter  over,"  re- 
plied the  sherifl",  "and  I  feel  satisfied  that  I 
would  know  him  if  I  saw  him.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  broadcloth  brown  coat,  hght- 
colored  breeches,  and  had  sUver  biickles  in 
his  shoes.  The  feUow  was  no  common  rob- 
ber. Stuart — one  of  your  dragoons,  Sir 
Robert,  who  came  to  my  reUef  when  it  was 
too  late — insists,  fi'om  my  description  of  the 
dress,  ihat  it  was  Reilly." 

"Are  you  sure  he  was  not  di-essed  in 
black  ?  "  asked  SmeUpriest.  "  Did  you  ob- 
serve a  beads  or  cnicifix  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  described  the  dress  accurately," 
repUed  the  sherifi' ;  "but  I  am  certain  that 
it  was  not  ReiUy.  On  bringing  the  matter 
to  my  recollection,  after  I  had  got  rid  of  the 
pain  and  agitation,  I  was  able  to  remember 
th.it  tlie  ruffian  had  a  coarse  face  and  red 


whiskers.  Now  Reilly 's  hair  and  whiskerai 
are  black." 

"It  was  a  reverend  Papist,"  said  SmeU- 
priest ;  "  one  of  those  fi-om  whom  you  had 
levied  the  fines  that  day,  and  who  thought  it 
no  harm  to  transfer  them  back  again  to  holy 
Church.  You  know  not  how  those  rascals 
can  disguise  themselves." 

"And  you  blame  them,  SmeUpriest,"  said 
the  squire,  "for  disguising  themselves? 
Now,  sujjpose  the  tables  were  turned  upon 
us,  that  Popeiy  got  the  ascendant,  and  that 
Papists  started  upon  the  same  priueiples 
against  us  that  we  put  in  jDractiee  against 
them  ;  suppose  that  Pojaish  soldiers  were 
halloed  on  against  our  jjai'sons,  and  aU  other 
Protestants  conspicuous  for  an  attachment 
to  their  rehgion,  and  auxious  to  put  down 
the  jjersecution  imder  which  we  suffered  • 
why,  hang  it,  coidd  you  blame  the  parsons, 
when  hunted  to  the  death,  for  disguising 
themselves  ?  And  if  you  could  not,  how  can 
you  blame  the  jiriests  ?  Would  you  have  the 
poor  derils  walk  into  your  hands  and  say, 
'  Come,  gentlemen,  be  good  enough  to  hang 
or  transport  us  ? '  I  am  anxious  to  secui-e 
ReiUy,  and  either  to  hang  or  transport  him. 
I  would  say  the  latter,  though." 

"  And  I  the  former,"  observed  Sii'  Robert 

"WeU,  Bob,  that  is  as  may  happen;  but 
in  the  meantime,  I  say  he  never  robbed  the 
sheinif  here  ;  and  if  he  were  going  to  the 
gaUows  to-morrow,  I  would  maintain  it." 

Neither  the  clergyman  nor  Mi-.  HastiufE 
took  much  part  in  the  conversation  ;  but  the 
eye  of  the  latter  was,  during  the  greater  por- 
tion of  the  evening,  fixed  upon  the  baronet, 
like  that  of  a  basUisk,  accomjjanied  by  a 
hidden  meaning,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
jDcnetrate,  but  which,  nevertheless,  had  such 
an  ett'ect  ujDon  Whitecraft  that  he  could  not 
hel}}  obser^'ing  it. 

"It  would  seem,  Mi\  Hastings,"  said  he, 
"  as  if  you  had  never  seen  me  before.  Your 
eye  has  scarcely  been  off  me  during  the 
whole  evening.  It  is  not  pleasant,  sir,  nor 
scarcely  gentlemanly. " 

"  You  should  feel  proud  of  it.  Sir  Robert,' 
rephed  Hastings  ;  "  I  only  admire  you." 

"  WeU,  then,  I  wish  you  would  express 
your  admiration  in  some  other  manner  than 
by  staring  at  me.'' 

"  (xadzooks,  Sii'  Robert,"  said  the  squire, 
"don't  you  know  that  a  cat  may  look  at  a 
king  ?  Hastings  must  be  a  man  of  devUish 
good  taste.  Bob,  and  you  ought  to  thank 
hun." 

Mr.  Brown  and  Mr.  Hastings  soon  after- 
wards went  upstairs,  and  left  the  othei 
gentlemen  to  their  liquor,  which  they  now 
Ijegan  to  enjoy  vrith  a  more  conririal  sijirit. 
The  old  squire's  loyalty  rose  to  a  very  high 


WILLY  REILLY. 


81 


pitch,  as  indeed  did  that  of  liis  comj)aiiions, 
.ill  of  whom  entertaiued  the  same  principles, 
with  the  exception  of  Lord  Deilmacare, 
whose  ofiiuions  never  could  be  got  at,  for 
the  veiT  sufficient  reason  that  he  did  not 
know  them  himself. 

"  Come,  ^Miitecraft,"  said  the  squire, 
"  heli^  yourself,  and  jJush  the  bottle  ;  now 
that  those  two  half-Papists  are  gone,  we  can 
breathe  and  speali  a  little  more  freely.  Here's 
our  glorious  Constitution,  in  Church  and 
State,  and  curse  all  priests  and  Papists — 
barring  a  few,  that  I  know  to  be  honest. " 

"I  drink  it,  but  I  omit  the  exception," 
said  Sii'  Robert,  "  and  I  wonder,  sir,  you 
would  make  any  excej)tion  to  such  a  toast." 

"I  di-ink  it,"  said  8mellpriest,  "  including 
the  rascal  j)riests." 

"And  I  drink  it,"  said  the  sheriff,  "as  it 
has  been  j)roi30sed." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  said  Lord  Deilmacare  ; 
"  come,  I  drink  it — it  doesn't  matter.  I  suj)- 
pose,  coming  fi'om  oiu-  excellent  host,  it 
must  be  righ'.,  and  j^roper." 

They  caroused  deeply,  and  in  jjroijortion 
as  the  liquor  atfected  their  brains,  so  did 
theii-  determination  to  rid  the  squire  of  the 
rebel  lieilly  form  itself  into  an  express  reso- 
lution to  that  effect. 

"  Hang  ReiUy  —  hang  the  villain  —  the 
gallows  for  him — hurra  !  "  and  in  this  chari- 
table sentiment  their  voices  all  joined  in  a 
fierce  and  drunken  exclamation,  uttered 
v^ith  their  hands  all  clasped  in  each  other 
with  a  strong  and  firm  grip.  From  one 
mouth  alone,  however,  proceeded,  amidst  a 
succession  of  hiccujss,  the  word  "  transi^or- 
tation,"  which,  when  Lord  Deilmacare  heard, 
he  changed  his  principle,  and  joined  the  old 
squire  in  the  same  mitigation  of  feeling. 

"I  say,  Deilmacare,"  shouted  Sir  Robert, 
"we  must  hang  him  high  and  dry." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  his  lordshij),  "  vrith 
all  my  heart.  Sir  Robert ;  we  must  hang  you 
high  and  dry." 

"But,  Deilmacare,"  said  the  squire,  "we 
shall  only  transport  him." 

"Very  good,"  exclaimed  his  lordship, 
emptying  a  bumper ;  "we  shall  only  trans- 
port you,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Hang  him,  Deilmacai'e  !  " 

"Very  weU,  hang  him  !  " 

"Ti-ansport  him,  I  say,  Deilmacare,"  from 
the  squire. 

"  Good  again,"  said  his  lordship  ;  "  trans- 
port him,  say  I." 

And  on  went  the  drunken  revel,  until  they 
scarcely  knew  what  they  said. 

The  clergj'man  and  Mr.  Hastings,  on 
reaching  the  dra^ring-room,  found  Helen  in 
a  state  of  inexpressible  distress.  A  dispute 
upon   the  prevailing  morals  of  all  modern 


young  Mies  had  been  got  up  by  Lady 
Joram  and  Mrs.  Oxley,  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  venting  their  petty  malice  against 
the  gii-1,  because  they  had  taken  it  mto  their 
heads  that  she  paid  more  attention  to  Mrs. 
Brown  and  Mrs.  Hastings  than  she  did  to 
them.  This  dispute  was  tantamomit  to, 
what,  in  the  \m7'^  I'iugi  is  called  c/vas.s-,  when 
the  fight  is  only  a  mock  one,  and  terminates 
by  the  voluntaiy  defeat  of  one  of  the  par- 
ties, upon  a  jJreconcerted  arrangement. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  my  lady  ;  nor 
can  I  think  that  the  morals  of  young  ladies 
in  'igh  life,  by  witch  I  mean  the  daughters 
and  heiresses  of  wealthy  squires — " 

"  But,  my  dear  Mi-s.  Oxley,"  said  her  lady- 
shij),  interrupting  her,  and  jjlacing  her  hand 
gently  uj)on  her  arm,  as  if  to  solicit  her 
consent  to  the  observation  she  was  about  to 
make,  "you  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Oxley, 
that  the  daughter  of  a  mere  country  squire 
can  have  no  jjretensions  to  come  under  the 
definition  of  high  life. " 

"  Wy  not?"  rej)lied  Mrs.  Oxley;  "the 
squires  are  often  wealthier  than  the  haris- 
tocracy  ;  and  I  don't  at  all  see,"  she  added, 
"  wj'  the  daughter  of  such  a  man  should  not 
be  considered  as  moving  in  'igh  life — always, 
of  course,  provided  that  she  forms  no  cUs- 
graceful  attachments  to  Papists  and  rebels 
and  low  j^ersons  of  that  'ere  class.  No,  my 
lady,  I  don't  at  all  agree  wth  you  in  your 
view  of  'igh  Ufe." 

"You  don't  ajjpear,  madam,  to  entertain  a 
sufficiently  accurate  estimate  of  high  hfe." 

"I  beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I  tliink  I  can 
understand  'igh  life  as  well  as  those  that 
don't  know  it  better  nor  myself.  I've  seen 
a  great  deal  of  'igh  life.  Fey  ther  'ad  a  williu:' 
at  'Igate,  and  'Igate  is  kno^ii  to  be  the  'igh- 
est  place  about  the  metrojJohs  of  Liumon — 
it  and  St.  Paul's  are  upon  a  bevel." 

"  Level,  jserhaps,  you  mean,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Level  or  bevel,  it  doesn't  much  diversify 
— but  I  prefer  the  bevel  to  the  level  on  all  oc^ 
casions.  All  I  knows  is,"  she  jDroceeded, 
"  that  it  is  a  shame  for  any  yovmg  lady,  as  is  a 
young  lady,  to  take  a  liking  to  a  Pajsist,  be^ 
cause  we  know  the  Papists  are  all  rebels  and 
would  cut  oiu"  throats,  only  for  the  protec- 
tion of  our  generous  and  merciful  laws." 

"  J  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  merci- 
ful laws,"  observed  Mi's.  Brown.  "They 
sui'ely  cannot  be  such  laws  as  oppress  and 
persecute  a  portion  of  the  jJeople,  and  give 
an  unjust  license  to  one  class  to  persecute 
another,  and  to  prevent  them  fi'oni  exercis- 
ing the  duties  which  their  rehgion  imj)oses 
upon  them." 

" 'WeU,"  said  Lady  Joram,  "aU  I  wish  is. 
that  the  Paj)ists  were  exterminated ;  wc- 
should  then  have  no  apprehensions  that  our 


82 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


daughters  would  disgrace  themselves  by  fall- 
ing in  love  with  them." 

This  conversation  was  absolutely  cmel, 
and  the  amiable  Mrs.  Brown,  from  comisas- 
sion  to  Helen,  withdrew  her  into  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  entered  into  conversation 
with  lier  upon  a  different  topic,  assuring  her 
previously  that  she  would  detail  theii-  offen- 
sive and  ungenerous  remarks  to  her  father, 
who,  she  trusted,  would  never  see  them  un- 
der his  roof  again,  nor  give  them  an  opi^or- 
tunity  of  indulging  in  their  vulgar  malignity 
a  second  time.  Helen  thanked  her,  and  said 
their  hints  and  observations,  though  rude 
and  ungenerous,  gave  her  but  little  pain.  The 
form  of  language  in  which  they  were  ex- 
pressed, she  added,  and  the  indefensible 
violation  of  all  the  laws  of  hospitahty, 
blunted  the  severity  of  what  they  said. 

"I  am  not  ashamed,"  she  said,  "of  my 
attachment  to  the  brave  and  generous  young 
man  who  saved  my  fathers  life.  He  is  of 
no  vulgar  birth,  but  a  highly  educated  and 
a  highlj'  accompUshed  gentleman — a  man,  in 
fact,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bi-owu,  whom  no  woman, 
be  her  rank  in  life  ever  so  high  or  exalted, 
might  blush  to  love.  /  do  not  blush  to 
make  the  avowal  that  I  love  him  ;  but,  un- 
fortunatelj-,  in  consequence  of  the  existing 
laws  of  the  country,  my  love  for  him,  which 
I  will  never  conceal,  must  be  a  hojjeless 
one." 

"I  regxet  the  state  of  those  laws,  my  dear 
Miss  Folliard,  as  much  as  you  do  ;  but  stOl 
their  existence  puts  a  breach  between  you 
and  Eeilly,  and  under  those  circumstances 
my  advice  to  you  is  to  overcome  your  affec- 
tion for  him  if  you  can.  Mairiage  is  out  of 
the  question." 

"It  is  not  marriage  I  think  of — for  that  is 
out  of  the  c[uestion — but  Eeilly 's  life  and 
safety.  If  he  were  safe,  I  should  feel  com- 
pai-atively  happy  ;  happiness,  in  its  full  ex- 
tent, I  never  can  hope  to  enjoy  ;  but  if  he 
were  only  safe — if  he  were  only  safe,  my 
dear  Mi-s.  Brown !  I  know  that  he  is  hunted 
like  a  beast  of  prey,  and  under  such  circum- 
stances as  disturb  and  distract  the  country, 
how  can  he  escape  ?  " 

The  kind-hearted  lady  consoled  her  as 
well  as  she  could  ;  but,  in  fact,  her  groimds 
for  consolation  were  so  slender  that  her 
arguments  only  amounted  to  those  general 
observations  which,  commonplace  .as  they 
are,  we  are  in  the  habit  of  hearing  fi'om  day 
to  day.  Helen  was  too  high-minded  to  shed 
tears,  but  Mi'S.  Brown  could  plainlj'  perceive 
the  dejith  of  her  emotion,  and  feel  the  extent 
of  what  she  suffered. 

We  shall  not  detail  at  further  length  the 
conversation  of  the  other  ladies — if  ladies 
t±K>y  can  be  called ;  nor  that  of  the  gentle- 


men, after  they  entered  the  drawing-room. 
Sir  Robert  Whitecnift  attempted  to  entei 
into  conversation  with  Helen,  but  foimd 
himself  firmly  and  decidedly  repulsed.  In 
point  of  fact,  some  of  the  gentlemen  were 
not  in  a  state  to  grace  a  drawing-room,  and 
in  a  short  time  they  took  their  leave  and 
retired. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Sir  Robert  Meets  a  Brother  Sport.itnan — Draws  kis 
Nets,  but  Catches  Nothing. 

"  'Tis  conscience  that  makes  cowards  of  us 
all,"  said  Shakespeare,  vnth  that  wonderful 
wisdom  which  enlightens  his  glorious  pages  ; 
and,  in  fact.  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  in  his 
own  person,  fully  corroborated  the  truth  of 
the  j)oet's  apo23hthegm.  The  man,  besides, 
was  natiu'ally  a  coward  ;  and  when  to  this 
we  add  the  consciousness  of  his  persecutions 
and  cruelties,  and  his  apprehensions  fi'om 
the  revenge  of  Reilly — the  destruction  of 
whose  projserty,  without  any  authority  from 
Government  for  the  act,  he  felt  himself  giiilty 
of — the  reader  may  understand  the  nature 
and  extent  of  his  terrors  on  liis  way  home. 
The  distance  between  his  own  house  and 
that  of  his  intended  father-in-law  was  about 
three  miles,  and  there  lay  a  long  space  of 
level  road,  hedged  in,  as  was  then  the  custom, 
on  both  sides,  fi-om  behind  which  hedges  an 
excellent  aim  could  be  taken.  As  Sir  Robert 
proceeded  along  this  lonely  jJath,  his  hoi'se 
stumbled  against  some  stones  that  were  in 
his  way,  or  perhafis  that  had  been  pui-jDosely 
j)laced  there.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  bai'onet 
fell,  and  a  small  man,  of  comj)act  size  and 
vigorous  frame,  was  found  aiding  him  to 
rise.  Ha\dng  helped  him  into  the  saddle, 
the  baronet  asked  him,  with  an  intu'm  and 
alarmed  voice,  who  he  was. 

"  ^Vliy,  Sir  Robert,"  he  re2:)lied,  "you  must 
know  I  am  not  a  Papist,  or  I  wouldn't  be 
apt  to  render  you  any  assistance ;  I  am 
somewhat  of  j'oui'  own  kidney — a  bit  of  a 
IDriest-hunter,  on  a  small  scale.  I  used  to  set 
them  for  Captain  SmeUpriest,  but  he  p.iid 
me  badly,  and  as  there  was  great  risk  among 
the  bloody  Papists,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
withdraw  out  of  his  service  ;  but  you  are  a 
gentleman.  Sir  Robert,  what  Captain  Smell- 
jDriest  is  not,  and  if  you  want  an  active  and 
usefid  enemy  to  Popery,  I  am  your  man." 

"I  want  such  a  person,  certainly,"  replied 
the  baronet,  who,  in  consequence  of  the  bad- 
ness of  the  road  and  the  d;u'kness  of  the 
night,  was  obhged  to  walk  his  horse  with 
caution.  "By  the  way,"  said  he,  "didyoiv 
not  hear  a  noise  behind  the  hedge  ?  " 


WILLY  RKILLY. 


83 


"I  did,"  rej)lied  the  other,  "but  it  was 
the  aoise  of  cattle." 

"I  am  uot  aware,"  re2:)lied  Sir  Robert, 
"  what  the  devU  cattle  can  have  to  do  imme- 
diately beliiod  the  hedge.  I  rather  think 
they  ai-e  some  of  our  own  species  ;  "  and  as 
he  ceased  speaking  the  tremendous  brajdng 
of  a  jackass  came  upon  their  ears. 

"You  were  right,  Sii-  Robert,"  repUed  his 
companion  ;  "I  beg  pardon,  I  mean  that  / 
was  right :  you  know  now  it  was  cattle." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  asked  Sir  Robert. 

"  Rowland  Drum,  Sir  Robert ;  and,  if  you 
will  i^ermit  me,  I  should  like  to  see  you  safe 
home.  I  need  not  saj-  that  you  are  hated 
by  the  Papists  ;  and  as  the  road  is  lonesome 
and  dangerous,  as  a  priest-hunter  myself  I 
think  it  an  act  of  dutj'  not  to  leave  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "you  arc 
a  civil  person,  and  I  will  accept  your  es- 
cort." 

"  Whatever  danger  you  maj'  run,  Sii:  Rob- 
ert, I  will  stand  by  youi'  side  and  partake  of 
it." 

"  Thank  you,  friend,"  replied  Su*  Robert ; 
"there  w  a  lonely  place  before  lis,  where  a 
ghost  is  said  to  be  seen — the  ghost  of  a  priest 
whom  I  hunted  for  a  long  time  ;  Smellpriest, 
it  is  said,  shot  him  at  the  place  I  allude  to. 
He  was  disguised  as  a  drummer,  and  is  said 
to  haunt  the  loeaUty  where  he  was  shot." 

"Well,  I  .shall  see  you  safe  over  the  jilace. 
Sir  Robert,  and  go  home  with  you  afterwards, 
provided  you  -nTll  promise  to  give  me  a  bed 
and  my  supper  ;  to-morrow  we  can  talk  on 
matters  of  business." 

"I  shall  certainly  do  so,"  rejilied  Sir  Rob- 
ert, "  not  only  in  consequence  of  your  at- 
tention to  me,  but  of  oiu'  common  purpose." 

They  then  proceeded  onwards — passed  the 
haunted  spot — without  either  hearing  or  see- 
ing the  specti-al  diaimmer.  On  arriving  at 
home,  Sir  Robert,  who  drank  j)rivately,  or- 
dered wine  for  himself,  and  sent  Rowland 
Dinim  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  rather 
meagerly  entertained,  and  was  aftei-wards 
lodged  for  the  night  in  the  garret. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Sir 
Robert  sent  for  Mr.  Drum,  who,  on  entering 
the  breakfast  parlor,  was  thus  addi'essed  by 
his  new  patron  : 

"^^Tiats  this  you  say  j'our  name  is?  " 

"  Rowland  Drum,  su\" 

"  Rowland  Drum  !  Well,  now,  Rowland 
Drum,  are  you  well  acquainted  with  the 
priests  of  this  diocese  ?  " 

"  No  man  better,"  rej)lied  the  I'edoubtable 
Rowland.  "  I  know  most  of  them  by  person, 
••lud  have  got  private  descriptions  of  them  all 
from  Captain  Smelljiriest,  which  wiU  be  in- 
valuable to  you.  Sir  Robert.  The  fact  is — 
«Jid  this  I  mention  in  the  strictest  confidence 


— that  SmeUjjriest  is  suspicious  of  your  at- 
tachment to  our  glorious  Constitution." 

"  The  confounded  rascal,"  rejjlied  the  baro- 
net. "Did  he  ever  burn  as  many  Popish 
houses  as  I  have  done  ?  He  has  no  appetite 
for  any  thing  but  the  pursuit  and  capture  of 
priests  ;  but  I  have  a  far  more  general  and 
unsparing  practice,  for  I  not  onlj'  cajatiire  the 
priests,  where  I  cm,  but  every  lay  Papist 
that  we  suspect  in  the  country.  Here,  for 
instance.  Do  you  see  those  pajjers  ?  They 
are  blank  warrants  for  the  apprehension  of 
the  guilty  and  susj)ected,  and  also  protections, 
transmitted  to  me  from  the  Secretary  of  State, 
that  I  may  be  enabled,  by  his  authority,  to 
protect  such  Pajjists  as  will  give  useful  in- 
formation to  the  Government.  Here  they 
are,  signed  by  the  Secretary,  but  the  blanks 
ai'e  left  for  myself  to  fill  up." 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  Reilly  to  come  over," 
said  Mr.  Drum. 

"  Oh  !  the  infernal  villain,"  said  tlie  baronet, 
"  all  the  pirotections  that  ever  were  or  could 
be  issued  from  the  Secretary's  office  would 
not  nor  could  not  save  him.  Old  FolUard 
and  I  will  hang  him,  if  there  was  uot  another 
man  to  be  hanged  in  the  three  kingdoms." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  came  in  and 
said,  "  Sir  Robert,  there  is  a  woman  here 
who  ■wishes  to  have  some  private  conversation 
with  you." 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  is  she  ?  "  asked 
the  baronet. 

"  Faith,  your  honor,  a  sturdy  and  strapping 
wench,  somewhat  rough  in  the  face,  but  of 
great  jjroportions." 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  Drum  had 
been  sitting  at  the  window  during  this  brief 
conversation,  and  at  once  recognized,  under 
the  disguise  of  a  woman,  the  celebrated  in- 
former, the  Rev.  Mr.  Hennessy,  a  WTetch 
whose  criminal  course  of  life,  as  we  said  be- 
fore, was  so  gross  and  reprobate  that  his 
pious  bishop  deemed  it  his  duty  to  suspend 
him  fi'om  all  clerical  functions. 

"  Sir  Robert,"  said  Drum,  "  I  must  go  up 
to  my  room  and  shave.  My  presence,  I  ajj- 
prehend,  won't  be  necessary  whei'e  there  is 
a  lady  in  question." 

"  Veiy  well,"  repUed  the  baronet;  "  I  know 
not  what  her  business  may  be  ;  but  I  shall 
be  glad  to  sjjeak  with  you  after  she  shall  hav^ 
gone." 

It  was  vei-y  well  that  Hennessy  did  not  s© 
Drum,  whom  he  would  at  once  have  recog- 
nized ;  but,  at  all  events,  the  interview  be- 
tween the  reprobate  priest  and  the  baronet 
lasted  for  at  least  an  hour. 

After  the  Rev.  Miss  Hennessy  had  taken 
her  dejjarture,  Mr.  Drum  was  sent  for  by  the 
baronet,  whom  he  stiU  found  in  the  break- 
fast yarlor. 


S4 


WILLIAM    CAELETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Drum,"  said  be,  "  you  have  now  au  o\> 
portuuitj'  of  essentially  serving  not  only  me, 
but  the  Government  of  the  couutiy.  This 
iady  turns  out  to  be  a  Pof)ish  j)riest  in  dis- 
guise, and  I  have  taken  him  into  my  coufi- 
ilence  as  a  guide  and  auxdiary.  Now  you 
have  given  me  proofs  of  personal  attachment, 
"^hich  is  certainly  more  than  he  has  done  as 
yet.  I  have  heard  of  liis  character  as  an  im- 
moral priest ;  and  the  man  who  coidd  be  false 
to  his  own  creed  is  not  a  man  to  be  reUed 
upon.  He  has  described  to  me  the  position 
of  a  cavern,  in  which  are  now  hiding  a  set  of 
proscribed  priests  ;  but  I  cannot  have  confi- 
dence in  his  information,  and  I  wish  you  to 
go  to  the  ravine  or  cavern,  or  whatever  the 
devil  it  is,  and  retui-n  to  me  with  correct  in- 
telligence. It  maj'  be  a  lure  to  draw  me  into 
danger,  or  perhajDS  to  de23rive  me  of  my  life  ; 
but,  on  second  thought,  I  think  I  shall  get  a 
military  force,  and  go  myself." 

"And  j)erhaps  never  return,  unless  with 
your  heels  foi'emost,  Sir  Robert.  I  tell  you 
that  this  Hennessy  is  the  most  treacherous 
scoundrel  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  You  do 
not  know  what  he's  at,  but  I  will  tell  you,  for 
I  have  it  fi-oni  his  own  cousin.  His  object  is 
to  have  you  assassinated,  in  order  to  restore 
himself  to  the  good  graces  of  the  bishop  and 
the  Catholic  jjarty,  who,  I  must  say,  however, 
would  not  countenance  such  a  murderous 
act ;  still,  Sir  Robert,  if  you  were  taken  off, 
the  man  who  took  you  off  would  have  his 
name  honored  and  exalted  throughout  the 
country." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  are  right.  Drum  ;  they 
are  tliirsting  for  my  blood,  but  not  more  than 
I  am  thirsting  for  theirs." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Drum,  "don't  trust 
yourself  to  the  counsels  of  this  Hennessy, 
who,  in  my  opinion,  only  wants  to  make  a 
scaijegoat  of  you.  Allow  me  to  go  to  the 
jilace  he  mentions,  for  I  know  the  ravine  well, 
but  I  never  knew  nor  do  I  believe  that  there 
is  a  cavern  at  all  in  it,  and  that  is  what  makes 
me  suspect  the  scoundrel's  motives.  He  can 
have  hundreds  of  outlaws  secretly  armed, 
who  would  never  suffer  you  to  escajje  with 
your  life.  The  thing  is  an  ambuscade  ;  take 
my  word  for  it,  it  is  nothing  less.  Of  course 
you  can  go,  yourself  and  yoiu'  party,  if  you 
wish.  You  will  prevent  me  fi'om  running  a 
great  risk  ;  but  I  am  only  anxious  for  your 
safety." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "you  shall 
go  ujion  this  mission.  It  may  not  be  safe  for 
me  to  do  so.  Try  if  you  can  make  out  this 
cavern,  if  there  be  a  ciivern." 

"  I  hhU  try,  Su"  Robert ;  and  I  will  venture 
o  say,  that  if  it  can  be  made  out,  /will  make 
't  out." 

Rowland  Drum  accordinglj'  set  out  upon 


his  mission,  and  having  arrived  at  the  cavern, 
with  wlueh  he  was  so  well  acquainted,  ha 
entered  it  with  the  usual  risk.  His  voice, 
however,  was  recognized,  and  he  got  instant 
admittance. 

"IMy  dear  fi-iends,"  said  he,  after  he  had 
entered  the  inner  part  of  it,  "you  must  dis- 
perse immediately.  Hennessy  has  betrayed 
you,  and  if  you  remain  here  twenty-four 
hoiu-s  longer,  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  and  a 
party  of  military,  guided,  probably,  by  the 
treacherous  scoundrel  himself,  will  be  uj)0u 
you.  The  villain  had  a  long  intendew  with 
him,  and  gave  a  full  detail  of  the  cavern  and 
its  inmates." 

"But  how  did  you  become  acquainted  vvitL 
Su'  Robert  "VMiitecraft  ?  "  asked  the  bishoi^ 

"In  order,  my  lord,  to  ascertain  liis  in 
tentions  and  futui'e  proceedings,"  replied  Mr. 
Drum,  "that  we  might  guard  against  his 
treacheiy  and  persecution.  On  his  way  home 
from  ^  dinner  .it  Squire  Folliard's  I  met  him 
in  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  where  he  was 
thrown  from  his  horse ;  I  heljied  him  into 
his  saddle,  told  hina  I  was  myself  a  priest- 
hunter,  and  thus  got  into  his  confidence  so 
far  as  to  be  able  to  fiustrate  Hennessy's 
treachery,  and  to  counteract  his  own  designs." 

"Sir,"  said  the  bishop  sternly,  "you  have 
acted  a  jjart  unworthy  of  a  Christian  clergy- 
man. We  should  not  do  evU  that  good  may 
follow  ;  and  you  have  done  evil  in  associating 
youi'self,  in  any  sense  and  for  any  piu'j^osj, 
with  this  bloodthirsty  tiger  and  persecutor 
of  the  faithfid." 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  priest,  "this  is  not 
a  time  to  enter  into  a  discussion  on  such  a 
subject.  Hennessy  has  betrayed  us  ;  and  if 
you  do  not  disperse  to  other  places  of  safety, 
he  will  himself,  as  I  said,  lead  Sir  Robert 
WTiitecraft  and  a  miUtary  party  to  this  very 
cavern,  and  then  mav  God  have  mercy  on  you 
all." 

"  Brethren,"  said  the  bishop,  "  this  is,  after 
aU,  possible  that  our  brother  has,  by  the 
mercy  and  providence  of  God,  through  his 
casual  meetmg  with  this  remorseless  man, 
been  made  the  instrument  of  our  safety.  As 
for  myself,  I  am  wUlLug  to  embrace  the  crown 
of  martjTdom,  and  to  lay  down  my  Ufe,  if 
necessary',  for  the  faith  that  is  in  me.  You 
all  know  what  I  have  iilready  suffered,  and  ■ 

you  know  that  persecution  drives  a  wise  maL. 
mad.    My  children, "  he  added, ' '  it  is  possible,  j 

and  I  feai-  too  probable,  that  some  of  us  may      '    ■ 
never  see  each  other  in  this  Ufe  agaui ;  but 
at  the  same  time,  let  it  l)e  our  hope  and  co!i-  i 

solation  that  we  shall  meet  in  a  better.     An.i  • 

for  this  purpose,  and  in  order  to  seciu-e  .■  J 

futurity  of  hajipiness,  let  us  lead  .spotless  and  ( 

irrejn'o.achable  lives,  such  as  ynH  enable  u.~ 
to  meet  the  hour  of  death,  whether  it  comes 


WILLY  REILLY. 


S5 


h\  the  band  of  God  or  the  persecution  of 
man.  Be  faithful  to  the  principles  of  our 
holy  reUgion — be  faithful  to  truth — to  moral 
^•i^tue — be  faithful  to  God,  before  whose 
awful  triliuual  we  unist  all  appear,  and  render 
an -account  of  our  lives.  It  would  be  mere 
wantonness  to  thrown  yourselves  into  the 
hands  of  our  persecutors.  Reserve  yourselves 
for  the  contiuuaiice  and  the  sustainmeut  of 
oiu'  blessed  reliifion  ;  but  if  you  should  hap- 
l^en  to  fall,  by  the  snares  and  de\ices  of  the 
enemj',  into  the  j)ower  of  those  who  are 
striving  to  work  our  extermination,  and  if 
they  should  press  you  to  reuoimce  your  faith, 
upon  the  alternative  of  banishment  or  death, 
then,  I  say,  banishment,  or  death  itself, 
sooner  than  become  apostates  to  your  religion. 
I  shall  retire  to  a  neighborhood  only  a  few 
miles  distant  from  this,  where  the  poor  Cath- 
olic i^opulatiou  are  without  spiritual  aid  or 
consolation.  I  have  been  there  before,  and  I 
know  their  wants,  and  were  it  not  that  I  was 
hunted  and  pursued  with  a  ^iew  to  my  death 
— to  my  murder,  I  should  rather  say — I 
would  have  remained  with  them  stiU.  But 
that  I  considered  it  a  duty  to  that  jjortion  of 
the  Church  over  which  God  called  upon  me 
to  jsreside  and  watch,  I  would  not  have 
avoided  those  iuhumau  traiSckers  in  the 
blood  of  God's  people.  Yet  I  am  bound  to 
say  that,  from  the  clergymen  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  and  fi'om  many  Protestant 
inagistrates,  we  have  received  kindness,  sym- 
pathy, and  shelter.  Their  doors,  their  hearths, 
and  their  hearts  have  been  open  to  us,  and 
that,  too,  in  a  truly  Christian  spirit.  Let  us, 
then,  render  them  good  for  good  ;  let  us 
23ray  for  their  conversion,  and  that  they  may 
retu.i-n  to  the  right  path." 

"  They  have  acted  generously  and  nobly," 
added  Keilly,  "  and  in  a  truly  Christian 
spirit.  Were  it  not  for  the  shelter  and  piro- 
tection  which  I  myself  received  from  one  of 
them,  my  mangled  body  would  probably  be 
huddled  down  into  some  obsciu'e  gi-ave,  as  a 
felon,  and  my  jJroperty — which  is  mine  only 
by  a  necessiu'v  fiction  and  evasion  of  the  law 
— have  passed  into  the  hands  of  Sir  Robert 
^Miitecraft.  I  am  wrong,  however,  in  sajing 
that  it  coidd.  ]\Ir.  Hastings,  a  generous  and 
liberal  Protestant,  took  it  in  his  own  name 
for  my  father,  but  gave  me  a  deed  of  assign- 
ment, placing  it  as  securely  in  my  hands, 
and  in  my  power,  as  if  I  were  Sir  Robert 
^Vhitecraft  himself  ;  and  I  must  add  —which 
I  do  with  pleasure — that  the  deed  in  ques- 
tion is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Rev. 
ilr.  Brown,  the  amiable  rector  of  the  parish." 

"  But   he   is   a  heretic,"  said  a  red-faced 
little  man,  dressed  in  leather  breeches,  top  I 
boots,   and  a  huntsman's  caj) ;  "  vade  retro, 
sathana".     It  is  a  damnable  crime  to  have  any 


-intercourse  with  them,  or  to  receive  any 
protection  from  them  :  vade  retro,  aatlumax." 

"If  I  don't  mistake,"  said  the  cook — an 
archdeacon,  by  the  way — "  you  youi-self  re- 
ceived protection  fi'om  them,  and  were  glad 
to  receive  it." 

"  If  I  did  receive  protection  from  one  0/ 
their  heretic  parsons,  it  was  for  Christian 
purposes.  My  oliject  was  not  so  much  to 
seek  protection  from  him  as  to  work  out  his 
salvation  hj  withdrawing  him  from  his 
heresy.  But  then  the  fellow  was  as  obstinate 
as  sathanas  himself,  and  had  Greek  and 
Hebrew  at  his  fingers'  ends.  I  made  several 
passes  at  him — tried  Ii-ish,  and  told  him  it 
was  Italian.  '  Well,'  said  he,  smiling,  '  1 
iinderstand  ItaUan  too  ; '  and  to  my  aston- 
ishment he  addi-essed  me  in  the  best  Irish 
lever  hesu'd  spoken.  'Now,' said  he,  still 
smiling,  '  you  jjerceive  that  I  understand 
Italian  nearlj' — I  will  not  say  so  well — as  you 
do.'  Now,  as  I  am  a  sinner,  that,  I  say,  was 
ungenerous  treatment.  He  was  perfectly 
ii'reclaimable. " 

This  man  was,  like  Mi:  Maguire,  wliat  has 
been  termed  a  hedge-jjriest — a  character 
which,  as  we  have  ah-eady  said,  the  poverty 
of  the  CathoUc  peojjle,  during  the  existence 
of  the  jjenal  laws,  and  the  consequent  want 
of  spiritual  instruction,  rendered  necessary. 
There  were  no  Catholic  colleges  in  the  coun- 
try, and  the  result  was  that  the  niynber  of 
foreign  priests — by  which  I  mean  Irish 
l^riests  educated  in  foreign  colleges — was 
utterly  inadequate  to  meet  the  sjoiritual 
necessities  of  the  Irish  poi"iulation.  Under 
those  circumstances,  men  of  good  and  vir- 
tuous character,  who  understood  something 
of  the  Latin  tongue,  were  ordained  by  their 
resp)ective  bishops,  for  the  purjjose  which  we 
have  already  meution(!d.  But  what  a  difter- 
euee  was  there  between  those  half-educated 
men  and  the  class  of  educated  clergymen 
who  now  adorn,  not  only  their  Church,  Ijut 
the  literatiu'e  of  the  country  ! 

"  Well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  bishoj), 
"  let  us  be  thankfid  for  the  protection  which 
we  have  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Protes- 
tant clergy  and  of  many  of  the  Protestant 
laity  also.  We  now  se2:)arate,  and  I  for  one 
am  sensible  how  much  this  cruel  ijersecution 
has  strengthened  the  bonds  of  Christian 
love  among  us,  and  excited  our  sympathy  for 
our  2ioor  persecuted  flocks,  so  many  of  whom 
are  now  without  a  shejjherd.  I  leave  you 
with  tears — but  they  are  tears  of  aft'ection. 
and  not  of  despair.  I  shaU  endeavor  to  be 
useful  wherever  I  may  aliide.  Let  each  o.: 
you  do  all  the  spiritual  good  you  can — all 
the  earthly  good — aU  good  in  its  most  en- 
larged and  jjurest  sense.  But  we  must 
separate — probably,  some  of  us,  forever  ;  and 


iG 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WOlilCfS. 


now  may  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty  God 
— of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  rest 
upon  you  all,  and  be  with  you  and  abide  in 
your  hearts,  now  and  forever  !     Amen  !  " 

Having  jDronouneed  these  words,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  two  hands  and 
wept  bitterly.  There  were  indeed  few  dry 
eyes  around  him  ;  they  knelt  before  him, 
kissed  his  ring,  and  prepared  to  take  their 
deijartirre  out  of  the  cavern. 

"My  lord,"  said  Reilly,  who  still  enter- 
tained apprehensions  of  the  return  of  his 
malady,  "if  you  wiUiJerniit  me  I  sliall  share 
your  fate,  whatever  it  may  be.  The  poor 
people  you  allude  to  are  not  in  a  condition 
to  attend  to  j'our  wants.  Allow  me,  then, 
to  attend  and  accompany  you  in  your  re- 
treat." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  bishop,  clasping 
his  hand,  "  you  are  heaj)ing  coals  of  fire  upon 
my  head.  I  trast  you  will  forgive  me,  for  I 
knew  not  what  I  did.  I  shall  be  glad  of 
your  comijanionship.  I  fear  I  stOl  stand  in 
need  of  such  a  friend.  Be  it  so,  then,"  he 
proceeded — "  be  it  so,  my  dear  friend  ;  only 
that  I  should  not  wish  you  to  involve  your- 
self in  unnecessary  danger  on  my  account." 

"  Danger,  my  lord  !  "  replied  Reilly  ; 
"  there  is  not  an  individual  here  against 
whom  j^ersonal  mahgnity  has  directed  the 
vengeance  of  the  law  with  such  a  bloodthirsty 
and  vindictive  spirit  as  against  myself.  Why 
else  am  I  here  ?  No,  I  will  accomjDany  youi- 
lordshij),  and  share  your  fate." 

It  was  so  determined,  and  they  left  the 
cavern,  each  to  procure  some  j)lace  of  safety 
for  himself. 

In  the  meantime.  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft, 
having  had  another  interview  with  Hennessy, 
was  j)revailed  uj^on  to  get  a  military  j^arty 
together,  and  the  cunning  reprobate,  in  order 
to  excite  the  baronet's  vengeance  to  a  stiU 
higher  j)itch,  mentioned  a  circumstance 
which  he  had  before  forgotten,  to  wit,  that 
Reilly,  his  arch-enemy,  was  also  in  the  cave. 

"  But,"  said  Sir  Robert,  who,  as  we  have 
already  said,  was  a  p)oltroon  and  a  coward, 
"  what  guarantee  can  you  give  me  thiit  you 
ai'e  not  leading  me  into  an  ambuscade '?  You 
know  that  I  am  unpopular,  and  the  Pajsists 
would  be  delighted  to  have  my  blood  ;  what 
guarantee,  then,  can  you  give  me  that  you 
are  acting  by  me  in  good  faith  ?  " 

"  The  guarantee  of  my  own  life,"  replied 
the  other.  "  Let  me  be  placed  between  two 
of  your  men,  and  if  you  see  any  thing  like  an 
ambuscade,  let  them  shoot  me  dead  on  the 
spot." 

"  Why,"  replied  the  bai'ouet,  "  that  is  fair  ; 
but  the  truth  is,  I  have  been  put  on  my 
guard  against  you  by  a  person  who  escorted 
me  home  last  night.     He  rendered  me  some 


assistance  when  I  fell   fi-om  my  horse,  and 
he  slept  here." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  asked  Hennessy. 

"He  told  me,"  rej)hed  the  baronet,  "  that 
his  name  was  Dnim." 

"  Could  you  give  me  a  descrijition,  Sii 
Robert,  of  his  j^erson  ?  " 

Sir  Robert  did  so. 

"  I  declare  to  God,  Sir  Robert,  j'ou  have 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  that  man.  He  is 
one  of  the  most  bigoted  priests  in  the  king- 
dom. He  used  to  disguise  himself  as  a 
drummer — for  his  father  was  in  the  army,  and 
he  himself  was  a  drummer  in  his  boyhood ; 
and  his  object  in  preventing  you  from  bring- 
ing a  military  party  to  the  cavern  was  merely 
tliat  he  might  have  an  opportunity  of  giving 
them  notice  of  your  intentions.  I  now  say 
that  if  you  lose  an  hour's  time  chey  will  be 
gone." 

Sir  Robert  did  not  lose  an  hour's  time. 
The  local  barracks  were  -witliin  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  of  his  hoiise.  A  party  of  mili- 
tary were  immediately  called  out,  and  in  a 
short  time  they  aiTived,  under  the  guidance 
of  Hennessy,  to  the  very  mouth  of  the 
cavern,  which  he  disclosed  to  them.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  detail  the  particulars  of  the 
search.  The  soldiers  entered  it  one  by  one, 
but  found  that  the  birds  had  flown.  The 
very  fires  were  burning,  but  not  a  living 
soul  in  the  cave  ;  it  was  comphjtely  deserted, 
and  nothing  remained  but  some  miserable 
relics  of  cold  j^rovisious,  with  which,  by  the 
aid  of  fir  spilices,  that  served  as  torches, 
they  regaled  themselves  as  far  as  they  went. 

Su-  Robert  W'hitecraft  now  felt  fuU  con- 
fidence in  Hennessy  ;  but  would  have  given 
a  trifle  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Rowland  Drum,  by  whose  ingenuity  he  was 
so  completely  outwitted.  As  it  was,  they 
scoured  the  country  in  search  of  the  in- 
mates of  the  cave,  but  above  all  things  in 
search  of  ReiUy,  for  whose  cajiture  Wliite- 
craft  would  have  forgiven  every  man  in  the 
cavern.  The  search,  however,  was  unsuc- 
cessful ;  not  a  man  of  them  was  caught  that ' 
day,  and  gallant  Sir  Robert  and  his  vayr- 
midous  were  obUged  to  return  weimed  and 
disappointed  men. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

Eeilly  is  Taken,  hut  connkcd  at  by  the  Sheriff— 
The  Mouaiain  Mass. 

Reilly  and  the  bishop  traversed  a  wild 
and  remote  part  of  the  countiy,  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  long  barren 
wastes,  over  which  were  studded,  here  and 


WILLY  EEILLY. 


87 


there,  a  few  solitary  huts  ;  upon  its  exti-emity, 
however,  tliere  were  some  houses  of  a  more 
comfortable  descrii^tiou,  the  habitations  of 
middling  farmers,  who  jjossessed  small  farms 
at  a  moderate  rent.  As  they  went  along, 
the  prelate  addressed  EeUly  iu  the  following 
teiins : 

"Ml-.  ReUly,"  said  he,  "I  would  advise 
you  to  get  out  of  this  unhapj)y  country  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

"My  lord,"  rephed  ReiUy,  who  was  all 
candor  and  trath,  and  never  could  conceal 
his  sentiments,  at  whatever  risk,  "I  cannot 
think  of  leaving  the  coiuitr\',  let  the  conse- 
quences be  what  thej'  may.  I  wiU  not 
trouble  your  lordship  wdth  my  motives,  be- 
cause they  are  at  variance  ^^'ith  your  char- 
acter and  rehgious  feelings  ;  but  they  are 
not  at  variance  with  religion  or  morahty. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  wish  to  prevent  a 
beautiful  and  innocent  girl  ft'om  being  sac- 
rificed. My  lord,  you  know  too  well  that 
I^ersecution  is  abroad  ;  and  wlien  I  tell  you 
that,  through  the  intluence  which  this  ad- 
mirable creature  has  over  her  father — who, 
by  the  way,  has  himself  the  character  of  a 
persecutor — many  Catholics  have  been  pro- 
tected by  him,  I  am  sure  you  wll  not  blame 
me  for  the  interest  which  I  feel  in  her  fate. 
In  addition  to  this,  my  lord,  she  has  been  a 
miuisteriiig  angel  to  the  Cathohc  jjoor  in 
general,  and  has  contributed  vast  sums, 
privately,  to  the  relief  of  such  of  our  jjriest- 
hood  as  have  been  brought  to  distress  by 
the  pei'secution  of  the  times.  Nay,  she  has 
so  far  influenced  her  father  that  proscribed 
j)riests  have  found  refuge  and  protection  in 
his  house." 

The  bishop,  on  hearing  this,  stood,  and 
taking  oft'  his  hat,  raised  his  riglit  hand,  and 
said  :  "  May  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty 
God  rest  upon  her,  and  guard  her  fi-om  the 
snares  of  those  who  would  make  her  un- 
happy !  But,  Eeilly,  as  you  say  you  are 
determined,  if  possible,  to  rescue  her  from 
ruin,  you  know  that  if  you  go  at  large  in 
your  usual  dress  you  v^ill  unquestionably 
be  taken.  I  advise  you,  then,  to  disguise 
yourself  in  such  a  way  as  that  you  will  not, 
if  possible,  be  known." 

"  Such,  my  loi-d,  is  my  intention — but 
who  is  this  V  what — eh — yes,  'tis  Fergus 
O'ReiUy,  a  distant  and  humble  relation  of 
mine  who  is  also  iu  disguise.  WeD,  Fergus, 
where  have  vou  been  for  some  time  past  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  that,  God 
knows  ;  I  have  been  everwhere — but,"  he 
added  in  a  whisper,  "may  I  sjseak  fi-eely?" 

"As  fi-ee  as  the  wind  that  blows,  Fgrgnis." 

"Well,  then,  I  teU  you  that  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft  has  engaged  me  to  be  on  the 
lookout  for  you,  and  said  that  I  would  be 


handsomely  rewarded  if  I  could  succeed  in 
enabling  the  scoundrel  to  apprehend  you." 

"But  how  did  that  come  about,  Fergus  ?  " 

"Faith,  he  met  me  one  day — you  see  I 
have  got  a  bag  at  my  back — and  taking  me 
for  a  beggarman,  stopised  me  on  the  road. 
'I  say,  you,  poor  man,' says  he,  'what's  your 
name?'  'Paddy  M'Fud,'  says  I — 'I  be- 
long to  the  M'Fuds  of  BaUymackknockem.' 
'  You're  a  beggar,'  says  he,  '  and  travel  from 
place  to  jjlace  about  the  countrj-.'  '  It's  true 
enough,  yoiu-  honor,'  I  rephed,  '  I  travel 
about  a  good  deal,  of  coorse,  and  it's  only 
that  way  that  I  get  my  bit  and  sup.'  '  Do 
you  know  the  notorious  villain  caUed  WUly 
Reill^'  V  '  '  Not  by  sight,  your  honor,  but  I 
have  often  heard  of  him.  Wasn't  he  in  love 
wth  the  beautiful  (JiMlci'n  Bami,  Squii'e 
FoUiard's  daughter  ?  '  '  That's  not  the  c^ues- 
tiou  between  us,'  he  said,  '  but  if  yovi  enable 
me  to  catch  Reilly,  I  wU  give  you  twenty 
l^ovinds.'  '  Well,  your  honor,'  says  I,  '  lave 
the  thing  to  myself  ;  if  he  is  to  be  had  it'll 
go  hard  but  IU  find  him.'  '  Well,  then,' 
says  he,  '  if  you  can  tell  me  where  he  is  I 
wiU  give  you  twenty  pounds,  as  I  said.' 
'  Well,  sir,'  says  I,  '  I  expect  to  hear  fi-om 
you  ;  I  am  not  sure  he's  in  the  country — 
indeed  thej^  sny  he  is  not — but  if  he  is,  1 
think  I'D.  find  him  for  j'ou ; '  and  so  we 
l^arted." 

"  Fergus,"  said  Reilly,  "  I  feel  that  a  dis- 
guise is  necessary.  Here  is  money  to  enable 
you  to  purchase  one.  I  do  not  know  where 
you  may  be  able  to  find  me  ;  btit  go  and  buy 
me  a  suit  of  frieze,  rather  worn,  a  dingy  cau- 
been  hat,  coarse  Connemara  stockings,  and  a 
pair  of  clouted  brogues  ;  some  coarse  Unen, 
too  ;  because  the  fineness  of  my  shirts,  should 
I  happen  to  be  apprehended,  might  betray 
me.  Leave  them  with  widow  Buckley,  and 
I  can  find  them  there." 

It  was  so  arranged.  Fergus  went  on  his 
way,  as  did  Reilly  and  the  bishop.  The  lat- 
ter conducted  him  to  the  house  of  a  middling 
farmer,  whose  son  the  bishop  had  sent,  at 
his  o\\ii  expense,  to  a  continental  college. 
They  were  both  received  with  the  wannest 
afi'ection,  and,  so  far  as  the  bishoj:)  was  con- 
cerned, with  every  expression  of  the  deepest 
gratitude.  The  situation  was  remote,  and 
the  tumult  of  pursuit  did  not  reach  them. 
Reill}'  privatel}-  forced  upi^u  the  farmer  com- 
pensation for  their  support,  under  a  solemn 
injunction  that  he  shoiUd  not  communicate 
that  circumstance  to  the  bishop,  and  neither 
did  he.  They  were  here,  then,  comisai-atively 
safe,  but  stiU  ReiUj-  dreaded  the  active  vigil- 
ance of  his  deadly  enemy,  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft.  He  felt  that  a  disguise  was  absolutely 
necessai-y,  and  that,  without  it,  he  might  fall 
a  sacrifice  to  the  diabohcal  vengeance  of  his 


68 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


jjowei-ful  enemy.  In  the  course  of  about  ten 
days  after  he  had  commissioned  Ferj^iis  to 
procure  him  the  disguise,  he  resolved  to  visit 
wddow  Buckley,  hi  order  to  make  the  neces- 
sai-y  exchange  in  his  appai-el.  He  according- 
ly set  out — verj'  foolishly  we  must  admit — 
iu  ojien  day,  to  go  to  the  widow's  house. 
The  distance  was  some  miles.  No  appear- 
ance of  danger,  or  piu'suit,  was  evident,  until 
he  came  to  the  shai'i^  angle  of  the  road,  where 
he  was  met  by  four  ijowerful  constables,  who, 
on  lookiBg  at  him,  immediately  surrounded 
him  and  made  him  jirisoner.  Resistance  was 
impossible  ;  they  were  well  armed,  and  he 
was  without  any  weapon  with  which  he  could 
defend  himself. 

"  We  have  a  warrant  for  yoiu'  apj)rehension, 
sii',"  said  one  of  them. 

"  Upon  what  gToimds  ? "  replied  EeiUy. 
"I  am  conscious  of  no  offence  against  the 
laws  of  the  land.  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ? 
and  is  my  name  in  yoiu'  warrant  ?  " 

"No,  but  youi'  appearance  answers  com- 
pletely to  the  descrij)tion  given  in  the  Hue 
and  Vry.  Your  dress  is  the  same  as  that  of 
the  robber,  and  jou  must  come  with  us  to 
the  sheriff  whom  you  have  robbed.  His 
house  is  only  a  C[uarter  of  a  mile  from  this." 

They  accordingly  j^roceeded  to  the  sheriff's 
house,  whom  they  found  at  home.  On  being 
informed  that  they  had  captured  the  man 
who  had  robbed  him,  he  came  downstairs 
with  great  alacrity,  and  iu  a  spiiit  replete 
with  vengeance  against  the  robber.  The 
sheriff,  however,  was  really  a  good-natured 
and  conscientious  man,  and  would  not  lend 
himself  to  a  dishonorable  act,  nor  had  he  ever 
been  known  to  do  so.  "\ATien  he  apj)eared, 
lleilly  addressed  him  : 

"I  am  here,  su-,"  said  he,  "  under  a  charge 
of  having  robbed  you.  The  charge  against 
tne  is  ridiculous.  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
never  was  under  the  necessity  of  having  re- 
v30urse  to  such  unlawful  means  of  raising 
jioney." 

"Well,"  replied  the  sheriff,  "your dress  is 
precisely  the  same  as  the  fellow  wore  when 
he  robbed  me.  But  I  feel  confident  that  j'ou 
are  not  the  man.  Your  hair  is  black,  his 
was  red,  and  he  had  large  red  whiskers.  In 
the  excitement  and  agitation  of  the  moment 
I  forgot  to  mark  the  -siUain's  features  dis- 
tinctly ;  but  I  have  since  thought  over  the 
matter,  and  I  say  that  I  would  now  know  him 
if  I  saw  him  again.  This,  however,"  he  added, 
tm-ning  to  the  constables,  "  is  not  the  person 
who  robbed  and  beat  me  down  fi'om  my 
horse." 

"  But  he  may  be  Willy  Reilly,  su-,  for  all 
that  ;  and  you  know  the  reward  that  is  off- 
ered for  hix  ajsprehension." 

"  I  know  Wniy  Eeilly,"  rejjhed   the   slier- 


iff,  "  and  I  can  assiu'e  you  that  this  gentle- 
man  is  not  Willy  lieilly.  Go,  now,  continue 
your  pursuit.  The  robber  liu'ks  somewhere 
iu  the  neighborhood.  You  laiow  the  reward  ; 
catch  him,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

The  constables  departed  ;  and  after  they 
had  gone  the  sheriff  said, 

"  Mr.  Eeilly,  I  know  you  well ;  but  I 
would  scorn  to  avail  myseK  of  the  circum- 
stance which  has  thus  occurred.  I  am  aware 
of  the  motive  which  urges  Su-  Eobert  WTiite- 
craft  against  you — so  is  the  whole  country. 
That  penurious  and  unprinciijled  villain  is 
thu'sting  for  your-  blood.  i\Ii-.  Hastings, 
however,  has  a  rod  in  pickle  for  liim,  and  he 
wll  be  made  to  feel  it  in  the  course  of  time. 
The  present  administration  is  certainly  an 
anti-Cathohc  one  ;  but  I  understand  it  is 
tottering,  and  that  a  more  liberal  one  will 
come  iu.  This  Whitecraft  has  succeeded  in 
getting  some  young  profligate  Catholics  to 
become  Protestants,  who  have,  consequeutlj', 
ousted  theu'  fathers  out  of  their  estates  and 
projDerty  ;  yoiuiger  sous,  who,  by  this  act  of 
treachery,  wiU  get  the  estates  into  their  own 
fiossession.  The  thing  is  monstrous  and  un- 
natural. But  let  that  j^ass  ;  Whitecraft  is 
on  oiu'  trail  in  all  directions  ;  beware  of  him, 
I  say  ;  and  I  think,  with  great  respect  to  you, 
Mr.  Eeilly,  it  is  extremely  foclish  to  go 
abroad  in  your  usual  apparel,  and  wthout 
disgiiise." 

"  Sir,"  replied  ReUly,  "  I  cannot  express, 
as  I  would  wish,  my  deei)  gratitude  to  you 
for  your  kindness  and  forl)earance.  That 
Sir  Eobert  Whitecraft  is  thu'sting  for  my 
blood  I  know.  The  cause  of  that  vengeance 
is  now  notoiious." 

"You  know  Mr.  Hastmgs,  Mi-.  EeiUy?" 

"Intimately,  su-." 

"  He  took  your  proiierty  iu  his  owni 
name  ?  " 

"  He  did,  sir  ;  he  jiurehased  it  iu  his  own 
name.  The  property  was  hereditary  jjrop- 
erty,  aud  when  my  title  to  it,  in  pomt  of  law. 
as  a  Cathohc,  was  questioned,  and  when  one 
of  my  family,  as  a  Protestant,  put  in  hin 
claim  for  it,  Mi-.  Hastmgs  came  in  as  the 
piu-chaser,  and  ousted  him.  The  money  was 
supphed  liy  me.  The  moment,  however, 
that  I  found  Whitecraft  was  after  me,  I  im- 
mediately surrendered  the  whole  of  it  back 
to  him  ;  so  that  Sir  Eobert,  in  burning  what 
he  considered  my  property,  iu  fact  buruecl 
Mr.  Hastings'." 

"  And  I  have  reason  to  know,  Mi-.  Eeilly, 
that  it  will  be  the  blackest  act  of  his  guilty 
life.  This,  however,  I  mention  to  you  in  the 
strictest  confidence.  Keep  the  secret,  for  if 
it  transpu-ed  the  scoundrel  might  escape 
from  the  consequences  of  his  own  cruelty 
and  oi^jji-ession.     Li  the  meautime,  do  you 


LIBRARY 

'  THE 

L'N'IV^RSIiy  OF  ILLINOIS 


WILir  REILLY. 


89 


take  cai'e  of  yourself — keejD  out  of  his  way, 
and,  as  I  said,  above  all  things,  procure  a 
disguise.  Let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may,  I  don't  think  the  beautiful  Cooleen 
Ilnivn  will  ever  marry  him." 

"  But,"  rephed  Reilly,  "  is  there  no  risk 
of  compulsion  by  her  father  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  must  confess  there  is,"  repUed 
Ihe  sheriff ;  "  he  is  obstinate  and  headstrong, 
especially  if  opjjosed,  and  she  will  lind  it 
necessary  to  ojipose  him — and  she  ivill  ojj- 
pose  him.  I  myself  have  had  a  conversation 
with  her  on  the  subject,  and  she  is  firm  as 
fate  against  such  a  union  ;  and  I  will  tell  you 
more,  Reilly — it  was  she  who  pruicii^ally  en- 
gaged me  to  protect  you  as  far  as  I  could, 
and  so  I  shall,  you  may  rest  assured  of  it.  I 
had  only  to  name  you  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
your  fate  was  sealed.  But,  even  if  she  had 
never  spoken  to  me  on  the  subject,  I  could  not 
lend  myself  to  the  crael  plots  of  that  villain. 
God  knows,  in  consequence  of  my  official 
situation,  I  am  put  uj)ou  tasks  that  are  very 
painful  to  me  ;  levying  fines  fi'om  men  who 
are  harmless  and  inofl'ensive,  who  are*peace- 
able  members  of  society,  who  teach  the 
people  to  be  moral,  well  conducted,  and 
obedient  to  the  laws,  and  who  do  not  them- 
selves violate  them.  Now,"  he  added,  "  be 
ad^dsed  by  me,  and  disguise  yourself." 

"Sir,"  said  Reilly,  "  youi-  sentiments  do 
you  honor  ;  I  am  tliis  moment  on  my  way  to 
jmt  on  a  disguise,  which  has  been  procui-ed 
for  me.  I  agree  with  you  and  other  fi-iends 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  remain 
in  the  coiuitry  in  my  own  natural  aspect  and 
dress.  Allow  me,  before  I  go,  to  express  my 
sense  of  youi*  kindness,  and  beUeve  me  I 
shall  never  forget  it." 

"The  disguise,  above  all  things,"  said  the 
sheriff,  smiling  and  holding  out  his  hand. 
Reilly  seized  it  with  a  warm  pressure  ;  they 
bid  each  other  farewell,  and  so  they  parted. 

Reilly  then  wound  his  way  to  the  cottage 
of  Mrs.  Buckley,  but  not  by  the  puljlic  road. 
He  took  across  the  fields,  and,  in  due  time, 
reached  her  humble  habitation.  Here  he 
found  the  disgaiise,  which  his  fi-iend  Fergus 
had  j)rovided — a  half-worn  frieze  coat,  a 
half-wom  caubeen,  and  a  half-woi-n  pair  of 
cordiu'oy  breeches,  clouted  brogues,  and 
Connemara  stockings,  also  the  worse  for  the 
wear,  with  two  or  three  coarse  shirts,  in 
perfect  keeping  mth  the  other  ijortiou  of 
tne  disguise. 

"  Well,  IVIi's.  Bucldey,"  said  he,  "  how 
have  you  been  since  I  saw  you  last '? " 

"  Oh,  then,  Mr.  Reilly,"  said  she,  "  it's  a 
miracle  fi-om  God  that  you  did  not  think  of 
stopping  here  !  I  had  several  visits  fi-om  the 
sogers  v.'ho  came  out  to  look  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so,  Mrs.  Buckley ;   but 


it  was  one  comfort  that  tliej*  did  not  find 
me." 

"  God  be  jiraised  for  that !  "  rei^lied  the 
poor  woman,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  "it 
would  a'  broken  my  heart  if  you  had  been 
catched  in  my  little  place." 

"But,  Mrs.  Buckley,"  said  Reilly,  "were 
there  any  plain  clothes  left  for  me  here  ?  " 

"Oh,  indeed  there  was,  sir,"  she  rephed, 
"  and  I  have  them  safe  for  you  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  I'll  go  outside,  and  have  an  eye 
about  the  country,  for  somehow  they  have 
taken  it  into  their  heads  that  this  would  be 
a  very  likely  j)lace  to  find  you." 

While  she  was  out,  Reilly  changed  his 
dress,  and  in  a  few  minutes  underwent  such 
a  metamorphosis  that  2:>oor  Mrs.  Buckley,  on 
re-entering  the  house,  felt  qiute  alarmed. 

"  Heavenly  Father !  my  good  man,  whei-e 
did  you  come  fi'om  ?  I  thought  I  left  ]\Ii\ — " 
here  she  stoj)ped,  afraid  to  mention  Reilly's 
name. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Buckley,"  said 
Reilly ;  "I  am  only  changed  in  outward 
apjjearance ;  I  am  your  true  fi'iend  still ; 
and  now  accept  this  for  your  kindness," 
jjlacing  money  in  her  hand. 

"  I  can't,  Mr.  Reilly  ;  you  are  under  the 
^persecutions,  and  will  want  all  the  money 
you  have  to  supj^ort  yourself.  Didn't  the 
thieves  of  the  devil  burn  you  out  and  rob 
you,  and  how  can  you  get  through  this 
wicked  world  without  money — keejj  it  j'oiu'- 
self,  for  I  don't  want  it. " 

"Come,  come,  Mrs.  Buckley,  I  have  mon- 
ey enough  ;  you  must  take  this  ;  I  only  ask 
you  to  conceal  these  clothes  in  some  jjlace 
where  the  hell-hounds  of  the  law  can't  find 
them.  And  now,  good-by,  Mrs.  Buckley  ; 
I  shall  take  care  that,  whatever  may  happen 
me,  you  shall  not  be  disturbed  out  of  your 
httle  cabin  and  youi-  garden." 

The  tears  ran  down  the  poor  old  woman's 
cheeks,  and  Reilly  left  her  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing behind  him.  This  indeed  was  an  event- 
ful day  to  him.  Strong  in  the  confidence 
of  his  disguise,  he  took  the  pulilic  road,  and 
had  not  gone  far  when  he  met  a  party  of 
Sir  Robert  ^ATiitecraft's.  To  fly  would  have 
been  instant  rain ;  he  accordiugly  com- 
menced an  old  Ii-ish  song  at  the  very  top  of 
his  lungs.  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  was  not 
himself  of  the  party,  but  scarcely  any  indi- 
vidual was  met  by  theni  whom  they  did  not 
cross-examine. 

"Hallo,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  leader 
of  the  party,    "  what  is  that  you're  singin'  ?  " 

Reilly  stared  at  him  like  a  man  who  was 
sorely  puzzled  ;  "Ha  veil  bearJa  nf/iim  ;  "  that 
is,  "I  have  no  English." 

"Here,  Connor,  you  can  speak  Irish  ;  sift 
this  able-bodied  tyke." 


90 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


A  conversation  in  that  languap;e  then  took 
place  between  them  which  reflected  ever- 
lasting honor  upon  Connor,  who,  by  the 
way,  was  one  of  Eeilly's  tenants,  but  himself 
and  his  profjenitors  were  Protestants  for 
three  generations.  He  was  a  shai-p,  keen 
man,  but  generous  and  honorable,  and  after 
two  or  three  glances  at  our  hero,  at  once 
recognized  him.  This  he  could  only  intimate 
by  a  wink,  for  he  knew  that  there  were  other 
persons  there  who  spoke  Ii-ish  as  well  as 
either  of  them.  The  dialogue,  however,  was 
not  long,  neither  was  it  kind-hearted  Connor's 
wish  that  it  should  be  so.  He  was  asked, 
however,  if  he  knew  any  thing  about  Willy 
Eiley,  to  which  he  rejihed  that  he  did  not, 
only  by  all  accounts  he  had  left  the  countiy. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  general  opinion. 

"  This  blockhead,"  said  Connor,  "  knows 
nothing  about  him,  only  what  he  has  heard  ; 
he's  a  pig  dealer,  and  is  now  oh  his  way  to 
the  fair  of  SUgo  ;  come  on." 

They  passed  onwai'ds,  and  EeiUy  resumed 
his  journey  and  his  song. 

On  reaching  the  fanner's  house  where  he 
and  the  bishop  lodged,  the  unhappy  j)relate 
felt  rather  annoyed  at  the  appearance  of  a 
stranger,  and  was  about  to  rejsrove  their 
host  for  his  carelessness  in  admitting  such 
persons. 

"  ^\'hat  do  you  want  here,  my  good  man  ?  " 
inquired  the  farmer. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  say  anything  to  me?" 
asked  the  bishop. 

"  A  few  words,"  repUed  EeiUy  ;  but,  on 
consideration,  he  changed  his  puipose  of 
pla^-ing  ofl'  a  good-humored  joke  on  his  lord- 
ship and  tlie  farmer.  For  the  melancholy 
pr'elate  he  felt  the  deepest  comj^assion  and 
respect,  and  apprehended  that  any  tamusr- 
ing  with  liis  feelings  might  be  attended  vrtth 
dangerous  consequences  to  his  intellect.  He 
consequently  changed  his  puiiDose,  and  add- 
ed, "  My  lord,  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

The  bishop  looked  at  him,  and  it  was  not 
without  considerable  scrutiny  that  he  recog- 
nized him. 

In  the  meantime  the  farmer,  who  had  left 
the  room  previous  to  this  explanation,  and 
who  looked  upon  ReUly  as  an  impostor  or  a 
spy,  returned  with  a  stout  oaken  cudgel,  ex- 
claiming. "  Now,  you  damned  desaver,  I  ^"ill 
give  you  a  jacketful  of  sore  bones  for  com- 
in'  to  pry  about  her^  This  gintleman  is  a 
doctor  ;  three  of  my  family  are  lying  ill  of 
faver,  and  that  you  may  catch  it  I  jiray  gorra 
this  day  !  but  if  you  won't  catch  that,  you'U 
catch  this,"  and  he  whirled  the  cudgel  about 
his  head,  and  most  unquestionable  it  would 
have  descended  on  ReUly  s  craniiim  wei-e  it 
not  for  the  bishop,  who  interposed  and  pre- 
vented the  meditated  violence. 


"  Be  quiet,  Kelly,"  sjiid  he,  "  be  quiet,  air; 
this  is  lAx.  EeiUy  disguised." 

"  Troth,  I  must  look  closely  at  him  first,* 
rephed  Kelly  ;  "  who  knows  but  he's  impos' 
in'  upon  you.  Dr.  Wilson  ?  " 

Kelly  then  looked  closely  into  his  face; 
stiU  holding  a  firm  grij)  of  the  cudgel. 

""Why,  Kelly,"  said  EeUly,  "what  the 
deuce  are  you  at?  Don't  you  know  my  voice 
at  least  ?  " 

"  Well,"  rephed  Kelly,  "bad  luck  to  the 
Uke  o'  that  ever  I  see.  Holy  Moses,  Sir. 
Reitly,  but  you  had  a  narrow  escape,  De^Tl 
a  man  in  the  barony  can  handle  a  cudgel  as 
I  can,  and  it  was  a  miracle,  and  you  may 
thank  his  lordshiji  here  for  it  that  you  hadn't 
a  shh'tful  of  sore  bones." 

"  Well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  ReUly,  "put 
up  yoiu-  cudgel ;  I  reaUy  don't  covet  a  shirt- 
ful  of  sore  bones  ;  but,  after  aU,  perhaps  you 
would  have  found  my  fist  a  match  for  your 
cudgel." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  rephed  KeUy  ;  "  but  God  be 
praised  that  you  escaped  the  welting  anyhow  ; 
I  wouW  never  forgive  myself,  and  you  the 
fi'iend  of  his  lordship)." 

He  then  left  the  room,  his  tenific  cudgel 
under  his  arm,  and  EeUly,  after  his  absence, 
related  to  the  bishop  the  events  of  the  day, 
involving,  as  they  did,  the  two  narrow  es- 
capes which  he  hod  h.ad.  The  bishop 
thanked  God,  and  told  EeiUy  to  be  of  good 
courage,  for  that  he  thought  the  hand  of 
Providence  was  jjrotecting  him. 

The  life  they  led  here  was,  at  aU  events, 
quiet  and  peaceable.  The  bishop  was  a  man 
of  singular,  indeed  of  apostolic,  piety.  He 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  meditation  and 
jjrayer  ;  fasting  beyond  the  powers  of  his 
enfeebled  constitution  :  and  indeed  it  was 
foi-tunate  that  EeUly  had  accompanied  him, 
for  so  ascetic  were  his  habits  that  were  it 
not  for  his  entreaties,  and  the  influence 
which  he  h.ad  gained  over  him,  it  is  not  at 
aU  imhkely  that  his  imfortunate  malady 
might  ha%'e  returned.  The  neighborhood  in 
which  they  resided  was,  as  we  have  said,  re- 
mote, and  exclusively  CathoUc  ;  and  vcpon 
Sundays  the  bishop  celebrated  mass  upon  a 
little  gi'assy  platform — or  rather  in  a  httle 
cave,  into  which  it  led.  This  cave  was  smaU, 
barely  lai-ge  enough  to  contain  a  table,  which 
seiTed  as  a  temj^oroi-y  altar,  the  poor  shiver- 
ing congi'egation  kneehng  on  the  platform 
outside.  At  this  period  of  our  stoiy  aU  the 
Cathohc  chaijels  and  places  of  wor.ship  were, 
as  we  have  said,  closed  by  proclamation,  and 
the  poor  people  were  deprived  of  the  means 
of  meeting  to  worship  God.  It  had  soon, 
however,  become  known  to  them  that  an  op- 
portunity of  jJublic  worship  was  to  be  had 
every  Sunday,  at  the  x>lace  we  have  described. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


&l 


Messengers  had  been  sent  amonj^  them  with 
information  to  that  effect ;  and  the  conse- 
quence was  tliat  they  not  only  kept  tlie 
secret,  but  flocked  in  considerable  numbers 
to  attend  mass.  On  the  Sunday  followin};; 
the  adoption  of  Reilly's  dis{.,'uise,  the  bishop 
and  he  proceeded  to  the  little  cave,  or  rather 
cleft,  where  a  table  had  been  plac-ed,  togeth- 
er with  the  vestments  net^essary  for  the  cere- 
mony. They  found  about  two  or  three 
hundred  jx-rsons  assembled — most  of  them 
of  the  humblest  class.  The  day  was  stormy 
in  the  extreme.  It  was  a  hard  frost,  and  the 
snow,  besides,  falling  heavily,  the  wind 
strong,  and  raging  in  hollow  gusts  about 
the  place.  The  position  of  the  table-altar, 
however,  saved  the  bishop  and  the  chalice, 
and  the  other  matters  necefwary  for  tlie  per- 
formance of  wor.sliip,  from  the  direct  fury  of 
the  blast,  but  not  altogether  ;  for  occasion- 
ally a  whirlwin<l  would  come  uj),  and  toss 
over  tlie  leaves  of  the  missal  in  such  away, 
and  with  such  violence,  that  the  bisho}),  who 
was  now  trembling  from  the  cold,  was  ob- 
liged to  lose  some  time  in  finding  out  the 
jiroper  passages.  It  was  a  solemn  sight  to 
see  two  or  three  hundred  persons  kneeling, 
and  bent  in  prostrate  and  heartfelt  adora- 
tion, in  the  pious  worsliiiJ  of  that  God  who 
sends  and  withholds  the  storm  ;  bareheaded, 
too,  under  the  piennug  drift  of  the  thick- 
falling  granular  snow,  and  thinking  of  noth- 
ing but  their  own  sins,  and  that  gladsome 
opportunity  of  ai^proaciiing  the  fo'-bidden 
altar  of  God,  now  doubly  dear  to  taem  that 
it  w<ix  forbidden.  As  the  ceremony  was  pro- 
ceeding the  bishoj)  was  gettmg  on  to  that 
portion  of  the  sacred  rites  where  the  conse- 
cration and  elevation  of  the  Host  are  neces- 
sai-y,  and  it  was  observed  Ijy  all  that  an 
extraordinary  and  sudden  lull  took  place, 
and  that  the  rage  of  the  storm  had  altogether 
ceased.  He  proceeded,  and  had  (;onsecrated 
the  Host — hoc  I'Mcorpua  meum — when  aery  of 
teiTor  arose  fi-om  the  affrighted  congi-egation. 

"  My  lord,  fiy,  and  save  yourself !  Captain 
Smellpriest  and  liis  gang  are  upon  us." 

The  bishop  never  once  turned  i-ound,  nor 
seemed  to  hear  them  ;  but  Reilly  did,  and 
saw  that  the  whole  congregation  had  tied, 
and  that  there  only  remained  the  bishoj)  and 
himself. 

"  Our  day  of  doom,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"  is  come.     Nothing  now  can  save  us." 

Still  the  bishop  proceeded  undisturbed  in 
the  worship  of  the  Almighty  ;  when,  lo  !  the 
miUt.irj'  party,  headed  and  led  on  by  the 
notorious  Captain  Smelli)riest,  came  thun- 
dering uj),  the  captain  exclaiming  : 

"  You  idolatrous  Papist,  stop  that  mum- 
merj' — or  you  shall  have  twelve  bullets  in 
v-our  heart  before  half  a  minute's  time." 


Tlie  bishop  had  consecrated  the  Host,  .19 
we  have  said,  but  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
receive  it. 

"  Men,"  said  Smellpriest,  "  you  are  all 
primed  and  loaded      Present." 

They  accordingly  did  so  ;  every  musket 
was  levelled  at  him.  The  l)ishoij  now  turned 
round,  and,  with  the  cabuness  of  a  martyr 
— a  calmness  and  conduct  that  were  sublime 
— he  said  : 

"  Sir,  I  am  engaged  in  the  worship  of  the 
Eternal  God,  and  if  you  wish  to  shed  my 
blood  I  should  rather  it  were  here  and  now 
than  in  any  other  place.  Give  me  but  a  few 
minutes — I  do  not  ask  more." 

"  Oh,"  said  Smellpriest,  "  we  wUl  give  you 
ten,  if  you  wish  it,  and  the  more  so  because 
we  are  sure  of  you. " 

Wlien  the  bishop  turned  round  again, 
after  having  i-eceived  the  Host,  his  pale  face 
had  altogether  changed  its  coni])lexion — it 
burned  witli  an  expression  whicli  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  describe.  A  lofty  sense  of  the  sacri- 
fice he  was  about  to  make  was  visible  in  his 
kintUing  and  enthusiastic  eye  ;  his  feeble 
frame,  that  had  been,  during  the  ceremony 
of  mass,  shivering  under  the  eifects  of  the 
terrible  storm  that  howled  around  them, 
now  became  firm,  and  not  the  slightest  mark 
of  fear  or  terror  was  visible  in  his  bearing  ; 
calmly  and  undauntedly  he  turned  round, 
and  with  a  voice  full  and  steady  he  said  : 

"I  am  willing  to  die.  for  my  religion,  bnt 
I  say  to  you  tliat  the  slaughter  of  an  inoffen- 
sive man  at  the  foot  of  God's  altar  will  not 
smooth  the  ])illow  of  your  deathbed,  nor  of 
those  who  shoot  down  a  minister  of  God 
while  in  the  act  of  worshipjiing  his  Crea- 
tor. My  congregation,  poor  timid  creatures, 
have  fled,  but  as  for  me,  I  will  not !  I  dare 
not !  Here,  now,  I  spread  out  my  arms — 
fire  !  " 

"I  also,"  said  Reilly,  "will  partake  of 
whatever  fate  may  befall  the  venerable 
clergv'man  who  is  before  you,"  and  he  stood 
up  side  by  side  with  the  bishop. 

The  guns  were  still  levelled,  the  fingers  of 
the  men  on  the  triggers,  when  Smellpriest 

shouted    out,    "Ground    arms!      By ," 

says  he,  "  here  is  a  new  ease  ;  this  fellow  has 
spunk  and  courage,  and  curse  me,  although 
I  give  the  priests  a  chase  wherever  I  can, 
still  I  am  a  soldier,  and  a  man  of  courage, 
and  to  shoot  down  a  jn-iost  in  the  worship 
of  God  would  be  cowardly.  No,  I  can't  do 
it — nor  I  won't ;  I  like  pluck,  and  this  priest 
has  shown   it.     Had  he  taken  to  his  heels, 

by ,  he  would  have  had  half  a  dozen 

bullets  in  his  rear ;  but,  as  I  said,  I  like 
pluck,  and  on  that  account  we  shall  pass 
him  by  this  time.  To  the  right  about.  As 
to  the  clerk,  by .  he  has  shown  pluck 


92 


WILLIAM   CAELETOX'S   WORKS. 


too,  but  be  hanged  to  Lira,  wliat  do  we  care 
about  him  ?  " 

We  must  say  a  word  or  two  here  about 
Smellpriest.  He  was,  in  the  true  sense  of 
the  word,  a  priest-hunter  ;  but  yet,  with  all 
his  bigotrj',  he  was  a  brave  man,  and  could 
appreciate  courage  wherever  he  found  it. 
The  reader  already  knows  that  his  range  of 
persecution  was  by  no  means  either  so  vdde 
or  so  comprehensive  as  that  of  the  coward 
Wliitecraft.  He  was  a  dashing,  outspoken 
fellow,  with  an  equal  portion  of-  boisterous 
folly  and  mischief  ;  whereas  Whitecraft  was 
a  perfect  snake — treacherous,  cruel,  persever- 
ing in  his  enmity,  and  unrelenting  iu  his 
vengeance.  Such  was  the  dift'erence  iu  the 
character  of  these  two  worthies. 

After  Smellj^riest  had  dra'WTi  oft'  his  men, 
the  bishoj)  concluded  the  ceremony  of  the 
mass  ;  but  when  he  turned  round  to  an- 
iioimee  its  conclusion  in  the  words.  He,  missa 
?.■</,  there  was  not  a  soul  before  him,  the  ter- 
rified congregation,  as  we  have  said,  having 
all  betaken  themselves  to  thght.  Reilly  then 
assisted  him  to  unrobe,  and  placed  the  vest- 
ments, the  chaUce,  pix,  and  everj'  thing  con- 
nected mtli  the  ceremony,  in  a  jsair  of  sad- 
dle-bags, wliich  belonged  to  the  parish  priest, 
whose  altar  was  then  closed,  as  we  said,  by 
proclamation. 

Eeilly  and  the  bishop  then  proceeded  to 
the  farmer's  house,  Reilly  carrying  the  saddle- 
bags, and  as  they  went  along  the  following 
conversation  took  place  between  them  : 

"  My  lord,"  said  liis  companion,  "  if  I  might 
presume  to  advise  you,  I  think  it  would  be 
more  jsrudent  for  you  to  retire  to  the  Conti- 
nent for  a  time.  This  ferocious  captain,  who, 
subdued  by  the  sublime  tenor  of  your  con- 
duct, spared  you  on  this  occasion,  may  not 
under  other  and  less  impressive  circumstan- 
ces, exercise  a  .similar  forbearance." 

"  But,  my  dear  Reilly,"  replied  the  bishop, 
in  a  tone  of  deep  melancholy,  "I  am  not  in 
circumstances  to  go  to  the  Continent ;  I  am 
j)oor ;  most  of  my  available  money  I  have 
distributed  among  the  unh.appy  peojile,  until 
I  am  now  nearly  as  poor  as  themselves  ;  but, 
independently  of  that,  I  do  not  think  it 
would  be  right  to  abandon  the  charge  which 
God  has  entrusted  to  my  keeping.  The 
shepherd  should  not  desert  his  flock,  espe- 
cially in  the  moment  of  danger,  when  the 
wolves  are  abroad." 

"But,  my  lord,"  repUed  ReiUy,  "imder 
the  present  circumstances  of  the  country 
yoiu-  residence  here  can  be  of  no  ser\dce  to 
them.  The  chajiels  are  all  closed,  and  pub- 
he  worship  forbidden  by  law.  This  cannot, 
.and,  I  hope,  will  not,  last  long  ;  but  in  the 
meantime,  think  if  it  be  not  wiser  in  you  to 
go  for  a  time  into  what  I  may  call  a  volun- 


tary exile,  than  be  forced  into  banishment  b^ 
a  cruel  edict  of  the  law,  as  you  will  be  if  you 
should  be  discovered." 

"  There  is  great  truth  in  what  you  say,  my 
dear  Reilly,  and  on  thinking  over  the  circum- 
stances of  the  country,  I  am  indeed  of  oi)Ln- 
ion  that  your  advice  is  good  ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, my  present  poverty  prevents  me  fi'om 
acting  on  it." 

"  But  that  shall  not  be,  my  lord  ;  I  have 
the  means — amply,  too — of  enabUng  your 
lordship  to  withdraw  to  the  Continent, 
where  you  can  remain  quite  safe  until  better 
times  return,  as  I  hope  in  God  they  wUl 
soon." 

"And  yourself,  Keilly?  why  not  accom- 
jjany  me  ?  You,  it  is  said,  are  outlawed  ; 
why  then  remain  in  a  coiuitry  where  your 
danger  is  stiU  greater  than  mine  '?  " 

" My  lord,"  rejilied  Reilly,  "do  not  press 
me  on  that  subject." 

"I  do  not  msh  to  do  so,  Reillj-  ;  but  here 
are  the  circumstances  :  you  and  the  beauti- 
ful daughter  of  that  old  squu'e  are  attached 
— in  other  words,  you  love  each  other  pas- 
sionately. Now,  you  know,  marriage  is  im- 
jjossible,  unless  you  should  abandon  the 
creed  of  your  fathers." 

"I  think,  my  lord,"  replied  EeOly,  in  a 
very  serious  and  somewhat  ott'ended  tone, 
"  that  my  conduct  this  day,  and  within  the 
last  haK  hour,  was  not  that  of  a  man  likely 
to  abandon  the  creed  of  his  fathers." 

"Certainly  not — most  certainly  not,"  re- 
jihed  the  liishoj^.  "  I  would  have  died  this 
daj'  for  my  religion,  and  so  would  you." 

"  And  so  would  I  certainly,  my  lord,  any 
day,  sooner  than  renounce  it  for  the  love  of 
woman.  So  far  let  your  lordshqi's  mind  be 
at  rest.  But  in  the  meantime,  let  me  ini- 
piress  upon  your  lordshija's  consideration  the 
absolute  necessity  of  retiring  to  the  Conti- 
nent for  a  time.  Your  lordship's  charity 
has  made  you  poor ;  but,  thank  God,  I  am 
not  poor — but  in  a  position  to  jjlace  £200  in 
your  hands  to  enable  you  to  bear  the  expenses 
of  your  voyage,  and  to  maintain  youi-  ecclesi- 
astical rank  and  position  for  a  time,  when 
you  get  there." 

"Oh,"  rejihed  the  bishoiJ,  "if  I  were  once 
there,  very  httle  money  would  be  necessary  ; 
I  covdd  almost  immediately  get  a  jDrofessor- 
ship  of  divinity,  especially  in  the  College  of 
Louvaiu,  where  I  held  a  professorshij)  for 
several  years." 

It  was  an-anged  that  the  bishois  should  go, 
at  least  untQ  the  times  should  chimge,  and 
in  the  coiu-se  of  a  week,  ReOly  havmg  fur- 
nished liim  with  the  necessary  funds,  he  de- 
parted and  reached  the  Continent  in  safety. 

Their  seijaration  was  extremely  aft'ecting. 
The  bishop  wept  bitterly,  not  only  in  con- 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


91 


sequence  of  his  pai-ting  -natli  Eeillv,  but  still 
more  because  he  was  forced  to  sejjarate  him- 
self from  bis  flock.  Reilly  was  deeiily  affected, 
uor  could  he  restrain  his  tears.  The  liishoiJ 
put  his  liaud  on  his  head  and  blessed  him. 
"I  feel,"  said  he,  "as  if  it  were  a  projjlietic 
impulse,  that  God  wiU  biiug  you  out  of  the 
tribulations  that  encompass  you.  Forget  not 
liis  word  uor  his  law  ;  love  aud  adlierc  to 
yoiu-  rehgiou  ;  be  guided  by  its  precepts,  let 
them  sink  deeply  into  yoiu"  heart.  Take 
care,  also,  that  the  love  of  woman  shall  not 
seduce  you  from  your  <illegi;uice  to  our 
Church.  Aud  now,  may  the  Almighty  God 
bless  and  jDrotect  you,  and  rescue  you  fi-om 
the  hands  aud  the  snares  of  your  enemies  !  " 
And  so  they  parted. 

No  .stronger  j)roof  could  exist,  so  far  as  the 
Codleen  Bairn  was  concerned,  than  her  extra- 
ordinaiy  jJower  of  conciliatmg  love  and  at- 
tachment fi'om  all  who  ajjproached  her,  or 
were  engaged  in  attending  upon  her  person. 
The  singular  softness  of  her  sweet  and  mel- 
low voice  was  in  itself  an  exponent  of  the  re- 
markable sua^•ity  and  benignity  of  her  dis- 
jjosition.  In  fact,  she  carried  a  charm  about 
her — an  atmosphere  of  kindness  and  benevo- 
lence that  no  human  being  who  came  within 
its  influence  could  resist.  Her  smUe  was  a 
perfect  fascination,  which,  in  addition  to  her 
elegance  of  form — her  gi-ace  and  harmony  of 
motion — her  extensive  chai-ity — her  noble 
liberality  of  sentiment — and,  above  aU,  her 
dazzling  beauty,  constituted  a  character  which 
encircled  her  with  admu-ation  and  something 
tdmost  liorderiug  on  wor.ship. 

At  this  time  a  scheme  came  into  the  fertile 
brain  of  Whitecraft,  worthy  of  being  con- 
cocted only  in  the  infernal  pit  itself.  This 
was  to  j)revail  on  the  squu-e  to  remove  her 
faithful,  attached,  and  confidentiid  m:ud, 
EUeu  Connor,  from  about  her  j)erson,  luider 
the  2)lea  that  as,  imfortunately.  Miss  FoUiard 
had  been  seduced  into  an  affection  for  EeiUy, 
it  was  not  only  probable  that  her  attendant 
liad  originated  and  eucoui-aged  her  passion, 
but  that  it  was  also  likely  that,  as  EeiUy  was 
a  CathoUc,  Connor,  the  confidant,  being  her- 
self of  that  jiersuasiim,  might  so  work  upon 
the  feelings  and  principles  of  his  daughter  as 
to  induce  her,  for  the  sake  of  the  more  easUj' 
bringing  about  their  marriage,  to  abandon 
her  own  rehgiou,  and  embrace  that  of  her 
lover.  The  old  man  became  instantly  alarm- 
ed, aud,  with  his  usual  fieiy  impetuosity,  lost 
not  a  moment  in  dismissing  her  altogether 
from  his  family. 

'When  this  faithful  girl  found  that  she  was 
about  to  be  separated  fi-om  her  fau'  and 
affectionate  young  mistress,  no  languagecould 
depict  the  violence  of  her  grief,  nor  could 
ihat  mistress  herself  refuse  the  tribute  of 


her  teai's  to  her  sense  of  the  loss  which  sho 
knew  she  must  sustain  by  her  absence  at  a 
crisis  when  she  stood  so  much  in  need  of  her 
fi'iendsliip  aud  attachment. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  not  for  myself,  my  dear  mistress, 
that  I  feel  this  grief,'"  exclaimed  Connor, 
weeping  bitterly  as  she  spoke,  "but  for  you. 
Here  you  ■^"ill  be  alone,"  she  proceeded, 
"  without  one  being  on  whom  you  can  de- 
25end,  or  to  whom  you  can  oj)en  yoiu"  heait 
— for  many  a  time  yovi  eased  that  j)oor  heart 
by  teUiug  me  of  your  love  for  him,  and  by 
dwellin'  upon  his  accomphshments  and  beau- 
ty— and,  indeed,  it's  no  wonder  you  should, 
for  where,  oh !  where  is  his  aiquU  to  be 
foimd  ?  Like  yom-seU,  every  one  that  comes 
near  him  must  love  him  ;  and,  like  you,  again, 
isn't  he  charity  itself  to  the  j)Oor,  no  matter 
what  their  creed  may  be — oh,  no  !  it's  he 
that  is  neither  the  bigot  nor  the  ojspressor, 
although  God  he  knows  what  he  himseK  is 
sufferin'  fi'om  both.  God's  curse  on  that 
blasted  Sii-  Robert  ^ATiitecraft !  I  declare  to 
mercy,  I  think,  if  I  was  a  man,  that  I'd  shoot 
him,  like  a  mad  dog,  and  free  the  country  of 
him  at  wanst."  , 

The  Cooleen  was  herself  in  teai'S,  occasioned 
by  such  a  glowing  pictiu-e  of  her  lover,  as 
weU  as  by  the  loss  of  tliis  faithful  and  de- 
voted girl.  Yet  she  could  not  repress  a- 
smUe  at  the  indignation  exjiressed  by  EUeu 
against  the  man  whom  she  looked  uj)on  with 
such  detestation  and  abhorrence. 

"My  dear  EUen,"  said  she,  drying  her 
teai-s,  "we  must  only  have  jiatience.  Everf 
thing  is  in  the  h;inds  of  God,  aud  in  him  let 
us  trust.  Do  not  weep  so.  It  is  true  that, 
without  youi'  society,  I  shaU  feel  as  if  I  wera 
in  a  desert,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  in  a 
dungeon  ;  for,  indeed,  I  fear  that  I  am  about 
to  become  a  prisoner  in  my  father's  house, 
and  entangled  more  aud  more  every  daj'  in 
the  meshes  of  that  detestable  viUaiu.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must,  as  I  said,  have  courage 
and  patience,  and  trust  to  a  change  of  cii'- 
eumstances  for  better  times." 

"  May  the  Lord  in  heaven  gi'ant  them  soon 
and  sudden,  for  both  your  sakes,"  ejaculated 
EUen.     "I  pray  the  Sariour  that  he  may  !  " 

"  But,  Ellen,"  said  the  C'ooh'i'ii,  "  ilidn't  you 
hint  to  me,  once  or  twice,  that  you  }"Ourself 
have,  or  had,  a  lover  named  ReUly '? " 

"I  did,"  she  replied,  " not  that  I  have,  biu 
that  I  had — and,  what  is  more,  an  humble 
aud  distant  relation  of  hif." 

"  You  say  you  had.  TMiat  do  you  mean 
by  that,  EUeu  ?  Have  j'ou,  too,  exj)erienced 
yoiu'  cro.sses  and  calamities  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  have  had   my  share 
aud  I  know  too  weU  what  it  is  to  have  thv^ 
heart  within  as  fuU  of  sorrow,  and  all  bu; 
broken." 


94 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Why,  my  poor  girl,  and  have  you  too  ex- 
perienced disappointment  and  affliction  ?  " 

"  God,  ma'am,  has  given  me  my  share  ; 
but,  in  my  case,  the  affliction  was  greater 
than  the  disapi^ointment,  although  tliat  too 
came  soon  enough  ujjon  me." 

"  Why,  did  not  the  affliction,  in  your  case, 
proceed  from  the  disappointment  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  miss,  but  indeed  partly  it 
did.  It's  but  a  short  story,  my  dear  mistress, 
and  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  Fergus  is  his  name — 
Fergus  O'Reilly.  His  father,  for  doin'  some- 
thing or  other  contrary  to  the  laws — har- 
borin'  some  outlaw,  I  believe,  that  was  a 
relation  of  his  o\vn,  and  who  was  found  by 
the  army  in  his  house — well,  his  father,  a  very 
ould  man,  was  taken  prisoner,  and  jjut  into 
jail,  where  he  died  before  they  could  tiy 
him  ; '  and  well  it  was  he  did  so,  for,  by  all 
accounts,  they'd  have  transported  or  hanged 
the  i^oor  ould  man,  who  was  then  past  seventy. 
Now,  over  and  above  that,  they'd  have  done 
the  same  thing  with  his  son  Fergus,  but  that 
he  disajjpeared  and  but  few  knows  what 
became  of  him." 

"  Wliy,  did  he  go  without  having  had  an 
interview  with  you  ?  "  asked  the  C'ooleen. 

"  Indeed  he  did,  miss,  and  small  blame  to 
him  ;  for  the  truth  is,  he  had  little  time  for 
leavetakin' — it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to 
make  his  escape,  which,  thank  God,  he  did. 
But,  indeed,  I  oughtn't  to  thank  God  for  it, 
I  doubt,  because  it  would  have  been  better, 
and  ten  times  more  creditable  to  himself,  if 
he  had  been  transported,  or  hanged  itself — 
for  that,  ma'am,  is  many  a  good  man's  case, 
as  every  one  knows." 

"I  agree  wtih  you,  Ellen.  There  is,  in- 
deed, a  most  essential  difference  between 
flagitious  crimes,  such  as  theft,  robbery,  mur- 
der, and  other  dreadful  ovitrages  of  that  char- 
acter, and  those  which  may  be  termed  offences 
aj'isiug  from  j)olitical  opinions,  wliich  are 
often  honestly  entertained  by  iudividuitls 
who,  in  aU  the  relations  of  life,  ai-e  sometimes 
the  most  exem^jlary  members  of  society.  But 
proceed,  EUen — what  was  the  result  ?  " 

Poor  EUen's  eyes  filled  mth  tears,  and  she 
could  scarcely  summon  composure  enough  to 
rejjly : 

"  Worse  than  transportation  or  even  death, 
my  dear  mistress  ;  oh  !  far  worse — guilt  and 
crime.  Yes  :  he  that  had  gained  my  affec- 
tions, and  gave  me  his,  joined  the  Red  Rap- 
paree  and  his  gang,  and  became — a  robber. 
I  was  goin'  to  say  an  outlaw,  but  he  was  that 
before  he  joined  them,  because  he  wouldn't 
submit  to  the  laws — that  is,  wovildn't  submit 
to  be  transported,  or  maybe  hanged — or  you 
know,  ma'am,  how  little  a  thing  it  is  that 
will  either  hang  or  transport  any  one  of  our 
unfortunate  creed  now." 


"  Alas !  my  dear  Ellen,  you  forget  that  3 
am  a  living  witness  of  it,  and  an  afflicted  one  ; 
but  jsroceed.  Have  you  ever  seen  yoiu-  lorer 
since  ?  " 

"I  did,  ma'am,  but  at  that  time  he  men- 
tioned nothing  about  his  havin'  joined  the 
Rapj^arees.  He  came,  he  said,  to  bid  me 
farewell,  and  to  tell  me  that  he  wasn't  worthy 
of  me.  'The  stain  that's  vipon  me,'  said  he, 
'  draws  a  gxdf  between  you  and  me  that 
neither  of  us  can  ever  pass.'  He  could 
scarcely  sjjeak,  but  he  dashed  away  the  tears 
that  came  to  his  eyes — and — and — so  he  took 
his  dej)arture.  Now,  my  dear  young  mis- 
tress, you  see  how  well  I  can  under.stand 
your  case,  and  the  good  reason  I  have  to  feel 
for  you,  as  I  do,  and  ever  will,  until  God  in 
his  mercy  may  set  you  both  free  from  what 
you're  sufferin'." 

"But,  are  you  certain,  Ellen,  that  he  actu- 
ally has  joined  the  Rapjjarees  '? " 

"  Too  sure,  ma'am — too  sure  ;  my  father 
had  it  in  private  from  his  ovm  lips,  for,  as  the 
poor  boy  said,  he  hadn't  the  courage  himseh 
to  tell  me." 

"But,  Ellen,"  asked  IMiss  FoUiard,  "where 
had  you  an  oijportuuity  of  seeing  and  becom- 
ing acquainted  v»ith  this  .young  man  ?  You 
surely  could  not  have  kno-mi  him,  or  con- 
ceived an  attachment  for  him,  previous  to 
your  coming  to  reside  with  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  replied  Ellen  ;  "  it  was 
at  my  father 's_  I  became  acquainted  with  him, 
principally  whenever  I  got  lave  to  spend  a 
Sunday  at  home.  And  now,  my  dear  mis- 
tress," she  jDroceeded,  sobbing,  "  I  must  go 
— your  jDoor,  faithful  Ellen  wiU  never  let  j^ou, 
nor  the  thought  of  your  sorrows,  out  of  her 
heart.  All  she  can  do  now  is  to  give  you 
her  prayers  and  her  tears.  Farewell !  my 
darhn'  mistress — may  the  blessing  of  God 
guard  and  j)rosfier  you  both,  and  bring  you 
to  the  happiness  you  deserve."  She  wept 
bitterly  as  she  concluded. 

"  Ellen,"  replied  her  mistress,  and  she 
j)aused — "  Ellen,"  said  she  again — she  would, 
indeed,  have  spoken,  but,  after  a  silent  sti-ug- 
gle,  she  covered  her  eyes  wth  her  handker- 
chief, and  was  fauiy  carried  away  by  her 
emotions — "Ellen,"  said  she,  tixking  her 
hand,  and  recovering  herself,  "  be  of  coiu-age  ; 
let  neither  of  us  desjjair — a  brighter  hght 
may  shine  on  oiu-  path  yet.  Perhaps  I  may 
have  it  in  my  power  to  befiiend  you,  here- 
after. Farewell,  Ellen  ;  and  if  I  can  prevail 
on  my  father  to  bring  you  back,  I  will." 
And  so  they  j)arted. 

Connor's  father  was  a  tenant  of  the  squire's, 
and  held  rather  a  comfortable  farm  of  about 
eighteen  or  twenty  acres.  Ellen  herself  had, 
when  very  young,  been,  by  some  accident 
or  other,  brought  within  the  notice  of  Mrs 


J 


WILLY  RE  ILLY 


9B 


Polliard,  who,  having  been  struck  by  her 
vivacity,  neatness  of  figure,  and  good  looks, 
begged  permission  from  her  parents  to  take 
the  little  girl  under  her  care,  and  train  her 
up  to  wait  upon  her  daughter.  She  had  now 
been  eight  years  La  the  squire's  famUy — that 
is,  since  her  fourteenth — and  was  only  two 
years  older  than  the  C'ooleen  Baicn,  who  was 
aow,  and  had  been  for  the  last  three  years, 
her  only  mistress.  She  had  consecpently 
grown,  'IS  it  were,  into  all  her  habits,  and  we 
may  justly  say  that  there  was  not  an  individ- 
ual in  edstenee  who  had  a  better  opportunity 
of  knowing  and  ai^jDreciating  her  good  quali- 
ties ajifl  virtues  ;  and,  what  was  much  to 
her  honor,  she  never  for  a  moment  obtruded 
her  0701  private  sorrows  ufion  the  ear  or 
heart  of  her  mistress,  who,  she  saw,  had  a 
suflicient  number  of  her  own  to  bear. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  she  took 
farewell  of  her  mistress,  and  t'nihght  had 
come  on  ere  she  had  got  within  half  mile  of 
her  father's  house.  On  crossing  a  st  Ue  which 
led,  by  a  pathway,  to  the  little  hamlet  in 
which  her  father  lived,  she  was  both  sur- 
prised and  startled  by  perceiving  Fergus 
ReiUy  afiproach  her.  He  was  then  out  of  his 
disguise,  and  dressed  in  his  own  clothes,  for 
he  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  approach 
her  father's  house,  or  ajijjear  before  any  of 
the  famU}',  in  the  tattered  garb  of  a  mendi- 
cant. On  this  occasion  he  came  to  tell  them 
that  he  had  abandoned  the  gang  of  the  Eed 
Kapparee,  and  come  to  the  resolution  of  seek- 
ing his  pardon  from  the  Government,  having 
been  informed  that  it  offered  protection  to 
all  who  would  come  in  and  submit  to  the 
laws,  provided  they  had  not  been  pruilty  of 
shedding  human  blood.  This  intelligence, 
however,  was  communicated  to  the  family,  as 
a  means  of  prejjaring  them  for  still  more 
important  information  upon  the  subject  of  his 
©■mi  liberty — a  matter  with  which  the  reader 
will  soon  become  acquainted,  as  he  will  wth 
the  fact  of  his  having  left  off  his  disguise 
only  for  a  brief  period.  In  the  meantime, 
he  felt  i^erfectly  conscious  of  the  risk  he  ran 
of  a  failure  in  the  accomjslishmeut  of  his 
own  project,  by  throwing  off'  his  disguise, 
and  was  then  hastening  on  his  way  to  the 
cottage  of  widow  Bucklej',  where  he  had  left 
his  mendicant  apparel  for  the  time  being. 

When  EUen  saw  him  she  felt  a  tumult  in 
her  bosom  which  almost  overcame  her.  Her 
heart  palpitated  almost  audibly,  and  her 
knees  became  feeble  under  her.  There  was 
something  so  terrible  associated  with  the 
idea  of  a  Rapparee  that  she  took  it  for 
granted  that  some  frig'ntful  transformation 
of  person  and  character  must  have  taken 
place  in  him,  and  that  she  would  now  meet 
a   man    thoroughly    imbued   with    all    the 


frightful  and  savage  vices  which  were  so  fre. 
quently,  and  too  often  so  generally,  aitrib. 
uted  to  that  fierce  and  formidable  class. 
StUl,  the  recollection  of  their  former  affec- 
tion, and  her  knowledge  of  the  oi3j)i'ession 
which  had  come  u^jou  himself  and  his 
family,  induced  her  to  hoj)e  that  the  iJiinci-' 
2iles  of  humanity  could  not  have  been  alto- 
gether effaced  from  his  heart.  Full  of 
doubt  and  anxiety,  therefore,  she  jjaused  at 
the  stile,  against  which  she  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  lean  for  support,  not  without  a  touch 
of  interest  and  somewhat  of  curiosity,  to 
control  the  vague  apprehensions  which  she 
could  not  help  feeling.  We  need  scarcely 
inform  the  reader  that  the  meeting  on  both 
sides  was  accidental  and  unexpected. 

"  Heavenly  Father  !  "  exclaimed  EUen,  in 
a  voice  trembling  ■with  agitation,  "is  this 
Fergus  O'Eeilly  that  I  see  before  me  ?  Fer- 
gus, ruined  and  undone  !  "  She  then  looked 
cautiously  about  her,  and  added,  "  Fergus, 
the  Rapimrc.e  !  " 

"  God  bless  me  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  return, 
"  and  may  I  ask,  is  this  Ellen  Connor  on  my 
path?" 

"  Well,  I  think  I  may  say  so,  in  one  sense. 
Sure  enough,  I  am  Ellen  Connor  ;  but,  un- 
fortunately, not  the  Ellen  Connor  that  you 
wanst  knew  ;  neither,  unfortunately  again, 
are  you  the  Fergias  O'Reilly  that  /  wanst 
knew.  We  are  both  changed,  Fergus — I  into 
sorrow,  and  you  into  ciime." 

"  Ellen,"  said  he,  nearly  as  much  agitated 
as  herself,  "  I  stand  before  you  simply  as 
Fergus  O'Reilly,  but  not  Fergus  the  Rap- 
Tpaxee." 

"You  wiU  not  deny  your  own  words  to 
vaj  father,"  she  rajjUed. 

"No,  Ellen,  I  will  not — they  were  tnie 
then,  but,  thank  God,  they  are  not  true  noii'." 

"  How  is  that,  Fergus  ?  " 

"  Simijly  because  I  icas  a  Rajjparee  when 
I  spoke  to  youi-  father  ;  but  I  have  left  them, 
once  and  for  ever." 

"  How  long  have  you  left  them  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  tliat  night.  If  it  were  not  for 
ReiUy  and  those  that  were  out  with  him 
duck-shooting,  the  red  \'iUain  would  have 
murdhered  the  squii-e  and  Andy  Cummiskey, 
as  siu-e  as  there  is  life  in  my  body.  After 
all,  it  is  owin'  to  Mr.  ReiUy  that  I  left  him 
and  his  cursed  crew.  And  now,  Ellen,  that 
I  have  met  you,  let  me  sjjake  to  you  about 
ould  times.  Li  the  first  place,  I  am  heart 
sorry  for  the  step  I  took  ;  but  you  know  it 
was  oppression  and  jjersecution  that  drove 
me  to  it." 

"  Fergus,"  she  replied,  "  that's  no  excuse. 
Persecution  may  come  upon  us,  T)ut  that's 
no  reason  why  we  should  allow  it  to  drive  us 
into  evil  and  crime.     Don't  you  know  that 


96 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


it's  such  conduct  that  justifies  the  per- 
seciitors  in  their  own  eyes  and  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  What  will  become  of  you  now  ? 
If  you're  caught,  you  must  die  a  shameful 
death." 

"  Devil  a  fear  of  it,  my  darlin'  Ellen.  I 
could  tell  you  sometliing,  if  I  thought  myself 
at  hberty  to  do  so — something  mavourneen, 
that  'ud  give  you  a  hght  heart." 

"Indeed,  Fergus,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  any 
of  your  secrets.  It's  my  oftiniou  they  would 
not  be  fit  for  me  to  hear.  But  in  the  mane 
time,"  she  added — promjsted  by  theundjing 
pruiciple  of  female  curiosity,  and,  let  us  add, 
a  better  and  more  generous  feehng — "  in  the 
mane  time,  Fergus,  if  it's  any  thing  about 
yourself,  and  that  it  would  give  nie  a  light 
heart,  as  you  say  it  would,  and  that  there  is 
nothing  wrong  and  dishonorable  in  it,  I 
would,  for  your  sake,  be  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  WeU  tJien,  Ellen,  I  wiU  tell  it ;  but  it 
must,  for  reasons  that  there's  no  use  in  men- 
tioniu'  to  you,  be  a  secret  between  us,  for 
some  time — not  a  long  time,  I  hope.  I  am, 
thank  God,  free  as  the  air  of  heaven,  and 
may  walk  abroad,  oj^enly,  in  the  face  of  day, 
if  I  Uke,  withoiit  any  one  darin'  to  ask  me  a 
question." 

"But,  Fergus,"  said  EUen,  "I  don't  un- 
dherstand  this.  You  were  a  robber — a  ItajD- 
paree — and  uow  you  ai'e  a  fi-ee  man.  But 
what  did  you  do  to  desei-ve  this  at  the  hands 
of  the  Government  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  darlin'  Ellen — 
nothing  luibecomin'  an  honest  man." 

"I  hope,"  she  isroeeeded — her  cheeks 
mantling  with  indignation  and  scorn — "  I 
hope,  Fergus,  you  wouldn't  think  of  stoojsin' 
to  treacheiy  against  the  tuifortunate,  ay,  or 
even  against  the  guilty.  I  hope  you  wouldn't 
sell  yourself  to  the  Government,  and  get  your 
hberty,  afther  all,  only  as  a  bribe  for  villany, 
instead  of  a  free  gift." 

"  See,  now,"  he  retiu-ned,  "  what  I  have 
broiight  on  myseK  by  tellin'  you  any  thing  at 
all  about  it — a  regular  ould  house  on  my 
shouldhers.  No,  darhn',"  he  proceeded, 
"you  ought  to  know  me  better." 

"  Oh,  Fergus,"  she  rephed  quickly,  "  I 
thought  I  knew  you  wanst." 

"  Is  that  generous,  Ellen  ?  "  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  and  melancholy  feeling,  "  afther 
statin'  my  sorrow  for  that  step  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  rej)lied,  moved  by  what  she 
saw  he  suffered  in  consequence  of  her  words, 
"  if  I  have  given  you  iinin,  Fergus,  forgive 
me — you  know  it's  not  in  my  nature  to  give 
pam  to  any  one,  but,  above  all  persons  in 
the  world,  to  you." 

"Well,  darlin',"  said  he,  "you  will  know 
all  in  time  ;  but  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be 
done  yet.     All  I  can  say,  and  all  I  wiU  say, 


is,  that  if  God  spares  me  life,  I  ^viIl  take 
away  one  of  the  blackest  enemies  that  WiUy 
KeiUy  and  the  Coolfen  Bawit  has  in  exist- 
ence. He  would  do  any  thing  that  the  vil- 
lam  of  jjerdition  he's  a  slave  to  would  bid 
him.  Now,  I'll  say  no  more  ;  and  I'm  sure, 
as  the  friend  of  your  beautiful  mistress,  the 
fair  Coolecn  Bawn,  you'U  thank  me  for  what 
I  have  i^romised.  to  do  against  the  Red 
Rapj)aree." 

"I  will  pry  no  fiu'ther  into  j'oiu"  aflairs  or 
inteiitions,  Fergus ;  but,  if  you  can  take 
danger  out  of  the  way  of  the  Coolecn  Bawn 
or  Eeilly,  I  will  forgive  you  a  great  deal — 
every  thing,  indeed,  but  treachei-y  or  dis- 
honor. But,  Fergus,  I  have  something  to 
mention  that  will  take  a  start  out  of  you.  1 
have  been  discharged  by  the  squire  fifom 
his  family,  and — mavrone,  oh  ! — I  can  now 
be  of  no  service  to  the  Cooleen  Bawn." 

"  Discharged  !  "  rephed  Fergus  with  as- 
tonishment;  "why,  how  did  that  come? 
But  I  sujjpose  I  needn't  ask — some  of  the 
mad  old  Squu-e's  tantrums,  I  sujjpose  ?  And 
what  did  the  Cooleen  Bavm  herself  say  ?  " 

"Wliy,  she  cried  bitterly  when  I  was 
lavin'  her ;  indeed  if  I  had  been  her  sister 
she  couldn't  feel  more  ;  and,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected fi'om  her,  she  j)romiaed  to  befriend 
me  as  long  as  she  had  it  in  her  power  ;  but, 
poor  thing,  if  matters  go  against  her,  as  I'm 
afeared  they  wiU — if  she's  forced  to  mari-y 
that  villain,  it's^  httle  for  any  thing  that's 
either  good  or  generous  ever  she'll  have  ui 
her  power ;  but  marry  him  she  never  wiU. 
I  heard  her  say  more  than  wanst  that  she'd 
take  her  o'wii  hfe  first  ;  and  indeed  I'm  sar- 
tain  she  wiU,  too,  if  she's  forced  to  it. 
Either  that,  or  she'll  lose  her  senses ;  for, 
indeed,  Fergus,  the  darliu'  girl  was  near 
losin'  them  wanst  or  twic't  as  it  is — may 
God  jjity  and  reheve  her." 

"Amen,"  rephed  Fergus.  "And  j-ou're 
now  on  your  way  home,  I  supj^osc  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Ellen,  "  and  every  thing  be- 
longin'  to  me  is  to  be  sent  to  my  father's  ; 
but  indeed,  Fergus,  I  don't  much  cai'e  now 
what  becomes  of  me.  My  hapjjiness  in  this 
world  is  bound  uj)  in  hers  ;  and  if  she's  to 
be  simk  in  grief  and  sorrow,  I  can  never  be 
otherwise — we'U  have  the  one  fate,  FergTis, 
and  God  gi-ant  it  may  be  a  happy  one,  al- 
though I  see  no  hkehhood  of  it. " 

"Come,  come,  EUeu,"  replied  Fergus, 
"  you  think  too  much  of  it.  The  one  fate  ! 
No,  you  won't,  rmless  it  is  a  haijpy  one.  I 
am  now  fi'ee,  as  I  said  ;  and  at  present  I  see 
nothuig  to  stand  between  your  hajJiiinesa 
and  mine.  We  loved  one  another  every  bit 
as  well  as  ReiUy  and  she  does — ay,  and  do 
still,  I  hope  ;  and  if  they  can't  be  happy, 
that's  no  raison  why  you  and  I  shouldn't. 


WILLY  REILLY. 


9? 


Hajjpy  !  There's  nothing  to  j^revent  us  fi'om 
bein'  so.  I  am  free,  as  I  snid  ;  and  all  we 
have  to  do  is  to  lave  this  unfortunate 
country  and  go  to  some  other,  where  there's 
neither  oppression  nor  persecution.  If  jou 
consent  to  this,  EUen,  I  can  get  the  means 
of  bringing  vis  away,  and  of  settlin'  comfor- 
tably in  America." 

"  And  I  to  leave  the  Coolecn  Bawn  in  the 
uncertain  state  she's  in  ?  No,  never,  Fergus 
— never." 

"  ^Miy  ?  of  what  use  can  you  be  to  her 
now,  and  you  separated  from  her — ay,  and 
without  the  power  of  doin'  any  thijag  to 
sarve  her  ?  " 

"Fergus,"  said  she,  resolutely,  "it's  use- 
less at  the  present  time  to  speak  to  me  on 
this  subject.  I'm  glad  you've  got  yourseM 
from  among  these  cruel  and  unconscionable 
Rap23arees — I'm  glad  you're  free  ;  but  I  teU 
you  that  if  you  had  the  wealth  of  Squire 
FoUiard — ay,  or  of  '\M;itecraft  himself,  which 
they  say  is  still  greater,  I  wouldn't  become 
your  wife  so  long  as  she's  in  the  state  she's 
in." 

"That's  strong  language,  EUen,  and  I  am 
soiTV  to  hear  it  from  you.  ]My  God  !  can 
you  think  of  nobody's  happiness  but  the 
Conleen  Bawnx  f  As  for  me,  it's  my  opinion 
I  like  EeiUy  as  well  eveiy  bit  as  you  do  her  ; 
but,  for  all  that,  not  even  the  state  he's  in, 
nor  the  danger  that  .si^rrounds  him,  would 
prevent  me  from  mnrryin'  a  wife — from 
bindin'  your  heart  and  mine  together  for 
life,  my  darhu'  Ellen." 

"  Ah  !  Fergus,  you're  a  man — not  a  woman 
— and  can't  undherstand  what  true  attach- 
ment is.  You  men  never  can.  You're  a 
selfish  set — at  least  the  most  of  you  are — 
with  some  exceptions,  I  grant." 

"  And,  upon  my  soul,  Ellen,"  i-eplied  Fer- 
;:;us,  with  a  good-humored  smile,  "  I'm  one 
of  the  choicest  and  natest  of  the  exceptions. 
I  prefer  everybody's  happiness  to  my  own — 
poor  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft's,  for  instance. 
Now,  don't  you  caU  that  generosity  ?  " 

She  gave  a  mournful  smile,  and  replied, 
"  Fergus,  I  can't  join  in  your  mirth  now  as 
I  used  to  do.  Many  a  pleasant  conversation 
we've  had  ;  but  then  our  hearts  were  hght, 
and  free  fi-om  care.  No,  Fergus,  you  must 
lave  all  thoughts  of  me  aside,  for  I  will  have 
nothing  of  either  love  or  courtship  till  I 
know  lier  fate.  'WTio  can  say  but  I  maj'  be 
brought  back  ?  She  said  she'd  try  what  she 
could  do  with  her  father  to  effect  it.  You 
know  how  whimsical  the  old  Squu'e  is  ;  and 
who  knows  whether  she  may  not  stand  in 
need  of  me  again  ?  But,  Fergus,  there's 
one  thing  strikes  me  as  odd,  and,  indeed, 
that  doesn't  rise  you  much  in  my  good  opin- 
ion.    But  first,  let  me  ask  you,  what  fiiend 


it  is  who'd  give  you  the  means  of  going  xo 
another  country '? " 

"  ^'^hy,  who  else  but  Eeilly?"  he  replied. 

"And  could  you,"  she  returned,  with 
something  hke  contempt  stamped  upon  her 
pretty  featui'es — "  could  you  be  mane  and 
ungrateful  enough  to  leave  him  now  in  the 
trouble  and  sorrow  that  he's  in,  and  think 
only  of  yourself?" 

"  No,  indeed,  my  dear  EUen  ;  but  I  was 
only  lapn'  the  plan  whenever  we  might  bo 
able  to  put  it  in  practice.  I'm  not  exactly  a 
boy  of  that  kidney — to  desart  my  friend  in 
the  day  of  his  trouble — devil  a  bit  of  it,  my 
darUn'." 

"  WeU,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  as 
you  do,"  she  s.aid,  with  a  smile  ;  "  and  now,  to 
reward  your  constancy  to  him,  I  teU  yoii 
that  whenever  thetjre  settled,  or,  at  all 
events,  out  of  their  troubles,  if  you  think 
me  worth  your  while,  I  won't  have  any  ob- 
jection to  become  your  wife  ;  and — there — 
what  are  you  about,  Fergus?  See  this, 
now — you've  almost  broken  the  tortoise-shel2 
crooked-comb  tliat.s/ie  iiiailc  iiu;  a  |ucnciit  v.i  ' 

"Why,  blood  ahve,  Ellen,  sure  it  wasonlj 
se:"ilin' the  bai-gaiu  I  was. " 

"  But  remember  it  ?'.s  a  bargain,  and  one 
I'U  stick  to.  Now  leave  me ;  it's  gettin' 
qiiite  dai'k  ;  or,  if  you  like,  j'ou  may  see  me 
across  the  fields." 

Such,  in  fact,  was  the  indomitable  attach- 
ment of  this  faithful  girl '  to  her  lovely  and 
affectionate  mistress  that,  with  a  generosity 
as  unselfish  as  it  was  rare,  and  almost  heroic, 
she  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  j)uttmg 
her  own  happiness  or  prosjjects  in  life  in 
competition  with  those  of  the  Cooleen  Bawn. 
The  latter,  it  is  true,  was  conscious  of  this 
uuparaUeled  attachment,  and  appreciated  it 
at  its  tiiie  value.  How  nobly  this  admu'able 
gu'l  fulfilled  her  generous  jjurpose  of  abid- 
ing by  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  her  unhappy 
mistress  wiU  be  seen  as  the  narrative  goes 
along. 

EUen's  appearance  in  her  father's  house  sur- 
prised the  family  not  a  little.  The  expression 
of  soiTow  which  shaded  her  very  handsome 
features,  and  a  j^aleness  which  was  unusual 
to  her,  alarmed  them  considerably — not  so 
much  fi-om  wd.j  feeling  connected  with  her- 
self, as  from  an  aispreheusion  that  some  new 
distress  or  calamity  had  befallen  the  Cooleen 
Bawn,  to  whom  they  all  felt  almost  as  deeply 
attached  as  she  did  herself.  After  the  first 
affectionate  salutations  were  over,  she  s.aid, 
with  a  languid  smUe  : 

"  I  suppose  you  all  wonder  to  see  me  here 
at  this  hour  ;  or,  indeed,  to  see  me  here  at 
aU." 

"I  hope,  EUen,"  said  her  father,  "that 
nothing  unpleasant  has  hai^jjened  to  her." 


y.8 


WILLIAM   CAHLETON^'S   WORKS. 


"May  the  Lord  forljid,"  said  her  mother, 
"  and  may  the  Lord  tuke  the  darlin'  creature 
out  of  all  her  troubles.  But  has  there,  El- 
len— has  anything  happened  to  her  ?  " 

"Nothing  more  than  usual,"  replied  their 
daughter,  "barring  that  I  have  been  sent 
away  from  her — I  am  no  longer  her  own 
maid  now." 

"  Chienia  !  "  exclaimed  her  mother  ;  "  and 
what  is  that  for,  alanna  ?  " 

"  Well,  indeed,  mother,  I  can't  exactly 
say,"  rejihed  Ellen,  "  but  I  sup^jose  it  is  be- 
cause they  knew  I  loved  her  too  much  to  be 
a  spy  upon  her.  I  have  raison,  however,  to 
suspect  that  the  mllain  is  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
and  that  the  girl  who  came  in  my  jslace  wUl 
act  more  like  a  jailer  than  a  maid  to  her.  Of 
course  they're  all  afraid  that  she'll  mu  away 
with  Eeilly." 

"And  do  you  think  she  will,  Ellen?" 
(isked  her  father. 

"Don't  ask  me  any  such  questions,"  she 
vepUed.  "It's  no  matter  what  I  think — and, 
besides,  it's  not  my  business  to  mention  my 
tnoughts  to  any  one — but  one  thing  I  know, 
it'll  go  hai'd  if  she  ever  leaves  her  father, 
who,  I  really  think,  would  bi-eak  his  heart  if 
she  did." 

"  Oh  !  "  observed  the  father,  with  a  smile, 
"  divil  a  one  o'  you  giiis,  Ellen,  ever  thinks 
much  of  father  or  mother  when  you  have 
made  uj)  yoiu"  minds  to  run  away  wid  your 
bouchaleens — sorra  'a  taste." 

"  Arra,  Brian,  will  you  have  sinse,"  said  his 
wife  ;  "  why  wouldn't  they  think  o'  them  ?  " 

"Did  yuu  do  it?"  he  asked,  winking  at 
the  rest,  "  when  you  took  a  brave  start  wid 
myself  across  Crockauiska,  one  summer  Sun- 
day night,  long  ago.  Be  me  sowl,  you 
proved  youself  as  supjale  as  a  two-year-old — 
cleared  drain  and  ditch  like  a  bird — and  had 
Trie,  when  we  reached  my  uncle's,  that  the 
ayas  wor  startin'  out  o'  rny  head." 

"  Bad  scran  to  him,  the  ould  slingpoker  ! 
-Co  you  liear  liim,"  she  exclaimed,  laughing 
— "  never  mind  him,  children  ! — troth,  he 
-.vent  at  sich  a  snail's  pace  that  one  'ud  think 
it  was  to  confession  he  was  goiii',  and  that  he 
'lid  nothing  but  think  of  his  sins  as  he  went 
sdong." 

"  That  was  bekaise  I  knew  that  I  had  the 
penance  before  me,"  he  replied,  laiighing 
also. 

"  Any  how,"  repUed  his  wife,  "  our  case 
was  not  like  their's.  We  were  both  Cath- 
olics, and  knew  that  we'd  have  the  consent 
of  our  friends,  besides  ;  we  only  made  a  run- 
away because  it  was  the  custom  of  the  eoun- 
thi-y,  glory  be  to  God  !  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  rejoined  her  husband;  "but, 
faith,  it  was  you  that  proved  yourself  the 
ai'tive  giii  that  night,  at  any  rate.    However, 


I  hope  the  Lord  will  grant  her  gi'aee  to  ga 
■wid  him,  at  all  events,  for,  uj)on  my  sowl,  it 
would  be  a  gi'eat  boast  for  the  Catholics — 
bekaise  we  know  there  is  one  thing  sure,  and 
that  is,  that  the  divil  a  long  she'd  be  wid  him 
tiU.  he'd  have  left  her  fit  to  face  Eurojse  as 
a  Christian  and  a  Catholic,  bekaise  even/ 
wife  ought  to  go  v\id  her  husband,  ban-in' 
he's  a  Prodestant." 

Poor  Ellen  paid  Httle  attention  to  this 
conversation.  She  felt  deeply-  depressed, 
and,  after  many  severe  struggles  to  restraiu 
herself,  at  last  burst  into  tears. 

"  Come,  darHn',"  said  her  father,  "  don't 
let  this  affair  cast  j'ou  down  so  much  ;  all 
wiU  yet  tirni  out  for  the  betther,  I  hope. 
Cheer  up,  ainlU>;h  ;  maybe  that,  do\\Ti-heai'ted 
as  you  are,  I  have  good  news  for  you.  Your 
oidd  sweetheai't  was  here  this  evenin',  and 
hopes  soon  to  have  his  pardon — he's  a 
dacent  boy,  and  has  good  blood  in  his  veins  ; 
and  as  for  his  joiniii'  O'Donnel,  it  wasn't  a 
a  bad  heart  set  him  to  do  it,  but  the  o^spres- 
sion  that  druv  him,  as  it  did  many  others,  to 
take  the  ste^is  he  took — oppression  on  the 
one  side,  and  bitterness  of  heart  on  the 
other." 

"  I  saw  him  awhile  ago,"  she  rephed,  "  and 
he  tould  me  a  good  deal  about  himself. 
But,  indeed,  father,  it's  not  of  him  I'm 
thinkin',  but  on  the  darlin'  girl  that's  on  the 
brink  of  destniction,  and  what  I  know  she's 
sufferin'." 

"  I  wondher  where  Eeilly  is,"  said  her 
mother.  "My  goodness  !  sure  he  ought  to 
make  a  push,  and  take  her  off  at  wanst.  I 
dimna  is  he  in  the  country  at  all  ?  What  do 
you  think,  Ellen  ?  " 

"Indeed,  mother,"  she  replied,  "very  few, 
I  beheve,  knows  any  thing  about  him.  All 
I'm  afi-aid  of  is,  that,  wherever  he  maj'  be, 
he'U  hardly  escape  discovery." 

"  Well,"  said  her  father,  "  I'U  tell  you  what 
we'U  do.  Let  us  kneel  down  and  offer  uj)  ten 
jiathers,  ten  aves,  and  a  creed,  that  the 
Lord  may  jirotect  them  both  from  their  ene- 
mies, and  grant  them  a  happy  marriage,  in 
spite  of  laws,  isarliaments,  magistrates,  sjjies, 
persecutors  and  priest-hunters,  and,  as  our 
hands  are  in,  let  us  offer  up  a  few  tliat  God 
may  confound  that  villain,  Whitecraft,  imd 
bring  him  snugly  to  the  gallows." 

This  was  immediately  compUed  with,  in  a 
spirit  of  earnestness  suiiiassing  probably 
what  they  might  have  felt  had  they  been 
pra-\ing  for  their  own  s:xlvation.  The  prayers 
ha%ing  been  concluded,  and  suj^per  prejiared, 
in  due  time  the  family  retired  to  rest  for  the 
night. 

'\\1ien  Fergus  Eeilly  took  his  leave  of 
EUcn,  he  directed  his  steps  to  the  cottage  of 
IMrs.    Buckley,  where,  for   certain  pui-poses 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


99 


conneeted  wtli  bis  desigfns  on  the  Red  Eap- 
paree,  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meetLnf? 
the  sagacious  fool,  Tom  Steejjle.  It  "was 
there,  besides,  that  he  had  left  his  disguise, 
•sThich  the  nnaecomjilished  progress  of  his 
projects  rendered  it  necessai-y  that  he  should 
once  more  resume.  This,  in  fact,  was  the 
place  of  their  rendezvous,  where  they  gener- 
al!}' met  at  night.  These  meetings,  however, 
were  not  always  vei"}'  regular  ;  for  jJoor  Tom, 
notwithstanding  his  singular  and  anomalous 
cunning,  was  sometimes  led  away  by  his 
gastric  appetite  to  hunt  for  a  bully  dinner, 
or  a  bully  supper,  or  a  mug  of  strong  beer, 
as  the  case  might  be,  and  after  a  gorge  he  was 
fi'equently  so  completely  overtaken  by  lazi- 
ness and  a  consequent  tendency  to  sleeji,  that 
he  retired  to  the  bam,  or  some  other  out^ 
house,  where  he  stretched  his  limbs  on  a 
shiilie-dovm  of  hay  or  straw,  and  lapped  him- 
self iuto  a  state  of  lusiuy  which  many  an 
epicure  of  rank  and  wealth  might  envy. 

On  reaching  the  ■widow's  cottage,  Fergus 
felt  somewhat  disappointed  that  Tom  was 
not  there,  nor  had  he  been  seen  that  day  in 
any  part  of  the  neighborhood.  Fergus,  how- 
ever, whilst  the  -svidow  was  keeping  watch 
outside,  contrived  to  get  on  his  old  disguise 
once  more,  after  which  he  proceeded  in  the 
direction  of  his  jjlace  of  refuge  for  the  night. 
On  crossing  the  fields,  however,  towards  the 
wild  and  lonely  road,  which  warj  at  no  gi-eat 
distance  from  the  cottage,  he  met  Tom  ap- 
proaching it,  at  his  usual  sling-trot  pace. 

"  Is  that  Tom  ?  "  said  he—"  taU  Tom  ?  " 

"  Hicco,  hicco  !  "  replied  Tom,  cjuite  gi-ati- 
fied  with  the  compliment.  "  You  be  taU,  too 
— net  as  tall  as  Tom  dough.  Tom  got  bully 
dinner  to-day,  and  buUy  sleep  in  de  bai-n, 
aud  buUy  supper,  but  wasn't  sleepy  den — 
hicco,  hicco." 

"Well,  Tom,  what  news  about  what  yoix 
know  ?  " 

"  In  toder  house,"  rephed  Tom  ;  "  him 
sleejjs  in  Peg  Fmigau's  sometimes,  and  some- 
times in  toder  again — dat  is,  -\Iarv  ^Jlahou's. 
Him's  afeared  o'  something — hard  him  say 
so,  sure,  to  ould  Peg." 

"  Well,  Tom,  if  you  will  keep  your  eye  on 
him,  so  as  that  you  can  let  us  know  where 
to  find  him,  we  11  engage  to  give  you  a  buUy 
dinner  every  day,  and  a  Inilly  supjaer  every 
night  of  your  life,  and  a  swig  of  stout  ale  to 
wash  it  down,  with  plenty  of  straw  to  sleep 
on,  and  a  winnow-cloth  and  lots  of  sacks  to 
keep  you  as  warm  and  cosej'  as  a  winter  hob. 
You  know  where  to  find  me  every  eveniu' 
after  dusk,  Tom,  and  when  you  come  with 
good  news,  you'U  be  a  made  man  ;  and,  listen, 
Tom,  it'll  make  you  a  foot  taller,  and  who 
knows,  man  alive,  but  we  may  show  you  for 
a  giant,  now." 


"  Hicco,  hicco  ! "  said  Tom  ;  "  dat  great — • 
never  mind  ;  me  catch  him  for  you.  A 
giant ! — oh,  goi'ramarcy  ! —  a  giant ! — hicco  ! 
— gorramarcy ! "  and  with  these  words  he 
darted  off  ia  some  different  direction,  whilst 
Fergus  went  to  his  usual  place  of  rest  for  th« 
night. 

It  would  seem  bj'  the  Red  Rapparee's 
movements  at  this  time  as  if  he  entertained 
some  vague  susjiicions  of  awakened  justice, 
notwithstanding  the  assurances  of  safety  {Dre- 
^dously  communicated  to  him  by  Su-  Robert 
'\^^litecraft.  Indeed,  it  is  not  imjjossible  that 
even  the  other  individuals  who  had  distin- 
guished themselves  under  that  zealous  bar- 
onet might,  in  their  conversations  with  each 
other,  have  enabled  the  Rapparee  to  get  oc- 
casional glimpses  of  the  new  state  of  things 
which  had  just  taken  filace,  and  that,  in  con- 
sequence, he  shifted  about  a  good  deal,  taking 
care  never  to  sleejJ  two  nights  in  succession 
under  the  same  roof.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
eye  of  Tom  Steeple  was  on  him,  without  the 
least  possible  suspicion  on  his  part  that  he 
was  under  his  siwoeillance. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Iteilly  takes  Service  idth  Squire  FolUard. 

Reilly  led  a  melancholy  life  after  the  de- 
pai-ture  of  the  jjious  bishojD.  A  week,  how- 
ever, had  elajised,  and  he  felt  as  if  it  had 
been  half  a  year.  His  anxiety,  however, 
either  to  see  or  hear  from  his  CuoJeen  Baivn 
comiDletely  overcame  him,  and  he  resolved,  at 
all  events,  to  wi-ite  to  her  ;  in  the  meantime, 
how  was  he  to  do  tliis  ?  There  was  no  letter- 
paper  in  the  farmer's  house,  nor  any  to  be 
2)rocured  within  miles,  and,  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, he  re&olved  to  pay  a  visit  to  IMi-. 
Brown.  After  some  trouble  he  was  admitted 
to  the  jjresence  of  that  gentleman,  who  could 
scarcely  satisfy  himself  of  his  identity  ;  but, 
at  length,  he  felt  assured,  and  asked  him  into 
the  studj'. 

"My  dear  ReiUy,"  said  he.  "I  think  you 
are  infatuated.  I  thought  you  had  been  out 
of  the  country  long  before  this.  Why,  in 
heaven's  name,  do  you  remain  in  Irelaud, 
when  you  know  the  difficulty  of  escape  ?  I 
have  had,  since  I  saw  you  last,  two  or  three 
domiciliarj'  visits  from  Wliitecraft  and  his 
men,  who  searched  my  whole  house  and 
premises  in  a  spirit  of  insolence  that  was 
most  indehcate  and  offensive.  Hastings  and 
I  have  sent  a  memorial  to  the  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant, signed  by  some  of  the  most  respectable 
Protestant  gentiy  in  the  country,  in  which 
we  stated  his  wanton  tyranny  as  well  as  his 


10( 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


oppression  of  his  Majesty's  subjects — harm- 
less and  loyal  men,  and  whom  he  pursues 
with  unsatiable  vengeance,  merely  because 
they  are  Roman  Catholics.  I  certauily  do 
not  expect  that  our  memorial  will  be  attended 
to  by  this  Administration.  There  is  a  rejjort, 
however,  that  the  jiresent  Jlinistry  will  soon 
go  out,  and  be  succeeded  by  one  more 
liberal." 

"  Well,"  rephed  Eeilly,  "  since  I  saw  you 
last  I  have  had  some  narrow  escapes  ;  but  I 
think  it  would  be  difficult  to  know  me  in  my 
present  disguise." 

"  I  grant  that,"  said  Air.  Brown,  "  but  then 
is  there  nothing  to  be  apprehended  from 
treachery  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  replied  the  other.  "  There 
is  only  the  farmer  and  his  family,  with  whom 
the  bishop  and  I  harbored,  who  are  aware  of 
my  disguise,  and  to  that  number  I  must  now 
add  yourself." 

"  Well,"  replied  ]VIi\  Brown,  smiling,  "  I 
do  not  think  you  have  much  to  apjjrehend 
fi'om  me." 

"No,"  said  Reillj^,  "you  have  given  me 
too  many  substantial  proofs  of  yoiu-  confi- 
dence for  that.  But  I  wish  to  write  a  letter  ; 
and  I  have  neither  j)en,  ink,  nor  jjaper  ;  -vnll 
you  be  good  enough  to  lend  me  the  use  of 
yoiu-  study  for  a  few  minutes,  and  your 
■wi'iting  materials  ?  " 

The  excellent  clergyman  immediately  con- 
ducted him  to  the  study,  and  placed  the 
materials  before  him  with  his  own  hands, 
after  which  he  left  the  room.  Reilly  then 
sat  down,  and  penned  the  following  letter 
to  his  dear  Cooleeii  Bawn  : 

"I  am  now  thoroughly  disguised,  indeed 
so  effectually  that  my  nearest  and  dearest 
friends  could  not  know  me  ;  nay,  I  question 
whether  even  you  yourself  would,  excej)t  by 
the  keen  intuition  of  affection,  which  is  said 
to  jsenetrate  all  disguises,  unless  those  of 
falsehood  and  hyiJocrisy.  These,  however, 
are  disguises  I  have  never  worn,  nor  ever 
shall  wear — either  to  you  or  any  human 
being.  I  had  intended  to  go  to  the  Conti- 
nent until  this  storm  of  p)ersecution  might 
blow  over  ;  but  on  reflection  I  changed  my 
purpose,  for  I  could  not  leave  you  to  run  the 
risk  of  being  ensnared  in  the  subtle  and 
treacherous  poUcy  of  that  \'illaiu.  It  is  my 
intention  to  ^dsit  your  father's  house  and  to 
see  3'ou  if  I  can.  You  need  not,  for  the  sake 
of  my  safety,  object  to  this,  because  no  one 
can  know  me.  The  description  of  my  dress, 
though  somewhat  undignified,  I  must  give 
you.  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  am,  to  all 
outward  appearance,  as  iiide-lookiug  a 
country  lout  as  ever  you  looked  upon.  My 
disguise  consists,  first,  of  a  pair  of  brogTies 
emii.'oidered  with  clouts,  or  what  is  vulgaily 


denominated  patches,  out  of  the  point  o( 
one  of  which  —  that  of  the  right  foot  — 
nearly  half  my  toe  visibly  projects.  The 
stockings  are  coarse  Conuemaras,  \\ith  suffi- 
cient au'-holes,  both  in  feet  and  legs,  to 
admit  the  pure  atmosphere,  and  strengthen 
the  muscular  system.  Mj'  small-clothes  ai'e 
cordiu'oys,  bought  from  a  hard-working 
laborer,  vrith  a  large  patch  upon  each  knee.  A 
tailor,  however,  has  i^romised  to  get  some 
buttons  for  them  and  sew  them  on.  The 
waistcoat  is  altogether  indescribable ;  be- 
cause, as  its  materials  seem  to  have  been 
rescued,  that  is,  stolen,  fi'om  aU  the  scare- 
crows in  the  country,  I  am  unable  to  come 
at  the  first  fabric.  The  coat  itself  is  also 
beautifully  variegated,  its  patches  consisting 
of  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  with  two  or 
three  dozen  that  never  apjjeared  in  that 
beautifid  phenomenon.  But  what  shall  I 
say  of  the  pendiment,  or  caubeeu,  which  is 
a  perfect  gem  of  its  kind  ?  The  vUlam  who 
wore  it,  I  have  been  told  by  the  i^erson  who 
acted  as  factor  for  me  in  its  jjurchase,  was  one 
of  the  most  cjuarrelsome  rascals  in  Ireland, 
and  seldom  went  without  a  black  eye  or  a  bro- 
ken pate.  This,  I  suj)i30se,  accounts  for  the 
droop  in  the  leaf,  which  covers  the  left  eye 
so  comjDletely,  as  weU  as  for  the  ventilator, 
which  so  admii-ably  refreshes  the  head,  and 
allows  the  rain  to  come  in  so  abundantly  to 
cool  it.  I  cannot  helj)  reflecting,  however, 
on  the  fate  of  those  who  have  nothing  bet- 
ter to  wear,  and  of  the  hard  condition 
which  dooms  them  to  it.  And  now,  my  be- 
loved Cooleen  Bawn,  whilst  I  have  thus  en- 
deavored to  make  you  smile,  I  assure  you  I 
have  exaggerated  \evy  httle.  This  di'ess, 
you  know,  is  precisely  that  of  a  wretched 
Connaught-mau  looking  for  employment 
The  woman,  who  will,  through  our  confidant. 
Lanigan,  deliver  this  to  you,  is  a  poor  faith- 
ful creature,  a  pensioner  of  mine,  who  may 
be  trusted.  Appoint  through  her  a  day  and 
hour  when,  as  a  man  seekmg  for  labor,  I  \\i\\ 
stand  at  the  haU-door.  I  am  cjuite  satisfied 
that  neither  yom-  father,  uor  the  villain,  ■will 
Icnow  me  from  Adam.  The  woman  who  is 
to  bring  this  wiU  call  on  the  second  day  aftei- 
its  dehvery,  and  I  shall  be  guided  by  what- 
ever message  you  may  send  me.  On  oua 
thing,  however,  I  am  determined,  which  is, 
that  if  it  should  cost  me  my  Hfe,  I  will  pre- 
vent the  meditated  marriage  between  you 
and  him.  Sooner  than  such  an  event  should 
take  place,  I  woidd  put  a  jjistol  to  his  head 
and  blow  his  guilty  soid  mto  that  jjerdition 
which  awaits  it.  Don't  ■\vi-ite  ;  let  youi 
message  be  verbal,  and  destroy  this." 

On  going  to  widow  Buckley's,  he  learned 
— after  some  trouble  in  identifying  himself 
— that  she  had  several  visits  fi-om  Sii'  Robert 


WILLY  REILLY 


101 


and  liis  men,  at  all  hours,  both  by  night  and 
day.  He  therefore  hastilj-  gave  her  the 
necessary  instructions  how  to  act,  and,  above 
aU  tliLUgs,  to  ask  to  see  Lanigan,  and,  if 
jjossible,  to  bring  some  eggs  or  chickens  for 
sale,  which  fact,  he  said,  would  give  a  color 
to  her  appearance  there,  and  prevent  the 
possibility  of  any  susj)icion.  Having  23laced 
the  letter  in  her  keeping,  together  with 
some  sOver  to  enable  her  to  j)urchase  either 
the  eggs  or  th6  chickens,  in  case  she  had 
them  not  herself,  he  then  returned  to  the 
fai-mer's,  where  he  remained  cjuietly  and 
without  disturbance  of  any  kind  until  the 
third  day,  when  widoAv  Buckley  made  her 
appearance.  He  brought  her  out  to  the 
garden,  because  in  discussing  matters  con- 
nected with  his  C'ooleen  Bawn  he  did  not 
wish  that  even  the  farmer's  family  should  be 
auditors — although  we  may  say  here  that 
not  only  were  the  loves  of  WOly  ReLUy  and 
(.'ooleeii  Bawn  known  to  the  farmer  and  his 
family,  but  also  to  the  whole  country,  and, 
indeed,  through  the  medium  of  baUads,  to 
the  greater  portion  of  the  kingdom. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Buckley,"  said  he,   "  did  you 
see  her '?  "     . 

"  Oh,  bad  scran  to  you,  Mr.  Eeilly !  you're 
the  very  saiTa  among  the  girls  when  you 
could  persuade  that  lovely  creature  to  fall  in 
love  with  you — and  you  a  Catholic,  an'  her  a 
Protestant !  May  I  never,  if  I  think  there's 
her  aquil  out  o'  heaven !  Devil  an  angel  I 
think  in  it  could  hould  a  candle  to  her  for 
beauty  and  figure.  She  only  wimts  the 
wings,  sir — for  they  say  that  aU  the  angels 
have  wings  ;  and  upon  my  conscience  if  she  | 
had  them  I  know  tlie  man  she'd  fly  to."  ! 

"  But  what  happened,  Mrs.  Buckley?" 

"  ^Miy,  I  sould  some  chickens  and  eggs 
to  the  cook,  who  at  wanst  knew  me,  because  I 
I  liad  often  sould  him  chickens  and  eggs  ! 
befoi-e.  He  came  up  to  the  hall-door,  and —  j 
'  Well,  Mi-s.  Buckley,'  says  he,  '  what's  the  ! 
news  ?  '  'Be  dhe  hasth,'  saj's  I,  '  before  I 
sell  you  the  chickens,  let  me  as  is  the  Coolecn 
Bawn  at  home  ?  '  '  She  is,'  says  he,  lookin' 
me  sharjj  and  straight  in  the  face  ;  '  do  you 
want  her  ?  '  'I  would  like  to  see  her,'  says  I, 
'for  a  minute  or  two.'  'Ay,'  says  he,  back 
agin  to  me;  '  you  have  a  message — and  you 
know  besides  that  she  never  buys  chickens  ; 
that's  my  business.'  '  But,'  says  I,  back  agin, 
'I  was  tould  by  him  that  you  were  faithful, 
and  could  be  depinded  on.'  'Ay,'  says  he  ; 
'but  I  thought  he  had  left  the  counthry.' 
'  Troth,  then,'  says  I,  '  he's  to  the  fore  stiU, 
and  won't  lave  the  counthry  till  he  sees  her 
wanst  more,  at  aU  events.'  'Have  you  a 
letther  ? '  '  Bethershin,'  says  I,  '  could  you 
let  me  see  her  ;  for  he  tould  me  to  say  to 
her  that  she  is  not  to  indite  letthers  to  liim. 


for  fraid  of  discovery'.'     '  Well,'  says  he,   '  as 

the  master's  at  home,   I'U  have  some  diffi- 

I  culty   in   S2>akin'   to   her.      Devil    a    move 

she  gives  but  he  watches  ;  and  we  got  a  new 

sen'aut  the  other  day,  and  devil  a  thing  she 

I  is  but  a  spy  fi-om  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  and 

I  some  jjeople  say  that  her  master  and  she 

foi-got  the  Gosjjel  between  them.     Indeed  I 

believe  lh'it'!<  pretty  well  known  ;   and  isn't 

he  a  horrid  villain  to  send  such  a  vagabone 

,  to  attend  and  be  about  the  very  woman  that 

;  he  expects  to  be  his  own  wife  V ' " 

"  Don't  be  so  particular  in  your  descrip- 
I  tions,  Mrs.  Buckley,"  said  ReUly.    "  Did  you 
see  the  Cooken  Bawn  ?  " 

"  Look  at  that,"  she  replied,  opening  her 
hand,  and  showing  him  a  golden  guinea — 
"  don't  you  know  by  that  that  I  seen  her  ? 
but  you  must  let  me  go  on  my  own  way. 
'Well,' says  Lanigan,  the  cook,  'I  must  go 
and  see  what  I  can  do.'  He  then  went  up- 
stairs, and  contrived  to  give  her  a  hint,  and 
that  was  enough.  '  The  Lord  bless  us,  Mr. 
Reilly,  what  won't  love  do '?  This  girl — as 
Lanigan  toiild  me — that  the  -villain  White- 
craft  had  sent  as  a  sjDy  upon  her  actions, 
was  desired  to  go  to  her  wai-drobe,  to  pick 
out  fi'om  among  her  beautiful  dresses  one 
that  she  had  promised  her  as  a  jjresent 
some  days  before.  The  cook  had  this  from 
the  girl  herself,  who  was  the  sarra  for  dress  ; 
but,  anyhow,  while  the  she  spy  was  tumbling 
about  Cofiteen  Bawn's  di'esses,  the  darUn" 
herself  whipped  downstairs,  and  coming  to 
me  saj's,  '  The  cook  tells  me  you  have  a 
message  for  me.'  Jist  at  this  moment,  and 
after  she  had  slipped  the  letter  into  her 
bosom,  her  father  turns  a  comer  round  the 
garden,  and  seeing  his  daughter,  which  was 
a  veiy  unusual  thing,  in  conversation  with  a 
person  like  myself,  he  took  the  alarm  at 
once.  '  How,  Helen  ?  who  is  this  you  are 
speaking  to '?  No  go-between,  I  hope  V  Who 
are  you,  you  blasted  old  she-whelp '? '  'I  am 
no  more  a  she-whelp  than  ^-ou  ai'e.'  'Then 
maybe  you  are  a  he  one  in  disguise.  What 
brought  you  here  ?  '  '  Here  !  I  came  to  sell 
my  eggs  and  my  chickens,  as  I  done  for 
years.'  '  Your  eggs  and  yofu- chickens!  curse 
you,  j-ou  old  Jezebel,  did  you  ever  lay  the 
eggs  or  hatch  the  chickens  ?  And  if  you  did, 
why  not  produce  the  old  cock  himself,  in 
proof  of  the  truth  of  what  you  say  ?  I'U  have 
you  searched,  though,  in  spite  of  your  eggs 
and  chickens.  Here,'  he  said  to  one  of  the 
footmen,  who  was  passing  through  the  hall 
— '  here,  Jones,  send  ujj  Lanigan,  till  we  see 
whether  he  knows  this  old  faggot,  who  has 
the  assurance  to  tell  me  that  she  lays  eggs 
and  hatches  chickens.'  WTaen  Lanigan  came 
up  again,  he  looked  at  me  as  at  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, which,  in  point  of  fact,  we  were. 


102 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiltS. 


'TVliy,  your  lionor,'  said  he,  'this  is  a  poor, 
honest  creature  that  has  been  seUiug  us  eggs 
and  chickens  for  many  years.'  '  She  wouldn't 
be  a  go-between,  Lanigan  —  eh  ?  What's 
your  name,  you  old  faggot — eh  ?  '  '  My  name 
is  Scrahag,  your  honor,'  says  I,  '  one  of  the 
Serahags  of  Ballycumjjiatee — an  honest  and 
daciut  family,  sir  ;  but  if  yoiu-  honor  would 
buy  the  eggs,  at  any  .rate,  and  hatch  them 
yourself,'  says  I  to  him"  (for  she  had  a  large 
stock  of  Irish  humor),  "  'you  know,  sir,  you 
could  have  the  chickens  at  first  cost.'  'Ha, 
ha,  ha,'  and  the  squire  laughed  till  he  neai-ly 

split   his    sides  ;    '  by I'm   hit ' — God 

pardon  me  for  repeatin'  Ms  oaths.  'Here, 
Lanigan,  bring  her  down  to  the  kitchen, 
and  give  her  a  fog  meal.'  '  I  understand 
you,  su','  said  Lauigan,  smiling  at  him.  '  Yes, 
Lanigan,  give  her  a  cargo  of  the  best  in  the 
pantry.  She's  a  shi-ewd  and  comical  old 
blade,'  said  he;  'give  her  a  kegful  of  beef 
or  mutton,  or  both,  and  a  good  s^^iU  of  ale 
or  j)orter,  or  whatever  she  prefers.  Cui'se 
me,  but  I  give  the  old  whelp  credit  for  the 
hit  she  gave  me.  Pay  her,  besides,  whatever 
she  asks  for  her  eggs  and  chickens.  Here, 
you  bitter  old  randletree,  there  are  three 
thirteens  for  you  ;  and  if  you  will  go  down 
to  the  kitchen  with  the  cook,  he  ^^^ll  give 
you  a  regular  skinful.'  The  cook,  knowing 
that  the  Cooleen  Baicii  wished  to  send  some 
message  back  to  you,  sir,  brought  me  down, 
and  gave  me  not  only  plenty  to  ait  and 
drink,  but  stuffed  the  praskeeu  that  I  had 
carried  the  eggs  and  chickens  in  with  as 
much  cold  meat  and  bread  as  it  could  eon- 
tain." 

"  Well,  but  did  you  not  see  her  afterwai'ds  ? 
and  did  she  send  no  message  '?  " 

''  Only  t\\o  or  three  words  ;  the  day  afther 
to-morrow,  at  two  o'clock,  come  to  look  for 
labor,  and  she  will  contrive  to  see  you." 

This  was  enough,  and  Eeilly  did  not  al- 
low his  ambassadress  to  leave  him  without 
substantiid  marks  of  his  bounty  also. 

Wlien  the  old  squire  went  to  his  study,  he 
desired  the  gardener  to  be  sent  for,  and  when 
that  individual  entered,  he  foimd  his  master 
in  a  towering  passion. 

"  Wliat  is  the  reason.  Maleomsou,"  said  he, 
"  that  the  garden  is  in  such  a  shamefid  state  ? 
I  decku'e  to  God  it  is  scandalous." 

"  Ou,  your  honor,"  replied  Malcomson, 
who  was  a  Scotchman,  "  e'en  because  you 
wiW.  not  allow  me  an  imder  gerdeuer.  No 
one  man  could  manage  your  gcrden,  and  it 
cauua  be  managed  without  some  clever  chiel, 
what  understands  the  sceence." 

"The  what?" 

"The  sceence,  your  honor." 

"  Why,  confound  you,  su',  what  science  is 
uecessarj-  in  gai'denuig  'r  " 


"  I  tell  yoiu' honor  that  the  management 
of  a  gerden  requu'es  baith  skeel  and  knowl- 
edge, and  feelosophy." 

"  Why,  confound  you,  sir,  again,  what 
kind  of  doctrine  is  this  ?  " 

"  It's  vera  true  doctrine,  sir.  You  have 
lai'ge  and  spacious  green-hooses,  and  I  wad 
want  some  one  to  assist  nie  wha  understands 
buttauy." 

"  Buttony — Buttony — why,  confound  you, 
sirra,  send  for  a  tailor,  then;  for  he  under- 
stands buttony." 

"  I  see  youi-  honor  is  detannined  to  indulge 
in  a  jocular  spirit  the  daj^  The  truth  is, 
your  honor,  I  hae  no  men  to  assist  me  but 
common  laborers,  who  are  athegether  ig- 
norant of  gerdeuing  ;  now,  if  I  had  a  man 
who  could  direct  the  ojjerations — " 

"  Ojaerations !  curse  your  Scotch  imjju- 
dence,  do  you  think  yourself  a  general  ?  " 

"Na,  na,  sir  ;  but  a  better  man  ;  andlteU 
ye  that  I  winna  remain  in  your  ser\ice  unless 
I  get  an  assistant  ;  and  I  say  that,  if  it  were- 
na  for  the  aid  of  Miss  FoUiard,  I  wouldna 
been  able  to  keep  the  gi-eeu-hoose  e'en  in  its 
j)reseut  state.  She  has  trailed  the  passion- 
flower wi'  her  ain  hands  ruitilit  is  flourishing. 
Then  she  has  a  beautiful  little  plot  of  forget- 
me-nots  ;  but,  above  a'  ,  it  wad  do  your 
honor's  heai-t  gude  to  see  the  beautiful  bed 
she  has  of  sweet-william  and  love-lies-bleed- 
ing." 

"  Ay,  ay  !  love-lies-bleeding  ;  no  doubt  but 
she'll  take  care  of  that.  Well,  go  and  get  an 
mider-gai'dener  wherever  j'ou  can,  and  let  my 
garden  be,  at  all  events,  such  as  a  stranger 
can  walk  through,  and  such  as  becomes  my 
name  and  pi-operty.  Engage  such  a  jaer.son, 
give  him  whatever  you  consider  fair  wages, 
and  the  house-steward  will  pay  him  weekly. 
These  are  matters  I  cim't  trouble  myself  with 
now — I  have  other  things  to  think  of." 

On  the  day  mentioned  in  t'oolefii  Bawn's 
message,  ReUly  hazarded  a  ^isit  to  the  squire's 
house,  and  after  giving  a  single  knock,  beg- 
ged to  see  the  cook.  'The  porter  having  look- 
ed at  him  with  the  usual  contempt  which 
menials  of  liis  class  bestow  upon  poor  per- 
sons, went  down  to  the  kitchen  vdth.  a  good 
deal  of  reluctance,  and  told  the  cook,  with  a 
grin,  that  one  of  liis  relations  wanted  to  see 
him. 

"Well,"  replied  Lanigan,  who  had  been 
made  aware  of  the  intended  visit,  "-it's  won- 
derftil,  in  these  hard  times,  the  number  of 
respectable  but  reduced  families  that's  goiu' 
about.  WTiat  kind  of  a  gentleman  is  he, 
John  ■?  because  I  am  very  busy  now.  To  be 
siu-e  there  is  a  great  deal  of  cold  vittles  left, 
that  would  be  lost  and  destroyed  if  we  didn't 
give  them  to  the  jioor  ;  and  you  know  the 
masther,  who  is  a  charitable  m;iu,  desired  us 


WILLY  EEILLY. 


103 


to  do  BO.  m  go  up  and  see  what  the  poor 
de-\'il  wants." 

He  accordinpjly  went  up  to  the  hall-door, 
and  found  Reilly  there.  It  was  to  no  pur- 
pose that  he  had  been  already  apprised  of 
his  disguise — it  was  so  complete  tliat  he  did 
not  know  him — liis  beard  was  half  an  inch 
long  ;  and,  besides,  Reilly,  knowing  the  risk 
he  ran  in  this  daring  adventure,  had  dis- 
colored his  complexion  with  some  wash  that 
gave  it  the  tinge  of  a  mulatto.  The  cook  was 
thunderstruck. 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he,  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  recognizing  him,  "what 
do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Lauigan,"rei3UedEeilly,"  don't  youkuow 
me  ?  " 

"  Know  you !  how  the  devil  should  I  know 
you  ? — I  never  saw  you  before.  What  do 
you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Lanigan,"  whispered  the  other,  "  did  you 
never  hear  of  Willy  Eeilly  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  have  you  any  message  from 
him  ?  " 

"I  am  the  man  myself,"  said  Reilly,  "  but 
you  don't  know  me,  I  am  so  completely  dis- 
giiised.     Don't  you  know  my  voice  ?  " 

"  Merciful  Father  !  "  said  the  cook,  "  I'm 
in  a  doklmm  ;  can  I  be  sure  that  you  don't 
come  from  Sir-  Robert  Wliitecraft,  the  notori- 
ous blackguard  ?  " 

"  Lanigan,  I  am  Willj'  Reilly  :  my  voice 
ought  to  tell  you  so  ;  but  I  wish  to  see  and 
speak  with  mj-  dear  Coolepii  Bawn." 

"  Oh,  ray  God,  su* !  "  replied  Lanigan,  "  but 
this  love  makes  strange  transmigrations. 
She  won't  know  you,  su\" 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point,"  re- 
plied Eeill}'  ;  "  only  let  her  know  that  I  am 
here." 

"  Come  down  to  the  kitchen  then,  sir,  and 
I  shall  put  you  into  the  servants'  hall,  which 
branches  oil'  it.  It  is  entered,  besides,  by  a 
ditt'ereut  door  fi'om  that  of  the  kitchen,  and 
while  you  stay  there — and  yon  can  pass  into 
it  without  going  through  the  kitchen — I  will 
try  to  let  her  know  where  you  are.  She  has 
at  present  a  maid  who  was  sent  by  Sir  Rob- 
ert ^^^litecraft,  and  she  is  nothing  else  than 
a  spy  ;  btit  it'U  go  hard,  or  I'll  baffle  her." 

He  accordingly'  placed  Reilly  in  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  and  on  his  way  to  the  drawing- 
room  met  Ttliss  Folliard  going  to  her  own 
apartment,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
fi'ont  of  the  house.  He  instantly  communi- 
cated to  her  the  fact  of  Eeilly's  presence  in 
the  servants'  hall  ;  "  but,"  added  Lanigan, 
"  you  won't  know  him — his  owti  mother,  if 
she  was  li\-in',  wouldn't  know  a  bone  in  his 
body." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  replied,  whilst  her  eyes  flashed 
fearfully,  in  fact,  in  a  manner  that  startled 


the  cook — "  oh  !  if  he  is  there  I  snail  soon 
know  liim.  He  has  a  voice,  I  think — he  has 
a  voice  !     Has  he  not,  Lanigan  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Lanigan,  "  he  has  a 
voice,  and  a  heart  too." 

"Oh!  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  to 
him  ;  they  want  to  marry  me  to  that  monstei 
— to  that  bigot  and  persecutor,  on  this  very 
day  month  ;  but,  Lanigan,  it  shall  never  be 
— death  a  thousand  times  sooner  than  such 
a  union.  If  they  attempt  to  bind  us,  death 
shall  cut  the  link  asunder — that  I  jsromise 
you,  Lanigan.  But  I  must  go  to  him — I 
must  go  to  him." 

She  ran  down  the  stairs  as  she  spoke,  and 
Lanigan,  having  looked  after  her,  seemed 
deejily  concerned. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  will 
become  of  that  sweet  girl  if  she  is  forced  to 
marry  that  wealthy  scoundrel  'i  I  declare  to 
my  God  I  hardly  thuik  she  is  this  moment 
in  her  proper  .senses.  There's  a  tire  in  her 
eyes ;  and  somethmg  in  her  manner,  that  I 
never  observed  before.  At  all  events,  I  have 
locked  the  door  that  opens  from  the  kitchen 
into  the  servants'  hall,  so  that  they  cannot  be 
interrupted  from  that  cpiarter." 

When  the  Coolem  llamt  entered,  she 
shrunk  back  instinctively.  The  disguise  was 
so  complete  that  she  could  not  imjsose  even 
on  her  imagination  or  her  senses.  The  com- 
plexion was  different,  in  fact,  quite  sallow ; 
the  beard  long,  and  the  costume  such  as  we 
have  described  it.  There  was,  in  fact,  some- 
thing extremely  ludicrous  in  the  meetmg. 
Here  was  an  elegant  and  beautifvil  young 
woman  of  fashion,  almost  ready,  as  it  were, 
to  throw  herself  in  the  arms  of  a  eommor. 
pauper,  with  a  beard  upon  him  better  than 
half  an  inch  long.  As  it  was,  she  stopped 
siiddenly  and  retreated  a  step  or  two,  say- 
ing, as  she  did  so  : 

"  This  must  be  some  mistake.  Who  arc 
you  ?  " 

"Helen!" 

"  Reilly  !  oh,  that  voice  has  set  all  right. 
But,  my  God,  who  could  know  you  in  this 
disguise  ?  " 

They  ai^proached,  and  Reilly,  seizing  her 
hand,  said,  "  I  will  shake  hands  with  you  : 
but  until  this  disguise  is  off  I  would  consid- 
er it  sacrDege  to  apin'oach  nearer  to  your 
per.son." 

"  No  disguise  can  ever  shut  you  out  from 
my  heart,  dear  Reilly  ;  but  what  is  to  lie  done  ■:" 
I  have  discovered,  by  one  of  my  maids,  who 
overheard  mv  father  say,  in  a  short  soliloquv 
— '  Well,  thank  God,  she'll  be  Sir  Robert's 
wife  within  a  month,  and  then  my  mind  will 
be  easy  at  last.'  Oh  !  I'm  glad  j-ou  did  not 
leave  this  country.  But,  as  I  said,  what  i.i 
to  be  done  ?    WTiat  will  become  of  us  ?  " 


104 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Under  our  jDeculiar  circumstances,"  re- 
plied Eeillj',  "the  question  cannot,  for  the 
present  at  least,  be  answered.  As  for  leav- 
ing the  country,  I  might  easily  have  done  it, 
but  I  could  not  think  of  leaving  you  to  the 
snares  and  windings  of  that  villain.  I  de- 
clai'e  solemnly,  I  would  rather  die  than  wit- 
ness a  union  between  you  and  him." 

"But  what,  think  you,  should  I  feel? 
You  would  be  only  a  spectator  of  the  sacri- 
fice, whereas  I  should  be  the  victim." 

"  Do  not  be  cast  do\STi,  my  love  ;  whilst  I 
have  life,  and  a  strong  arm,  it  shall  never  be. 
Before  I  go  I  shall  make  arrangements  with 
Lanigan  when  and  where  to  see  you  again." 

"It  will  be  a  matter  of  some  difficulty," 
she  replied-  "  for  I  am  now  under  the  strict- 
est surveillance.  I  am  told,  and  I  feel  it, 
that  AVhitecraft  has  placed  a  spy  ui^ou  all  my 
motions." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  inqviired  EeiUy.  "  Ai-e 
you  not  under  the  protection  of  your  father, 
'.vho,  when  occasion  is  necessary,  has  both 
pride  and  sjjirit  ?  " 

"  But  my  Y>oov  credulous  father  is,  not- 
withstanding, easily  imposed  on.  I  know 
not  exactly  the  particulars,"  rephed  the  love- 
ly gh'l,  "  but  I  Ccxn  easily  suspect  them.  My 
father  it  was,  certainly,  who  discharged  my 
last  maid,  Ellen  Connor,  because,  he  said,  he 
did  not  like  her,  and  because,  he  added,  he 
would  jnit  a  better  and  a  more  trustworthy 
ono  ill  hei  place.  I  cannot  move  that  she  is 
ilfll  (iTa'ar  >;(11;  me  or-after  me  ;  nay,  I  can- 
flol  wjiio  i„iiote  that  she  does  not  immedi- 
ately acquaint  jjajja,  who  is  certain  to  stroll 
into  my  apartment  and  ask  to  see  the  con- 
tents of  it,  adding,  '  Helen,  when  a  young 
lady  of  rank  and  property  forms  a  clandes- 
tine and  disgraceful  attachment  it  is  time 
that  her  father  shovild  be  on  the  lookout ;  so  I 
will  jvist  take  the  liberty  of  throwing  my  eye 
over  this  little  hUM-doux.'  I  told  him  often 
that  he  was  at  liberty  to  inspect  every  hne  I 
should  write,  but  that  I  thought  that  very 
few  parents  would  exjjress  such  want  of  con- 
fidence in  their  daughters,  if,  like  me,  the 
latter  had  deserved  such  confidence  at  their 
hands  as  I  did  at  his." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  your  j)resent 
maid  ?  "  asked  Reilly,  musing. 

"  Oh,"  replied  !Miss FoUiai'd,  "  I  have  three 
maids  altogether,  but  she  ha's  been  installed 
as  own  maid.     Her  name  is  Eliza  Hei'bert." 

"A  native  of  England,  is  she  not?  Eliza 
Herbert !  '  he  exclaimed  ;  "  in  the  lower- 
most depths  of  jierdition  there  is  not  such  a 
villain.  This  Eliza  Herbert  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  one  of  his — but  I  will  not  pain 
your  pure  and  dehcate  mind  by  mentioning 
iit  fiu'tlier'  length  Avliat  she  is  and  was  to 
hiiu.      The   clei'gymau   of  the   parish,    Mr. 


Bro'wn,  knows  the  whole  circumstances.  Se 
him  at  church,"  and  get  him  to  communicate 
them  to  your  father.  The  fact  is,  this  vil- 
lain,  who  is  at  once  cunning  and  parsimoni- 
ous, had  a  double  motive,  each  equally  base 
and  diabolical,  in  sending  her  here.  In  the 
first  place,  he  wished,  by  getting  her  a  good 
l^lace,  to  make  youi'  father  the  unconscious 
means  of  rewarding  her  profligacy  ;  and  in 
the  second  of  keeping  her  as  a  spy  upon 
you." 

A  blush,  resulting  fi-om  her  natural  sense 
of  deUcacy,  as  weU  as  from  the  deepest  in- 
dignation at  a  man  who  did  not  sciiiple  to 
place  the  woman  whom  uc  looked  apon  as 
almost  immediately  to  become  his  wife,  in 
the  society  of  such  a  WTetch — such  a  blush,  we 
say,  overspread  her  whole  neck  and  face,  and 
for  about  two  minutes  she  shed  bitter  teai-s. 
But  she  felt  the  necessity  of  terminating 
tlieu'  inter\iew,  from  an  apprehension  that 
Miss  Herbert,  as  she  was  called,  on  not  find- 
ing her  in  the  room,  might  institute  a  search, 
and  in  this  she  was  not  mistaken. 

She  had  scarcely  concluded  when  the  shrill 
voice  of  Miss  Herbert  was  hciuxl,  as  she 
rushed  rapidly  down  the  stairs,  screaming, 
"  Oh,  la  !  oh,  dear  me  !  oh,  my  goodness  ! 
Where,  where — oh,  bless  me,  did  any  one 
see  Miss  Folliard  ?  " 

Lanigan,  however,  had  prepared  for  any 
thing  like  a  surprise.  He  planted  himself, 
as  a  sentinel,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  the 
moment  he  heard  the  alarm  of  Miss  Herbert 
on  her  way  down,  he  met  her  half  way  up, 
after  having  given  a  loud  significant  cough. 

"  Oh,  cook,  have  you  seen  Miss  Eolhard? 
I  can't  find  her  in  the  house  ! " 

"Is  her  father  in  his  study,  ]\Iiss Herbert ? 
because  I  want  to  see  him  ;  I'm  afcared  there's 
a  screw  loose.  I  did  see  Itliss  Folliard  ;  she 
went  out  a  few  minutes  ago — indeed  she 
rather  stole  out  towards  the  garden,  and,  1 
tell  you  the  tinith,  she  had  a  condemned  look 
of  her  own.  Try  the  garden,  and  if  you  don't 
find  her  there,  go  to  the  baol:  gate,  whicli 
you'll  be  apt  to  find  open." 

"  Oh,  I  wll,  I  wlU  ;  thank  you,  cook.  I'm 
certain  it's  an  elopement." 

"Indeed,  I  wouldn't  be  sui-jnised  to  find," 
repUed  Lanigan,  "  that  she  is  withEeilly  this 
moment ;  any  way  you  haven't  a  minute  to 
lose." 

She  stai'ted  towards  the  garden,  which  she 
ran  over  and  over ;  and  there  we  shall  leave 
her,  executing  the  fool's  errand  upon  which 
Lanigan  had  eent  her.  "Now,"  said  he,  go- 
ing in,  "  the  coast's  clear  ;  I  have  sent  that 
impertinent  jade  out  to  the  giu-den,  and  as 
the  back  gate  is  open — the  gioi'dener's  men 
are  wheehng  out  the  rubbish — and  they  are 
now  at   dinner — I  say,  as  the  back  gate  is 


WILLY  REILLY. 


105 


open,  it's  ten  to  one  but  she'll  scour  tLe 
country.  Now,  Miss  Folliarcl,  go  imme- 
diately to  your  room  ;  fis  for  this  poor  man, 
I  will  take  cai'e  of  him." 

"  Most  sincerely  do  I  thank  you,  Lanigan; 
he  will  arrange  with  you  when  and  where  to 
see  me  again.  FiU'ewell,  Reilly — farewell ; 
rely  upon  my  constancy  ; "  and  so  they 
parted,  EeiUy  to  the  kitchen,  and  the  C'ooleen 
Bawn  to  her  own  room. 

"  Come  into  the  pantry,  poor  man,"  said 
good-natured  Lanigan,  addressing  oui-  hero, 
"till  I  give  you  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  sir,"  replied  he  ; 
"  troth  and  whaix,  I  didn't  taste  a  morshel 
for  the  last  f  whour — hugh — hugh — and  twen- 
ty hours  ;  and  sure,  sir,  it's  this  cough  that's 
kiUin'  me  by  inches." 

A  thought  struck  Lanigan,  who  had  been 
also  spoken  to  by  the  gardener,  about  half 
an  hour  befoi'e,  to  know  if  he  could  tell  him 
svhere  he  might  have  any  chance  of  finding  an 
assistant.  At  all  events  they  went  into  the 
pantry,  wheii  Lanigan,  after  having  pulled 
to  the  door,  to  prevent  their  conversation  from 
being  overheard,  disclosed  a  project,  which 
had  just  entered  his  head,  of  procuring  Reil- 
ly emijloyment  in  the  garden.  Here  it  was 
arranged  between  them  that  the  latter,  who 
was  both  a  good  b(}tauist  and  florist,  should 
be  recommended  to  the  gardener  as  an  assist- 
ant. To  be  sui-e,  his  di-ess  and  ajjpearance 
were  both  decidedly  against  him  ;  but  still 
they  relied  upon  the  knowledge  which  Reil- 
ly confidently  assured  the  cook  that  he  pos- 
sessed. After  leaving  the  pantry  with  Lani- 
gan, whom  our  hero  thanked  in  a  thorough 
brogue,  the  former  called  after  him,  as  lie 
was  going  away  : 

"Come  here  again,  my  good  man." 

"  TOiat  is  it,  shir?  may  God  bless  yon  any- 
how, for  your  charity  to  the — hugh — hugh 
— ugh — to  the  poor  man.  Oh,  then,  but  it's 
no  wondher  for  you  all  to  be  fat  and  rosy 
upon  sich  beautifid  vittles  as  you  gave  to  me, 
shir.  What  is  it,  achora?  and  may  the 
Lord  mark  you  with  grace  !  " 

"  Would  j'ou  take  employment  from  the 
master,  his  honor  IVL.-.  Folhard,  if  you  got 
it?" 

"  Ai-rah  now,  shir,  you  gave  me  my  skin- 
ful of  what  was  g-ud  ;  but  don't  be  inakiu' 
fwhun  o  me  after.  Would  I  take  employ- 
ment, achora  ? — ay,  but  where  would  I  get 
it  ?  " 

"Could  j'ou  work  in  a  garden?  Do  you 
know  any  thing  alsout  plants  or  flowers  ?  " 

"  Oh  thin,  that  I  may  never  sup  saiTa 
(sorrow),  but  that's  just  what  I'm  fwhit 
fwhor." 

"  I'm  nfeared  this  scoundrel  is  but  an  im- 
posthor  afther  aU,"  whispered  Lanigan  to 


the  other  sei-vants  ;  "  but  in  ordher  to  mak« 
siu'e,  we'U  try  him.  I  say — what's  this  youj 
name  is  ?  " 

"  Solvesther  M'Bethershin,  shir." 

"  Well,  now,  would  you  have  any  objec- 
tion to  come  with  me  to  the  garden  and  see 
the  gardener  ?  But  hould,  here  he  is.  Mi\ 
Malcomson,"  contmued  Lanigan,  "  here  is  a 
poor  man,  who  says  he  understands  plants 
and  flowers,  and  weeds  of  that  kind." 

"  Sjjeak  ■wi'  reverence,  Mr.  Lanigan,  o'  the 
art  o'  gerdenuig.  Diuna  ye  ken  that  the 
founder  o'  the  hail  human  race  was  a  ger- 
dener  ? — Hout  awa,  mon  ;  speak  o'  it  wi'  re- 
sjieck." 

"Upon  my  conscience,"  rei^lied  Lanigan, 
"whether  he  was  a  good  gardener  or  not  is 
more  than  I  know  ;  but  one  thing  I  do  know, 
that  he  didn't  hould  his  situation  long,  and 
mismanaged  his  oi'chard  disgracefully  ;  and, 
indeed,  like  many  more  of  his  tribe,  he  got 
his  walkm'  papers  in  double  quick — was  dis- 
missed without  a  characther — ay,  and  his 
wife,  like  many  another  gardener's  wife,  got  a 
habit  of  stalin'  the  ajoples.  However,  I  wish 
Mr.  Malcomson,  that  you,  who  do  undher- 
stand  gardenia',  would  thry  this  fellow,  be- 
cause I  want  to  know  whether  he's  an  im- 
posthor  or  not." 

"Weel,"  repUed  Malcomson,  "I  dinna 
care  if  I  do.  We'll  soon  find  that  out. 
Come  wi'  me  and  Maisther  Lanigan  here, 
and  we'U  see  what  you  ken  about  the 
sceentific  profession."- 

They  accordingly  went  to  the  garden,  and 
it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Reilly  not  only 
bore  the  examination  well,  but  j)roved  him- 
self by  far  the  better  botanist  of  the  two. 
He  tempered  his  answers,  however,  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  allow  the  gardener's  vanity 
to  be  hurt,  in  which  case  he  feared  that  he 
might  have  httle  chance  of  being  engaged. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

More  of  WhitecrafCs  Plots  and  Pranks. 

On  the  Sunday  following.  Miss  Polliard, 
as  was  her  usual  custom,  attended  divine 
service  at  her  parish  church,  accompanied 
by  the  virtuous  Miss  Herbert,  who  scarcely 
ever  let  her  for  a  moment  out  of  her  sight, 
and,  in  fact,  added  grievously  to  the  misery 
of  her  life.  After  service  had  been  con- 
cluded, she  waited  until  Mr.  Browai  had  de- 
scended fi'om  the  puljiit,  when  she  accosted 
Mm,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  have  some 
private  conversation  with  him  in  the  vestry- 
room.     To  this  room  they  were  about  to 


106 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


proceed,  when  Miss  Herbert  advanced  with 
an  evident  intention  of  accomf)anying  them. 

"Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  Cooleeii  Bawn, 
looking  at  him  significantly,  "I  wish  that 
our  interview  should  be  private." 

"  Certainly',  my  dear  Miss  PoUiard,  and 
so  it  shall  be.     Pray,  who  is  this  lady  ?  " 

"I  am  forced,  sir,  to  call  her  my  maid." 

Mr.  Brown  was  startled  a  good  deal,  not 
only  at  the  words,  but  the  tone  in  which 
they  were  uttered. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  j'oxi  will  please  to 
remain  here  until  your  mistress  shall  return 
to  you,  or,  if  you  wish,  you  can  amuse  your- 
self by  reading  the  inscri^jtious  on  the  tomb- 
stones." 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  been  ordered,"  repUed 
Miss  Herbert,  "  by  her  father  and  another 
gentleman,  not  to  let  her  out  of  my  sight." 

Mr.  Brown,  understanding  that  something 
was  wrong,  now  looked  at  her  more  closely, 
after  which,  with  a  withering  fi'own,  he  said, 

"I  think  I  know  you,  madam,  and  I  am 
very  sorry  to  hear  that  you  are  an  attendant 
upon  this  amiable  lady.  Remain  where  you 
are,  and  don't  attemj^t  to  intrude  yourself 
as  an  ear-witness  to  any  communication  Miss 
Folliard  mny  have  to  make  to  me." 

The  profligate  creature  and  unprincipled 
spy  bridled,  looked  disdain  and  bitterness  at 
the  amiable  clergjinan,  who,  accompanied  hy 
our  heroine,  retired  to  the  vestry.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  detail  their  conversation,  which 
was  sustained  oy  the  Cooleeii  Bawn  with 
bitter  tears.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the 
good  and  pious  minister,  though  not  aware 
until  then  that  Miss  Hei'bert  had,  by  the 
scoundrel  baronet,  been  intruded  into  Squire 
FoUiard's  family,  was  yet  acquainted,  from 
peeuUar  sources,  mth  the  nature  of  the  im- 
moral relation  in  which  she  stood  to  that 
hypocrite.  He  felt  shocked  beyond  belief, 
and  assured  the  weeping  girl  that  he  \vould 
call  the  next  day  and  disclose  the  treacherous 
desig-n  to  her  father,  who,  he  said,  could  not 
possibly  have  been  aware  of  the  wi-etch's 
character  when  he  admitted  her  into  his 
family.  They  then  parted,  and  om-  heroine 
was  obliged  to  take  this  vUe  creature  into  the 
carriage  with  her  home.  On  theii"  return, 
Miss  Herbert  began  to  display  at  once  the 
mahgnity  of  her  disposition,  and  the  volu- 
bility of  her  tongue,  in  a  fierce  attack  upon, 
what  she  termed,  the  uugentlemanly  conduct 
of  Mr.  Bro^vn.  To  all  she  said,  however, 
Helen  uttered  not  one  syllable  of  rejsly.  She 
neither  looked  at  her  nor  noticed  her,  but 
sat  in  profound  silence,  not,  however,  with- 
out a  distracted  mind  and  breaking  heart. 

On  the  next  day  the  squu-e  took  a  fancy  to 
look  at  the  state  of  his  gai'den,  and,  having 
got  his  hat  and  cane,    he    saUied   out  to 


observe  how  matters  were  going  on,  now 
that  ]\Ir.  Malcomsou  had  got  an  assistant, 
whom,  by  the  way,  he  had  not  yet  seen. 

"  Now,  Malcomson,"  said  he,  "  as  you  have  I 
found   an   assistant,  I   hope   you  wiU  soon 
bring  my  garden  into  decent  trim.     "NATiat 
kind  of  a  chap  is  he,  and  how  did  you  come 
by  him  ?  " 

"Saul,  your  honor,"  rej^ilied  Malcomson, 
"  he's  a  divilish  clever  chiel,  and  vara  wee! 
acqueut  wi'  our  noble  25rofessiou." 

"  Confound  yourseK  and  youi*  noble  pro- 
fession !  I  think  eveiy  Scotch  gardener  of 
you  believes  himself  a  gentleman,  simply 
because  he  can  nail  a  few  stripes  of  old  blanket 
against  a  waU.  How  did  you  come  by  thia 
fellow,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Ou,  just  through  Lanigan,  the  cook,  your 
honor. " 

"  Did  Lanigan  know  him  ?  " 

"  Hout,  no,  your  honor — it  was  an  act  o' 
charity  hke." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Lanigan's  a  kind-hearted  old  fool, 
and  that's  just  like  him  ;  Ijut,  in  the  mean- 
time, let  me  see  this  chaji." 

"  There  he  is,  your  honor,  tjimming,  and 
taking  care  of  that  bed  of  '  love-lies-bleed- 
ing.'" 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  I  dare  say  my  daughter  set  him 
to  that  task." 

"  Na,  na,  sir.  The  young  leddy  hasna 
seen  him  yet,  nor  hasna  been  in  the  gerden 
for  the  last  week." 

"  Why,  confound  it,  ^Malcomson,  that  fel- 
low's more  like  a  beggarman  than  a  gar- 
dener." 

"  Saul,  but  he's  a  capital  hand  for  a'  that. 
Your  honor's  no'  to  tak  the  beuk  by  the 
cover.  To  be  svu-e  he's  awfully  vulgar,  but, 
ma  faith,  he  has  a  richt  gude  knowledgeable 
ajjprehension  o'  buttany  juid  gerdening  in 
geuerhal." 

The  squire  then  approached  oiu-  under- 
gardener,  and  accosted  him, 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,  so  you  imderstand 
gardening  ?  " 

"  A  little,  your  haner,"  replied  the  other, 
resjjectluUy  touching  his  hat,  or  caubeeu 
rather. 

"  Are  you  a  native  of  this  neighbor, 
hood  ?  " 

"  No,  your  haner.  I'm  f«-aithcr  up — fi-om 
WestjJort,  your  haner." 

"  Who  were  you  engaged  with  last?  " 

"  I  wasn't  engaged,  shir — it  was  only  job- 
work  I  was  able  to  do — the  health  wasn't 
gud  vdd  me." 

"  Have  you  no  better  clothes  than  these  ?  " 

"You  see  all  that  I  have  on  me,  shir." 

"  WeU,  come,  I'U  give  you  the  i^rice  of  a 
suit  rather  than  see  such  a  scarecrow  in  my 
garden." 


WILLY  £  FILLY. 


101 


"I  couldn't  take  it,  sliir." 

"  The  devil  jou  coukln't !  ^^^ly  not,  man  ?  " 

"  Bekaise,  shir,  I'm  under  isiuance." 

■'  Well,  why  don't  you  shave "?  " 

"I  can't,  shir,  for  de  same  raison." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  what  the  devil  did  you  do 
that  they  put  such  a  jaeuanee  on  you." 

"  Vfhj,  I  ruuued  away  wit'  a  young  woman, 
shir." 

"  Upon  my  soul  you're  a  devilish  Hkely 
fellow  to  run  away  with  a  young  woman,  and 
a  capital  taste  she  must  have  had  to  go  with 
you  ;  but  jierhaps  you  took  her  away  by  vio- 
lence, eh  ?  " 

"  No,  shir  ;  she  was  wLUiu'  enough  to  come  ; 
but  her  fadher  wouldn't  consint,  and  so  we 
made  off  wit'  ourselves." 

This  was  a  topic,  on  which  the  squire,  for 
ob\'ious  reasons,  did  not  like  to  press  him. 
It  was  in  fact  a  sore  subject,  and,  accordingly, 
he  changed  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  about  the  coimtry 
a  good  deal  ?  " 

"I  have,  indeed,  your  haner." 

"Did  you  ever  hajsjjen  to  hear  of,  or  to 
meet  with,  a  person  called  Keilly  ?  " 

"  Often,  shir  ;  met  many  o'  dem." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  the  scoundrel  called 
Willy  Eeilly." 

"  Is  dat  him  dat  left  the  country,  shir?" 

"  Wliy,  how  do  you  know  that  he  has  left 
the  eountiy  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  myself,  shir;  but  dat  de 
people  does  be  sayin'  it.  Dey  say  dat  himself 
and  wan  of  our  bishops  went  to  France  to- 
geder." 

The  squire  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely 
as  he  said,  in  a  low  soliloquj",  "I'm  devHish 
glad  of  it ;  for,  after  aU,  it  would  go  against 
my  heart  to  hang  the  fellow.  "  Well,"  he 
said  aloud,  "  so  he's  gone  to  France  ?  " 

"  So  de  people  does  be  sayin ,  shir." 

"Well,  teU  me — do  you  know  a  geutleinan 
called  Sir  Robert  Wliiteeraft "? " 

"Is  dat  him,  diir,  dat  keeps  de  misses 
privately  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  he  keeps  misses 
privately?" 

"  Fwhy,  shir,  dey  say  his  last  one  was  a 
Miss  Herbert,  and  dat  she  had  a  youn^  one 
by  him,  and  dat  she  was  an  Englishwoman. 
It  isn't  giner:illy  kno\^^l,  I  believe,  shir,  but 
dey  do  be  sayin'  dat  she  was  brought  to  bed 
in  de  cottage  of  some  bad  woman  named 
Mary  Mahon,  dat  does  be  on  de  lookout  to 
get  sweethearts  for  him." 

"There's  five  thirteens  for  you,  and  I  wish 
to  God,  my  good  fellow,  that  you  woiild  allow 
yourself  to  be  put  in  better  feathers." 

"  Oh,  I  expect  my  pinance  wiU  be  out 
before  a  uiout',  shir  ;  but,  until  den,  I  couldn't 
take  any  money." 


"Malcomson,"  said  he  to  the  gardener.  "1 
think  that  feUow's  a  hiilf  fool.  I  offered  him 
a  crown,  and  also  said  I  would  get  him  a  suit 
of  clothes,  and  he  would  not  take  either  ;  but 
talked  about  some  silly  i^enance  he  was  under- 
going." 

"  Saul,  then,  your  honor,  he  may  be  a  fule  ; 
in  ither  things,  but  de'il  a  luie  of  him's  a  fule 
in  the  sceence  o'  buttany.  As  to  that  pen- 
ance, it's  just  some  Papistiical  nonsense  he 
has  gotten  into  his  head — de'il  hae't  mail- ; 
but  sm-e  they're  a'  full  o't — a'  o'  the  same 
gi'aft,  an'  a  bad  one  I  feai'  it  is." 

"  Well,  I  beheve  so,  Miilcomson,  I  believe 
so.  However,  if  the  unfortunatxi  fool  is  clever, 
give  him  good  wages." 

"  Saul,  your  honor,  I'U  do  him  justice ; 
only  I  tliink  that,  anent  that  penance  he 
Sf)eaks  o',  the  hail  Papish  popidation,  bad  as 
we  think  them,  ai-e  suffering  penance  eueuch, 
one  way  or  tither.  It  disna'  beseem  i  Prot- 
estant— that  is,  a  prelatic  Government — to 
persecute  ony  portion  o'  Christian  jjeople  on 
account  o'  their  rehgion.  We  have  felt  and 
kenned  that  in  Scotland,  sau'lj'.  I'm  no  fi'eend 
to  persecution,  in  ony  shajoe.  But,  as  to  this 
chiel,  I  ken  naething  aboot  him,  but  that  he 
is  a  glide  buttanist.  Hout,  your  honor,  to  be 
sure  I'R  gi'e  him  a  fair  wage  for  his  skeel  and 
labor." 

Malcomson,  who  was  what  we  have  often 
met,  a  pedant  gardener,  saw,  however,  that 
the  squu'e's  mind  was  disturbed.  In  the 
short  conversation  which  they  had,  he  sjjoke 
abruptly,  and  with  a  flushed  countenance  ; 
but  he  was  too  shrewd  to  ask  him  why  he 
seemed  so.  It  was  not,  he  knew,  his  business 
to  do  so  ;  and  as  the  squii'e  left  the  garden, 
to  pass  into  the  house,  he  looked  after  him, 
and  exclaimed  to  himself,  "my  certie,  there's 
a  bee  in  that  man's  bonnet." 

On  going  to  the  drawing-room,  the  squire 
found  Mr.  Brown  there,  and  Helen  in  teiirs. 

"How!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  is  this? 
Helen  ciying !  T\Tiy,  what's  the  matter,  my 
child  ?  Brown,  have  you  been  scoldmg  her, 
or  reading  her  a  homily  to  teach  her  repen- 
tance. Confound  me,  but  I  know  it  would 
teach  her  patience,  at  aU  events.  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  FolUard,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, "  if  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  with- 
di'aw,  I  wHl  explain  this  shocking  business  to 
your  father." 

"  Shocking  business !  Why,  in  God's 
name.  Brown,  what  has  haiJiJened?  And 
why  is  my  daughter  in  tears,  I  ask  again  ?  " 

Helen  now  left  the  drawing-room,  and  Air. 
Bro\^-n  replied : 

"  Sir,  a  circumstance  which,  for  baseness 
and  diabolical  iniquity,  is  unparalleled  in 
civilized  society.      I  could  not  pollute  youl 


108 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


daughter's  ears  by  reciting  it  in  her  presence, 
and  besides  she  is  ah'eady  awai'e  of  it." 

"  Aj',  but  what  is  it  ?  Confound  you,  don't 
keei>  me  on  tenter  hooks." 

"I  shall  not  do  so  long,  my  dear  fiiend. 
Wlio  do  you  imagine  youi"  daughter's  maid 
— I  mean  that  female  attendant  ujjou  your 
piu'e-minded  and  vii'tuous  child — is  V  " 

"  Faith,  go  ask  Sir-  Robert  Whiteoraft.  It 
■was  he  who  recommended  her  ;  for,  on  heai-- 
ing  that  the  maid  she  had,  EUen  Connor, 
was  a  Papist,  he  said  he  felt  uneasj'  lest  she 
might  j)revail  on  my  daughter  to  tiuii  Cath- 
oUc,  and  marry  Eeillj'." 

"  But  do  j'ou  not  know  who  the  yoimg 
woman  that  is  about  youi-  daughter's  person 
is?  You  are,  however,  a  father  who  loves 
your  cliild,  and  I  need  not  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion. Then,  su',  I  will  teU  you  who  she  is. 
Bir,  she  is  one  of  Sir  Robert  Wliitecraft's 
cast-off  mistresses — a  profligate  wanton,  who 
has  had  a  cliild  by  him." 

The  liery  old  squire  had  been  walking  to 
and  fi'o  the  room,  in  a  state  of  considerable 
agitation  before — his  mind  already  charged 
with  the  same  intelhgenee,  as  he  had  heard  it 
from  the  g;u-dener  (ReiUy).  He  now  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and  putting  his  hands 
before  his  face,  muttered  ovA,  between  his 
fingers — "  D — n  seize  the  villain  !  It  is  true, 
then.  Well,  never  mind,  I'U  demand  satis- 
faction for  this  insult ;  I  am  not  too  old  to 
pull  a  trigger,  or  give  a  thrust  yet ;  but  then 
the  cowardly  hj-pocrite  won't  fight.  When 
he  has  a  set  of  military  at  his  back,  and  a 
parcel  of  unarmed  peasants  before  him,  or 
an  vmfortunate  priest  or  two,  why,  he's  a  dare 
devd — Hector  was  nothing  to  him  ;  no,  con- 
found me,  nor  mad  Tom  Simpson,  that 
wears  a  sword  on  each  side,  and  a  double 
case  of  pistols,  to  frighten  the  bailiffs.  The 
scoundi'el  of  hell ! — to  im2:)ose  on  me,  and 
insult  my  child  !  " 

"  Mr.  FoUiai'd,"  obsened  the  clergyman 
calmly,  "  I  can  indeed  scarcely  blame  your 
indignation  ;  it  is  nat'xral  ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is  useless  and  unavailable.  Be  cool, 
and  restrain  your  temper.  Of  coiu-se,  you 
could  not  think  of  bestowing  your  daughter, 
in  marriage,  upon  this  man." 

"I  teU  you  what,  Brov\Ti — I  tell  you  what, 
my  dear-  frieud — let  the  devil,  Satan,  Beelze- 
bub, or  whatever  you  caU  him  fi'om  the  jduI- 
pit — I  say,  let  him  come  here  any  time  he 
pleases,  in  his  holiday  hoofs  and  horns,  tail 
and  all,  and  he  shall  have  her  sooner  than 
Whitecraft." 

Mr.  Brown  could  not  help  smihng,  whilst 
he  said : 

"Of  covu'se,  YOU  will  instantly  dismiss  this 
ftbandoued  creatui'e." 

He   stiU'tcd    up    and   exclaimed,    "Cog's 


'ounds,  what  am  I  about?"  He  instanty 
rang  the  beU,  and  a  footman  attended. 
"  John,  desire  that  wench  Herbert  to  come 
here." 

"  Do  you  mean  Miss  Herbert,  su-  ?  " 

"  I  do — Mii^a  Herbert — egad,  you've  hit  it ; 
be  quick,  sirra." 

John  bowed  and  withdrew,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  Miss  Herbert  entered. 

"Miss  Herbert,"  said  the  squire,  "leave 
this  house  as  fast  as  the  de^ol  can  drive  you  ; 
and  he  has  diiven  you  to  some  jomijose  be- 
fore now ;  ay,  and,  I  dai-e  say,  wiU.  again. 
I  say,  then,  as  fast  as  he  can  drive  you,  jiaek 
up  your  luggage,  and  begone  about  your 
business.  I'll  just  give  you  ten  miuiites  to 
disai^j^ear." 

"  What's  all  this  about,  master  ?  " 

"  Master  ! — why,  curse  your  brazen  im- 
pudence, how  dare  you  call  me  master  ?  Be- 
gone, you  jade  of  jjerditiou." 

"No  more  a  jade  of  jserdition,  sir,  than 
you  are  ;  nor  I  shan't  begone  till  I  gets  a 
quarter's  wages — I  teU  you  that." 

"  You  shall  get  whatever's  coming  to  you  ; 
not  another  penny.  The  house-steward  will 
isay  you  — begone,  I  say  !  " 

"  No,  sii',  I  shan't  begone  tdl  I  gets  a 
quarter's  salai-y  in  full.  You  broke  youi 
agreement  with  me,  wich  is  wat  no  man  as  is 
a  gentleman  would  do  ;  and  you  are  iiuttin' 
me  away,  too,  without  no  cause." 

"  Cause,  you  vagabond !  you'U  find  the 
cause  squalling,  I  supjjose,  in  Mai-y  Mahon's 
cottage,  somewhere  near  Sir  Robert  "NATiite- 
craft's  ;  and  when  you  see  him,  tell  him  I 
have  a  crow  to  j)luck  with  him.     Off,  I  say." 

"  Oh,  I  sujijiose  you  mean  the  love-child 
I  had  by  him— ha,  hr. !  is  that  all  ?  But  I 
never  had  a  hankerin'  after  a  rebel  and  a 
Pajiist,  which  is  far  worser ;  and  I  now  tell 
you  you're  no  gentleman,  you  nasty  old 
Hirish  scjuire.  You  brought  me  here,  and 
Sir  Robert  sent  me  here,  to  watch  your 
daughter.  Now,  what  kind  of  a  young  lady 
must  she  be  as  requires  watching  ?  /  was 
never  watched  ;  because  as  how  I  was  well 
conducted,  and  nothing  could  ever  be  laid 
to  my  charge  but  a  love-child." 

"•By  the  great  BojTie,"  he  exclaimed,  run- 
ning to  the  window  and  throwing  iqi  the 
sash — "  yes,  by  the  great  Bo^Tie,  there  is 
Tom  Steeple,  and  if  he  doesn't  bring  you 
and  the  pump  acquainted,  I'm  rather  mis- 
taken. Here,  Tom,  I  have  a  job  for  you 
Do  you  wish  to  earn  a  buUy  dinner,  my 
boy  ?  " 

Miss  Herbert,  on  heai-ing  Tom's  name 
mentioned,  disappeared  like  lightning,  and 
set  about  packing  her  things  immediately. 
The  steward,  by  his  master's  desire,  f)aid 
her  exactly  what  was  due  to  her,  which  she 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


109 


received  ^^^thout  making  a,  single  obsei-vation. 
lu  truth,  she  entertained  such  a  terror  of 
Tom  Steeple,  who  had  been  pointed  out  to 
her  as  a  wild  Irishman,  not  long  caught  in 
the  mountains,  that  she  stole  out  by  the 
back  waj',  and  came,  by  making  a  circuit, 
out  uijon  the  road  that  led  to  Su-  Robert 
Whitecraft's  house,  which  she  fiassed  -uith- 
out  entering,  but  went  dii-ectly  to  Mary 
Mahon's,  who  had  pro\T.ded  a  nurse  for  her 
illegitimate  child  in  the  neighborhood.  She 
had  not  been  there  long  when  she  sent  her 
trusty  fi'iend,  Marj%  to  acquaint  Sir  Robert 
with  what  had  happened.  He  was  fi-om 
home,  engaged  in  an  expedition  of  which 
we  feel  called  upon  to  give  some  account  to 
the  reader. 

At  this  period,  when  the  persecution  ran 
high  against  the  Catholics,  but  with  peculiar 
bitterness  against  their  jjiiesthood,  it  is  but 
justice  to  a  gi'eat  number  of  the  Protestant 
magistracy  and  gentry — nay,  and  many  of 
the  nobility  besides — to  state  that  their  con- 
duct was  both  liberal  and  generous  to  the 
unfortunate  victims  of  those  cruel  laws.  It 
is  a  well  known  fact  that  many  Protestant 
justices  of  the  peace  were  imprisoned  for 
refusing  to  execute  such  oispressive  edicts 
as  had  gone  abroad  through  the  country. 
Many  of  them  resigned  therr  commissions, 
and  many  more  were  deprived  of  them. 
Amongst  the  latter  were  several  liberal  noble- 
men— Protestants — who  had  sufficient  cour- 
age to  denounce  the  spirit  in  which  the 
country  was  governed  and  depopulated  at 
the  same  time.  One  of  the  latter — a  noble- 
man of  the  highest  rank  and  acquirements, 
and  of  the  most  amiable  disposition,  a  warm 
friend  to  civil  freedom,  auel  a  firm  antagonist 
to  persecution  and  oppression  of  every  hue 
— tliis  nobleman,  we  say,  married  a  French 
lady  of  rank  and  fortune,  who  was  a  Catholic, 
and  with  whom  he  lived  in  the  teuderest 
love,  and  the  utmost  domestic  felicity.  The 
lady  beuig  a  Catholic,  as  we  said,  brought 
over  with  her,  fi-om  France,  a  leai-ued,  pious, 
and  venerable  ecclesiastic,  as  her  domestic 
chaplain  and  confessor.  This  man  had  been 
pi'ofessor  of  divinity  for  several  years  iy  the 
college  of  Louvain  ;  but  having  lost  his 
health,  he  accepted  a  smsiU  H\'ing  neai"  the 

chateau  of  ,   the  residence  of  Marquis 

De  ,  in  whose  establishment  he  was  do- 
mesticated as  chaplain.  Li  short,  he  accom- 
panied Lord  and  his  lady  to  Ii-eland, 

where  he  acted  in  the  same  capacity,  but  so 
far  only  as  the  lady  was  concerned  ;  for,  as 
we  have  already  said,  her  husband,  though 
a  liberal  man,  was  a  firm  but  not  a  bigoted 
Protestant.  This  harmless  old  man,  as  was 
very  natural,  kept  up  a  correspondence  with 
several   L-ish    and   French    clergjmen,    his 


friends,  who,  as  he  had  done,  held  i^rofessor- 
ships  in  the  same  coUege.  Many  of  the  Irish 
clergymen,  knowing  the  dearth  of  religious 
insti'uction  which,  in  consequence  of  the 
severe  state  of  the  laws,  then  existed  in 
Ii'eland,  were  naturally  anxious  to  know  the 
condition  of  the  country,  and  whether  or  not 
any  relaxation  in  their  severity  had  taken 
jjlace,  with  a  hope  that  thej'  might  be  able 
with  safety  to  return  to  the  mission  here, 
and  bestow  sisiritual  aid  and  consolation 
to  the  suffering  and  necessarily  neglected 
folds  of  their  own  persuasion.  On  this 
harmless  and  pious  old  man  the  eye  of 
Heunessy  rested.  In  point  of  fact  he  set  him 
for  Su'  Robert  Whitecraft,  to  whom  he  rep- 
resented him  as  a  spy  fi-om  France,  and  an 
active  agent  of  the  Cathohc  priesthood,  both 
here  and  on  the  Continent ;  in  fact,  an  in- 
cendiaiy,  who,  feeling  himself  sheltered  by 
the  protection  of  the  nobleman  in  question 
and  his  countess,  was  looked  ixpon  as  a  safe 
man  with  whom  to  hold  corresj)ondence. 
The  Ahbe,  as  they  termed  him,  was  in  the 
habit,  by  his  lordshiji's  desire,  and  that  of 
his  lady,  of  attending  the  Catholic  sick  oi 
his  large  estates,  administering  to  them  re- 
ligious instruction,  and  the  ordinance  of 
then-  Church,  at  a  time  when  they  could  ob- 
tain them  fi'om  no  other  source.  He  also 
acted  as  then-  almoner,  and  distributed  re- 
lief to  the  sick,  the  poor,  and  the  distressed, 
and  thus  passed  his  pious,  harmless,  and 
inoffensive,  but  useful,  life.  Now  all  thesti 
circumstances  were  noted  by  Hennes.sy,  Tflid 
had  been  on  the  lookout,  to  make  a  present 
of  this  good  old  man  to  his  new  j^atron,  Sir 
Robert.  At  length  haring  discovered — by 
what  means  it  is  imjjossible  to  conjecture — 
that  the  Abbe  was  to  go  on  the  day  in  ques- 
tion to  reheve  a  poor  sick  family,  at  about  a 

distance  of  two  mUes  fi-om  Castle  ,  the 

intelligence  was  commimicated  by  Hennessy 
to  Sir  Robert,  who  immediately  set  out  for  the 
place,  attended  by  a  party  of  his  mjTmidons, 
conducted  to  it  by  the  Red  Rapparee,  who,  as 
we  have  said, was  now oneof  Whitecraft's  band. 
There  is  often  a  stuj^id  infatuation  in  \dllany 
which  amounts  to  what  they  call  in  Scotland 
fey — that  is,  when  a  man  goes  on  doggedly 
to  commit  some  act  of  wickedness,  or  nish 
upon  some  impracticable  eutei-jsrise,  the 
danger  and  folly  of  which  must  be  erident 
to  every  person  but  himself,  and  that  it  will 
end  in  the  loss  of  his  life.  Sir  Robert,  how- 
ever, had  rim  a  long  and  prosj)erous  career 
of  persecution — a  career  by  which  he  en- 
riched himself  by  the  spoils  he  had  torn, 
and  the  proi^erty  he  had  \\Tested  fiom  hia 
victims,  generally  vmder  the  sanction  o\ 
Government,  but  very  frequently  ixnder  no 
other  sanction  than  his  own.     At  all  e'  onts 


110 


WIZL/AJI  CAULETON'S  WORKS. 


tlie  party,  consisting^  of  aliout  tbirty  men, 
remained  in  a  deep  and  narrow  lane,  sur- 
rounded by  Liiih  whitethorn  hedges,  which 
prevented  the  horsemen — for  they  were  aU 
dragoons — fi'om  being  noticed  by  the  country 
people.  Alas,  for  the  poor  Ahh'e  !  they  had 
not  remained  there  more  than  twenty 
minutes  when  he  was  seen  approaching  them, 
reading  his  breviaiy  as  he  came  along.  They 
did  not  move,  however,  nor  seem  to  notice 
him,  untU  he  had  got  into  the  midst  of  them, 
when  they  formed  a  circle  round  him,  and  the 
loud  voice  of  'Wliitecraft  commanded  him  to 
stand.  The  poor  old  piiest  closed  his  bre- 
viary, and  looked  around  him ;  but  he  felt 
no  alarm,  because  he  was  conscious  of  no 
offence,  and  imagined  himself  safe  under  the 
jjrotection  of  a  distinguished  Protestant 
nobleman. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  calmly  and  meekly, 
but  without  fear,  "  what  is  the  cause  of  this 
conduct  towards  an  inoffensive  old  man  ?  It 
is  true  I  am  a  Catholic  priest,  but  I  am  under 

the  protection  of  the  Mai-quis  of .     He 

is  a  Protestant  nobleman,  and  I  am  sure  the 
very  mention  of  his  name  vrill  satisfy  you, 
that  I  cannot  be  the  object  either  of  your 
susjiicion  or  youi-  enmity." 

"  But,  my  dear  su-,"  replied  Sii'  Robert,  "  the 
nobleman  you  mention  is  a  susjjected  man 
himself,  and  I  have  rejiorted  him  as  such  to 
the  Government.  He  is  mai-ried  to  a  Pojsish 
wife,  and  you  are  a  seminai-y  23i'iest  and 
harbored  by  her  and  her  husband." 

"  But  what  is  your  object  in  Bto2ipiug  and 
smToundiug  me,"  asked  the  priest,  "  as  if  I 
were  some  jJubUc  delinquent  who  had  %iolated 
the  laws  ?  Allow  me,  su',  to  jjass,  and  pre 
vent  me  at  your  jieril ;  and  permit  me,  before 
I  proceed,  to  ask  yoiu-  name  ?  "  and  the  old 
man's  eyes  flashed  with  an  indignant  sense 
of  the  treatment  he  was  receiving. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Sir  Eobei-t  White- 
craft?" 

"  The  priest-hunter,  the  persecutor,  the 
robber,  the  mui'derer  ?  I  did,  with  disgust, 
with  horror,  with  execration.  If  you  are  he, 
I  say  to  you  that  I  am,  as  you  see,  an  old 
man,  and  a  priest,  and  have  but  one  life  ;  take 
it,  you  wQl  auticiijate  my  death  only  by  a 
short  period  ;  but  I  look  by  the  hght  of  an 
innocent  conscience  into  the  future,  and  I 
now  tell  you  that  a  woful  and  a  temble  ret- 
ribution is  hanging  over  j'our  head." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  said  Sir  Robert,  veiy 
calmlj',  as  he  dismounted  from  his  horse, 
which  he  desired  one  of  the  men  to  hold,  "I 
have  a  ^^'arraut  from  Government  to  arrest 
you,  and  send  you  back  again  to  your  own 
country  without  delay.  You  are  here  as  a 
*!py,  an  incendiarj',  and  must  go  on  your 
travels  forthwith.     In  this,   I  am  acting  as 


your  fi'iend  and  protector,  and  so  is  Govern- 
ment, who  do  not  ■uish  to  be  severe  upon 
you,  as  you  are  not  a  natural  subject.  See, 
sir,  here  is  another  warrant  for  your  arrest 
and  imprisonment.  Tlie  fact  is,  it  was  left 
to  my  ovm  discretion,  either  to  imprison  you, 
or  send  you  out  of  the  countiy.  Now,  sir, 
fi'om  a  principle  of  lenity,  I  am  determined 
on  the  latter  course." 

"  But,"  repHed  the  priest,  after  casting hi& 
eye  over  both  documents,  "as I  am  conscious 
of  no  offence,  either  against  your  laws  or 
your  Government,  I  dechne  to  fly  like  a  crimi- 
nal, and  I  will  not ;  put  me  in  prison,  if  you 
■^ish,  but  I  certainly  shall  not  criminate  my- 
self, kno-ning  as  I  do  that  I  am  innocent.  In 
the  meantime,  I  request  that  you  wUl  accom- 
pany me  to  the  castle  of  my  patron,  that  I 
may  acquaint  him  with  the  charges  against 
me,  and  the  cause  of  my  being  forced  to  leave 
his  family  for  a  time." 

"No,  sir,"  rejilied  Whitecraft,  "I  cannot 
do  so,  unless  I  betray  the  tiiist  which  Govei-n- 
ment  reposes  in  me.  I  cannot  i^ermit  you 
to  hold  any  iutercoiu-se  whatever  with  your 
patron,  as  you  call  him,  who  is  justh'  susjject- 
ed  of  being  a  Papist  at  heart.  Sir,  you  have 
been  going  abroad  through  the  country, 
under  pi-etence  of  administering  consolation 
to  the  sick,  and  bestowing  alms  ujjon  the 
poor ;  but  the  fact  is.  you  have  been  stii-ring 
them  up  to  sedition,  if  not  to  ojsen  rebeUion. 
You  must,  therefore,  come  along  with  us, 
this  instant.  You  j^roeeed  with  us  to  Sligo, 
from  whence  we  shall  ship  you  oft'  in  a  ves- 
sel bound  for  France,  which  vessel  is  com- 
manded by  a  friend  of  mine,  who  wUl  treat 
you  kindly,  for  my  sake.  ^Miat  shall  we  do 
for  a  horse  for  him '? "  he  asked,  looking  at 
his  men  for  information  on  that  i)oint. 

"  That,  j'our  honor, we'll  provide  in  a  crack," 
replied  the  Pied  Riipjiaree,  looking  up  the 
road;  '-'here  conies  Sterling,  the  ganger, 
very  well  mounted,  and,  by  all  the  stills  he 
ever  seized,  he  must  walk  home  upon  shank's 
mare,  if  it  was  only  to  give  him  exercise  and 
improve  his  appetite," 

We  need  not  detail  this  open  robbery  on 
the  king's  oSicer,  an<l  on  the  king's  highway 
besides.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  Eap- 
paree,  contident  of  jnotectiou  and  im2)unity, 
with  the  connivance,  although  not  h\  1  he  ex- 
press orders  of  the  baronet,  deprived  fhe 
man  of  his  horse,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  (he 
poor  old  priest  was  placed  upon  the  saddle, 
and  the  whole  cavalcade  jjroceeded  on  their 
way  to  Sligo,  the  priest  in  the  centre  of  them. 
Fortunately  for  Sir  Robert's  i^roject,  they 
reached  the  quay  just  as  the  vessel  alluded 
to  was  about  to  Siiil ;  and  as  there  was,  at 
that  jieriod,  no  novelty  in  seeing  a  priest 
shipped  out  of  the   country,    the   loungers 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


Ill 


about  the  place,  whatever  they  might  have 
thought  in  their  hearts,  seemed  to  take  no 
particulai'  notice  of  the  transaction. 

"  Your  honor,"  said  the  Red  Eai:)ijaree,  ap- 
proachmg  and  giviug  a  mihtary  salute  to  his 
patron,  "will  you  allow  me  to  remain  in 
town  for  an  hour  or  two  ?  I  have  a  scheme 
in  my  head  that  may  come  to  something.  I 
will  tell  yoiu"  honor  what  it  is  when  I  get 
home." 

"  Very  well,  O'Donnel,"  replied  Sir  Robert; 
"  but  I'd  advise  you  not  to  ride  late,  if  you 
can  avoid  it.  You  know  that  every  man  in 
your  uniform  is  a  mark  for  the  vindictive  re- 
sentment of  these  Popish  rebels." 

"  Ah !  maj'be  I  don't  know  that,  your 
honor  ;  but  you  may  tiike  my  word  for  it  that 
I  wLU  lose  little  time." 

He  then  rode  down  a  by-street,  very  coolly, 
takiug  the  ganger's  horse  along  with  him. 
The  reader  may  remember  the  fable  of  the 
cat  that  had  been  transformed  into  a  lady, 
and  the  unfortunate  mouse.  The  Ripparee, 
whose  original  j^rojjeusities  were  strong  as 
ever,  could  not,  for  the  soul  of  him,  resist 
the  temptation  of  selling  the  horse  and 
pocketing  the  amount.  He  did  so,  and  very 
deliberatelj'  proceeded  home  to  his  barracks, 
but  took  ciu'e  to  avoid  any  private  communi- 
cation with  his  patron  for  some  days,  lest  he 
might  question  him  as  to  what  he  had  done 
with  the  animal. 

In  the  meantime,  this  monstrous  outrage 
ujjon  an  unoffending  priest,  who  was  a  na- 
tural subject  of  France,  peri^etrated,  as  it 
was,  in  the  open  face  of  day,  and  witnessed 
by  so  many,  could  not,  as  the  reader  may 
expect,    be  long  concealed.     It  soon  reached 

the  ears  of  the  Marquis  of and  his  lady, 

who  were  deeply  distressed  at  the  disappear- 
ance of  their  aged  and  revered  friend.  The 
Marquis,  on  satisfying  himself  of  the  truth 
of  the  rejjort,  did  not,  as  might  have  been 
exjjccted,  wait  upon  Sir  Robert  "Wliitecraft ; 
but  without  loss  of  time  set  sail  for  London, 
to  wait  uf)on  the  French  Ambassadoi',  to 
whom  he  detailed  the  whole  circumstances 
of  the  outrage.  And  here  we  shall  not 
further  proceed  with  an  account  of  those  cir- 
cumstances, as  they  will  necessarily  intei-- 
mingle  with  that  portion  of  the  narrative 
which  is  to  follow. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Sir  Bohert  inr/niiouslii  «rtricnte!i  Himsdf  out  of  a 
great  Difficulty. 

On  the  daj'  after  the  oiitrage  we  have  de- 
scribed, the  indignant  old  squire's  carriage 
stopped  at  the  hall-door  of  Sii-  Robert  White- 


craft,  whom  he  found  at  home.  As  yet,  th* 
latter  gentleman  had  heard  nothing  of  the 
contumelious  dismissal  of  Miss  Herbert ; 
but  the  old  squire  was  not  ignorant  of  the 
felonious  abduction  of  the  j'l'iest.  At  any 
other  time,  that  is  to  say,  in  some  of  his 
l)eculiar  stretches  of  loyalty,  the  act  might 
have  been  a  feather  in  the  cap  of  the  loyal 
baronet ;  but,  at  present,  he  looked  both  at 
him  and  his  exploits  through  the  medium 
of  the  insult  he  had  oft'ered  to  his  daughter. 
Accordingly,  when  he  entered  the  baronet's 
library,  where  he  found  him  literally  sunk 
in  23apers,  anonymous  letters,  waiTants,  re- 
ports to  Government,  and  a  vast  variety  of 
other  documents,  the  worthy  Sir  Robert 
rose,  and  in  the  most  cordial  manner,  and 
with  the  most  extraoi'dinary  suavity  of  as- 
pect, held  out  his  hand,  saying  : 

"  How  much  obliged  am  I,  Mr.  Folliard, 
at  the  kindness  of  this  visit,  especially  fi'om 
one  who  keeps  at  home  so  much  as  you  do." 

The  squire  instantly  repulsed  him,  and 
replied  : 

"  No,  su" ;  I  am  an  honest,  and,  I  trust,  an 
honorable  man.  My  hand,  therefore,  shaU 
never  touch  that  of  a  ■villain." 

"  A  villain  ! — why,  Mr.  Folliard,  these  are 
hard  and  harsh  words,  and  they  suiT)rise  me, 
indeed,  as  proceeding  fi'om  (/'""'  lips-  May 
I  beg,  my  friend,  that  you  will  exjjlaiu  your- 
self ?  " 

"  I  vdW.,  sir.  How  durst  you  take  the 
liberty  of  sending  one  of  your  cast-off  stmm- 
jiets  to  attend  personally  upon  my  pure  and 
virtuous  daughter?  For  that  insult  I  come 
this  day  to  demand  that  satisfaction  wliich 
is  due  to  the  outraged  feelings  of  my 
daughter — to  my  owii  also,  as  her  father 
and  natural  jjrotector,  and  also  as  an  L'isli 
gentleman,  who  will  brook  no  insidt  either 
to  his  family  or  himself.  I  say,  then,  name 
your  time  and  place,  and  your  weapon — 
sword  or  j)istol,  I  don't  care  which,  I  am 
ready." 

"  But,  my  good  sir,  there  is  some  mystery 
here  ;  I  certainly  engaged  a  female  of  that 
name  to  attend  on  Sliss  Folliard,  but  most 
assuredly  she  was  a  well-conducted  jierson." 

"  What !  Madam  Herbei-t  well  conducted  ! 
Do  you  imagme,  sir,  that  I  am  a  fool '?  Did 
she  not  admit  that  you  debauched  her  ?  " 

"It  could  not  be,  IMr.  FoUiard  ;  I  know 
nothing  whatsoever  about  her,  except  that 
she  was  daughter  to  one  of  my  tenants,  who 
is  besides  a  sergeant  of  diMgoons." 

"  Ay,  yes,  sir,"  replied  the  squire  sarcas- 
tically ;  "and  I  tell  you  it  was  not  for  killing 
and  eating  the  enemj'  that  he  was  promoted 
to  his  sergeant  ship.  But  I  see  your  man- 
oeuvi'e.  Sir  Robert ;  you  wish  to  shift  the 
con  vers  ition,  and  sleep  in  a  whole  skin.     I 


112 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOltlvS. 


say  now,  I  Lave  pl•o^'ided  myself  with  a 
fi-iend,  and  I  ask,  will  j'ou  fight  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  have  sent  yoiu-  friend,  Mr. 
Folhard,  as  is  usual  upon  such  occasions '?  " 

"  Because  he  is  knocked  up,  after  a  fit  of 
drink,  and  I  cannot  he  just  so  cool,  under 
such  an  insult,  as  to  command  patience  to 
wait.  My  fi'ieud,  liowever,  will  attend  us 
on  the  ground  ;  hut,  I  ask  again,  wiU  j'ou 
fight  ?  " 

"  Host  assiiredly  not,  sir  ;  I  am  an  enemy 
to  duelling  on  principle  ;  hut  iu  your  case  I 
could  not  think  of  it,  even  if  I  were  not. 
"What !  raise  my  hand  against  the  life  of 
Helen's  father  ! — no,  sir,  I'd  sooner  die  than 
do  so.  Besides,  Mr.  Folhai-d,  I  am,  so  to 
speak,  not  my  own  projserty,  hut  that  of  mj- 
King,  my  Government,  and  my  country ; 
and  under  these  circumstances  not  at  hherty 
to  dispose  of  my  life,  unless  in  their  quar- 
rel." 

"  I  see,"  rei^hed  the  squire  hitterly  ;  "  it 
is  certainly  an  admu'able  descrijjtion  of  loy- 
alty that  enables  a  man,  who  is  base  enough 
to  insult  the  very  woman  who  was  about  to 
become  his  wife,  and  i»  involve  her  o'wu 
father  in  the  insvilt,  to  ensconce  himself, 
like  a  coward,  behind  his  loyalty,  and  re- 
fuse to  give  the  satisfaction  of  a  man,  or  a 
gentleman." 

"But,  ]Mi\  Folliard,  ■^'sill  you  hear  me? 
there  must,  as  I  said,  be  some  mystery  here  ; 
I  certainly  did  recommend  a  young  female 
named  Herbert  to  you,  but  I  was  utterly 
ignorant  of  what  you  mention." 

Here  the  footman  entered,  and  whisjiered 
something  to  Su-  Robert,  who  apologized  to 
the  squu-e  for  leaving  him  two  or  three  min- 
utes. "  Here  is  the  last  j)aper,"  said  he, 
"and  I  trust  that  before  you  go  I  will  be 
able  to  remove  clearly  and  fully  the  preju- 
dices which  you  entertain  against  me,  and 
which  origijiate,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  in 
a  mystery  which  I  am  unable  to  penetrate." 

He  then  followed  the  servant,  who  con- 
ducted him  to  Hennessy,  whom  he  found  in 
the  back  pajlor. 

"  WeU,  Mr.  Hennessy,"  said  he,  impatient- 
ly, "  what  is  the  matter  now  ?  " 

"Why,"  rephed  the  other,  "I  have  one 
as  good  as  bagged,  Sir  Robert." 

"  One  what '?  " 

"Why,  a  i^riest,  sir." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hennessy,  I  am  particularly 
engaged  now  ;  but  as  to  Reilly,  can  you  not 
come  upon  hu  trail?  I  would  rather  have 
him  than  a  dozen  priests  ;  however,  remain 
here  for  about  twenty  minutes,  or  say  half 
an  hoiu',  and  I  will  talk  with  you  at  more 
length.  For  the  present  I  -am  most  pai'tic- 
ularly  engaged." 

"  Verj''  well,  Sir  Robert,  I  shall  await  youi- 


leisure  ;  but,  as  to  Reilly,  I  have  eveiy  reasoB 
to  think  that  he  has  left  the  country." 

Sir  Robert,  on  going  into  the  hall,  saw  the 
porter  of)en  the  door,  and  Miss  Herbert  pre- 
sented herself. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "is  this  you?  I  am  glad 
you  came  ;  foUow  me  into  the  fi'out  parlor." 

She  accordingly  did  so  ;  and  after  he  had 
shut  the  door  he  addressed  her  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  Now,  tell  me  how  the  devil  you  were 
discovered  ;  or  were  you  accessory  yourself 
to  the  discovery,  by  your  egregious  foUy  and 
vanity  ?  " 

"  Oh,  la.  Sir  Robert,  do  you  think  I  am  a 
fool?" 

"I  fear  you  are  little  short  of  it,"  he 
rephed  ;  "  at  all  events,  you  have  succeeded 
in  knoclung  up  my  marriage  with  IMiss  Fol- 
liard.  How  did  it  hapjsen  that  they  found 
you  out  ? " 

She  then  detailed  to  liim  the  circumstan- 
ces exactly  as  the  reader  is  acquainted  with 
them. 

He  paiised  for  some  time,  and  then  said, 
"  There  is  some  mystery  at  the  bottom  of 
this  which  I  must  fathom.  Have  you  any 
reason  to  know  how  the  family  became  ac- 
quainted with  youi'  history  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  in  the  least." 

"  Do  you  thiuk  Miss  FoUiard  meets  any 
person  jjrivately  ?  " 

"Not,  sir,  while  I  was  ■with  her." 

"  Did  she  ever  attempt  to  go  out  by  her- 
self?" 

"  Not,  sir,  while  I  was  mth  her." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I'U  teU  you  what  you 
must  do  ;  her  father  is  above  ^\ith  me  now, 
in  a  iDerfect  hurricane  of  indignation.  Now 
you  must  say  that  the  gui  Herbert,  whom  I 
recommended  to  the  squire,  was  a  fiiend  of 
yours  ;  that  she  gave  you  the  letter  of  rec- 
ommendation which  I  gave  her  to  Mr.  Fol- 
liard  ;  that  having  married  her  sweetheart 
and  left  the  countiy  vi'ith  him,  you  were  tempt- 
ed to  present  yourself  in  her  stead,  and  to 
assiune  her  name.  I  wiU  call  you  up  bj^  and 
by  ;  but  what  name  will  you  take  V  " 

"My  mother's  name,  sir,  was  Wilson." 

"  Very  good ;  what  was  her  Christian 
name  ?  " 

"  Catherine,  sir." 

"  And  you  must  say  that  I  know  nothing 
whatsoever  of  the  impostui'e  you  were  guiltj- 
of  I  shall  make  it  worth  your  while  ;  and  if 
you  don't  get  well  through  with  it,  and  en- 
able me  to  bamboozle  the  old  fellow,  I  have 
done  ^ith  you.     I  shiU  send  for  you  by  and 

He  then  rejoined  the  squire,  who  was 
walking  imjiatiently  about  the  room. 

"  Jlr.  FoUiard,"  said  he,  "I  have  to  apol 


WILLY  REILLY. 


US' 


ogize  to  yo\i  for  this  seeming  neglect ;  I  had 
most  important  business  to  transact,  and  I 
merely  went  downstairs  to  tell  the  gentleman 
that  I  coakl  not  possibly  attend  to  it  now, 
and  to  request  him  to  come  in  a  couple  of 
hours  heuce  ;  pray  excuse  me,  for  no  busi- 
ness could  be  so  important  as  tliat  in  which 
I  am  now  engaged  with  you." 

"  Yes,  but  in  the  name  of  an  outraged 
father,  I  demand  again  to  know  whether  you 
will  give  nie  satisfaction  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  answered  you,  my  dear 
sir,  and  if  you  will  reflect  upon  the  reasons 
I  have  given  you,  I  am  certain  you  will  admit 
that  I  have  the  laws  both  of  God  and  man  on 
my  side,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  regulate 
my  conduct  by  both.  As  to  the  charge  you 
bring  against  me,  about  the  girl  Herbert,  I 
am  both  ignorant  and  innocent  of  it." 

"  Why,  sir,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  how  have 
you  the  face  to  say  so  ?  did  you  not  give  her 
a  letter  of  recommendation  to  me,  pledging 
yourself  for  her  moral  character  and  fidel- 
ity ?  " 

"  I  grant  it,  but  still  I  pledge  you  my  honor 
that  I  looked  ujion  her  as  an  extremely  proper 
person  to  be  about  your  daughter ;  j'ou 
know,  sii",  that  you  as  well  as  I  have  had — 
and  have  still — apprehensions  as  to  ReiUy's 
conduct  and  influence  over  her  ;  and  I  did 
fear,  and  so  did  j'ou,  that  the  maid  who  then 
attended  her,  and  to  whom  I  was  told  she 
was  attached  with  such  unusual  aft'ection^ 
might  have  availed  herself  of  her  position, 
and  either  attempted  to  seduce  her  from  her 
faith,  or  connive  at  private  meetings  wth 
ReUly." 

"Sir  Robert,  I  know  j'our  plausibility — 
and,  ujiou  my  soul,  I  pay  it  a  high  compli- 
ment when  I  say  it  is  equal  to  your  cowardice. " 

"  Mr.  FoUiard,  I  can  bear  all  this  with 
patience,  especially  from  you — WTiat's  this  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  addressing  the  footman,  who 
rushed  into  the  room  in  a  state  of  consider- 
able excitement. 

"  ^Vhy,  Sir  Robert,  there  is  a  j'oung  wo- 
man below,  who  is  crying  and  lamenting,  and 
saying  she  must  see  Mr.  FoUiard." 

"  Damnation,  sir,"  exclaimed  Sir  Robert, 
"  what  is  this  '?  why  am  I  interrupted  in  such 
a  manner?  I  cannot  have  a  gentleman  ten 
minutes  in  mj'  study,  engaged  upon  private 
aud  important  business,  but  in  bolts  some  of 
\()a,  to  interrupt  and  disturb  us.  What  does 
tlie  girl  want  with  me?" 

"It  is  not  you  she  wants,  sir,"  replied  the 
footman,  "but  his  honor,  Mr.  FoUiard." 

"  WeU,  teU  her  to^iiit  until  he  is  disen- 
gaged." 

"  No,"  replied  Mi".  FoUiard,  "  send  her  up 
it  once  ;  what  the  devU  can  this  be  ?  but 
vou  shall  witness  it." 


The  baronet  smiled  knowingly.  "  WeU," 
said  he,  "Mi-.  FoUiard,  upon  my  honoi',  I 
thought  you  had  sown  your  \\'ild  oats  many 
a  year  ago  ;  and,  by  the  way,  according  to  all 
accounts — hem — but  no  matter  ;  this,  to  be 
sure,  wiU  be  rather  a  late  crop." 

"No,  sir,  I  sowed  my  wild  oats  in  the 
right  season,  when  I  was  hot,  young,  and  im- 
petuous ;  but  long  before  your  age,  sir,  that 
field  had  been  aUowed  to  lie  barren." 

He  had  scaa-cely  concluded  when  Miss 
Herbert,  acting  upon  a  plan  of  her  own, 
which,  were  not  the  bai'onet  a  man  of  the 
most  imijerturbable  coolness,  might  have 
staggered,  if  not  altogether  confounded  him, 
entered  the  room. 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  flood  of 
tears,  kneeling  before  Mr.  FoUiard,  "  can  you 
forgive  and  2)ardou  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  against  you,  foolish  girl,  that 
my  resentment  is  or  shall  be  dii-ected,  but 
against  the' man  who  employed  you — and 
there  he  sits." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  she  exclaimed,  again  turning 
to  that  worthy  gentleman,  who  seemed  fiUed 
with  astonishment. 

"  In  God's  name  !  "  said  he,  interrupting 
his  accompUce,  "  what  can  this  mean  ?  Who 
are  you,  my  good  girl  ?  " 

"My  name's  Cathei-ine  Wilson,  su"." 

"  Catherine  WUson  !  "  exclaimed  the  squire 
— "  why,  confound  your  brazen  face,  are  you 
not  the  person  who  styled  yoiu'self  Miss  Her- 
bert, and  who  lived,  tliank  God,  but  for  a 
short  time  only,  in  my  family  ?  " 

"  I  lived  in  your  family,  sir,  but  I  am  not 
the  Miss  Herbert  that  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft 
recommended  to  you." 

"I  certainly  know  nothing  about  you,  my 
good  girl,"  rejiUed  Sir  Robert,  "nor  do  I 
recoUect  having  ever  seen  you  before  ;  but 
proceed  -nith  what  you  have  to  say,  and  let 
us  hear  it  at  once." 

1  "  Yes,  sir  ;  but  perhaps  you  are  not  the 
gentleman  as  is  known  to  be  Sir  Robert 
"NVhitecraft — liim  as  hunts  the  priests.  Oh, 
la,  I'U  surely  be  sent  to  jaU.  Gentlemen,  if 
you  jsromise  not  to  send  me  to  jail,  I'U  tel] 
you  everything." 

"  WeU,  then,  jiroceed,"  said  the  squire  ; 
"ImU  not  send  you  to  jail,  provided  you  teU 
the  truth." 

"Nor  I,  my  good  girl,"  added  Sir  Robert, 
"but  upon  the  same  conditions." 
1  "  WeU,  then,  gentlemen,  I  was  acquainted 
j  with  Miss  Herbert — she  is  Hirish,  but  I'm 
^  English.  This  gentleman  gave  her  a  letter 
i  to  you,  Mr.  FoUiard,  to  get  her  as  maid  to 
I  Miss  Helen — she  told  me — oh,  my  goodness, 
I  I  shall  surely  be  sent  to  jail." 
I  "Go  on,  girl,"  said  the  baronet  somewhat 
i  sternly,  by  which  tone  of  voice  he  intimated 


114 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


to  her  that  she  was  pursuing  the  right  course, 
ia,nd  she  was  quick  enough  to  understand  as 
much. 

"  Well,"  she  proceeded,  "  after  Miss  Her- 
bert had  got  the  letter,  she  told  her  sweet- 
heart, who  wouldn't  by  no  means  allow  her  to 
take  service,  because  as  why,  he  wanted  to 
maiTy  lier  ;  well,  she  consented,  and  they  did 
get  mari'ied,  and  both  of  them  left  the  coun- 
try because  her  father  wasn't  consenting.  As 
the  letter  was  of  no  use  to  her  then,  I  asked 
her  for  it,  and  offered  myself  in  her  name  to 
you,  sir,  and  that  was  the  way  I  came  into 
your  family  for  a  short  time." 

The  baronet  rose  up,  in  well-feigned  agi- 
tation, and  exclaimed,  "  Unfortunate  gu'l ! 
whoever  you  may  be,  you  know  not  the  seri- 
ous mischief  and  unhappiness  that  your  im- 
j)osture  was  nearly  entailing  ujaon  me." 

"  But  did  you  not  say  that  you  bore  an 
illegitimate  child  to  this  gentleman  ?  "  asked 
the  squire. 

"  Oh,  la !  no,  sir  ;  you  know  I  denied  that ; 
I  never  bore  an  illegitimate  child  ;  I  bore  a 
love-child,  but  not  to  him  ;  and  there  is  no 
harm  in  that,  sure." 

"Well,  she  certainly  has  exculpated  you. 
Sir  Robert." 

"  Gentlemen,  will  you  excuse  and  pardon 
me  ?  and  wiU  you  promise  not  to  send  me 
to  jail  ?  " 

"  Go  about  your  business,"  said  Sir  Eob- 
ert,  "  jou  unfortunate  girl,  and  be  guilty  of 
no  such  impostures  in  future.  Your  conduct 
has  nearly  been  the  means  of  putting  enmity 
'between  two  famihes  of  rank  ;  or  rather  of 
alienating  one  of  them  from  the  confidence 
and  good-wiU  of  the  other.     Go." 

8he  then  courtesied  to  each,  shedding,  at 
the  same  time,  what  seemed  to  be  bitter  tears 
of  remorse — and  took  her  departure,  each  of 
them  looking  after  her,  and  then  at  the 
other,  with  suiprise  and  wonder. 

"Now,  Mr.  FoUiard,"  said  Sir  Robert  sol- 
emnly, "I  have  one  question  to  ask  you,  and 
it  is  this  :  could  I  possibly,  or  by  any  earthly 
natural  means,  have  been  apjDrised  of  the 
lienor  of  yom-  visit  to  me  this  day  '?  I  ask 
you  in  a  serious — yes,  and  in  a  solemn  spir- 
it ;  becaiise  the  happiness  of  my  futm'e  hfe 
depends  on  your  reply." 

"Why,  no,"  replied  the  credulous  squire, 
"  hang  it,  no,  man — no.  Sir  Robert ;  I'U  do 
30U  that  justice  ;  I  never  mentioned  my  in- 
tention of  coming  to  call  you  out,  to  any  in- 
dividual but  one,  and  that  on  my  way  hither  ; 
lie  was  xirweU,  too,  after  a  hard  night's 
drinking  ;  but  he  said  he  would  shake  him- 
/  self  up,  and  be  ready  to  attend  me  as  soon  as 
the  place  of  meeting  should  be  settled  on. 
In  point  of  fact,  I  did  not  intend  to  see  you 
to-day,  but  to  send  him  with  the  message  ; 


but,  as  I  said,  he  was  knocked  up  for  a  time, 
and  you  know  my  natural  impatience.  No, 
certainly  not,  it  was  in  every  sense  imjaossi- 
ble  that  you  could  have  expected  me  :  yes. 
if  the  devil  was  in  it,  I  wOl  do  you  that  jus- 
tice." 

"  Well,  I  have  another  question  to  ask,  my 
dear  friend,  equally  inq^ortant  with,  if  not 
more  so  than,  the  other.  Do  you  hold  me 
free  from  all  blame  in  what  has  happened 
thi'ough  the  imposture  of  that  wretched  girl '? " 

"  Why,  after  what  has  .occurred  just  now, 
I  certainly  must,  Sir  Robert.  As  j'ou  had 
no  anticipation  of  my  visit,  you  certamly  could 
not,  nor  had  you  time  to  get  up  a  scene." 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  Folliard,  you  have  taken 
a  load  off  my  heai-t ;  and  I  wiU  candidly 
confess  to  you  that  I  have  had  my  frailties 
like  other  men,  sown  my  wild  oats  hke  other 
men  ;  but,  unhke  those  who  are  not  ashamed 
to  boast  of  such  exjDloits,  I  did  not  think  it 
necessai-j'  to  tiiimpet  my  o-ftTi  feelings.  I  do 
not  say,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  have  always 
been  a  saint." 

"  Whv,  now,  that's  manly  and  candid,  Sir 
Robert,  and  I  like  you  the  better  for  it.  Yes, 
I  do  exonerate  you  from  blame  in  this.  There 
certainly  was  sincerity  in  that  wench's  tears, 
and  be  hanged  to  her  ;  for,  as  you  proper- 
ly said,  she  was  dewlish  near  jjutting  be- 
tween our  families,  and  knocking  iqi  our  in- 
timacy. It  is  a  deUghtful  thing  to  think  that 
I  shall  be  able  to  disabuse  poor  Helen's 
mind  upon  the  subject ;  for,  I  give  you  my 
honor,  it  caused  her  the  greatest  distress, 
and  excited  her  mind  to  a  high  pitch  of  in- 
dig-nation  against  you  ;  but  I  shall  set  all  to 
rights." 

"  And  now  that  the  matter  is  settled,  IVIi-. 
FoUiard,  we  must  have  lunch.  I  wUl  give 
j'ou  a  glass  of  Burgundy,  which,  I  am  sure, 
you  will  like." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  i^lacable 
and  hearty  old  squire  ;  "after  the  agitation 
of  the  day  a  good  glass  of  Burgundy  wiU 
serve  me  certainly." 

Lunch  was  accordingly  ordered,  and  the 
squire,  after  taking  lialf  a  dozen  bumjjers  of 
excellent  wine,  got  into  fine  sjsirits,  snook 
hands  as  cordLally  as  ever  with  tlie  baronet, 
and  drove  home  completelj'  relieved  from 
the  suspicious  which  he  had  entertained. 

The  squire,  on  his  return  home,  immedi- 
ately called  for  his  daughter,  but  for  some 
time  to  no  purpose.  The  old  man  began  to 
get  alarmed,  and  had  not  only  Helen's  room 
searched,  but  every  room  in  the  house.  At 
length  a  servant  infoiined  him  that  she  was 
tending  and  arranging  the  green-house  liow- 
ers  in  the  garden. 

"  Oh,  ay  !  "  said  he,  after  he  had  dismissed 
the  servants,  "  Thank   God — thank  God !  I 


LIERARY 

•  THE 

JN-IVERSIlY  OF   ILLINOIC 


WILLY  RE  ILLY 


115 


•will  go  out  to  tlie  dear  girl ;  for  she  is  a  dear 
girl,  and  it  is  a  sin  to  suspect  her.  I  wish 
to  heaven  that  that  scoundi'el  Reilly  would 
turn  Protestant,  and  he  should  have  her  with 
all  the  veins  of  my  heart.  Upon  my  soul, 
putting  religion  out  of  the  question,  one 
would  think  that,  in  other  respects,  they  were 
made  for  each  other.  But  it's  all  this  cursed 
pride  of  his  that  prevents  him  ;  as  if  it  signi- 
fied what  any  person's  rehgion  is,  provided 
he's  an  honest  man,  and  a  loyal  subject." 

He  thus  proceeded  with  his  sohloquy  un- 
til he  reached  the  garden,  where  he  found 
EeLUy  and  her  arranging  the  plants  and 
flowers  in  a  superb  gi'een-house. 

"  "Well,  Helen,  my  love,  how  is  the  green- 
house doing  '?  Eh  !  why,  what  is  this  ?  " 

At  this  exclamation  the  lovers  started,  but 
the  old  fellow  was  admiring  the  improvement, 
which  even  he  couldn't  but  notice. 

"  ^liy,  what  is  this  ?  "  he  proceeded  ;  "  by 
the  light  of  day,  Helen,  you  have  made  this 
a  httle  paradise  of  flowers." 

"  It  was  not  I,  papa,"  she  replied; "  all  that 
I  have  been  able  to  contribute  to  the  oi'der 
and  beauty  of  the  place  has  been  very  shght 
indeed.  It  is  all  the  result  of  this  poor  man's 
taste  and  skill.    He's  an  admirable  botanist." 

"  By  the  great  BoMie,  my  girl,  I  think  he 
could  lick  i\Ialcomson  himself,  as  a  botanist." 

"  Shir,"  observed  ReUly,"  the  j'oung  ladj'  is 
underwaluin'  herself  ;  siu-e,  miss,  it  was  your- 
self directed  me  what  to  do,  and  how  to  do 
it." 

"  Look  at  that  old  chap,  Helen,"  said  her 
father,  who  felt  in  gi-eat  good  humor  ;  first, 
because  he  foimd  that  Helen  was  safe  ;  and 
again,  because  Sir  Robert,  as  the  unsusjDect- 
iug  old  man  thought,  had  cleared  ujj  the 
circumstances  of  jMiss  Herbert's  imposture  ; 
"  I  say,  Helen,  look  at  that  old  chajj  :  isn't 
he  a  nice  bit  of  goods  to  run  away  with  a' 
pretty  girl  ?  and  what  a  taste  slie  must  have 
had  to  go  with  him  !  Upon  my  soul,  it  beats 
cock-fighting — confound  me,  but  it  does." 

Helen's  face  became  crimson  as  he  spoke  ; 
and  3'et,  such  was  the  ludicrous  appearance 
which  ReUly  made,  when  put  in  connection 
with  the  false  scent  on  wiiich  her  father  was 
proceeding  at  such  a  rate,  and  the  act  of 
gallantry  imputed  to  him,  that  a  strong  feel- 
mg  of  humor  overcame  her,  and  she  burst 
into  a  loud  ringing  laugh,  whicli  she  could 
not,  for  some  time,  restrain  ;  in  this  she  was 
heartily  joined  by  her  father,  wlio  laughed 
till  the  tears  came  down  his  cheeks. 

"  And  yet,  Helen — ha — ha — ha,  he's  a  stal- 
wart old  rogue  still,  and  must  have  been  a 
devil  of  a  tyke  when  he  was  young." 

After  another  fit  of  laughter  from  both 
father  and  daughter,  the  squire  said  : 

"  Now,  Helen,  my  love,  go  in.    I  have  good 


news  for  you,  which  I  will  acquaint  you  mth 
by  and  by." 

When  she  left  the  garden,  her  father  ad- 
dressed ReiUy  as  follows  : 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,  will  you  tell  me 
how  you  came  to  know  about  Miss  Herbert 
having  been  seduced  by  Sii-  Robert  White- 
craft?" 

"  Fwhy,  shir,  from  common  report,  shir." 

"Is  that  all?  But  don't  you  think,"  he 
rephed,  "  that  common  report  is  a  common 
Uar,  as  it  mostly  has  been,  and  is,  in  this 
case.  That's  all  I  have  to  say  upon  the  sub- 
ject. I  have  traced  the  aifafr,  and  find  it  to 
be  a  falsehood  fo'om  beginning  to  ending. 
I  have.  And  now,  go  on  as  you're  doing,  and 
I  \vill  make  Malcomson  raise  your  wages." 

"Thank  you,  shir,"  and  he  touched  hi') 
nondescript  with  an  air  of  great  thankfulness 
and  humility. 

"Helen,  my  darling,"  said  her  father,  on 
entering  her  own  sitting-room,  "I  said  I  had 
good  news  for  you." 

Helen  looked  at  him  with  a  doubtful  face, 
and  simiDly  said,  "I  hope  it  f?  good,  pajoa." 

"^\Tiy,  my  child,  I  won't  enter  into  pai-- 
ticulars  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  I  discovered 
fr'om  an  accidental  meeting  with  that  wretch- 
ed girl  we  had  here  that  she  was  not  Miss 
Herbert,  as  she  called  herself,  at  all,  but 
another,  named  Catherine  Wilson,  who,  hav- 
ing got  from  Herbert  the  letter  of  recom- 
mendation which  I  read  to  you,  had  the  ef- 
ft'ontery  to  jjass  herself  for  her ;  but  the 
other  refiort  was  false.  The  girl  Wilson,  ap- 
prehensive that  either  I  or  Sir  Robert  might 
send  her  to  jail,  having  seen  my  carriage 
stoj)  at  Sir  Robert's  house,  came,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  to  beg  that  if  we  would  not  pun- 
ish her  she  would  teU  us  the  truth,  and  she 
did  so." 

Helen  mused  for  some  time,  and  seemed 
to  decide  instantly  upon  the  course  of  ac- 
tion she  should  pursue,  or,  rather,  the  course 
which  she  had  2)re\'iously  proposed  to  her- 
self. She  saw  clearly,  and  had  long  known, 
that  in  the  tactics  and  stratagems  of  life, 
her  blunt  Ijut  honest  father  was  no  match 
at  all  for  the  deep  hypocrisy  and  deceitfril 
plausibihty  of  Sir  Robert  Wliitecraft.  The 
consequence  was,  that  she  allowed  her  father 
to  take  his  own  way,  witnout  either  remon- 
strance or  contradiction.  She  knew  very 
well  that  on  this  occasion,  as  on  every  other 
where  their  v.its  and  wishes  came  in  opj:io- 
sition,  Sir  Robert  was  always  able  to  out- 
general and  overreach  him  ;  she  therefore 
resolved  to  agitate  herself  as  little  as  possi- 
ble, and  to  allow  matters  to  flow  on  tran- 
quilly, until  the  crisis— the  moment  for  action 
came. 

"Papa,"   she  replied,    "this   inteUigence 


116 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


must  make  your  miud  very  easy  ;  I  lioije, 
however,  you  will  restore  poor  faithful  Cou- 
uor  to  me.  I  never  had  such  an  affectionate 
and  kind  creature  ;  and,  besides,  not  one  of 
them  could  dress  me  with  such  skill  and 
taste  as  she  could.  AVUl  you  allow  me  to 
have  her  back,  sir  ?  " 

"I  win,  Helen  ;  but  take  care  she  doesn't 
make  a  Papist  of  you." 

"  Indeed,  pa23a,  that  is  a  strange  whim  : 
why,  the  jioor  gill  never  opened  her  Hps  to 
me  on  the  subject  of  religion  during  her  life  ; 
nor,  if  I  saw  that  she  attem23ted  it,  would 
I  permit  her.  I  am  no  theologian,  papa, 
and  detest  polemics,  because  I  have  always 
lieard  that  those  who  are  most  addicted  to 
polemical  controversy  have  least  religion." 

"  Well,  my  love,  you  shall  have  back  poor 
Connor  ;  and  now  I  must  go  and  look  over 
some  papers  in  my  studj'.  Good-by,  my 
love  ;  and  observe,  Helen,  don't  stay  out  too 
late  in  the  garden,  lest  the  chill  of  the  air 
might  injure  your  health." 

"  But  you  know  /  never  do,  and  never 
did,  papa." 

"Well,  good-by  again,  my  love." 

He  then  left  her,  and  withdrew  to  his 
study  to  sign  some  papers,  and  transact  some 
business,  which  he  had  allowed  to  run  into 
arrear.  Wlien  he  had  been  there  better  than 
an  hour,  he  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  that 
Malcomson,  the  gardener,  should  be  sent 
to  him,  and  that  self-sufficient  and  j)edantic 
2)erson  made  his  ajjjjearance  accordingly. 

"Well,  Malcomson,"  said  he,  "how  do 
you  like  the  bearded  fellow  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Ou,  yer  honor,  weel  eneugh  ;  he  doe.s 
ken  something  o'  the  sceence  o'  buttany,  an' 
'am  thinkm'  he  must  hae  been  a  gxide  spell 
in  Scotland,  for  I  canna  guess  whare  else  he 
could  hae  become  acqnent  \vi'  it."  ^ 

"I  see  Malcomson,  you'll  still  persist  in 
your  confounded  pedantry  about  your  sci- 
ence. Now,  what  the  devU  has  science  to 
do  with  botany  or  gardening  ?  " 

"  Weel,  your  honor,  it  wadna  just  become 
me  to  dispute  wd'  ye  upon  that  or  any  ither 
subjeck  ;  but  for  a'  that,  it  required  jsrofoond 
sceence,  and  vera  extensive  leamin'  to  clas- 
sify an'  arrange  a'  the  plants  o'  the  yearth, 
an'  to  gie  them  names,  by  whilk  they  can  be 
known  tlu-oughout  a'  the  nations  o'  the 
wai'ld." 

"Well,  well — I  suppose  I  must  let  you 
have  your  way." 

"  ^Vhy,  your  honor,"  rei^lied  IMalcomson, 
"'am  sxu'e  it  mair  becomes  me  to  let  you 
hae  yours  ;  but  regerding  this  ould  carl,  "I 
winna  say,  but  he  has  been  weel  indoctrin- 
ated in  the  sceence." 

"Ahem  !  well,  well,  go  on." 

"An'  it's  no  easy  to  guess  whare  he  could 


hae  gotten  it.  Indeed,  'am  of  opmion  that 
he's  no  without  a  hantle  o'  book  lair  ;  for,  ta 
do  him  justice,  de'il  a  question  I  sjjier  at 
him,  anent  the  learned  names  o'  the  rai-e 
jilants,  that  he  hasna  at  his  finger  ends,  and 
gies  to  me  off-hand.  Naebody  but  a  man 
that  has  gotten  book  lair  could  do  yon." 

"  Book  lair,  what  is  that?  " 

"Ou,  just  a  correck  knowledge  o'  the 
learned  names  of  the  plants.  I  dinna  say, 
and  I  winna  say,  but  he's  a  velliable  assistant 
to  me,  an'  I  shouldna  wish  to  jjairt  wi'  him. 
If  he'd  only  shave  off  you  beard,  an'  let  him- 
sel'  be  decently  haj^ped  in  good  elaiths,  why 
he  might  jsass  in  ony  gentleman's  gerden  for 
a  skeelful  buttanist." 

"Is  he  as  good  a  kitchen  gardener  as 
he  is  in  the  green-house,  and  among  the 
flowers  ?  " 

"  Weel,  yoiu-  honor,  guid  troth,  'am  sairly 
j)uzzled  thei-e  ;  hoot,  no,  sir ;  de'il  a  thmg 
almost  he  kens  about  the  kitchen  gerden — 
a'  liis  strength  lies  among  the  flowers  and  in 
the  green-house." 

"  Well,  well,  that's  where  we  firuieijjally 
want  him.  I  sent  for  you,  Malcomson,  to 
desire  you'd  raise  his  wages — the  laborer  is 
worthy  of  his  hire  ;  and  a  good  laborer  of 
good  hii'e.  Let  him  have  four  shilhngs  a 
week  additional." 

"  Troth,  your  honor,  'am  no  sayin'  but  he 
weel  deserves  it ;  but.  Lord  haud  a  cai-e  o' 
us,  he's  a  queer  one,  yon." 

"  ^^^ly,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

""Wliy,  de'il  heat  he  seems  to  care  about 
siller  any  mau-  than  if  it  was  sklate  stains. 
On  Satiu'day  last,  when  he  was  paid  his 
weekly  wages  by  the  stewiu'd,  he  met  a  puir 
sickly-lookin'  auld  wife,  wi'  a  string  o'  sickly- 
lookiug  weans  at  the  body's  heels  ;  she  didna 
ask  him  for  charity,  foi,  in  troth,  he  ajj- 
jieared,  binna  it  wearna  for  the  weans,  as 
gi'eat  an  objeck  as  hersel' ;  noo,  what  wad 
yer  honor  think  ?  he  gaes  ower  and  gies  till 
her  a  hale  crown  o'  siller  out  o'  his  ain  wage. 
AVas  ever  ouything  heard  like  yon  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  know  the  cause  of  it,  Malcomson. 
He's  under  a  i^enance,  and  can  neither  shave 
nor  change  his  di-ess  till  his  silly  iienance  is 
out ;  and  I  sujapose  it  was  to  wash  off  a  part 
of  it  that  he  gave  this  foolish  charity  to  the 
poor  woman  and  her  childi-en.  Come,  al- 
though I  condemn  the  foUy  of  it,  I  don't  like 
him  the  worse  for  it. " 

"Hout  awa',  your  honor,  what  is  it  but 
rank  Papisti-y,  and  a  deijeudence  ujjon  filthy 
works.  The  doited  auld  carl,  to  throw  atl 
his  siller  that  gate  ;•  but  that's  Papistry  a' 
ower — substituting  works  for  gi-ace  and  faith 
— a'  Pajjisti-y,  a'  Paj^istry !  WeU,  your  honor, 
I  sal  be  conform  to  your  wushes — it's  my 
duty,  that." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


117 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

Aioftd   Conduct  of  Squire  FoUiard — Fergus  ReiRy 
begins  to  Contravene  the  Red  Rapparee. 

After  Malcomson  quitted  laim,  the  squire, 
with  his  golden-headed  caue,  went  to  saunter 
about  his  beautiful  grounds  and  his  noble 
demesne,  jjroud,  certainly,  of  his  jjroperty, 
nor  insensible  to  the  beautiful  seenerj'  which 
it  presented  fi'om  so  many  points  of  obser- 
vation. He  had  not  been  long  here  when  a 
poor-looking  peasant,  dressed  in  shabby 
frieze,  approached  him  at  as  fast  a  pace  as  he 
could  accomplish  ;  and  the  squu-e,  after  look- 
ing at  him,  exclaimed,  in  an  angry  tone  : 

"  Well,  you  rascal,  what  the  de^^l  brings 
you  here  ?  " 

The  man  stood  for  a  little,  and  seemed  so 
much  exhausted  and  out  of  breath  that  he 
could  not  sjseak. 

"I  say,  you  unfoi-tunate  old  vagrant,"  re- 
peated the  squire,  "  what  brought  you 
here  ?  " 

"It  is  a  case  of  either  life  or  death,  sir," 
replied  the  jDoor  jieasant. 

■'■\Miy,"  said  the  squire,  "what  crime  did 
you  commit  ?  Or,  perhajjs,  you  broke  prison, 
and  are  flying  fi-om  the  officers  of  justice  ; 
eh  !  is  that  it  ?  And  you  come  to  ask  a 
magistrate  to  protect  you  !  " 

"  I  am  flying  fi-om  the  agents  of  jjersecu- 
tion,  su',  and  know  not  where  to  hide  my 
head  in  order  to  avoid  them." 

The  hard-pressed  but  amiable  priest— for 
such  he  was — adoj)ted  this  language  of  truth, 
because  he  knew  the  squu'e's  character,  and 
felt  that  it  would  serve  him  more  eflectually 
than  if  he  had  attempted  to  conceal  his  pro- 
fession. "  I  am  a  Catholic  priest,  sir,  and 
felt  fi-om  bitter  exjierience  that  this  disguise 
was  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  my  Ufe. 
I  throw  myself  upon  your  honor  and  gener- 
osity, for  although  hasty,  sir,  you  are  report- 
ed to  have  a  good  and  kind  heart." 

"  You  are  disjiosed  to  place  confidence  in 
me,  then  ?  " 

"  I  am,  sir ;  my  being  before  you  now, 
and  putting  myseK  in  your  power,  is  a  proof 
of  it." 

"\Mio  are  pm-suing  vou?  Su-  Eobert 
Whitecraft— eh  V  " 

"No,    sir.    Captain     Smellpriest   and   his 

"  Ay,  out  of  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire  ; 
although  I  don't  know  that,  either.  They 
say  Smellpriest  can  do  a  generous  thing 
sometimes — but  the  -other,  when  priest- 
Imiiting,  never.     Wliat's  your  name?  " 

"  1 11  tell  you,  without  hesitation,  sir — 
Macguire ;  I'm  of  the  Macguii-es  of  Fer- 
managh." 


"  Ay !  ay  !  why,  then,  you  have  good 
blood  in  your  veins.  But  what  offence  were 
you  guilty^of  that  you — but  I  need  not  ask  ; 
it  is  enough,  in  the  i>resent  state  of  the  laws, 
that  you  are  a  Catholic  priest.  In  the  mean- 
time, are  you  aware  that  I  myself  transj)orted  a 
Cathohe  priest,  and  that  he  would  have 
swung  only  for  my  daughter,  who  went  to 
the  viceroy,  and,  with  much  difficulty,  got 
his  sentence  commuted  to  transportation  for 
life?  I  myself  had  ah-eady  tried  it,  and 
failed  ;  but  she  succeeded,  God  bless 
her  !  " 

"  Yes,  God  bless  her  !  "  repHed  the  priest, 
"  she  succeeded,  and  her  fame  has  gone  fiir 
and  near,  in  consequence  ;  yes,  may  God  of 
his  mercy  bless  and  guard  her  from  all  evO  !  " 
and  as  the  poor  hunted  priest  spoke,  the 
tears  came  to  his  eyes.  This  symptom  of  re- 
spect and  affection,  j^romjjted  by  the  gener- 
ous and  heroic  conduct  of  the  far-famed 
Cooleen  Baivn,  touched  her  father,  and  saved 
the  priest. 

"Well,"  said  he,  after  musing  for  a  whUe, 
"  so  you  say  Smellpriest  is  after  you  ?  " 

"  He  is,  sir  ;  they  saw  me  at  a  distance, 
across  the  country,  scrambling  over  the  park 
wall,  and  indeed  I  was  near*  falling  into  their 
hands  by  the  difficulty  I  had  in  getting  over 
it." 

"  Well,  come,"  rephed  the  squire,  "since 
you  have  had  the  courage  to  place  confidence 
in  me,  I  won't  abuse  it ;  come  along,  I  will 
both  conceal  and  protect  you.  I  presume 
there  is  little  time  to  be  lost,  for  those  priest 
hounds  will  be  apt  to  ride  round  to  the 
entrance  gate,  which  I  will  desire  the  porter 
to  close  and  lock,  and  then  leave  the  lodge." 

On  their  way  home  he  did  so,  and  ordei-ed 
the  porter  up  to  the  house.  The  magnifi- 
cent avenue  was  a  sei-pentine  one,  and  our 
friends  had  barely  time  to  get  out  of  sight  of 
the  lodge,  by  a  turn  in  it,  when  thej-  heard 
the  voices  of  the  pursuers,  haUooing  for  the 
porter,  and  thundering  at  the  gate. 

"  Ay,  thunder  away,  only  don't  injure  my 
gate,  Smellpriest,  or  I'U  make  you  replace 
it ;  bawl  yourselves  hoarse — you  are  on  the 
wrong  side  for  once  !  " 

Wlien  they  were  ai^i^roaching  the  haU-door, 
which  generally  lay  open — 

"Confound  me,"  said  the  squire,  "if  I 
know  what  to  do  -with  you  ;  I  tniat  in  God 
I  won't  get  into  odium  by  this.  At  all 
events,  let  us  steal  upstairs  as  quietly  as  we 
can,  and,  if  possible,  without  any  one  seeing 
us." 

To  the  necessity  of  tliis  the  priest  assented, 
and  they  had  reached  the  first  landing  of  the 
staircase  when  out  jDopped  right  in  their 
teeth  two  housemaids  each  with  bi-ush  in 
hand.     Now   it    instantly   occurred   to   the 


118 


^VILLIAM   CARLETOJSf'S    WORKS. 


squire  that  in  this  unluckj  crisis  bribeiy  was 
the  safest  resource.  He  accordingly  ad- 
dressed them : 

"  Come  here,  you  jades,  don't  say  a  word 
about  this  man's  presence  here — don't 
breathe  it  ;  here's  five  shilhugs  apiece  for 
you,  and  let  one  of  you  go  and  bring  me  ujj, 
secretly,  the  key  of  the  green-room  in  the 
garret ;  it  has  not  been  opened  for  some 
time.  Be  quick  now  ;  or  stay,  desii-e  Lani- 
gan  to  fetch  it,  and  refi'eshmeut  also  ;  there's 
cold  venison  and  roast  beef,  and  a  bottle  of 
wine  ;  tell  Lanigan  I'm  going  to  lunch,  and 
to  lay  the  table  in  my  study.  Lanigan  can 
be  depended  on,"  he  added,  after  the 
chambermaid  had  gone,  "  for  when  I  con- 
cealed another  jmest  here  once,  he  was 
entrusted  with  the  secret,  and  was  faith- 
ful." 

Now  it  so  ha2:)pened  that  one  of  those 
maids,  who  was  a  bitter  Protestant,  at  once 
recognized  Father  Maguire,  notmthstanding 
his  disguise.  She  had  been  a  servant  for 
four  or  five  years  in  the  house  of  a  wealthj' 
farmer  who  Uved  adjoining  him,  and  with 
whom  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  frequently 
dining  when  no  danger  was  to  be  ajjjjrehen- 
ded  from  the  operation  of  the  laws.  Indeed, 
she  and  Maleomson,  the  gardener,  were  the 
only  two  individuals  in  the  squire's  estabhsh- 
ment  who  were  not  Catholics.  Maleomson 
was  a  manoeuvrer,  and,  as  is  pretty  usual  with 
individuals  of  his  class  and  country,  he  looked 
upon  "Papistry"  as  an  abomination  that 
ought  to  be  removed  from  the  land.  StiU, 
he  was  cautious  and  shrewd,  and  seldom  or 
never  permitted  those  opinions  to  interfere 
with  or  obstruct  his  own  interests.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  the  secret  was  not  long  kept. 
Esther  Wilson  imi^eached  her  master's 
loyalty,  and  she  herself  was  indignantly  as- 
sailed for  her  treachery  by  MoUy  Fiuigan, 
who  hoped  in  her  soul  that  her  master  and 
young  mistress  would  both  die  in  the  true 
Church  yet. 

The  whole  kitchen  was  in  a  buzz  ;  in  fact, 
a  regular  scene  ensued.  Evei-y  one  spoke, 
except  Lanigan,  who,  from  former  experi- 
ence, imderstood  the  ease  perfectly  ;  but,  as 
for  Maleomson,  whose  zeal  on  this  occasion 
certainly  got  the  better  of  his  discretion,  he 
seemed  thunderstruck. 

"  Eh,  sirs  !  did  ony  one  ever  hear  the  Uke  o' 
this  ? — to  hide  a  rebel  priest  frae  the  offended 
laws  !  But  it  canna  be  that  this  puir  man  is 
athegether  right  in  his  head.  Lord  ha'e  a 
care  o'  us !  the  man  surely  must  be  dement- 
ed, or  he  wouldna  venture  to  bring  such  a 
person  into  his  ain  house — into  the  vai"a 
house.  I  think,  Maisther  Lanigan,  it  wad  be 
just  a  25recious  bit  o'  service  to  religion  and 
our  laws  to  gang  and  teU  the  nest  magistrate. 


Gude  guide  us !  what  an  example  he  M 
settiu'  to  his  loyal  neighbors,  and  his  hail 
connections !  That  ever  we  suld  see  the  like 
o'  this  waefu'  backsliding  at  his  j'eai's ! 
Lord  ha'e  a  care  o'  us,  I  say  aince  mail'." 

"  Oh,  but  there's  more  to  come,"  said  one 
of  them,  for,  in  the  turmoil  produced  by 
this  shocking  intelligence,  they  had  forgotten 
to  deliver  the  message  to  Lanigan. 

"Mr.  Lanigan,"  said  Esther,  and  her 
breath  was  checked  by  a  hysteric  hiccup, 
"  Mi\  Lanigan,  you  are  to  bring  up  the  key 
of  the  gxeeu-room,  and  plenty  of  venison, 
roast  beef,  and  a  bottle  of  wine  !     There  !  " 

"  Saul,  Maisther  Lanigan,  I  winna  stay 
langer  under  this  roof ;  it's  nae  cannie  ;  I'll 
e'en  gang  out,  and  ha'e  some  nonsense 
clavers  wi'  yon  queer  auld  carl  i'  the  gerdeu. 
The  Lord  ha'e  a  care  o'  us ! — what  will  the 
warld  come  to  next !  " 

He  accordiuglj'  repaired  to  the  garden, 
where  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  give  a 
feai'ful  account  to  Pieilly  of  their  master's  po- 
litical profligacy.  The  latter  felt  surpris- 
ed, but  not  at  all  at  Malcomson's  narrative. 
The  fact  was,  he  knew  the  exact  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  because  he  knew  the 
squire's  character,  which  was  sometimes 
good,  and  sometimes  the  reverse — just  ac- 
cording to  the  humor  he  might  be  in  :  and  in 
reply  observed  to  Maleomson,  that — 

"As  his  honor  done  a  great  dale  o'  good 
to  the  poor  o'  the  counthry,  I  think  it 
wouldn't  be  daicent  in  us,  Misther  Maleom- 
son, to  go  for  to  ijubhsh  this  generous  act 
to  the  poor  priesht ;  if  he  is  ^^Tong,  let  us 
lave  him  to  Gad,  shii'." 

"  Ou  ay,  weel  I  diuna  but  you're  richt ; 
the  mair  that  we  won't  hae  to  answer  for  his 
transgressions  ;  sae  e'en  let  every  herring 
hang  by  its  ain  tail." 

In  the  meantime,  Lanigan,  who  under- 
stood the  affair  well  enough,  addressed  the 
audience  in  the  kitchen  to  the  following 
effect : 

"Now,"  said  he,  "what  a  devil  of  a  hub- 
bub you  all  make  about  nothing !  Vrcxy, 
yoimg  lady,"  addressing  Esther  Wilson,  who 
alone  had  di\ailged  the  circumstance,  "  did 
his  honor  desire  you  to  keep  what  you  seen 
saicret  ?  " 

"  He  did,  cook,  he  did,"  replied  Esther  ; 
"  and  gave  us  money  not  to  speak  about  it, 
which  is  a  pi'oof  of  his  guilt." 

"  And  the  tu'st  thing  you  did  was  to  blaze 
it  to  the  whole  kitchen  !  I'U  tell  you  what 
it  is  now — if  he  ever  hears  that  you  breathed 
a  syUable  of  it  to  mortal  man,  you  won't  be 
under  his  roof  two  hours." 

"Oh,  but,  surely,  cook — " 

"  Oh,  but,  surely,  madam,"  replied  Lani- 
gan,  "  you  talk  of  what  you  don't   under- 


WILLY  REILLY. 


119 


stand  ;  his  Lonor  knows  very  well  what  he's 
about,  and  has  authority  for  it." 

Tliis  sobered  her  to  some  purpose ;  and 
Lauigan  proceeded  to  execute  his  master's 
orders. 

It  is  true  IVIiss  Esther  and  Malcomson 
were  now  silent,  for  their  own  sakes  ;  but 
it  did  not  remove  their  indignation  ;  so  far 
fi'om  that,  Lanigan  himself  came  in  for  a 
ahai'fe  of  it,  and  was  secretly  looked  upon  in 
the  light  of  the  squire's  conhdant  in  the 
transaction. 

Wliilst  matters  were  in  this  position,  tlie 
Red  Itajj^jaree  began  gTadually  to  lose  the 
confidence  of  his  unscrupulous  emjjloyer. 
He  had  pi'omised  that  worth}'  gentleman  to 
betray  his  former  gang,  and  dehver  them  uj) 
to  justice,  in  requital  for  the  jirotectiou 
which  lie  received  from  him.  This  he  would 
certain!}'  have  done,  were  it  not  for  FergTis,, 
who,  hajjpening  to  meet  one  of  them  a  day 
or  two  after  the  Rapparee  had  taken  service 
witli  Whitecraft  u2Jon  the  aforesaid  condition, 
informed  the  robber  of  that  fact,  and  ad- 
vised him,  if  he  wished  to  j)rovide  for  his 
o^vn  safety  and  that  of  his  comjjanious,  to 
desire  them  forthwith  to  leave  the  country, 
and,  if  possible,  the  kingdom.  TJiey  accord- 
ingly took  the  hint ;  some  of  them  retired  to 
distant  and  remote  places,  and  others  went 
l)eyond  seas  for  their  security.  The  prom- 
ise, therefore,  which  the  Rajjparee  had  made 
to  the  baronet  as  a  jjroof  of  gratitude  for 
his  protection,  he  now  found  himself  incap- 
able of  fulfilling,  in  consequence  of  the  dis- 
persion and  disDppearance  of  his  band. 
When  lie  stated  this  fact  to  Sir  Robert,  he 
gained  little  credit  from  liim  ;  and  the  con- 
sequence was  that  his  patron  felt  disposed 
to  think  that  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  de- 
pended on.  StLU,  what  he  had  advanced  in 
his  own  defence  might  be  true  ;  and  although 
his  confidence  in  him  was  shaken,  he  re- 
solved to  maintain  him  yet  in  his  gerrace, 
and  that  for  two  reasons — one  of  which  was, 
that  by  ha\'ing  him  under  his  eye,  and  within 
his  grasj),  he  could  j'ounce  upon  him  at  any 
moment ;  the  other  was,  that,  as  he  knew, 
from  the  previous  shifts  and  necessities  of 
his  own  lawless  life,  aU  those  dens  and 
recesses  and  caverns  to  which  the  CathoUc 
priesthood,  and  a  good  number  of  the  people, 
Wei'e  obliged  to  fly  and  conceal  themselves, 
he  must  necessarily  be  a  useful  guide  to  him 
as  a  priest-hunter.  It  is  time  he  assured  him 
that  he  had  procured  his  pardon  from 
Government,  jirincipally,  he  said,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  own  influence,  and  because,  in 
all  his  robberies,  it  had  not  been  known  that 
he  ever  took  away  human  life.  In  gener.i.1, 
however,  this  was  the  ijolicy  of  the  Rapparees, 
unless  when  thej'  identified  themselves  with 


poUtical  contests  and  outrages,  and  on  those 
occasions  they  were  savage  and  cruel  as 
fiends.  In  simple  robbery  on  the  king's  high- 
way, or  in  burglaries  in  houses,  they  seldom, 
almost  never,  committed  murder,  unless  when 
resisted,  and  in  defence  of  their  lives.  On 
the  contrary,  they  were  quite  gallant  to 
females,  whom  they  treated  with  a  kind  of 
rude  courtesy,  not  unfi-equently  returning 
the  lady  of  the  house  her  gold  watch — but 
tliis  only  on  occasions  when  they  had  secui'ed 
a  large  booty  of  plate  and  money.  The 
Threshers  of  1805-6  and  '7,  so  far  as  cruelty 
goes,  were  a  thousand  times  worse  ;  for  they 
spared  neither  man  nor  woman  in  their  in- 
famous and  nocturnal  visits  ;  and  it  is  enough 
to  say,  besides,  that  their  cowardice  was 
equal  to  their  cruelty.  It  has  been  proved, 
at  sp)ecial  commissions  held  about  those 
periods,  that  four  or  five  men,  with  red  coats 
on  them,  have  made  between  two  or  three 
hundred  of  the  miscreants  run  for  their  lives, 
and  they  tolerably  well-armed.  "WHiether  Sir 
Robert's  account  of  the  Ra^jparee's  pardon 
was  true  or  false  will  ap^oear  in  due  time  ;  for 
the  tiiith  is,  that  Whitecraft  was  one  of  tho.se 
men  who,  in  consequence  of  his  staunch 
loyalty  and  burning  zeal  in  carrying  out  the 
inhuman  measures  of  the  then  Government, 
was  permitted  with  impunity  to  run  into  s\, 
licentiousness  of  action,  as  a  useful  jiubliu 
man,  which  no  modern  government  would,  or 
dare,  permit.  At  the  j)eriod  of  wlii'-h  we 
write,  tliere  was  no  press,  so  to  speak,  in  Ire- 
land, and  eonsequentlj'  no  opportunity  of  at 
once  bringing  the  acts  of  the  Irish  Govern- 
ment, or  of  jjublic  men,  to  the  test  of  public 
opinion.  Such  men,  therefore,  as  Whitecraft, 
looked  ujjon  themselves  as  invested  with  ir- 
responsible power ;  and  almost  m  every  in- 
stance tlieir  conduct  was  apjjroved  of,  recog- 
nized, and,  in  general,  rewarded  by  the 
Government  of  the  day.  The  Beresford 
family  enjoyed  something  like  this  unenviable 
privilege,  during  the  rebellion  of  '98,  and  for* 
some  time  afterwards.  We  have  alluded  to 
Mrs.  O.-dey,  the  sheriff's  fat  wife  ;  whether 
fortunately  or  unfortunatelj'  for  the  jjoor 
sheriff,  who  had  some  generous  touches  of 
character  about  him,  it  so  happened  that  at 
this  period  of  our  narrative  she  popjied  off 
one  day.  in  a  tit  of  apoplexy,  and  he  found 
himself  a  widower.  Now,  our  acquaintance. 
Fergus  ReiUy,  who  was  as  deeply  disguised 
as  our  hero,  had  made  his  mind  up,  if  pos- 
sible, to  bring  the  Rapparee  into  trouble. 
This  man  had  led  his  patron  to  several  jjlaces 
where  it  was  likely  that  the  persecuted  priests 
might  be  found  ;  and,  for  f;his  reason.  Fergus 
knew  that  he  was  serious  'in  his  object  to 
betray  them.  This  unnatural  treachery  of 
the  robber  envenomed  his  heart  against  hi  in, 


120 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORI<:S. 


and  lie  resolved  to  run  a  risk  in  watching  his 
motions.  He  had  no  eai'thly  doubt  that  it 
was  he  who  robbed  the  sheriff.  He  knew, 
from  furtive  observations,  as  well  as  from 
general  report,  that  a  discreditable  intimacy 
existed  between  him  and  Mary  Mahon.  This 
woman's  little  house  was  very  convenient  to 
that  of  "Whiteeraft,  to  whom  she  was  very 
useful  in  a  certain  capacity.  She  had  now 
given  up  her  trade  of  fortuue-teUing — a  trade 
which,  at  that  period,  in  consequence  of  the 
ignorance  of  the  people,  was  very  general  in 
Ireland.  She  was  now  more  beneficially 
emploj'ed.  Fergus,  therefore,  confident  in 
his  disguise,  resolved  upon  a  bold  and  h;iz- 
ardous  stroke.  He  began  to  apprehend  that 
if  ever  Tom  Steeple,  fool  though  he  was,  kept 
too  much  about  the  haunts  and  resorts  of 
the  Eapparee,  that  cunning  scoundrel,  who 
was  an  adept  in  all  the  various  schemes  and 
forms  of  detection,  might  take  the  alarm, 
and,  aided  probably  by  Whiteeraft,  make  his 
escape  out  of  the  country.  At  best,  the  fool 
covild  only  assure  him  of  his  whereabouts  ; 
but  he  felt  it  necessary,  in  addition  to  this, 
to  procure,  if  the  matter  were  possible, 
such  evidence  of  his  guilt  as  might  render 
his  conviction  of  the  robbery  of  the  sheriff 
complete  and  certain.  One  evening  a  wretched- 
looking  old  man,  repeating  his  prayers,  wdth 
beads  in  hand,  entered  her  cottage,  which 
consisted  of  two  rooms  and  a  kitchen  ;  and 
after  having  presented  himself,  and  put  on 
his  hat — for  we  need  scarcely  say  that  no 
Catholic  ever  jsrays  covered — he  asked  lodg- 
ing m  Iiish,  for  the  night,  and  at  this  time 
it  was  dusk. 

"Well,  good  man,"  she  rephed,  "you  can 
have  lodgings  here  for  this  night.  God 
forbid  I'd  put  a  poor  wandherer  out,  an'  it 
nearly  dark." 

Fergus  stared  at  her  as  if  he  did  not  under- 
etiind  what  she  said  ;  she,  however,  could 
speak  Irish  right  well,  and  asked  him  in  that 
•iivnguage  if  he  could  speak  no  Enghsh — 
"  Wml  lU'imha  agudf"  (Have  you  English  '?) 

"Ha  ncil  foccal  vaun  Bearllia  aguin."  (I 
haven't  one  word  of  Enghsh.) 

"  Well,"  said  she,  proceeding  with  the  fol- 
lowing short  conversation  in  Iiish,  "you  can 
sleep  here,  and  I  will  brmg  you  in  a  wap  o' 
straw  from  the  garden,  when  I  have  it  to 
feed  my  cow,  which  his  honor.  Sir  Robert, 
gives  me  grass  for  ;  he  would  be  a  very  kind 
man  if  he  was  a  little  more  generous — ha ! 
ha  !  ha ! " 

"  Ay,  but  doesn't  he  hunt  an'  hang,  an' 
transport  our  priests  ?  " 

"Why,  indeed,  I  believe  he  doesn't  like  a 
bone  in  a  priest's  body  ;  but  then  he's  of  a 
dilt'erent  religion — and  it  isn't  for  you  or  me 
to  construe  him  after  oui-  own  way." 


"  Well,  well,"  said  Fergus,  "  it  isn't  him 
I'm  thinking  of  ;  but  if  I  had  a  mouthful  or 
two  of  something  to  ait  I'd  go  to  sleej) — foi 
dear  knows  I'm  tired  and  hungiy." 

"  W^hy,  then,  of  coorse  you'U  have  some- 
thing to  ait,  jooor  man,  and  whde  you're  eatin' 
it  I'U  fetch  in  a  good  bunch  of  straw,  and 
make  a  comfortable  shake-down  for  you." 

"  God  mai-k  you  to  grace,  avourneen  !  " 

She  then  friruished  him  with  plenty  of 
oaten  bread  and  mixed  milk,  and  while  he 
was  helping  himself  she  brought  in  a  large 
bunch  of  straw,  which  she  shook  out  and  set- 
tled for  him. 

"I  see,"  said  she,  "  that  you  have  your  own 
blankets." 

"I  have,  acushla.  Cheema,  but  this  is 
darlin'  bread  !  Arra  was  this  baked  upon  a 
gridtUe  or  against  the  muddhia  arran  ?"  * 

"  A  giiddle  !  Why,  then,  is  it  the  likes  o' 
me  would  have  a  griddle  ?  that  indeed  !  No  ; 
but,  any  how,  sui'e  a  griddle  only  scalds  the 
bread  ;  but  you'U  find  that  this  is  not  too 
much  done ;  bekaise  you  know  the  ould 
proverb,  '  a  raw  dad  makes  a  fat  lad.'  " 

"  Troth,"  rejjlied  Fergus,  "  it's  good  bread, 
and  fills  the  buad  ■(■  of  a  man's  body  ;  but 
now  that  I've  made  a  good  supjser,  I'll  throw 
myself  on  the  straw,  for  I  feel  as  if  my  eyelids 
had  a  millstone  apiece  upon  them.  I  never 
shtrip  at  night,  but  just  throws  my  blanket 
over  me,  an'  sleeps  like  a  top).  Glory  be  to 
God  !  Oh,  then,  there's  nothing  like  the 
health  ma'am  :  may  God  sjjare  it  to  us ! 
Amin,  this  night !  " 

He  accordingly  threw^  himself  on  the  shake- 
down, and  in  a  short  time,  as  was  evident  by 
his  snoring,  fell  into  a  profound  sleejJ. 

This  was  an  experiment,  though  a  hazard- 
ous one,  as  we  have  said  ;  liut  so  far  it  was 
successful.  In  the  coiu'se  of  half  an  hour  the 
Red  Rapparee  came  in,  dressed  in  his  uni- 
form. On  looking  about  him  he  exclaimed, 
with  an  oath, 

"  Who  the  heU  is  here?" 

"  Why,"  replied  Mai'y  Mahon,  "  a  poor 
ould  man  that  axed  for  chiuity  an'  lodgin'  for , 
the  night." 

"  And  why  did  you  give  it  to  him  ?  " 


*  The  mudd/da  arran  was  a  forked  hr.anch,  cut 
from  a  ti'ee,  ami  shaped  exactly  like  a  letter  A — 
with  a  small  stick  behind  to  support  it.  A  piece  of 
hoop  iron  was  uailed  to  it  at  the  bottom,  ou  which 
the  cake  rested— not  hoiizontallv,  but  opposite  the 
fire.  When  one  side  was  done  the  other  was  turned, 
and  thus  it  was  baked. 

f  UodH — a  figurative  term,  taken  from  a  bra.L-ga- 
docio  or  boaster;  it  applies  to  any  thing  that  is 
hollow  or  deceitful  :  for  instance,  when  some  pota- 
toes that  gi-ow  tmusually  large  are  cut  in  two.  an 
empty  space  is  found  in  the  centre,  and  that  potatc 
is  termed  buiist,  or  empty. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


121 


"  Bekaise  my  cliarity  to  Mm  may  take 
away  some  of  my  sins." 

"Some  of  your  devils  !  "  reijHed  the  sav- 
age, "  and  I  think  you  have  euough  of  them 
about  you.  Didn't  you  know  I  was  to  come 
here  to-night,  as  I  do  ahnost  every  night,  for 
an  hoiu-  or  two  ?  " 

"You  was  diinkin',"  she  replied,  "and 
you're  drunk." 

"  I  am  drunk,  and  I  ^^all  be  drunk  as  often 
as  I  can.  It's  a  good  man's  case.  Why  did 
you  give  a  lodgin'  to  this  ould  vagabone  ?  " 

"I  touklyouthe  raison,"she  rephed  ;  "but 
you  needn't  care,  about  him,  for  there's  not  a 
word  of  Enghsh  in  his  cheek." 

"Faith,  but  he  may  have  something  in  his 
purse,  for  all  that.     Is  he  ould  ?  " 

"A  jjoor  ould  man." 

"  So  much  the  betther ;  be  the  Hatji'  I'U 
tiT  whether  he  has  any  ould  coins  about  him. 
Manj-  a  time — no,  I  don't  saj'  many  a  tune — 
but  t\ric't  I  did  it,  and  found  it  weU.  worth 
my  whUe,  too.  Some  of  these  ould  scamers 
die  %\'id  a  jjurse  o'  goolden  guineas  under 
iheir  head,  and  won't  confess  it  till  the  last 
moment.  WTio  knows  what  this  ould  lad  may 
have  about  him  ?  I'U  thry  anyhow,"  said  the 
diimken  ruffian  ;  "  It's  not  aisy  to  give  up  an 
ould  custom,  Jlolly — the  sheriff,  my  darliu', 
for  that.  I  aised  him  of  his  fines,  and  was 
near  strikin'  a  double  blow — I  secured  his 
pocket-book,  and  made  a  good  attempt  to 
himg  Willy  EeiUy  for  the  robbery  into  the 
bargain.  Now,  hang  it,  j\Iolly,  didn't  I  look 
a  gentleman  in  lus  clothes,  shoes,  silver 
buckles,  and  all ;  wasn't  it  well  we  secured 
them  before  the  house  was  bui-ned  ?  Here," 
he  added,  "  fcike  a  sneeshin  of  tliis,"  puUing 
at  the  same  time  a  pint  bottle  of  whiskey  out 
of  his  pocket ;  "  it'll  rise  your  spirits,  an'  I'll 
see  what  cash  this  ould  codger  has  about  him  ; 
an',  by  the  way,  how  the  devil  do  we  know 
that  he  doesn't  understand  eveiy  word  we 
say.  Sup23ose,  now — (hiccup) — that  he  heiu-d 
me  say  I  robbed  the  sheriff,  wouldn't  I  be  in 
a  nice  jjickle  ?  But,  tell  me,  can  you  get  no 
trace  of  linlly  ?  " 

"  Devil  a  trace  ;  they  say  he  has  left  the 
country." 

"  If  I  had  what  that  scoundrel  has  prom- 
ised me  for  findin'  him  out  or  securiu'  him 
—here's — here's — here's  to  you — I  say,  if  I 
had,  vow  and  I  would  " — Here  he  poLuted 
vdili  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  as  much 
as  to  say  they  would  tiT  another  climate. 

"And  now,"  he  proceeded,  "for  a  seai-ch 
on  the  shake-down.  WTio  knows  but  the 
ould  fellow  lias  the  yeUow  boys  (guineas) 
about  him  ?  " — and  he  was  proceeding  to 
search  Ferg-us,  when  jVLary  flew  at  him  like 
a  tigress. 

"  Stop,    you  cowardly   robber  !  "   she  ex- 


I  claimed  ;  "  would  you  bring  down  the  curse 
and  the  vengeance  of  God  ujson  both  of  us. 
We  have  enough  and  too  much  to  answer 
for,  let  alone  to  rob  the  ould  an'  the  poor." 
1  "Be  aisy  now,"  said  he,  "I'U  make  the 
search ;  suie  I'm  undher  the  scoundrel  White- 
craft's  protection." 

"  Yes,  you  are,  and  yoii're  undher  my  pro- 
tection too  ;  and  I  teU  you,  if  jou  lay  a 
hand  upon  him  it'U  be  worse  for  you." 

" "\Miat — what  do  you  mane? " 

"  It's  no  matther  what  I  mane  ;  find  it 
out." 

"  How  do  I  know  but  he  has  heard  us  ?  " 

We  must  now  obsei-ve  that  Fergus's  style 
of  sleeping  was  admirably  adapted  for  his 
purpose.  It  was  not  accompanied  by  a  loud 
and  unbroken  snore  ;  on  the  contrary,  after 
it  had  risen  to  the  highest  and  most  disa- 
gi'eeable  intonations,  it  stojified  short,  with 
a  loud  and  indescribable  backsnort  in  his 
nose,  and  then,  after  a  lull  of  some  length, 
during  which  he  groaned  and  muttered  to 
himself,  he  agaiu  resumed  his  sternutations 
in  a  manner  so  naturiil  as  would  have  im- 
posed ujjon  Satan  himself,  if  he  had  been 
present,  as  there  is  httle  doubt  he  was, 
though  not  exactly  visible  to  the  eyes  of  his 
two  precious  agents. 

"  Listen  to  that,"  repUed  the  woman  ;  "  do 
you  thmk,  now,  he's  not  asleejJ  ?  and  even  if 
he  was  sitting  at  the  fire  beside  us,  devil  a 
syUable  we  said  he  could  understand.  I 
sjioke  to  him  in  English  when  he  came  in, 
but  he  didn't  know  a  word  I  said." 

"WeU,  then,  let  the  ould  feUow  sleep 
away  ;  I  won't  touch  him." 

"  Wliy,  now,  that's  a  good  boy  ;  go  home 
to  your  barracks,  and  take  a  good  sleep 
yourself." 

"  Ay,  yes,  certainly  ;  but  have  you  ReiUy's 
clothes  safe — shoes,  sUver  buckles,  and  aU  ?  " 

"  Ay,  as  safe  as  the  head  on  your  shoul 
ders  ;  and,  upon  my  soul,  a  great  dale  safer, 
if  you  rob  any  more  sheriffs." 

"  Wiere  are  they,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  they're  in  my  flat  box,  behind  the 
bed,  where  nobody  could  see  them." 

"  Very  weU,  MoUy,  that  wiU  do ;  I  may 
want  them  wanst  more,"  he  rejalied,  pointing 
again  with  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  to- 
wards Whitecraft's  residence ;  "so  good- 
night ;  be  a  good  gild,  and  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

"No,"  she  replied,  "but  do  j'ou  be  a  good 
boy,  and  take  care  of  yom-self."  And  so 
they  jDaiied  for  the  night. 

The  next  day  Fergais,  j)ossessed  of  very 
important  eridenee  agauist  the  Rajsparee, 
was  traveUmg  along  tlie  pubUc  road,  not 
more  than  half  a  mile  from  the  residence 
of  Sir  Robert  'N^Tiitecraft,  when  whom  should 


122 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ne  meet  but  the  identical  sheriff,  on  horse- 
back, that  tlie  Rapj^aree  had  robbed.  He  put 
his  hand  to  his  hat,  and  asked  him  for  charity. 

"  He]})  a  250or  onid  man,  for  the  love  and 
honor  of  God." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  work — why  don't 
you  go  to  work  ?  "  rephed  tlie  sheriff. 

"  I  am  not  able,  sir,"  returned  Fergus  ;  "  it 
wouldn't  be  good  for  my  health,  your  honor." 

"  Well,  pass  on  and  don't  trouble  me  ;  I 
have  nothing  for  you." 

"Ah !  thin,  sir,  if  you'd  give  me  a  trifle, 
maybe  I'd  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  sheriff, 
who  knew  that  persons  like  him  had  ojipor- 
tunities  of  hearing  and  knowing  more  about 
local  circumstances,  in  consequence  of  their 
Vagrant  life,  than  any  other  class  of  persons 
in  society. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  what  you  have 
just  said  ?  " 

"  Aren't  you  the  sheriff,  sir,  that  was  rob- 
bed some  time  ago  ?  " 

"I  am." 

"All,  sir,  I  see  you  are  dressed  in  black  ; 
and  I  lieai'd  of  the  death  of  the  misthress,  sir." 

"  Well,  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  what 
you  have  just  now  said — that  you  would 
make  it  worth  my  while  if  I  gave  you  alms  ?  " 

"I said  so,  sir  ;  and  I  can,  if  you  will  be 
guided  by  me." 

"  Speak  out ;  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  man  that  rob- 
bed you,  sii',  and  would  you  know  him  if  you 
did  see  him  ?  " 

"Unquestionably  I  would  know  him. 
They  say  it  was  KeiUy,  but  I  have  seen  Jledly 
since  ;  and  although  the  dress  was  the  same 
which  Reilly  usually  wears,  yet  the  faces 
were  different." 

"Is  your  honor  going  far?  "asked  Fergus. 

"  No,  I  am  going  over  to  that  fiu-m-house, 
Tom  Brady's  ;  tv.'o  or  three  of  his  family  are 
ill  of  fever,  and  I  wisli  to  do  sometliing  for 
him  ;  I  am  abovit  to  make  him  my  land 
bailiff'." 

"  ^\liat  stay  will  you  make  there,  your 
honor '?  " 

"  A  very  short  one — not  more  than  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes." 

"Would  it  be  inconvenient  for yoitr honor 
to  remain  there,  or  somewhere  about  the 
house,  for  an  hour,  or  may  be  a  Uttle  longer  ?  " 

"  For  what  purpose '?  You  are  a  mysteri- 
ous old  feUow." 

"  Bekaise,  if  you'd  wish  to  see  the  man  that 
robbed  you,  I'll  undhertake  to  show  him  to 
you,  face  to  face,  within  that  time.  Will 
your  honor  promise  this  ?  " 

The  sheritr  paused  upon  this  proposal, 
coming  as  it  did  from  such  an  equivocal 
authority.     What,  thought  he,  if  it  should 


be  a  plot  for  my  life,  in  consequence  of  the 
fines  whicli  I  have  been  forced  to  levy  upon 
the  Catholic  priests  and  bishops  in   my  offi- 
cial capacity.     God  knows  I  feel  it  to  be  a  ) 
painful  duty. 

"  What  is  j^our  religion  ?  "  he  asked,  "  and 
why  should  a  gentleman  in  my  condition  of 
life  place  any  confidence  upon  the  word  of  a 
common  vagrant  like  you,  who  must  necessa- 
rily be  imbued  with  all  the  prejudices  of 
your  creed — for  I  sujipose  you  ai-e  a  Ca- 
tholic?" 

"  I  am,  sir ;  but,  for  aU  that,  in  half  an 
hour's  time  I'll  be  a  rank  Protestant." 

The  sheriff  smiled  and  asked,  "How  the 
devil's  that  ?  " 

"  You  are  dressed  in  black,  sir,  in  mumia' 
for  your  wife.  I  have  seen  you  go  into  Tom 
Brady's  to  give  the  sick  creatures  the  rites  of 
their  Church.  I  give  notice  to  Sii"  Robert 
A\'Tiitecraft  that  a  jiriest  is  there  ;  and  my 
word  to  you,  he  and  his  hounds  will  soon  be 
upon  you.  The  man  that  robbed  you  will 
be  among  them — no,  but  the  foremost  of 
them  ;  and  if  you  don't  know  him,  I  can't 
help  it — that's  all,  yovir  honor." 

"  Well,"  rejilied  the  shGrift"  "I  shall  give 
you  nothing  now ;  because  I  know  not 
whether  what  you  say  can  be  relied  ujjon  or 
not.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  remain  an 
hour  or  better,  in  Brady's  house ;  and  if 
your  words  are  not  made  good,  I  shall  send 
to  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  for  a  militaiy  paxty 
to  escort  me  home." 

"I  know,  your  honor,"  replied  Fergus, 
"  that  Sir  Robert  and  his  men  are  at  home 
to-day  ;  and  if  I  don't  fulfil  my  words,  I'U 
give  your  honor  lave  to  whij)  me  through  the 
county." 

"  Well,"  said  the  sheiiff,  "  I  shall  remain 
an  hour  or  so  in  Brady's  ;  but  I  tell  you  that 
if  you  are  deceiving  me  you  shall  not  escape 
me  ;  so  look  to  it,  and  think  if  what  you  pro- 
jjose  to  me  is  honest  or  not — if  it  be  not,  woe 
betide  you." 

Fergnis  immediately  repaired  to  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft,  to  -uhom  he  represented  himself 
as  a  poor  Protestant  of  the  name  of  Bing- 
ham, and  informed  him  that  a  Popish  jiriest 
was  then  in  Tom  Brady's  liouse,  administer- 
ing the  rites  of  Popery  to  those  who  were 
sick  in  the  family. 

"  I  seen  him,  your  honor,  go  into  the 
house  ;  and  he's  there  tliis  minute.  If  youi* 
honor  makes  haste  you'll  catch  him." 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Sir 
Robert  and  his  crew  were  in  stirrups,  and 
on  theu'  way  to  Tom  Brady's  ;  and  in  the 
meantime,  too,  the  sheriff',  dressed  as  he  was, 
in  black,  came  outside  the  door,  fi'om  time 
to  time,  more  in  ajsprehension  of  a  plot  against 
his  life  than  of  a  visit  fi-om  Whitecraft,  wliicb 


J 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


123 


he  knew  must  end  in  nothing.  Now,  White- 
craft  and  his  followers,  on  approaching 
Braily's  house,  caught  a  glimpse  of  him — a 
circumstance  which  not  only  confirmed  the 
baronet  in  the  coiTectness  of  the  information 
he  had  received,  but  also  satisfied  the  sheriff 
that  the  mendicant  had  not  deceived  him. 
Rai^id  was  the  rush  they  made  to  Brady's 
house,  and  the  very  first  that  entered  it  was 
the  Red  Rapjaaree.  He  was  about  to  seize 
the  sheriii;  whom  he  pretended  not  to  know  ; 
but  m  a  moment  Su-  Robert  and  the  rest 
entered,  when,  on  recognizing  each  other,  an 
explanation  took  place,  with  all  due  apologies 
to  the  functionary,  who  said : 

"  The  mistake,  Su-  Robert,  is  very  natui-al. 
I  certainly  have  a  clerical  apjjearance,  as  I 
am  in  mourning  for  my  wife.  I  trust  you 
win  neither  hang  nor  transport  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  indeed,  Mr.  Oxley  ;  but 
I  only  acted  on  information  received." 

"And  I  don't  doubt.  Sir  Robert,"  rephed 
the  sheriff,  "  that  the  person  who  gave  you 
the  information  maj'  have  been  deceived  him- 
self by  my  ecclesiastical  looking  dress.  I  am 
Borry  you  have  had  so  much  trouble  for 
nothing ;  but,  upon  vox  word,  I  feel  ex- 
tremely delighted  that  I  am  not  a  priest." 

In  the  meantime  the  sheriff  had  recognized 
the  Rappai'ee,  by  a  single  glance,  as  the  man 
that  had  robbed  him.  He  was  now  certain  ; 
but  he  took  care  not  to  bestow  the  least  .sig-n 
of  recognition  upon  him  ;  so  far  from  that, 
he  ap23eared  to  pay  no  attention  whatsoever 
to  the  men  ;  but  chatted  vrith  Sir  Robert  for 
some  time,  who  returned  home  deeply  dis- 
apj^ointed,  though  without  imjiuting  blame 
to  his  informant,  who,  he  thought,  was  very 
naturally  misled  by  the  dress  of  the  sheriff'. 
Fergus,  however,  apj)rehensive  of  being  in- 
volved in  the  prosecution  of  the  Rapparee, 
and  thus  discovered,  made  a  point  to  avoid 
the  sheriff,  whose  cross-examination  a  con- 
.scio'isuess  of  his  previous  life  led  him  to 
dread.  Still,  he  had,  to  a  certain  extent, 
though  not  definitely,  resolved  to  become  evi- 
dence against  him  ;  but  only,  as  we  have  said, 
on  the  condition  of  previously  receiving  a 
full  pardon  for  his  own  misdeeds,  which  was 
granted.  For  upwards  of  a  month,  however, 
the  sherift'  was  confined  to  his  bed,  having 
caught,  whilst  in  Brady's,  the  malignant 
fever  which  then  raged  throughout  the 
countr}-. 


CH.VPTER  X\TIL 

SometJiing  not  very  Pleasant  for  all  Parties. 

The  position  of  England  at  this  25eriod  was 
any  thing  but  an  easy  one.     The  Rebellion 


of  '4.5  had  commenced,  and  the  young  Pre- 
tender had  gained  some  signal  %-ictories.  In- 
dependently of  this,  she  was  alarmed  by  tho 
rumor  of  a  French  invasion  on  her  southern 
coast.  Apprehensive  lest  the  Irish  Catholics, 
galled  and  goaded  as  they  were  by  the  influ- 
ence of  the  penal  laws,  and  the  dreadful  per- 
secution which  they  caused  them  to  suffer, 
I  should  flock  to  the  standard  of  Prince 
Charles,  himself  a  Catholic,  she  deemed  it 
expedient,  in  due  time,  to  relax  a  little,  and 
accordingly  she  "  cheeked  her  hand,  and 
changed  her  pride."  Milder  measures  were 
soon  resorted  to,  during  this  crisis,  in  order 
that  by  a  more  hberal  administration  of  jus- 
tice the  resentment  of  the  suffering  Catholics 
might  be  conciliated,  and  their  loyalty 
secured.  This,  however,  was  a  proceeding 
less  of  justice  than  exjsedieucy,  and  resulted 
more  from  the  actual  and  impending  diffi- 
culties  of  England  than  from  any  sincere 
wish  on  her  part  to  give  civil  and  religious 
fi'eedom  to  her  Cathohc  subjects,  or  pros- 
perity to  the  countiy  in  which,  even  then, 
their  numbers  largely  i^redominated.  Yet, 
singular  to  say,  when  the  RebeUiou  first 
broke  out,  all  the  chapels  in  Dublin  were 
closed,  and  the  Administration,  as  if  guided 
by  some  unintelligible  infatuation,  issued  a 
proclamation,  commanding  the  Cathohc 
priesthood  to  dej^art  fi-om  the  city.  Those 
who  refusrtl  this  senseless  and  impolitic 
edict  were  threatened  vrith  the  utmost  sever- 
it}^  of  the  law.  Harsh  as  that  law  was,  the 
Catholics  obeyed  it ;  yet  even  this  obedience 
did  not  satisfy  the  Protestant  party,  or  rather 
that  portion  of  them  who  were  active  agents 
in  canying  out  this  impi-udent  and  unjusti- 
fiable rigor  at  such  a  period.  They  were 
seized  by  a  kind  of  panic,  and  imanined  for- 
sooth that  a  broken  dov.-n  and  disarmed  f)eo- 
ple  might  engage  in  a  general  massacre  of  the 
Iiish  Protestants.  Whether  this  incomj^re- 
hensible  terror  was  real,  is  a  matter  of  doubt 
and  uncertainty  ;  or  whether  it  was  assumed 
as  a  justification  for  assailing  the  Catholics 
in  a  general  massacre,  similar  to  that  which 
they  apprehended,  or  pretended  to  af)pre- 
hend,  is  also  a  matter  of  question  ;  yet  cer- 
tain it  is,  that  a  jjroposal  to  massacre  them 
in  cold  blood  was  made  in  the  Pri\n,'  Council. 
"But,"  says  O'Connor,  "the  humanity  of 
the  members  rejected  this  barbarous  pro- 
posal, and  crashed  in  its  infancy  a  conspiracy 
hatched  in  Lurgan  to  extirpate  the  Cathohcs 
of  that  iovni  and  ricinity." 

In  the  meantime,  so  active  was  the  perse- 
cuting spirit  of  such  men  as  Whiteeraf  t  and 
SmeUpiiest  that  a  great  number  of  the  un- 
fortunate priests  fieri  to  the  metropolis, 
where,  in  a  large  and  jjoj^ulous  city,  they 
had  a  better  chance  of  remaining  incogriUi 


124 


WILLIAM  CARLETOB'S   WOIiKS. 


than  when  li^'ing  in  tLe  countrj-,  exposed 
and  likeW  to  be  more  marked  by  spies  and 
informers.  A  very  dreadful  catastrophe  took 
place  about  this  time.  A  congregation  of 
Catholic  people  had  heard  mass  upon  an  old 
loft,  which  had  for  many  years  been  decayed 
— iu  fact,  actually  rotten.  Mass  was  over, 
and  the  priest  was  about  to  give  them  the 
parting  benediction,  when  the  floor  went 
down  with  a  terrific  crash.  The  result  w-as 
dreadful.  The  priest  and  a  great  many  of 
the  congi'egatiou  were  killed  ou  the  spot, 
and  a  vast  number  of  them  wounded  and 
maimed  for  life.  The  Protestant  inhabitants 
of  Dublin  symj)athized  deejsly  with  the  suf- 
ferers, whom  the}'  reUeved  and  succored  as 
far  as  in  them  lay,  and,  by  their  remonstran- 
ces. Government  was  shamed  into  a  more 
liuman  administration  of  the  laws. 

In  order  to  satisfy  our  readers  that  we 
have  not  overdrawn  our  j)ictui'e  of  what  the 
Catholics  sufl'ered  in  those  unhappy  times, 
we  shall  give  a  (luotation  from  the  Messrs. 
Chambers,  of  Edinburgh,  themselves  fair 
and  liberal  men,  and  as  impartial  as  they 
are  able  and  well  informed  : 

"  Since  the  pacification  of  Limerick,  Ire- 
land had  been  ruled  exclusively  by  the 
Protestant  party,  who,  under  the  influence 
of  feelings  arising  from  local  and  rehgious 
antipathies,  had  visited  the  Catliohcs  with 
many  severities.  The  oath  which  had  ex- 
cluded the  Cathohcs  from  office  had  been 
followed,  in  1G98,  by  an  Act  of  the  Iiish 
Pi-  rhameut,  commanding  all  Romish  priests 
to  leave  the  kingdom,  under  the  penalty  of 
transportation,  a  return  from  which  was  to 
be  i^uuishable  by  death.  Another  law  de- 
creed forfeiture  of  property  and  civU  rights 
to  aU  who  should  send  then-  children  abroad 
to  be  educated  in  the  CathoUc  faith."  * 

Can  any  reasonable  person  be  in  doubt 
for  a  moment  that  those  laws  were  laws  of 
extermination '?  In  the  meantime,  let  us 
hear  the  Messrs.  Chambers  fui'ther : 

"After  the  death  of  WiUiam,  who  was 
much  ojajJosed  to  severities  on  account  of 
religion.  Acts  of  stiU  greater  rigor  were 
passed  for  preventmg  the  growth  of  Popery. 
Any  child  of  a  Komfm  Catholic  who  should 
declare  himself  a  Protestant  was  entitled  to 
become  the  heir  of  his  estate,  the  father 
merely  holding  it  for  his  lifetime,  and  hav- 
ing no  command  over  it.  Cathohcs  were 
made  incapable  of  succeeding  to  Protestants, 
and  lands,  passing  over  them,  were  to  go 
to  the  next  Protestant  heir.  Cathohc  parents 
were  prevented  from  being  guai-dians  to 
their  own  children  ;   no  Protestant  possess- 


*   "  History   and    Present  State   of  the  British 
Empire."     Edinburgh,  W.  and  11.  Chambers. 


ing  property  was  to  be  permitted  to  marrj 
a  Catholic  ;  and  Catholics  were  rendered 
incapable  of  pui-chasing  lauded  property  oi 
enjoying  long  leases.  These  measui-es  na- 
turally rendered  the  Cathohcs  discontented 
subjects,  and  led  to  much  tiu'bulence.  The 
common  j)eople  of  that  persuasion,  being 
denied  all  access  to  justice,  took  it  into  their 
own  hands,  and  acquired  ah  those  lawless 
habits  for  which  they  have  since  been  remark- 
able. Treachery,  cruelty,  and  all  the  lower 
passions,  were  called  into  vigorous  exercise. 
Even  the  Protestants,  for  their  own  sakes, 
were  often  obhged  to  connive  at  the  evasion 
of  laws  so  extremely  severe,  and  which  in- 
troduced much  diiiiculty  in  their  dealings 
with  Catholics ;  but,  when  any  Protestant 
wished  to  be  revenged  upon  a  Catholic,  or 
to  extort  money  fi'om  him,  he  found  in  these 
laws  a  ready  mstrumeut  for  his  purpose. 
By  an  additional  Act,  in  1726,  it  was  or- 
dained that  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  mann- 
ing a  Protestant  to  a  Cathohc,  should  sufier 
death  ;  and  in  order  that  legal  redress  might 
be  stiU  less  accessible  to  the  Catholics,  it 
was  enacted,  in  1728,  that  no  one  should  be 
entitled  to  practise  as  an  attorney  who  had 
not  been  two  years  a  Protestant." 

This  is  a  clear  and  succinct  ejjitome  of  the 
penal  laws ;  tiiie,  much  more  might  be 
added ;  but  it  is  enough  to  say  that  those 
who  sow  the  wind  will  reap  the  whirh\'iiid. 
It  is  not  by  jjlacing  restrictions  upon  creeds 
or  ceremonies  that  rehgiOn  can  ever  be 
checked,  much  less  extinguished.  Like  the 
camomile  jilant,  the  more  it  is  trampled  on 
the  more  it  will  spread  and  grow  ;  as  the 
rude  winds  and  the  inclemency  of  the  ele- 
ments only  harden  and  make  more  vigorous 
the  constitutions  of  those  who  are  exjjosed 
to  them.  In  our  state  of  the  world,  those 
who  have  the  administration  of  political  laws 
in  their  hands,  if  they  ever  read  historj',  or 
can  avail  themselves  of  the  exj)eriences  of 
ages,  ought  to  know  that  it  is  not  by  severity 
or  jjersecution  that  the  afl'ectious  of  their 
fellow-subjects  can  be  conciliated.  We  oiu'- 
selves  once  knew  a  brutal  ruffian,  who  was  a 
dealer  iu  fi-uit  in  the  httle  town  of  Maynooth, 
and  whose  j)rinciple  of  correcting  his  chil- 
dren was  to  continue  whipping  the  poor 
things  until  they  were  forced  to  laitr/h  !  A 
person  was  one  day  present  when  he  com- 
menced chastising  one  of  them — a  cbild  of 
about  seven — upon  this  barbarous  principle. 
This  individual  was  then  young  and  strong, 
and  something  besides  of  a  pugiUst ;  but  on 
witnessing  the  affecting  efforts  of  the  little 
fellow  to  do  that  which  was  not  within  the 
compass  of  any  natunil  effort,  he  deliberately 
knocked  the  ruffian  down,  after  haWng  first 
remonstrated  with  him  to  no  j)m-pose.     He 


WILLY   RE  ILLY. 


12S 


arose,  however,  and  attacked,  the  other,  but, 
thanks  to  a  good  arm  and  a  quick  eye,  he 
prostrated  him  again,  and  again,  and  again  ; 
he  then  caught  him  by  the  throat,  for  he 
was  already  subdued,  and  squeezing  his 
T\Tndpipe  to  some  purpose,  the  fellow  said, 
in  a  choking  voice,  "  Are  you  going  to  kill 
me?" 

"No,"re25hed  the  other,  "I  only  want  to 
see  the  length  of  your  tongue  ;  don't  lie 
alarmed,  the  whole  thing  will  end  mei-rily  ; 
come,  now,  give  three  of  the  heartiest  laughs 
you  ever  gave  in  your  Ufe,  or  dovsoi  goes  your 
apple-cai-t — j'ou  know  what  that  means  ?  " 

"  I — I  c — a — n' — t,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  replied  his  castigator  ; 
"  nothing's  more  easy  ;  come,  be  merry." 

The  caitiff,  for  he  was  a  coward,  and 
wanted  bottom,  upon  getting  a  little  wi4^, 
whilst  the  other  held  him  by  the  throat, 
gave  three  of  the  most  ludicrous,  but  dis- 
astrous, howls  that  ever  were  witnessed. 
On  his  opponent  letting  him  go,  he  took  to 
his  heels,  but  got  a  kick  on  going  out  that 
was  rather  calculated  to  accelerate  his  flight. 
Legislators,  therefore,  ought  to  know  that 
no  political  whipping  will  ever  make  a  people 
laviih  at  the  pleasure  of  it. 

But  to  resume  our  narrative.  England, 
now  apprehensive,  as  we  have  said,  of  a  de- 
scent of  the  French  upon  her  southern 
coast,  and  startled  by  the  successes  of  the 
young  Pretender,  who  had  cut  Cope's  army 
to  jjieces,  deemed  it  expedient  to  send  over 
the  celebrated  Earl  of  Chesterfield  as  Vice- 
roy, with  instructions  to  relax  the  rigor  of 
the  laws,  and  conciliate  the  Catholics,  as  well 
as  he  could,  so,  at  least,  as  to  i)revent  them 
from  joining  the  Pretender,  whose  object  it 
was  understood  to  be  to  cross  the  fi-outier 
and  march  upon  London.  Lord  Chester- 
field's fioUcy  afforded  great  gratification  to 
the  Catholics,  who  were  now  restored  to 
their  usual  privileges  ;  and  its  political  ob- 
ject was  so  fiu-  successful  that,  as  we  have 
said,  not  a  single  man  of  them  ever  joined 
the  Pretender.  Still,  the  Uberal  Protestants, 
or,  as  they  were  termed,  the  jJatriotic  jsarty, 
were  not  satisfied  witli  the  mere  removal  of 
the  Catholic  restrictions.  Ii-eland,  at  that 
time,  was  studded  vsdth  men,  or  rather  with 
monsters,  like  SmelljDriest  and  Wliitecraft, 
who  were  stained  with  the  blood  of  then* 
fellow-subjects  and  fellow-Christians.  Sir 
Robert  Wliitecraft,  especially,  was  now  in  a 
bad  jjosition,  although  he  himself  was  igno- 
rant of  it.  The  French  Ambassador  de- 
manded satisfaction,  in  the  name  of  his 
Court  and  the  French  nation,  for  the  out- 
rage that  had  been  committed  upon  a  French 
subject,  and  by  which  international  law  was 
BO  gros.sly  violated.     We  must  say  here  that 


j  Whitecraft,  in  the  abundance  of  his  loyalty 
and  zeal,  was  in  the  habit,  in  his  searches 
after  jjriests,  and  svispected  lay  Catholics,  to 
pay  domiciUary  visits  to  the  houses  of  many 
Protestant  magistrates,  clergymen,  and  even 
gentlemen  of  wealth  and  distinction,  who 
were  suspected,  from  their  known  enmitj'  to 
persecution,  of  harboring  Cathohc  priests 
and  others  of  that  persuasion  ;  so  that,  in 
point  of  fact,  he  had  created  more  enemies 
in  the  country  than  any  man  living.     The 

Marquis  of ,  ]Mr.  Hastings,  Mr.  Brown, 

together  with  a  gi'eat  number  of  tlie  patriotic 
party,  had  ah'eady  transmitted  a  j)etition  to 
the  Lord  Lieutenant,  under  the  former  Ad- 
ministration ;  but  it  was  not  attended  to, 
the  only  answer  they   got   having  been   a 
simple  acknowledgment  of  its  receipt.     This, 
[  on  coming  to  Sir  Robert's  ears,  which  it  did 
!  from  one  of  the  underlings  of  the  Castle, 
'  only  gave  a  spur  to  Ids  insolence,  stnd  still 
j  more    fiercely   stimulated    his    persecuting 
i  spirit.     He  felt  conscious  that  Government 
'  would  j)rotect  him,  or  rather  reward  him, 
for  any  acts  of  riolence  which  he  might  com- 
I  mit  against  the  Catholic  party,  raid  so  fai", 
:  under  his  own  pet  Administration,  he  was 
j  right. 

I  The  petition  we  have  alluded  to  having 
been  treated  with  studied  contempt,  the  per- 
sons and  j)arty  ah-eady  mentioned  came  to 
the  determination  of  transmitting  another, 
still  more  fidl  and  urgent,  to  the  new  Viceroy, 
'  whose  feehng  it  was,  for  the  reasons  we  have 
stated,  to  reverse  the  policy  of  his  predeces- 
sor. 

I  His  hberal  administration  encouraged 
j  them,  therefore,  to  send  him  a  clear  state- 
ment of  the  barbarous  outrages  committed 
by  such  men  as  SmeUpriest  and  Sir  Roliert 
A^Tiiteeraft,  not  only  against  his  Majesty's 
Roman  Catholic  subjects,  but  against  many 
loyal  Protestant  magistrates,  and  other 
Protestants  of  distinction  and  projierty,  mere- 
ly because  they  were  supposed  to  entertain 
a  natural  sympathy  for  their  persecuted  fel- 
low-subjects and  feUow-countrymen.  They 
said  that  the  conduct  of  those  men  and  of  the 
Government  that  had  countenanced  and  en- 
couraged them  had  destroyed  the  pro.sjierity 
of  the  coiHitry  by  interrupting  and  annulling 
all  6o»a/(Vfe  commercial  transactions  between 
Protestants  and  Catholics.  That  those  men 
had  not  only  transgressed  the  instructions 
they  received  from  his  predecessor,  but  all 
those  laws  that  go  to  the  security  of  life  and 
property.  That  they  were  guilty  of  several 
cruel  and  atrocious  murders,  arsons,  and 
false  imprisonments,  for  wliich  they  were 
never  brought  to  account  ;  and  that,  in  fine, 
they  were  steeped  in  crime  and  blood,  be- 
cause they  knew  that  his  predecessor,  igno- 


126 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


rant,  perLaiss,  of  the  extent  of  their  guilt, 
tiirew  his  shield  over  them,  and  held  them 
ii'responsible  to  the  laws  for  those  savage 
outrages. 

They  then  stated  that,  in  their  humble 
judgment,  a  mere  relaxation  in  the  operation 
of  the  severe  and  j)enal  laws  against  Cathohcs 
would  not  be  an  act  of  sufficient  atonement 
to  them  for  all  they  had  previously  suffered  ; 
that  to  overlook,  or  connive  at,  or  jirotect 
those  great  criminals  would  be  at  variance, 
not  only  with  all  principles  of  justice,  but 
with  the  si^u'it  of  the  British  Constitution 
itself,  which  never  recognizes,  mTich  less  en- 
courages, a  wicked  and  deliberate  violation 
of  its  own  laws.  That  the  present  was  a 
critical  moment,  which  demanded  great  judg- 
ment and  ecjual  humanity  in  the  administra- 
tion of  the  laws  in  Ireland.  A  rebellion  was 
successfully  progressing  in  Scotland,  and  it 
appeared  to  them  that  not  only  common  jus- 
tice; but  sound  poUcy  ought  to  prompt  the 
Government  to  attract  and  conciliate  the 
Catholic  23opulatiou  of  Ireland  b_y  aUowing 
them  to  p:^~ioipate  in  the  benefits  of  the 
Constitution,  which  hitherto  existed  not  for 
them,  thousands  of  whom,  finding  their 
country  but  a  bed  of  thorns,  might,  from  a 
mere  sense  of  relief,  or,  what  was  more  to 
be  dreaded,  a  spirit  of  natural  vengeance, 
flock  to  the  standard  of  the  Pretender. 

His  excellency,  already  aware  of  the  start- 
ling but  just  demand  which  liad  been  made 
by  the  French  Ambassador,  for  the  national 
insult  by  AVhitecr.tt't  f(,>his  countrj-,  w^as  him- 
self startled  ami  shocked  by  the  atrocities  of 
those  blood-stained  delinquents. 

His  reply,  however,  was  brief,  but  to  the 
purpose. 

His  secretary  acknowledged  the  receijjt  of 
the  memorial,  and  stated  that  the  object  of 
his  Excellency  was  not  to  administer  the  laws 
in  ci'uelty,  but  in  mercy  ;  that  he  considered 
all  classes  of  his  Majesty's  subjects  equally 
entitled  to  their  protection  ;  and  that  with 
respect  to  the  persons  against  whom  such 
serious  charges  and  allegations  had  been 
made,  he  had  only  to  say,  that  if  they  were 
substantiated  against  them  in  a  coiu-t  of  jus- 
tice, they  must  sutler  Hke  other  crimiuids — 
if  they  can  be  proved.  Government  wLU  leave 
them,  as  it  would  any  common  felons,  to  the 
laws  of  the  country.  His  Excellency  is  de- 
termined to  administer  those  laws  with  the 
strictest  impartialitj',  and  without  leaning  to 
any  particular  class  or  creed.  So  far  as  the 
laws  will  iiUow  him,  their  ijrotection  shall  be 
extended,  on  just  and  equal  principles  to  the 
poor  and  to  the  rich,  to  the  Cathohc  and  to 
the  Protestant. 

This  communication,  which  was  kejit 
strictly  secret,  reached  the  Marquis  of 


at  a  critical  period  of  oui-  narrative.  "VMiite" 
craft,  who  was  ignorant  of  it,  but  sufficient* 
ly  aware  of  the  milder  measures  which  the 
new  Administration  had  adopted,  finding 
that  the  trade  of  priest-hunting  and  perse- 
cution was,  for  the  present,  at  an  end,  re- 
solved to  accelerate  his  marriage  with  Miss 
FoUiard,  and  for  this  ijurjjose  he  waited 
ujion  her  father,  in  order  to  secure  his  con- 
sent. His  object  was  to  retii'e  to  his  Eng- 
lish estates,  and  there  jjass  the  remainder 
of  his  life  mth  his  beautiful  but  reluctant 
bride.  He  paid  his  visit  about  two  o'clock, 
and  was  told  that  j\Iiss  FoUiard  and  her 
father  were  in  the  garden.  Hither  he  ac- 
cordingly rei^aired,  and  tound  the  squire, 
his  daughter,  and  Eeilly,  in  the  green -house. 
When  the  squu-e  saw  him  he  cried  out,  with 
^piething  of  a  mahcious  triumph  : 

"  Hallo,  Sir  Eobert !  '  why  art  thou  so 
j)ale,  youug  lover  ?  why  art  thou  so  pale  ?  ' 
— ancl  why  does  thy  lip  hang,  Sir  Robert  ? — 
new  men,  new  measures.  Sir  Robert — a,nd  so, 
'  Othello's  occupation's  gone,'  and  the  Earl  of 
Chesterfield  goes  to  mass  every  Sunday,  and 
is  now  able  to  repeat  his  paf/acet'n*"  in  Lish." 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  so  pleasant,  IMr. 
Folliard  ;  but  I'm  delighted  to  see  the  beau- 
j  tiful  state  of  your  green-house — oh.  Miss 
FoUiard  ! — excuse  me.  Your  back  was  to 
me,  and  you  were  engaged  in  trailing  that 
beautiful  shrub ;  allow  me  the  honor  of 
shaking  hands  with  you." 

"  Sir  Robert,  I  bid  you  good-day,  but  you 
see  that  I  have  my  garden  gloves  on  ;  you 
'  will  excuse  me." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Folliard,"  he  rejjlied,  "  your 
will  is  the  spirit  of  the  British  Constitution 
to  me." 

"A  spu'it  which,  I  fear,  you  have  too  fre- 
quently violated.  Sir  Robert ;  but,  as  papa 
says,  I  believe  your  cruel  occupation  is  gone 
— at  least  I  hope  so." 

"  'Gad,  you  got  it  there.  Sir  Robert,"  re- 
plied her  father,  laughing. 

"  I  must  confess  it,"  replied  the  baronet ; 
"  but  I  think,  in  order  to  ingratiate  myself 
with  Miss  Folliard,  I  shall  take  whatever 
side  she  recommends  me.  How,  Mr.  Fol- 
liard," he  proceeded,  fixing  his  eyes  ujjon 
Reilly — "  what  the  deuce  is  this?  Have  you 
got  Eobmson  Crusoe  here  ?  " 

"  We  have,"  replied  the  squii-e  ;  "but  his 
man  Friday  has  got  married  to  a  Tijiperai-y 
woman,  and  he's  now  in  quest  of  a  desert 
island  for  him  and  her  to  settle  in." 

"I  think,  papa,"  said  Helen,  "that  if  the 
princijjles  of  Sir  Robert  and  his  class  were 
carried  out,  he  would  not  have  far  to  go  to 
look  for  one." 

"  Another  hit.  Bob,  you  dog — another  hit. 
Well  said,  Helen — well  said,  I  say.     Crusoe, 


WILLY  REILLY. 


127 


you  villain,  hold  up  joui-  head,  and  thank 
God  you're  cliristened." 

"  Wid  de  helj)  o'  Gad,  shir,  I  was  chiis- 
thened  afwliore,  sure,  by  de  priesht." 

This  visit  occurred  about  six  weeks  after 
the  appointment  of  the  new  Viceroy  to  the 
Government  of  Ireland,  and  about  live  after 
the  sheriff's  illness. 

"  Come,  Whitecraft,"  said  the  squu'e, 
"  come  and  let  us  have  lunch :  I'U  hold  a 
crown  I  give  you  as  good  a  glass  of  Bui- 
giuidy  as  you  gave  me  the  other  day,  and 
will  say  done  first." 

"  Won't  Miss  Folliard  join  us  at  lunch?" 
asked  ^Mlitecraft,  looking  to  her  for  an  as- 
sent. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  so,"  rej^lied  her  father  ; 
"won't  you  come,  Helen  ?  " 

"  You  know,  papa,  I  never  lunch."  v 

"  'Gad.  and  neither  j'ou  do,  Helen.  Come, 
Sir  Eobert,  we  will  have  a  mouthful  to  eat, 
and  something  good  to  wash  it  down  ;  come 
along,  man.  what  the  devil  are  you  scrutin- 
izing poor  old  Robinson  Crusoe  for  ?  Come 
along,  I  saj',  the  old  chap  is  making  the 
green-house  thrive ;  he  beats  Malcomson. 
Here.  jMalcomson,  you  know  Sir  Eobert 
Whitecraf t,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Hout,  your  honor,  wha'  disna  ken  Sir 
Robert  Whitecraft  ?  Isn't  his  name  far  and 
near,  as  a  braw  defender  o'  the  faith,  and 
a  putter  down  o'  Papistry  ?  " 

"  By  the  way,  Malcomson,"  said  Sir  Rob- 
ert, "where  did  you  get  Robinson  Crusoe, 
by  which  I  mean  that  wild-looking  man  in 
the  p^-een-house  ?  " 

"  Saul,  sir,  it's  a  question  I  never  sjieered 
at  him.  He  cam'  here  as  a  gaberlunzie,  and 
on  stating  that  he  was  indoctrinated  in  the 
sceence  o'  buttany,  his  honor  garred  me  em- 
ploy him.  De'il  hae't  but  the  truth  I'll  tell 
— he's  a  clever  buttanist,  and  knows  a'  the 
sceeutific  names  aff  hand." 

"  So  that's  all  you  know  about  him  ?  "  said 
Sir  Robert.  "  He  has  a  de\il  of  a  lieard,  and  is 
shockingly  dressed.    Why  doesn't  he  shave  ?  " 

"  Ou,  just  some  Papistry  nonsense,"  rejjlied 
the  gardener  ;  "  but  we  hae  naething  to  do 
wi'  that,  sae  lang's  we  get  the  worth  o'  our 
siller  out  o'  him." 

"Here's  a  shilling,  Malcomson,"  said  Sir 
Eobert. 

"  Na,  na,  your  honor  ;  a  shilling's  no  for  a 
man  tliat  understands  the  sceence  o'  buttany  : 
a  shilling's  for  a  flimky  in  livery  ;  but  as  for 
me,  I  couldna  conscientiously  condescend 
upon  loss  than  ten  o'  them,  or  may  be  a  pund 
British,  but  I'm  feart  that's  contrair  to  your 
honor's  habits." 

"  WeU,  then,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "  I  have  no 
more  silver,  and  so  I  leave  j'ou  to  the  agi'ee- 
able  society  of  Robinson  Crusoe." 


ReiUy  had  watched  Sir  Robert's  motions, 
as  well  as  his  countenance,  in  a  manner  as 
furtively  as  jjossible.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he 
stared  at  him  broadly,  and  with  a  stuj^id, 
oafish  look,  and  again  jjlaced  himself  in  such 
a  position  behind  the  range  of  ilower-jjots 
which  were  placed  upon  the  ledges,  that  he 
could  observe  him  without  being  perceived 
himself.  The  force  of  habit,  however,  is  ex- 
traordinary. Our  hero  was  a  man  exceed- 
ingly remarkable  for  personal  cleanliness, 
and  consequently  made  a  point  to  wash  his 
hands  morning  and  evening  with  peculiar 
care.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Ijiix  eye  of  Sir 
Robert  observed  their  whiteness,  and  he 
install tly  said  to  himself,  "  This  is  no  common 
laborer  ;  I  know  that  he  is  not,  fi-om  the 
whiteness  of  his  hands.  Besides,  he  is  dis- 
guised ;  it  is  evident  from  the  length  of  his 
beard,  and  the  imnecessary  coarseness  of  his 
ajjparel.  Then  his  figure,  the  symmetry  and 
size  of  which  no  disguise  can  conceal ;  this, 
and  everything  else,  assui'es  me  that  he  is 
disguised,  and  that  he  is,  besides,  no  othei 
individual  than  the  man  I  want,  WiUiam 
Reilly,  who  has  been  hitherto  my  evil  genius  ; 
but  it  shall  go  hard  with  me,  or  I  shall  be  liis 
now."  Such  were  his  meditations  as  he 
jjassed  along  wdth  the  squire  to  join  hiui  at 
lunch. 

When  they  had  left  the  garden,  Reilly  ad- 
dressed his  Cooleen  Bawn  as  follows : 

"Helen,  I  am  discovered." 

"  Discovered  !      O  my  God,  no  ! ' 

"Unquestionably,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it; 
it  is  certain." 

"  But  liow  do  you  know  that  it  is  certain  ?  " 

"  Beoause  I  observed  that  Wliitecraft's  eyes 
were  never  off  my  hands ;  he  knew  that  a 
common  laborer  could  not  possibly  have  such 
hands.  Helen,  I  am  discovered,  and  must  fly." 

"But  you  know  that  there  is  a  change  of 
Administration,  and  that  the  severity  of  the 
laws  has  been  relaxed  agamst  Catholics." 

"Yes,  you  told  me  so,  and  I  have  no  fear 
for  myself  ;  but  what  I  apprehend  is  that 
this  discovery,  of  wlii<'h  I  feel  certain,  will 
l^rGcipitate  your  marriage  with  that  niis- 
ci'eaut  ;  tliey  will  entrap  you  into  it,  and  then 
I  am  miserable  for  ever." 

"  Then,  William,  we  must  fly  this  verj' 
night ;  we  will  proceed  to  the  Continent,  to 
some  Protestant  state,  where  we  can  get 
married  without  any  danger  to  the  clergj'- 
man  who  may  unite  us." 

"  It  is  all  that  is  left  for  us,"  replied  Reilly  ; 
"I  should  sooner  lose  life  than  you,  my 
beloved  Helen  ;  and  now,  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
fly  we  must  ;  and  in  anticiioation  of  the 
necessity  of  this  step  I  left  a  suit  of  clothes 
with  Lanigan  :  or  rather  ^"ith  a  poor  widow, 
who  was  a  pensioner  of  mine — a  Mrs.  Buck- 


128 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ley,  from  whom  Lanigan  got  them,  and  has 
tliem.  I  could  not  think  of  accomj)anying 
you  in  this  vile  dress.  On  your  way  in,  try 
to  see  Lanigan,  and  desire  him  to  come  out 
to  me.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost  ; 
and,  mj'  dear  Helen,  show  no  marks'  of  agi- 
tation ;  be  calm  and  firm,  or  we  are  un- 
done." 

"  Rely  on  me,  dear  EeOly,  rely  on  me  ;  I 
shall  send  Lanigan  to  yoii." 

She  left  him,  and  went  to  her  room,  when 
she  rang  the  bell,  and  her  maid,  the  faithful 
Connor,  who  had  been  restored  to  her  ser- 
vice, came  to  her. 

"Connor,"  said  she,  "I  shall  not  be  able 
to  dine  with  jiapa  to-day,  especially  as  that 
wretch  Whitecraft  is  likely  to  dine  with  him. 
Go  to  Lanigan,  and  tell  him  to  come  to  me, 
for  I  wish  to  know  if  he  has  any  thing  light 
and  delicate  that  he  could  send  to  my  room  ; 
Connor,  I  am  very  unhappy." 

"  But,  miss,  sure  they  say  that  the  laws 
are  changed,  and  that  Mr.  ReiUy  may  go  at 
large  if  he  wishes." 

"I  know  that,  Connor  ;  but  send  Lanigan 
to  me  immediately." 

When  Lanigan  entered  he  found  the  Coo- 
leen  Jlawn  in  tears. 

"My  God,  Miss  FolUar:!,"  said  he,  "what 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  why  are  you  ci-jing, 
or  what  have  they  done  to  j'ou  ?  " 

"Lanigan,"  she  replied,  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  you  and  Connor  only  are  in  our  secret  ; 
we  must  fly  tliis  night." 

"  This  night.  Miss  Folliard  !  " 

"  This  night,  Lanigan  ;  and  you  mu-st  assist 
as."' 

"  To  the  last  drop  of  my  blood,  I  "will." 

"Lanigan,  ReiUy  is  discovered." 

"  Discovered,  miss  !  good  God,  how  was  he 
discovered  ?  " 

"  By  his  hands — by  the  whiteness  of  his 
beautiful  hands.  Now,  Lanigan,  Sir  Robert, 
aware  that  he  cannot  act  the  tjTant  at  pres- 
ent, as  he  used  to  do,  wiU  instigate  my  father 
to  some  act  of  outrage  against  him  ;  for 
you  know.  Lanigan,  how  cowardly,  how 
cruel,  how  -vdndictive,  the  detestable  villam 
is  ;  and  most  assuredly  he  will  make  my 
credulous  and  generous,  but  hot-tempered, 
father  the  instiiiment  of  his  vengeance  u2iou 
Reilly  ;  and,  l^esides,  he  will  certiiinly  lu-ge 
him  to  l)ring  about  an  immediate  marriage 
between  himself  and  me,  to  which,  it  is  true, 
I  would,  and  will  die,  sooner  than  consent. 
I  will  dine  here,  Lanigan,  for  I  cannot  bear 
to  look  upon  my  dear  father,  wliom  I  am. 
about  to — "  Here  lier  tears  interrapted  her, 
and  she  could  proceed  no  farther  ;  at  length 
she  recovered  herself,  and  resumed :  "  I 
know,"  she  added,  "  that  ^Vllitecraft  is  now 
detailing  his  discovery  and  his  plans.     Oh  ! 


that,  for  Reilly 's  sake,  I  could  become  aoi 
quainted  with  them  !  " 

"  What  woidd  you  wish  for  dinner,  Miss 
Folliard  ?  "  asked  Lanigan  calmly. 

"For  dinner?  oh,  anything,  any  thing; 
I  care  not  what ;  but  see  Reilly,  teU  him  I 
have  a  second  key  for  the  back  gate  in  the 
garden,  and  also  for  the  front ;  and,  Lani- 
gan— " 

"  Well,  Miss  Folliard  ;  but,  for  God's  sake, 
don't  ci-y  so  ;  your  eyes  will  get  red,  and 
yoiu'  father  may  notice  it." 

"  True,  thank  you,  Lanigan  ;  and  EeiUy, 
besides,  told  me  to  keej)  myself  calm  ;  but 
how  can  I,  Lanigan  ?  Oh,  my  father  !  mj' 
beloved  father  !  how  can  I  abandon — desert 
him  ?  No,  Lanigan,  I  wiU  not  go  ;  say  to 
Reilly — say  I  have  changed  my  mind  ;  teh 
him  that  my  aifection  for  my  father  ha? 
overcome  my  love  for  him  ;  say  I  will  never 
maiTy — that  my  heart  is  his,  and  never  will 
or  can  be  another's.  But  then  again — he, 
the  noble-minded,  the  brave,  the  g-enerous, 
the  disinterested — alas  !  I  know  not  what 
to  do,  Lanigan,  nor  how  to  act.  If  I  remain 
here,  they  T\-iU  strive  to  force  this  odious 
mari'iage  on  me  ;  and  then  some  fearful  ca- 
tastrojjheA.A'ill  happen  ;  for,  sooner  than  many 
Whitecraft,  I  would  stab  either  him  or  my- 
self. .  Either  that,  Lf,nlgan,  or  I  should  go 
mad  ;  for  do  you  know,  Lanigan,  that  there 
is  insanity  in  our  famUy,  bj'  my  father's 
side?" 

"  Unfortunately  I  know  it,  Miss  FoUiai-d  ; 
your  luicle  died  in  a  mad-house,  and  it  was 
in  that  way  the  estate  came  to  your  father. 
But  remember  what  you  say  Mr.  Reilly  told 
you  ;  be  calm  ;  I  wiU  send  up  some  light 
nourishing  dinner  to  you,  at  the  usual  hour  : 
and  in  the  meantime  I  will  see  him  before 
then,  and  forge  some  excuse  for  bringing  it 
up  myself." 

"  Stay,  Lanigan,  I  am  sadly  peiislexed  ;  I 
scarcely  know  what  I  say  ;  I  am  in  a  state  of 
inconceivable  distraction.  ■  Sujipose  I  should 
change  my  mind  :  it  is  not  unlilcely  ;  I  am 
whirled  about  by  a  crowd  of  contending 
emotions  ;  but — well — let  me  see — oh,  yes 
— it  will  be  as  well,  Lanigan,  to  have  two 
horses  ready  saddled  ;  that  is  no  crime,  1 
hope,  if  we  should  go.  I  must,  of  course, 
put  on  my  riding  habit." 

"  Begging  your  pardon.  Miss  Folliai-d. 
you'll  do  no  such  thing  ;  would  you  ivish  to 
have  yourself  discovered  in  the  first  inn  you 
might  put  ujj  at  ?  No  :  dress  yourself  in  one 
of  Connor's  dresses  so  that  you  may  appear 
as  humble  as  possible,  and  any  thing  but  a 
lady  of  rank  ;  other^-ise,  it  will  be  difticult 
for  you  to  escape  observation." 

"  Well,  Lanigan,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he 
and  I  shall  place  ourselves  under  your  advice 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


129 


and  g^dance.  But  my  father — ob,  my  dear 
father  !  "  And  again  she  \\'riuig  her  hands 
and  wept  bitterly. 

"Miss  Helen,"  said  he,  "as  siu-e  as  the 
LorLi's  in  heaven,  you  will  discover  yourself  ; 
and,  after  all,  liow  do  you  know  that  Sir 
Eobert  /u/s  found  out  Mr.  Keilly  ?  Sure  it's 
nothing  but  bare  suspicion  on  both  your 
2)arts.  At  any  rate,  I'll  saddle  Paudeen 
O'lxatterty  wid  my  own  hands,  and  I'll  jjut 
on  MoUy  Cruddeu's  big  piUiou,  for  you  know 
she's  too  fat  to  walk  to  mass,  and  you  wiU 
feel  yourself  quite  easy  and  comfortable  in 
it." 

"  No,  no,  Lanigan  ;  I  know  not  why  the 
impression  is  on  me  ;  but  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
never  to  exj)erience  comfort  more.  Go  to 
Mr.  EeiUj- ;  make  what  arrangements  he  and 
you  may  think  proper,  and  afterwards  you 
can  acquaint  me  with  them.  You  see, 
Lanigan,  in  what  a  state  of  excitement  and 
uncertainty  I  am.  But  tell  Reilly  that,  raiher 
than  be  forced  into  a  marriage  ivith  Whitecraft 
— raiher  than  ;yo  didracted — rather  than  die — 
I  shall  fly  with  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BMUy's  DUguise  Penetrated — He  Escajies — Fergus 
lieWy  is  on  the  Trail  of  the  Rapparee — Sir  Rob- 
ert begins  to  feel  Confident  of  Success. 

Lanigan,  on  passing  the  dining  pai'lor, 
heard  what  he  conceived  to  be  loud  and 
angiy  voices  inside  the  room,  and  as  the 
coast  was  clear  he  deliberateljf  put  his  eai'  to 
the  key-hole,  which  ear  di-ank  in  the  follow- 
ing conversation  : 

"I  say,  Sii"  Robert,  I'll  shoot  the  villain. 
Do  not  hold  me.  ]\Iy  jsistols  are  unloaded 
and  loaded  eveiy  day  in  the  year  ;  and  ever 
since  I  trausi»rted  that  rebel  priest  I  never 
go  without  them.  But  are  you  sure,  Sir 
Robert?  Is  it  not  possible  you  may  be 
mistaken  ?  I  know  j'ou  are  a  suspicious 
fellow  ;  but  stiU,  as  I  said,  you  are,  for  that 
very  reason,  the  more  liable  to  be  wrong. 
But,  if  it  is  he,  what's  to  be  done,  unless  I 
shoot  him  ?  " 

"  Under  the  last  Administration,  sir,  I 
could  have  answered  your  question  ;  but 
you  know  that  if  you  shoot  him  now  you 
will  be  hanged.  All  that's  left  for  us  is 
simply  to  effect  this  man-iage  the  day  after  to- 
morrow ;  the  documents  are  all  readj ,  and  in 
the  course  of  to-morrow  the  license  caA  be 
procm-ed.  In  the  meantime,  you  must  dis- 
patch him  to-night." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sir  Robert  ?  " 


"  I  say  you  must  send  him  about  his  busi- 
ness. In  i^oint  of  fact,  I  think  the  fellow 
knows  that  he  is  discovered,  and  it  is  not 
unlikely  that  he  may  make  an  effort  to  caiTy 
ofl'yoiu"  daughter  this  very  night." 

"  But,  Sir  Robert,  can  we  not  seize  him 
and  siuTeuder  him  to  the  authorities?  Is 
he  not  an  outlaw  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  Mr.  FoUiiU'd,  he  is  not  an 
outlaw  ;  I  stretched  a  little  too  far  there. 
It  is  tme  I  got  his  name  jjut  into  the  Hue- 
and-Cnj,  but  upon  representations  which  I 
cannot  prove." 

"And  why  did  you  do  so.  Sir  Robert?" 

"Why,  j\ii-.  Folliai-d,  to  save  your  daugh- 
ter." 

The  old  man  paused. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness— I  mean  for  you,  Su-  Roloert ;  but  we 
will  talk  it  ovei%  You  shall  stop  and  dine 
with  me ;  I  want  some  one  to  talk  with — 
some  one  who  will  support  me  and  keep  me 
in  spirits ; "  and  as  ho  spoke  he  sobbed 
bitterly.  "  I  -wi.sh  to  God,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  that  neither  I  nor  Helen — my  dear  Helen 
— had  ever  seen  that  fellow's  face.  You  wiU 
dine  with  me,  Bob  ?  " 

"I  ^^'ill,  upon  the  strict  condition  thet  you 
keep  yourself  quiet,  and  won't  seem  to 
understand  any  thing." 

"  Would  you  recommend  me  to  lock  her 
up  ?  " 

"By  no  means;  that  would  only  make 
matters  worse.  I  sliidl  dine  with  you,  but 
you  must  be  calm  and  quii-t,  and  not  seem 
to  entertain  any  suspicions." 

"  Very  well,  I  shall ;  but  what  has  become 
of  our  lunch?     Touch  the  beU." 

This  hint  sent  Lanigan  downstairs,  who 
met  the  butler  coming  up  with  it. 

"  Wliy,  Pat,"  said  lie,  "what  kept  you  so 
long  viith  the  lunch  ?  " 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  replied  Pat,  "how 
it  would  be  possible  to  jioisou  that  ugly,  ill- 
made,  long-legged  scoundrel,  without  poison- 
ing my  master.  Wliafs  to  be  done,  Lani- 
gan ?  He  will  marry  this  daiiin'  in  spite  of 
us.  And  sure,  now  we  have  oiu"  privileges 
once  more,  since  this  great  Earl  came  to  rule 
over  us  ;  and  siu'e,  they  say,  he's  a  greater 
gentleman  than  the  king  himself.  All  I  can 
say  is,  that  if  this  same  Sii-  Robert  foi-ces  the 
C'ooleen  Bawn  to  such  an  unn.atural  marriage, 
I'll  try  a  dose,  hit  or  miss,  for  a  cowheel 
amnvay." 

Lanigan  laughed,  and  the  butler  passed  on 
witli  the  lunch. 

We  may  state  here  that  ^he  squire,  not- 
withstanding his  outsjioken  manner  against 
Popery,  like  a  terrible  reverend  baronet  not 
long  deceased,  wlio,  notwithstanding  his  dis- 
covery of  the  most  awful  Popish  plots,  and 


130 


WILLIJ.M  CARLETOJS''S  WORKS. 


notwitLstandiug  the  most  extravagant  de- 
nunciations agaiust  Popery,  like  him,  we 
say,  the  old  sqiiu-e  seldom  had  more  than 
one  or  two  Protestant  servants  imder  his 
roof.  Pat  hated  Longshanks,  as  he  termed 
him,  as  did  all  the  household,  which,  indeed, 
Was  very  natural,  as  he  was  such  a  noto- 
liovis  persecutor  of  theii-  reUgion  and  their 
clergy. 

Lanigan  lost  no  time  in  acquainting  Eeilly 
with  what  he  had  heai-d,  and  the  heart  of 
the  latter  paljsitated  with  alai-m  on  hearing 
that  the  next  day  but  one  was  likely  to  join 
his  Cooleen  Bawn,  by  ^'ioleut  and  luinatural 
proceedings,  to  the  man  whom  she  so  much 
detested.  He  felt  that  it  was  now  time  to  act 
in  order  to  save  her.  Arrangements  were  con- 
sequently made  between  them  as  to  the  time 
and  manner  of  their  escape,  and  those  ar- 
rangements, together  with  the  dialogue  he 
had  overheard,  Lanigan  commimicated  to 
the  Cooleen  Bawn. 

The  squire  on  that  day  experienced  strange 
alternations  of  feeling.  His  sjiirits  seemed  to 
rise  and  sink,  as  the  quicksilver  in  the  glass 
is  affected  by  the  state  of  the  atmosj)here. 
He  looked  into  the  future  vAih  terror,  and 
again  became,  to  the  astonishment  of  his 
gTiest — we  now  talk  of  their  conduct  after 
dinner — actuated  by  some  thought  or  im- 
pulse that  put  him  into  high  sjiirits.  "Wliite- 
craft,  cool  and  cautious,  resolved  to  let  him 
have  his  way ;  for  the  squire  was  drinking 
deepily,  and  the  Burgundy  was  good  and 
strong. 

"Bob,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "you don't  drink, 
and  that  is  a  bad  sign.  You  have  either  a 
bad  head  of  late,  or  a  bad  heart,  which  is 
worse.  Hang  you,  sir,  why  don't  you  drink  ? 
I  have  seen  you  lay  lots  of  my  guests  under 
the  table  when  you  were  quite  cool ;  but 
now,  what  are  you  at  ?  They  can't  run  away 
to-night.  Helen  doesn't  know  that  the  dis- 
covery has  been  made.  Arid  now.  Bob,  you 
dog,  listen  to  me,  I  say — would  yon  have  had 
the  manUness  and  courage  to  expose  your- 
self for  the  sake  of  a  j^retty  girl  as  he  did  ? 
— that  is — here's  a  bumper  to  Helen  !  Curse 
you,  wiU  nothing  make  you  drink?  No, 
faith,  he  hadn't  seen  Helen  at  the  time  ;  it 
was  for  a  worthless  old  fellow  like  me  that 
he  exposed  himself ;  but  no  matter,  you  may 
be  right ;  perhajis  it  ioax  a  plot  to  get  ac- 
quainted mtli  her.  Still,  I'm  not  siu-e  of 
that ;  but  if  it  was,  I'll  make  him  smart." 

After  dinner  the  squu-e  drank  deeply — ^^so 
deeply,  indeed,  that  Whitecraft  was  obliged 
to  call  up  some  of  the  male  sei-vants  to  carry 
him  to  his  chamber  and  jsut  him  to  bed.  In 
this  task  Lanigan  assisted,  and  thanked 
his  stars  that  he  was  in-capacitated  from 
watching  the  lovers,  or  taking  any  means  to 


prevent  their  escape.  As  for  Whitecraft 
thought  he,  I  will  soon  send  him  about  his 
business.  Now,  this  gentleman's  suspicions 
were  the  more  deeply  excited,  in  conse- 
quence of  Helen's  refusal  to  meet  him  at 
either  lunch  or  dinner,  a  refusal  which  she 
gave  on  the  plea  of  indisposition.  He  had 
therefore  made  iip  his  mind  to  watch  the 
motions  of  Cooleen  Bawn,  and  he  would  have 
included  Eeilly  in  his  surveillance  were  it  not 
that  Lanigan  informed  him  of  what  he 
termed  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  the 
imder-gardener. 

""Wliat!"  exclaimed  T^Tiitecraft,  "is  he 
gone  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone.  Sir  Kobert,  and  he  left  hia 
week's  wages  behind  him,  for  he  never  came 
to  the  steward  to  ask  it.  And  now.  Sir 
Robert,  to  teU  you  the  truth,  I'm  not  son-y  he's 
gone  ;  he  was  a  disagreeable  old  fellow,  that 
nobodj'  could  make  either  head  or  tail  of  ; 
biit.  Sir  Robert,  listen — wait,  sir,  tiU  I  shut 
the  door — it  -nill  soon  be  getting  dusk  :  you 
know  you're  not  liked  in  the  country,  and 
now  that  ?ce — I  mean  the  Cathohcs — have 
the  countenance  of  Government,  I  think 
that  riding  late  won't  be  for  your  health. 
The  night  air,  you  know,  isn't  wholesome  to 
some  people.  I  am  merely  givin'  you  a  hint, 
Sir  Robert,  bekaise  you  are  a  friend  of  my 
masther's,  and  I  hope  for  your  o-mi  sake 
yon'U  take  it.  The  sooner  you  mount  your 
horse  the  better  ;  and  if  you  be  guided  by 
me,  you'll  try  and  reach  your  own  house  be- 
fore the  darkness  sets  in.  WTao  knows  what 
EeLUy  may  be  plotting?  You  know  he 
doesn't  Hke  a  bone  in  your  honor's  skin  ; 
and  the  ReiUys  are  cruel  and  desperate." 

"  But,  Lanigan,  are  you  aware  of  any  jjlot 
or  consjjiracy  that  has  been  got  uj)  against 
my  life  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  your  honor  ;  but  I  put  it  to 
yourself,  sir,  whether  you  don't  feel  that  I'm 
sjjeaking  the  truth." 

"  I  certainly  know  veiT  well,"  replied  the 
bai'onet,  "  that  I  am  exceedingly  unpopular 
with  the  Popish  party  ;  but,  in  mj'  conduct 
towards  them,  I  only  carried  out  the  laws 
that  had  been  passed  against  them." 

"I  know  that.  Sir  Robert,  and,  as  a  Cath- 
olic, I  am  sorry  that  you  and  others  were 
supi^orfed  and  egged  on  by  such  laws.  Why, 
sir,  a  hangman  could  give  the  same  excuse, 
because  if  he  put  a  rope  about  your  neck, 
and  tied  his  cursed  knot  nately  under  your 
left  ear,  what  was  he  doin'  but  fullilliu'  the 
law  as  yovi  did  ?  And  now.  Sir  Robert,  who 
would  shake  hands  with  a  hangman,  unless 
some  unfortunate  highway  robber  or  miu'- 
derer,  that  gives  him  his  hand  because  he 
knows  that  he  will  never  see  his  purty  fac» 
agin.     Tb'fi  discourse  is  all  folly,  however — • 


WILLY  REILLY. 


131 


you  haven't,  a  minute  to  lose — shall  I  order 
your  horse '} " 

"Yes,  you  had  better,  Lanigan,"  replied 
the  other,  with  a  dogged  appearance  of  cow- 
ardice and  revenge.  He  could  not  forgive 
Lanigan  the  illustration  that  involved  the 
comparison  of  the  hangman  ;  still  his  con- 
science and  his  cowardice  both  whisj)ered  to 
him  that  the  cook  was  in  the  I'ight. 

This  night  was  an  eveutfid  one.  The 
coiu'se  of  our  naiTative  brings  us  and  our 
readers  to  the  house  of  Captain  SmeUjn-iest, 
who  ha<l  for  his  next-door  neighbor  the 
stalwai't  curate  of  the  jiarish,  the  Eev.  Sam- 
son Strong,  to  whom  some  allusion  has  lieen  i 
already  made  in  these  pages.  Now  the  dif-  | 
ference  between  SmeUpriest  and  ^\1iitecraft 
was  this — SmeUpriest  was  not  a  magistrate, 
as  AMiitecraft  was,  and  in  his  jniest-hunting 
expeditions  only  acted  upon  wai-rauts  issued 
by  some  bigoted  and  persecuting  magistrate 
or  other  who  lived  in  the  district.  But  as  his 
propensity  to  hunt  those  unfortunate  persons 
was  known,  the  execution  of  the  wan-ants 
was  ahuost  in  eveiy  instance  entnisted  to  his 
hands.  It  was  not  so  with  Su-  Robert,  who, 
being  himself,a  magistrate,  might  be  said  to 
have  been  in  the  position  at  once  of  judge 
and  executioner.  At  all  events,  the  race  of 
blood  was  pretty  equal  between  them;  so  far 
as  the  clergj'  was  concerned  ;  but  in  general 
enmity  to  the  Cathohc  community  at  large, 
Whiteeraft  was  far  more  cruel  and  compre- 
hensive in  his  vengeance.  It  is  indeed  an 
observation  foiuided  upon  truth  and  experi- 
ence, that  in  all  creeds,  in  projjortion  to  his 
ignorance  and  bigotry,  so  is  the  violence  of 
the  jjersecutor.  Whitecraft,  the  self-consti- 
tuted champion  of  Protestantism,  had  about 
as  much  religion  as  Satan  himself — or  indeed 
less,  for  we  are  told  that  he  beUeves  and 
trembles,  while  Whitecraft,  on  the  contrary, 
neither  believed  nor  trembled.  But  if  he  did 
not  fear  God,  he  certainly  feared  man,  and 
on  the  night  in  Cjuestiou  went  home  with  as 
craven  a  heart — thanks  to  Lanigan — as  ever 
beat  in  a  coward's  bosom.  Smellj)riest, 
however,  diifered  fi'om  "WTaitecraft  in  many 
points  ;  he  was  brave,  though  cruel,  and  ad- 
dicted to  deep  potations.  \Vhitecraft,  it  is 
true,  di-ank  more  deej)ly  still  than  he  did  ; 
but,  by  some  idiosj-ucrasy  of  stomach  or 
constitution,  it  had  no  more  effect  upon  him 
than  it  had  upon  the  cask  fi-om  which  it  had 
been  dra\\Ti,  imless,  indeed,  to  reduce  him 
to  greater  sobriety  and  shai-peu  his  pi-e- 
judices. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Rev.  Samson  Strong 
made  his  appearance  in  Smellpriest's  liou.se 
•with  a  warrant,  or  something  in  the  shajse  of 
one,  which  he  placed  in  the  gallimt  cai^tain's 
hand^  "*ho  "vas  dl•ul^k. 


"  "VMiat's  this,  oh,  Samson  the  Strong?' 
said  SmeUpriest,  laughing  and  hiccuping 
both  at  the  same  time. 

"  It's  a  hunt,  my  dear  friend.  One  ol 
those  jDriests  of  Baal  has  united  in  unholy 
bands  a  Protestant  subject  wth  a  subject  oi 
the  harlot  of  abominations." 

"  Samson,  my  buck,"  said  SmeUpriest. 
"I  hope  this  Popish  priest  of  yours  will 
not  turn  out  to  be  a  wUd-goose.  You  know  yoi  i 
have  sent  me  uj)on  many  a  wild-goose  chase 
before  ;  in — in — in  fact,  youuev — never  sent 
me  u23on  any  other.  You're  a  blockhead, 
oil,  divine  Samson  ;  and  that — that  thick 
head  of  yours  would  flatten  a  cannon-b;dl. 
But  what  is  it? — an  intermarriage  between 
the  two  P's — Popish  and  Protestant  ?  " 

"My  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "you  must  be 
aware  that  the  Popishers  have  only  got  lib- 
erty to  clatter  theu-  beads  in  jJubUc  ;  but  not 
to  marry  a  Pojii.sher  to  a  Protestanter.  This 
is  a  glorious  opportunity  for  you  to  come 
home  with  a  feather  in  j'our  cap,  my  deiu'. 
Has  he  far  to  go,  ]\Ii\  Strong  ?  because  he 
never  goes  out  after  the  black  game,  as  you 
caU  them,  sir,  that  I  don't  feel  as  if  I — but  I 
can't  express  what  I  feel  at  his  dear  absence." 

Now  we  have  said  that  Smelljiriest  was 
dr'unk,  which,  in  jjoint  of  fact,  was  true  ;  but 
not  so  drunk  but  that  he  observed  some  in- 
telligent glances  jjass  between  his  wife  and 
the  broad-shouldered  curate. 

"  No,  madam,  only  about  two  mUes. 
SmeUpriest,  you  know  Jack  Houlaghan's 
stri2:)e  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  know  Jack  Houlagha-a's  stripe,  in 
Kilrudden." 

"  WeU,  when  you  get  to  the  centre  of  the 
stripe,  look  a  httle  to  your  right,  and — as 
the  night  is  Ught  enough — you  wiU  see  a 
house — a  cottage  rather ;  to  this  cottage 
bring  your  men,  and  there  you  wiU  find  your 
game.  I  would  not,  captain,  iiuder  other 
circumstiuices,  advise  you  to  recruit  your 
spirits  with  an  additional  glass  or  two  of 
liquor  ;  but,  as  the  night  is  cold,  I  really  do 
recommend  you  to  fortify  yourself  with  a 
httle  refi-eshment." 

He  was  easily  induced  to  do  so,  and  he 
accordingly  took  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
punch,  and  when  about  to  mount  his  horse, 
it  was  found  that  he  could  not  do  so  with- 
out the  as.'sistance  of  his  men  who  were  on 
duty,  in  aU  about  six,  every  one  of  whom, 
as  well  as  the  captain  himself,  was  well 
armed.  It  is  unnecessary  to  state  to  the 
reader  that  the  pursuit  was  a  vain  one. 
They  searched  the  house  to  no  piu-jiose ; 
neither  j^riest  or  fi-iar  was  there,  and  he, 
consequently,  h.ad  the  satisfaction  of  per- 
forming another  wild-goose  chase  with  his 
usual  success,   whenever  the  He's.    Samson 


jf32 


WILLIAM    VARLETOyS   WOIIKS. 


Strong  sent  Lim  in  pvu'suit.  In  the  mean- 
time tlie  moon  went  down,  and  the  night 
became  exceedingly  dark  ;  but  the  captain's 
spirits  were  high  and  boisteroixs,  so  much 
so  that  they  began  to  put  themselves  forth 
in  song,  the  song  in  question  being  the  once 
celebrated  satire  upon  JameH  the  Second 
and  Tyi-connell,  called  "  LUlibullero,"  now 
"The  Protestant  Boys."  How  this  song 
gained  so  much  pojoularity  it  is  difficult  to 
guess,  for  we  are  bound  to  say  that  a  more 
pointless  and  stupid  production  never  came 
fi'om  the  brain  of  man.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
we  must  leave  the  gallant  captain  and  his 
gang  singing  it  in  full  chorus,  and  request 
our  readers  to  accomijauy  us  to  another 
locaHty. 

The  sheriff  had  now  recovered  from  a 
di'eadfid  attack  of  the  prevailing  epidemic, 
and  was  able  to  resume  his  duties.  La  the 
meantime  he  had  heard  of  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  administration  of 
affairs  at  headquarters — a  change  at  which 
he  felt  no  regret,  but  rather  a  good  deal  of 
satisfaction,  as  it  relieved  him  from  the 
performance  of  very  disagreeable  and  invid- 
ious duties,  and  the  execution  of  many 
severe  and  inhuman  laws.  He  was  now 
looking  over  and  signing  some  jjAjJers,  when 
he  rang  the  bell,  and  a  servant  entered. 

"  Tom,"  said  he,  "  there  is  an  old  man,  a 
230or  mendicant,  to  call  here,  who  was  once 
a  servant  in  oiu-  family ;  when  he  comes 
show  him  into  the  office.  I  expect  some 
important  family  information  fi'om  him  re- 
si>ecting  the  jsroperty  which  we  are  disputing 
about  in  the  Court  of  Chancery." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  rejshed  the  servant,  "I 
shall  do  so?' 

This  occurred  on  the  day  of  ^Vhitecraft's 
visit  to  Squii-e  FolliiU'd,  and  it  was  on  the 
evening  of  the  same  that  SmeU23riest  was 
sent  upon  the  usual  chase,  on  the  infor- 
mation of  the  Kev.  Samson  Strong  ;  so  that 
the  events  to  which  we  have  alluded  oc- 
curred, as  if  bj'  some  secret  relation  to  each 
othei',  on  the  same  day. 

At  length  our  fi-iend  Fergus  entered  the 
office,  in  his  usual  garb  of  an  aged  and 
confirmed  mendicant. 

"Well,  Eeilly,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  am 
glad  you  have  come.  I  could  have  taken  up 
this  ruffiiin,  this  Red  Eapjjaree,  as  he  is 
pro])erly  called,  upon  suspicion ;  but  that 
would  have  occasioned  delay  ;  and  it  is  my 
object  to  lodge  him  in  jail  this  night,  so  as 
to  give  hhn  no  chance  of  escape  unless  he 
breaks  prison  ;  but  in  order  to  prevent 
that,  I  shiill  give  strict  injunctions,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  danger  to  be  apiirehended 
from  so  powerful  and  desperate  a  character, 
that  he  be  kej)t  in  strong  irons." 


"  If  it  be  withiu  the  strength  of  man,  sir, 
to  break  iJrison,  he  vdll ;  he  done  it  twice 
before  ;  and  he's  under  the  notion  that  he 
never  was  boi-n  to  be  hanged  ;  some  of  the 
ould  jDrophecy  men,  and  Slary  Mahon,  it 
seems,  tould  him  so." 

"In  the  meantime,  EeiUy,  we  shall  test 
the  trath  of  such  proi^hecies.  But  listen. 
AVhat  is  yom-  wish  that  I  should  do  for  you, 
in  addition  to  what  I  have  already  done. 
You  know  what  I  have  promised  you,  and 
that  for  some  time  jsast,  and  that  I  have  the 
Secretary's  letter  stating  that  you  are  free, 
and  have  to  <b'ead  neither  arrest  nor  punish- 
ment ;  but  that  is  ujjou  the  condition  that 
you  shall  give  all  the  evidence  agr.inst  this 
man  that  you  are  jiossessed  of.  In  that  case 
the  Government  will  also  bountifully  reward 
you  besides." 

"The  Government  need  not  think  of  any 
such  thing,  your  honor,"  rejjUed  Eeillj' ;  "a 
jienny  of  Government  money  will  never  cross 
my  pocket.  It  isn't  for  any  reward  I  come 
against  this  man,  but  because  he  joined  the 
blood-hounds  of  Sir  Eobert  A\Tiitecraft 
against  his  ovn\  priests  and  his  own  reh- 
gion  ;  or  at  laste  against  the  religion  he 
professed,  for  I  don't  think  he  ever  had 
any." 

"Well,  then,  I  can  make  you  one  of  my 
officers." 

"  Is  it  to  go  among  the  poor  and  distressed, 
sir,  and  help,  maybe,  to  take  the  bed  from 
rmdher  the  sick  father  or  the  sick  mother, 
and  to  leave  them  without  a  stick  undher  the 
ould  roof  or  naked  walls  ?  No,  sir  ;  sooner 
than  do  that  I'd  take  to  tlie  highwaj'  once 
more,  and  rob  lUce  a  man  in  the  face  of  dan- 
ger. That  I  may  never  see  to-morrow,"  he 
jn'oceeded,  with  vehemence,  "  but  I'd  rather 
rob  ten  rich  men  than  harish  one  poor  fami- 
ly. It  was  that  work  that  druv  me  to  the 
coorse  X  left — that  an'  the  persecution  tliat 
was  upon  us.  Take  my  word,  su',  that  in 
nineteen  cases  out  of  twenty  it  was  the  laws 
themselves,  and  the  poverty  they  brought 
ujjon  the  country,  that  made  the  robbers." 

"  But  could  you  not  give  evidence  agiiinst 
some  others  of  the  gang  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  there  is  not  one  of  them  ui  this 
j)art  of  the  kingdom,  and  I  believe  the  most 
of  them  all  are  out  of  it  altogether.  But, 
even  if  they  were  not,  I,  sir,  am  not  the  man 
to  betray  them  ;  the  Ecd  EappiU'ee  would,  iJ 
he  could  get  at  them  ;  but,  thank  God,  I've 
put  every  man  of  them  beyond  his  reach." 

"  You  did  !  and  pray,  now,  why,  may  I  ask, 
did  that  happen  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  it  came  to  my  ears  that  it  was 
his  intention  to  inform  against  them,  and  to 
surrender  them  all  to  the  Government." 

"  Well,  EeUl}',  after  all,  I  beheve  you  to  be 


WILLY  EEILLi. 


t33 


an  boiiest  fellow,  even  although  jou  were 
once  a  robber  ;  Init  the  question  now  is,  what 
is  to  be  done  ?  Are  you  sure  of  his  where- 
abouts ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  sir  ;  or,  if  I  am  not,  I  know 
one  that  is.  But  I  have  an  obseiTation  to 
make.  Yoii  know,  sir.  I  would  a'  gone  abroad, 
a  freeman  before  this  time,  only  that  its  neces- 
sary I  should  still  keep  on  my  disguise,  in 
ordher  that  I  may  move  about  as  I  wish  until 
I  secure  this  Red  Rai>paree.  After  that,  sir, 
please  God,  I'll  taste  a  mouthful  of  freedom. 
In  the  meantime  I  know  one,  as  I  said,  that 
will  enable  us  to  make  sure  of  him." 

"  Pray,  who  is  that  ?  " 

"Tom  Steeple,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  poor  fool  of  that  name 
— or  rather,  I  believe,  of  that  nickname  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir  ;  and  in  many  things  he's  less 
of  a  fool  than  wiser  men.  He  has  been  dodg- 
in'  him  for  the  last  two  or  thi-ee  days  ;  and 
he's  a  person  that  no  one  would  ever  suspect, 
tiiiless,  indeed,  the  cautious  and  pi-actised 
Eapparees  ;  but  in  ortUier  to  meet  any  such 
suspicion,  I  have  got  upon  the  right  trail  my- 
self —we're  siu-e  of  him  now,  I  think." 

"Well,  Eeilly,"  proceeded  the  sheriff,  "I 
leave  the  management  of  the  captiu-e  of  this 
man  to  yourself.  You  shall  have  a  strong 
and  determined  party  to  suj^isort  you.  Do 
you  only  show  them  the  man,  and,  take  my 
word  for  it,  they  wUl  secure  the  robber. 
After  this  ai&ir  is  over  you  must  tlu'ow  off 
those  rags.  I  ^^dll  furnish  you  with  decent 
clothes,  and  you  can  go  out  at  large  without' 
fear  or  ii.sk,  and  that  under  your  own  name 
too.  I  took  yoiu'  hint,  and  decUned  swear- 
ing the  informations  against  him  before  the 
old  squire,  as  I  had  intended,  fi'om  an  ap- 
prehension that  he  might  iiossibly  blab  the 
fact  to  Whitecraft,  who,  if  your  information 
be  coiTeet,  would  have  given  him  notice  to 
fly,  or  otherwise  couceaJed  him  fi-om  jus- 
tice." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Reilly,  "it's  my  opinion 
that  the  Rapparee  ^^ill  lodge  in  Shgo  jail  be- 
fore to-morrow  moruin' ;  and  it's  a  thousand 
j)ities  that  'NMaiteeraft  shouldn't  be  sent  there 
to  keei?  him  company." 

"  He  certainly  is  the  most  impoptilar  man 
li\ing.  In  the  exuberance  of  his  loyalty  he 
has  contrived  to  offend  almost  every  liberal 
Protestant  in  the  county,  and  that  with  an 
uujustitiable  degree  of  wanton  and  overbear- 
ing insolence,  arising  fi-om  his  consciousness 
of  impunity.  However,  thank  God,  his  day 
is  gone  by.  But,  mark  me,  Reilly — I  had  al- 
most forgotten — don't  neglect  to  secure  the 
clothes  in  which  the  villtiin  robbed  me  ;  they 
wUl  be  important." 

"I  had  no  intention  of  forgetting  them, 
eir  ;  and  that  scheme  for  throwing  the  guilt 


of  his  own.  villany  on  ]\Ir.  Reilly  is  anothei 
reason  why  I  apjjear  against  him." 

It  was  not,  indeed,  very  easy  for  the  Rap- 
paree to  escape.  Whitecraft  got  home  safe, 
a  httle  before  dusk,  after  i^uttiug  his  unfortu- 
nate horse  to  more  than  his  natural  speed. 
On  his  arriviU  he  ordered  ■«ine  to  be  brought, 
and  sat  down  to  meditate  ujion  the  most 
feasible  plan  for  reinstating  himself  in  the 
good  graces  of  the  new  Government.  After 
pondering  over  many  sjiecidations  to  that 
effect,  it  occurred  to  him  that  to  secure  the 
Rapparee,  now  that  he  could,  as  an  agent 
and  a  guide,  be  of  no  further  use  to  him,  was 
the  most  hkely  procedure  to  elifect  his  i3ur- 
pose.  He  accordingly  rang  for  liis  usual  at- 
tendant, and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where 
O'Domiel  was.  The  man  re23lied  that  he  was 
generally  in  or  about  Mary  Mahon's. 

" Then,"  proceeded  his  master,  "let  him 
be  with  me  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven 
o'clock." 

"If  I  see  him,  sir,  I  shall  tell  him." 

"  And  say  that  I  have  something  to  his 
advantage  to  mention  to  him." 

"  Yes,  su' ;  I  shan't  forget  it." 

"  Now,"  said  he,  after  the  seiTant  had 
withdrawn,  and  taking  a  bumper  of  wine, 
"  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  I  feel  very  un- 
comfortable somehow.  I  certaintly  did  not 
expect  a  change  in  the  Administration,  nor 
a  relaxation  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  laws 
against  Pajjists  ;  and,  under  this  impression, 
I  fear  I  have  gone  too  far,  and  that  I  may  be 
brought  over  the  coals  for  my  conduct.  I 
understand  that  the  old  French  Ahh'e  is  re- 
turned, and  once  more  a  resident  in  the 
family  of  that  cursed  marquis.  I  think,  by 
the  way,  I  should  go  and  apologize  to  both 
the  marquis  and  the  Ahhe,  and  throw  the 
blame  of  my  own  ^iolence  ui)on  the  conduct 
and  instructions  of  the  last  Government ; 
that,  and  the  gi\ing  up  of  this  ruffianly 
Rapj^aree  to  the  jn-esent,  may  do  something 
for  me.  This  country,  however,  nov-r  that 
matters  have  taken  such  an  ruiexpeeted  turn, 
shall  not  long  be  my  jjlace  of  residence.  As 
for  ReiUy,  my  marriage  on  the  day  after  to- 
moiTow  with  that  stubborn  beauty,  Helen 
FoUiard,  wUl  place  an  impassable  barrier  be- 
tween him  and  her.  I  am  glad  he  has  es- 
caj)ed,  for  he  will  not  be  in  our  way,  and 
we  shall  start  for  my  Enghsh  estates  im- 
mediately after  the  ceremony.  To-morrow, 
however,  I  shall  secure  the  Rapparee,  and 
hand  him  over  to  the  authorities.  I  could 
have  wished  to  hang  ReiUy,  but  now  it  is 
impossible  ;  still,  we  shall  start  for  England 
immediately  after  the  nu25tial  knot  is  tied, 
for  I  don't  think  I  could  consider  myself 
safe,  now  that  he  is  at  large,  and  at  liberty 
to  aj)pear  in  his  proper  name  and  person. 


134 


WILLIAM    UARLETON'S    WORKS. 


especially  after  all  the  luiscliief  I  have  done 
him,  in  addition  to  the  fact  of  my  bearing 
away  his  Gooleen  Bawn,  as  she  is  called." 

In  fact,  the  man's  mind  was  a  turbid  chaos 
of  reflections  ujDon  the  j)ast  and  the  future, 
in  which  selfishness,  disappointed  vengeance, 
terror,  hypocritical  policj',  and  every  feohug 
that  could  fill  the  imagination  of  a  man 
possessed  of  a  vacillating,  cowardly,  and 
cruel  heart,  with  the  exception  only  of  any 
thing  that  could  border  ujion  j^enitence  or  re- 
morse. That  Miss  EoUiard  was  not  indif- 
ferent to  him  is  true  ;  but  the  feeling  which 
he  experienced  towards  her  contained  only 
two  elements — sensuality  and  avarice.  Of 
love,  in  its  purest,  highest,  and  holiest  sense, 
he  was  utterly  incaj^able  ;  and  he  was  not 
ignorant  himself  that,  in  the  foul  attachment 
which  he  bore  her,  he  was  only  carrying 
into  effect  the  jjrincijJes  of  his  pre\'ious  life 
— those  of  a  i^rivate  debauchee,  and  a  miser. 
That  amiable,  but  uuhapi^y  and  distracted, 
lady  Sf)ent  that  whole  evening  in  making 
preiJarations  for  her  flight  with  ReHly.  Her 
manner  was  wild  and  excited  ;  indeed,  so 
much  so  that  the  presence  of  miud  and  cool 
good  sense,  for  which  her  maid  Connor  was 
remarkable,  were  scarcely  sufficient  to  guide 
and  direct  her  in  this  distressing  emergency. 
She  seemed  to  be  absorbed  by  but  one 
thought,  and  that  was  of  her  father.  His 
affection  for  her  enlarged  and  exj^anded  it- 
self iu  her  loving  heart,  with  a  force  and 
tenderness  that  neai'ly  drove  her  into  de- 
lirium. Connor,  in  the  meantime,  got  all 
things  ready,  she  herself  having  entmsted 
the  management  of  every  thing  to  her.  The 
inihappy  girl  j^aced  to  and  fro  her  room, 
sobbing  and  weeping  bitterly,  wringing  her 
hands,  and  exclaiming  fi'om  time  to  time  : 

"  Oh,  my  father  !  my '  dear  and  loving 
father !  is  this  the  return  I  am  making  you 
for  your  tenderness  and  affection  ?  what  am 
I  about  to  do  ?  what  steps  am  I  going  to 
take '?  to  leave  j'ou  desolate,  mth  no  heart 
for  yours  to  repose  xqiou  !  Alas  !  there  was 
but  one  heart  that  you  cared  for,  and  in  the 
duty  and  affection  of  that  all  your  hojjes  for 
my  happiness  lay  ;  and  now,  when  you  awake, 
you  will  find  that  that  heart,  the  veiy  heart 
on  which  you  rested,  has  deserted  you ! 
WTien  you  come  down  to  breakfast  iu  the 
morning,  and  find  that  your  o'\\ti  Helen, 
yoiu-  only  one,  has  gone — oh  !  who  will  sus- 
tain, or  soothe,  or  calm  you  in  the  frenzi  ;d 
grief  of  your  desolation '?  But  alas !  what 
can  I  do  but  escaj)e  from  that  cowardly  and 
vindictive  villain — the  very  incarnation  of 
oppression  and  j)ersecution  ;  the  hypocrite, 
the  secret  debauchee,  the  mean,  the  dastardly, 
whose  inhuman  ambition  was  based  upon 
and  mutui-ed  by  blood  ?     Alas  !  I  have  but 


the  one  remedy  —  flight  with  my  noblei 
minded  lover,  whom  that  dastardly  viUaia 
would  have  hunted,  even  to  his  miu-der,  or 
an  ignominious  death,  which  woidd  have 
been  worse.  This  flight  is  not  si^ontaneously 
mine  ;  I  am  forced  to  it,  and  of  two  evils  I 
wiU  choose  the  least ;  surely  I  am  not  bound 
to  seal  my  own  misery  forever." 

Connor  had  by  this  time  attemjited,  as  far 
as  she  could,  to  disguise  her  iu  one  of  her 
o^Ti  dresses  ;  but  nothing  could  conceal  the 
elegance  and  exquisite  proj^ortion  of  her 
figure,  nor  the  ladylike  harmony  and  gi-aee  of 
her  motions.  She  then  went  to  the  oaken 
cabinet,  mentioned  hj  her  father  in  the  open- 
ing of  our  naiTative,  and  as  she  alwaj's  had 
the  key  of  that  jDortion  of  it  which  contained 
her  own  diamonds,  and  other  projjerty,  she 
took  a  casket  of  jewels  of  immense  value 
from  it,  and  returned  to  her  room,  where  she 
found  Connor  before  her. 

"  Rlr.  ReiUy  is  ready,  miss,"  she  said,  "  and 
is  waiting  for  you  behind  the  garden  ;  the 
only  one  I  dread  in  the  house  is  Andj'  Ciim- 
miskey  ;  he  is  so  much  attached  to  the  mas- 
ter that  I  think  if  he  knew  you  were  about 
to  escape  he  would  tell  liim." 

"Well,  Connor,  we  must  onlj-  avoid  him 
as  well  as  we  can ;  but  where,  or  how,  shall 
I  carry  these  jewels  ?  in  these  slight  pockets 
of  yoiu's,  Connor,  they  could  not  be  safe." 

"  Well,  then,  can't  you  give  them  to  him 
to  keep,  and  they'll  be  safe  ?  " 

"  True,  Connor,  so  they  will ;  but  I  give 
him  a  heart  which  he  jnizes  above  them  all. 
But,  alas !  my  father !  oh !  Connor,  shall  1 
abandon  him ?  " 

"  Do  not  distress  yom-self,  my  dear  IVIisa 
FoUiard  ;  your  father  loves  you  too  much  to 
hold  out  his  auger  agamst  you  long.  Did 
you  not  tell  me  that  if  EeUly  was  a  Protestant 
your  father  sxid  he  would  rather  marry  you 
to  him  than  to  Sir  Robert,  the  villain,  with 
aU  his  wealth  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Connor,  and  my  father  certainly 
said  so  ;  but  the  servient,  Connor,  entvsined 
himself  about  the  poor  credulous  man,  and 
svicceeded  in  embittering  him  against  Eeilly, 
who  would  rather  go  to  the  scaffold — yes, 
and — which  he  would  consider  a  greater  sac- 
rifice— rather  abandon  even  me  than  his  re- 
ligion. And  do  you  think,  Connor,  that  I  do 
not  love  my  noble-minded  EeiUy  the  more 
deeply  for  this '?  I  tell  you,  Connor,  that  if 
he  renoimced  his  religion  ujion  no  other 
principle  than  his  love  for  me,  I  should  de- 
spise him  as  a  dishonorable  man,  to  whom 
it  would  not  be  safe  for  me  to  entrust  my 
hapjDiness." 

"  WeU,  well ;  but  now  it  is  time  to  startv 
and  ReiUy,  as  I  said,  is  wiutiug  for  you  be 
huid  the  sarden." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


13a 


"  Oil,  Connor,  ami  is  it  come  to  this  ?  my 
dear  j)ap:i !  but  I  cannot  go  until  I  see  bim  ; 
no,  Connor,  I  could  not  ;  I  sball  go  quietly 
into  bis  room,  and  take  one  look  at  bim  ; 
probably  it  may  be  tbe  luM.  Oh,  mj'  God  ! 
what  am  I  about  to  do  !  Connor,  keep  this 
casket  until  I  return  ;  I  shall  not  be  long." 

She  then  went  to  bis  chamber.  The  blinds 
and  curtains  of  the  windows  had  not  been 
drawn,  and  it  occuri-ed  to  her  that  as  her 
dress  was  so  dill'erent  from  any  which  her 
father  had  ever  seen  on  her,  some  suspicion 
might  be  created  should  he  observe  it.  She 
therefore  left  the  candlestick  which  she  had 
brought  with  her  on  the  inside  sill  of  a  lobby 
window,  having  obsei-ved  at  the  door  that 
the  moonlight  streamed  in  tlu'ough  the  win- 
dows upon  his  bed.  Judge  of  lier  constei-- 
nation,  howevei',  when,  on  entering  the  room, 
her  father,  turning  himself  in  the  bed,  asked  : 

"Is  that  Helen?" 

"It  is,  papa;  I  thought  you  had  been 
asleep,  and  I  came  up  to  steal  my  good-night 
kiss  without  any  intention  of  awakening 
you." 

"  I  drank  too  much,  Helen,  with  '\\Tiite- 
craft,  whom  wine — my  Biu'gundy — instead 
of  warming,  seems  to  turn  into  an  icicle. 
However,  he  is  a  de\ilish  shrewd  fellow. 
Helen,  darling,  there's  a  jug  of  water  on  the 
table  there  ;  will  you  hand  it  to  me  ;  I'm  aU 
in  a  flame  and  a  fever." 

She  did  so,  and  her  hand  trembled  so  much 
that  she  was  near  spilling  it.  He  took  a  long 
draught,  after  which  he  smacked  liis  lips,  and 
seemed  to  breathe  more  fi-eely. 

"Helen,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  dear  papa." 

"Helen,  I  had  something  to  mention  to 
you,  but — " 

"  Don't  distiu'b  yourself  to-night,  j^ajDa ; 
you  are  somewhat  feverish,"  she  added,  feel- 
ing his  pulse ;  if  you  will  excuse  me,  papa, 
I  think  you  drank  too  much  ;  your  pulse  is 
veiw  cjuick  ;  if  you  could  faU  into  rest  again 
it  would  be  better  for  you." 

"  Yes,  it  would  ;  but  my  mind  is  uneasy 
and  sorrowful.  Helen,  I  thought  you  loved 
me,  my  d.u-lmg." 

"  Oh,  could  you  doubt  it,  papa  ?  You  see 
I  am  come  as  usual — no,  not  as  usual,  either 
— to  kiss  you  ;  I  wiU  jilace  my  cheek  against 
yours,  as  I  used  to  do,  dear  pajia,  and  you 
will  allow  me  to  weep — to  weep — and  to  say 
that  never  father  deserved  the  love  of  a 
daughter  as  you  have  deserved  mine  ;  and 
never  did  daughter  love  an  affectionate  and 
indulgent  father  more  tenderly  than  yom- 
Cooleeti  Bawn  does  yoii." 

"I  know  it,  Helen,  I  know  it ;  your  whole 
life  has  been  a  proof  of  it,  and  mil  be  a  proof 
of  it ;  I  know  you  have  no  other  object  in 


this  world  than  to  make  papa  hapjjy  ;  I  kiio^* 
I  feel  that  you  are  great-minded  enough  to 
sacrifice  everything  to  that." 

"Well,  but,  papa,"  she  continued,  "for  all 
my  former  offences  against  you  will  you  pity 
and  forgive  me  ?  " 

"I  do  both,  you  foolish  darling  ;  but  what 
makes  you  speak  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  feel  melancholy  to-night,  j^apa  ; 
and  now,  i')apa,  if  ever  I  should  do  any  thing 
wrong,  won't  you  pity  and  forgive  youi-  own 
Gooleen  Bawn  ?  " 

"Get  along,  you  gipsy — don't  be  ciying. 
What  could  you  do  that  pajja  wouldn't  for- 
give you,  unless  to  ran  away  with  Eeilly  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  you  can  wind  me  round 
your  finger?" 

"  Farewell,  papa,"  she  said,  weeping  all  the 
time,  for,  in  truth,  slie  found  it  impossible 
to  control  herself;  "farewell — good  night! 
and  remember  that  you  may  have  a  great 
deal  to  forgive  your  own  Gooleen  Bawn  some 
of  these  days." 

On  lea\'ing  the  bedroom,  where  she  was 
hurried  by  her  feelings  into  this  indiscreet 
dialogue,  she  found  herself  nearly  incapable 
of  walking  without  suj)port.  The  contending 
affections  for  her  father  and  her  lover  had 
nearly  overcome  her.  By  the  aid  of  the  stair- 
case she  got  to  her  O'wn  room,  where  she  w  s 
met  by  Connor,  into  whose  arms  she  i.^:!! 
almost  helpless. 

"  Ah,  Connor,"  she  said,  alluding  to  hei 
father,  whom  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
name,  "  to-morrow^  morning  what  wiU  become 
of  him  when  he  finds  that  I  am  gone  ?  Bui 
I  know  his  affectionate  heart.  He  will  relent 
— he  win  relent  for  the  sake  of  his  own  Coolem 
Bawn.  The  laws  agamst  Cathohcs  are  now 
relaxed,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  But  I  have  one 
consolation,  my  dear  girl,  tliat  I  am  trusting 
myself  to  a  man  of  honor.  We  will  proceed 
directly  to  the  Continent — that  is,  if  no  ca- 
lamitous occurrence  should  tidie  place  to  jjre- 
vent  us  ;  and  there,  after  our  nuptials  shall 
ha»e  been  dulj'  celebrated,  I  wiU  live  hajipy 
with  Eeilly — that  is,  Connor,  as  happy  as 
absence  fi'om  my  dear  father  will  permit  me 
— and  Eeilly  will  live  happy,  and,  at  least, 
fi'ee  from  the  persecution  of  bad  laws,  and 
such  villains  as  base  and  -sindictive  "VMiite- 
craft.  You,  Connor,  must  accompany  me  to 
the  back  of  the  garden,  and  see  me  off.  Take 
this  purse,  Connor,  as  some  com25ensation  for 
your  truth  and  the  loss  of  your  situation." 

It  was  now,  when  the  moment  of  separation 
ajiproftched,  that  Connor's  tears  began  to 
flow,  far  less  at  the  generosity  of  her  mistress 
than  her  affection,  and  that  which  she  looked 
upon  as  probably  theii-  final  separation. 

"Deal'  Connor,"  said  her  mistress,  "\ 
woulcl  expect  that  supi^ort  to  my  breaking 


136 


WILL/JiM  CARLETON'S   WuEKS. 


heart  whieli  1  have  hitherto  exijerienced  fi'om 
yoii.  Be  firm  now,  for  you  see  /am  not  firm, 
and  your  tears  only  render  me  less  adequate 
to  encounter  the  imknown  vicissitudes  which 
lie  before  me." 

"  Well,  ihen,  I  loill  be  firm,  my  dear  mis- 
tress ;  and  I  tell  you  that  if  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven  that  rewiU'ds  virtue  and  goodness 
like  yours,  you  will  be  happy  yet.  Come, 
now,  he  is  waiting  for  you,  and  the  less  time 
we  lose  tlie  better.  We  shall  go  out  by  the 
back  way — it  is  the  safest." 

They  accordingly  did  so,  and  had  nearly 
reached  the  back  wall  of  the  garden  when 
they  met  Malcomson  and  Cummiskey,  on 
their  way  into  the  kitchen,  in  order  to  have  a 
mug  of  strong  ale  together.  The  two  men, 
on  seeing  the  females  approach,  withdrew  to 
the  shelter  of  a  clump  of  trees,  but  not  until 
they  were  known  by  Counoi'. 

"  Come,  my  dear  mistress,"  she  whispered, 
"  there  is  not  one  second  of  time  to  be  lost. 
Cummiskey,  who  is  a  Cathohc,  might  over- 
look our  being  here  at  this  hour ;  because, 
although  he  is  rather  in  the  light  of  a  friend 
than  a  servant  to  yom-  father,  still  he  is  a 
friend  to  lleillY  as  well ;  but  as  for  that  ugly 
Scotchman,  that  is  nothing  but  bone  and 
skin,  I  would  place  no  dependence  whatever 
ajDon  him." 

We  will  not  describe  the  meeting  between 
ileiUy  and  the  t'ooleen  Bawi).  They  had  no 
time  to  lose  in  the  tender  expressions  of  their 
feeliugs.  Each  shook  hands  with,  and  bid 
farewell  to,  jioor  aft'ectionate  Connor,  who 
was  now  drowned  in  tears  ;  and  thus  they 
set  off,  with  a  view  of  leaving  the  kingdom, 
and  getting  themselves  legally  married  in 
HoUaud,  where  they  intended  to  reside. 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

The  Rajyiiaree  Senired—Beilly  and  the  Gooleen  Bawn 
Esciijie,  and  are  Cajitured.  , 

Cummiskey  had  a  private  and  comfortable 
room  of  his  o\ra,  to  which  he  and  the  cannie 
Scotchman  proceeded,  after  having  ordered 
IVom  the  butler  a  tankard  of  strong  ale. 
There  was  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  gxate,  and 
when  the  tankard  and  glasses  were  placed 
upon  the  table  the  Scotchman  observed  : 

"  De'il  be  frae  my  saul,  maisther  Cummis- 
key, but  ye're  vera  comfortable  here." 

"Why,  in  troth,  I  can't  comiJlain,  Mr. 
Malcomson  ;  here's  your  health,  sir,  and 
lifter  that  we  must  drink  another." 

"Mony  thanks,  Andrew." 

"Hang  it,  I'm  not  Andrew  ;  that  sounds 
Uke  Scotch  ;  I'm  Aiidy,  man  ahve." 


"Weal,  mony  thanks,  Andy  ;  but  for  the 
maitter  o'  that,  what  the  de'il  waur  wad  it  ba 
gin  it  were  Scotch  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  considered 
a  Scotchman,  somehow." 

"  Weel,  Andrew — Andy — I  do  just  supipos* 
as  muckle  ;  gin  ye  war  considered  Scotch, 
muckle  more  might  be  expeck"  fi'ae  you 
than,  being  an  Irisher  as  you  are,  you  could 
be  prepared  to  answer  to  ;  whereas — " 

"Why,  hang  it,  man  alive,  we  can  give 
three  answers  for  j-our  one." 

"  Weel,  but  how  is  that  now,  Andy  ? 
Here's  to  ye  in  the  meantime  ;  and  'am  no 
sayin'  but  this  yill  is  jiist  richt  g-ude  drink  ; 
it  warms  the  pit  o'  the  stamach.  man." 

"  You  mane  by  that  the  int  o'  the  j-tojnach, 
I  sujij'ose." 

"  Ay,  just  that." 

"  Troth,  Mr.  Malcomson,  you  Seotchera 
bring  everything  to  the  pit  o'  the  stomach — ■ 
no,  begad,  lax  your  pardon,  for  although  you 
take  care  of  the  pratie  bag,  you  don't  forget 
the  i^ocket." 

"  And  what  for  no,  Andy  ?  why  the  de'il 
war  pockets  made,  gin  they  wama  to  be 
filled  ?  but  how  hae  ye  Iiishers  three  answers 
for  our  ane  ?  " 

"  ^Vhy;  first  with  our  tongue  ;  and  even 
with  that  we  bate  ye— flog  you  hoUow.  You. 
Scotchmen  take  so  much  time  in  gi%'in'  au 
answer  that  an  Irishman  could  say  his  pat- 
therin  aves  before  you  spake.  You  think 
first  and  spake  aftherwards,  and  come  out  in 
sich  a  way  that  one  would  suppose  you  say 
gi'ace  for  every  word  you  do  spake ;  but  it 
isn't  '  for  what  we  are  to  receive  '  you  ought 
to  say  '  may  the  Lord  make  us  thankfid,'  Init 
for  what  we  are  to  lose — that  is,  your  Scotch 
nonsense ;  and,  in  troth,  we  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  losin'  it." 

"  Weel,  man,  here's  to  ye,  Andy — on,  man, 
but  this  yih  is  extraordinar'  gude." 

"  AVhy,"  rejilied  j\ndy,  who,  by  the  way, 
seldom  went  sober  to  bed,  and  who  was  even 
now  nearly  three  sheets  in  the  wind,  "  it  is, 
Mr.  Malcomson,  the  right  stuff.  But,  as  I  was 
sayin',  you  Scotchmen  think  first  and  sjjake 
afther — one  of  the  most  unlucky  practices 
that  ever  anybody  had.  Now,  don't  you 
see  the  advantage  that  the  Ii'ishman  has  over 
you  ;  he  spakes  first  and  thinks  aftherwards, 
and  then,  you  know,  it  gives  him  plenty  of 
time  to  think — here's  God  bless  us  ad,  any- 
how— but  that's  the  way  an  L'ishman  bates 
a  Scotchman  in  givin'  an  answer ;  for  if  lie 
fails  by  word  o'  mouth,  why,  whatever  he's 
deficient  in  he  m.akes  up  by  the  fist  or  cudgel  .• 
and  there's  our  three  Irish  answers  for  one 
Scotch." 

"Weel,  man,  a'  richt — a'  richt — we  winna 
quarrel  aboot  it ;  but  I  thocht  yc  promised 


WILLY  REILLY 


137 


to  p;ie  us  aiiolLer  toast — de'il  be  frae  my 
saul,  man,  but  I'll  di-iuk  as  luonj'  as  you  like 
wisiccan  liquor  as  this." 

"  Aj-,  tiotli,  I  did  say  so,  and  de\'il  a  thiug 
but  j'our  Scotch  nonsense  put  it  out  o'  my 
bead.  And  now,  Mr.  Malcomsou,  let  me 
advise  j-ou,  as  a  friend,  never  to  attempt  to 
have  the  whole  conversation  to  yourseK ;  it 
isn't  daiceut." 

"  Weel,  but  the  toast,  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay  ;  troth,  your  nonsense  would  put 
any  thiug  out  of  a  mau's  head.  Well,  you 
see  this  comfortable  room  ?  " 

"  Ou,  ay ;  an  vara  comfortable  it  is  ;  ma 
faith,  I  wuss  I  had  ane  like  it.  The  auld 
squii'e,  however,  talks  o'  buildin*  a  new  ger- 
<len-hoose." 

"  Well,  then,  fill  your  bumper.  Here's  to 
her  that  got  me  this  room,  and  had  it  fur- 
nished as  you  see,  in  order  that  I  might  be 
at  my  aise  in  it  for  the  remaindher  o'  my 
life — I  mane  the  Gooleen  Baxvn — the  Lily  of 
the  Plains  of  Boyle.  Come,  now,  off  with  it ; 
and  if  you  take  it  from  your  lantern  jaws 
till  it's  finished,  divU  a  wet  hp  ever  I'll  give 
you." 

The  Scotchman  was  not  indisposed  to 
honor  the  toast ;  first,  because  the  ale  was 
both  strong  and  mellow,  and  secondly, 
because  the  (Jooleen  Bawn  was  a  great  favorite 
of  his,  in  consequence  of  the  deference  she 
jjaid  to  him  as  a  botanist. 

"Eh,  sirs,"  he  exclaimed,  after  finishing 
his  bumper,  "  but  she's  a  bonnie  lassie  that, 
and  as  gude  as  she's  bonnie — and  de'il  a 
higher  comjsUment  she  could  get,  I  think. 
But,  Andy,  man,  don't  they  talk  some  clash 
and  havers  anent  her  jiredilectiou  for  that 
weel-farraut  caUan,  Reilly  ?  " 

"Ah,  mj' poor  gii-1,"  rejalied  Cummiskey, 
tiiaking  his  head  sorrowfully;  "I  pity  her 
there  ;  but  the  thing's  imjjossible — they  can't 
be  married — the  law  is  against  them." 

"  Weel,  Andy,  they  must  e'en  thole  it  ; 
but  'am  thinkin'  they'U  just  break  bounds  at 
last,  an'  tak'  the  law,  as  you  Irish  do,  into 
their  ain  hands." 

"  What  do  you  mane  by  that  ? "  asked 
Andy,  whose  temper  began  to  get  warm  by 
the  observation. 

"  Ah,  man,"  replied  the  Scotchman,  "  diuna 
let  your  bu-ses  rise  at  that  gate.  Noo, 
there's  the  filbert  trees,  ma  friend,  of  whilk 
ane  is  male  and  the  tither  female  ;  and  the 
upshot  e'en  is,  Andy,  th.at  de'il  a  pickle  o' 
fruit  ever  the  female  produces  until  there's 
a  braw  halesome  male  tree  planted  in  the 
sune  gerden.  But,  ou,  man,  Andy,  wasna 
yon  she  and  that  bonnie  jaud,  Connor,  that 
we  met  the  noo  ?  De'il  be  frae  my  saul,  but 
I  jalouse  she's  aff  wi'  him  this  vara  uicht." 

"  Oh,    dear,    no ! "    rephed    Cummiskey, 


starting  ;  "  that  would  kill  her  father  ;  and 
yet  there  must  be  something  in  it,  or  what 
would  bring  '  them  there  at  such  an  hour '? 
He  and  she  may  love  one  another  as  much 
as  they  hke,  but  /  must  think  of  my  mas- 
ther." 

"  In  that  ease,  then,  our  best  plan  is  to  gie 
the  alai'm." 

"Hould,"  replied  Andy;  "let  us  be 
cautious.  They  wouldn't  go  on  foot,  I  think  ; 
and  before  we  rise  a  ruction  ua  the  house, 
let  us  find  out  whether  she  has  made  off  or 
not.  Sit  you  here,  and  I'll  try  to  see  Con- 
nor, her  maid." 

"  Ah,  but,  Andy,  man,  it's  no  just  that 
jJeasant  to  sit  here  dry-lipj)ed  ;  the  tankard's 
00 1,  ye  ken." 

"  Divil  tankard  the  Scotch  sowl  o' you — 
who  do  you  supjjose  could  think  of  a  tank- 
ard, or  any  thing  else,  if  what  we  susjject 
has  hapijened?     It  will  kill  him." 

He  then  jDroceeded  to  look  for  Connor, 
whom  he  met  in  teai-.s,  which  she  was  utterly 
unable  to  conceal. 

"WeU,  Miss  Connor,"  he  asked,  "what's 
the  matther  ?     You're  cryin',  I  persave." 

"Ah,  Cummiskey,  my  mistress  is  unweU." 

"  Unwell !  why  she  wasn't  imwell  a  while 
ago,  when  the  gardener  and  I  met  her  and 
you  ou  your  way  to  the  back  o'  the  garden." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  rejihed  Connor  ;  "  I  forced  her 
to  come  out,  to  try  what  a  Uttle  cool  air 
might  do  for  her." 

"  Ay,  but,  Connor,  did  you  force  her  to 
come  in  again  '? " 

"  Force !  there  was  no  force  necessary, 
Cummiskey.  She's  now  in  her  own  room, 
quite  in."' 

"  Oh,  then,  if  she's  quite  iU,  it's  right  that 
her  father  should  know  it,  in  ordher  that  a 
docther  may  be  sent  for." 

"  Ah,  but  she's  now  asleep,  Cummiskey — 
that  sleep  may  set  her  to  rights  ;  she  may 
waken  quite  recovered ;  but  you  know  it 
might  be  dangerous  to  disturb  her." 

"Ah,  I  beUeve  you,"  he  re^slied,  dissem- 
bling ;  for  he  saw  at  once,  by  Connor's  agi- 
tated manner,  that  every  word  she  uttered 
was  a  he  ;  "  the  sleep  wiU  be  good  for  her, 
the  darUn' ;  but  take  care  of  her,  Connor,  for 
the  masther's  sake  ;  for  what  would  become 
of  him  if  any  thing  happened  her?  You 
know  that  if  she  died  lie  wouldn't  hve  a 
week." 

"That's  ti-ue,  indeed,"  she  replied  ;  "  and 
if  she  get's  worse,  Cummiskey,  I'll  let  the 
m^aster  know." 

"That's  a  good  girl;  ma  graod  that  you 
war — good-by,  acushla,"  and  he  immevUately 
retiu-ned  to  his  o^\"u  room,  after  having  ob-. 
served  that  Connor  went  down  to  the  kit 
chen. 


138 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"Now,  Mr.  Miik-omsoii,"  said  he,  "there 
is  a  good  fire  before  you.  I  ax  yoru"  pardon 
— just  Bit  ill  the  light  of  it  for  a  miuute  or 
so  ;  I  want  this  candle." 

"  'Am  savin',  Andy,  gin  ye  hand  awa  to  the 
kitchen,  it  wadua  be  a  crime  to  send  up 
anither  tankard  o'  that  yill." 

To  this  the  other  made  no  reply,  but 
wallced  out  of  the  room,  and  verj'  deliberate- 
ly i^roceeded  to  that  of  Helen.  The  door 
was  open,  the  bed  unslejit  ujson,  the  window- 
curtains  undrawn  ;  in  fact,  the  room  was 
teuantless,  Connor  a  liar  and  an  accomi^hce, 
and  the  sus23icions  of  himself  and  Malcomson 
well  founded.  He  then  followed  Connor  to 
the  kitchen  ;  but  she  too  had  disappeared, 
or  at  least  hid  herself  from  him.  He  then 
desired  the  other  female  servants  to  ascertain 
whether  Miss  Folliard  was  within  or  not, 
giving  it  as  his  opinion  that  she  had  elojjed 
with  Willy  ReiUy.  The  uproar  then  com- 
menced, the  house  was  searched,  but  no 
Cooleen  Bawn  was  foimd.  Cummiskey  him- 
self remained  comjiarativelj'  tranquil,  but 
his  tranquillity  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
an  inexpressible  sorrow  for  what  he  knew 
the  afi'ectionate  old  man  must  sufl'er  for  the 
idol  of  his  heart,  upon  whom  he  doted  with 
such  unexampled  tenderness  and  affection. 
On  ascertaming  that  she  was  not  in  the 
house,  he  went  vipstaii's  to  his  master's  bed- 
room, having  the  candlestick  in  his  hand, 
and  tajiped  at  the  door.  There  was  no  reply 
from  within,  and  on  his  entering  he  found 
the  old  man  asleep.  The  case,  however, 
was  one  that  admitted  of  no  delay  ;  but  he 
felt  that  to  communicate  the  melancholy 
tidings  was  a  fearful  task,  and  he  scarcely 
knew  in  what  words  to  shape  the  event  which 
had  occuiTed.  At  length  he  stin-ed  him 
gently,  and  the  old  man,  half  asleej),  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Good  -  night,  Helen  —  good  -  night,  dar- 
ling !  I  am  not  well  ;  I  had  something  to 
teU  you  about  the  discovery  of — but  I  will 
let  you  know  it  to-morrow  at  breakfast.  For 
your  sake  I  shall  let  him  escape  :  there  now, 
go  to  bed,  my  love." 

"  Sir,"  said  Cummiskey,  "  I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me  for  disturbing  vou." 

"What?  who?  who's  there?  I  thought 
it  was  m.y  daughter." 

"  No,  sir,  I  wish  it  was  ;  I'm  come  to  tell 
you  that  Miss  Folliard  can't  be  found  :  we 
have  searched  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
house  to  no  pur2:)ose  :  wherever  she  is,  she's 
not  undher  this  roof.  I  came  to  tell  you  so, 
and  to  bid  you  get  up,  that  we  may  see 
what's  to  be  done." 

"  What,"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up,  "my 
child  ! — my  child — my  child  gone  !  God  of 
heaven  !     God  of  heaven,  sujiport  me  ! — my 


darling  !  my  treasure  !  my  delight  I — Oil, 
Cummiskey  ! — but  it  can't  be — to  desert  me  \ 
— to  leave  me  in  misery  and  sorrow,  broken- 
hearted, distracted  ! — she  that  was  the  prop 
of  my  age,  that  loved  me  as  never  child  loved 
a  father !  Begone,  Cummiskey,  it  is  not  so, 
it  can't  be,  I  say  :  search  again  ;  she  is  some- 
where in  the  house  ;  you  don't  know,  sirra, 
how  she  loved  me  :  why,  it  was  only  this 
night  that,  on  taking  her  good -night  kiss, 
she — ha — what  ?  what  ? — she  wept,  she  wej^t 
bitterly,  and  bade  me  fareictil !  and  said — 
Here,  Cummiskey,  assist  me  to  dress.  Oh,  I 
see  it,  Cummiskej%  I  see  it !  she  is  gone ! 
she  is  gone  !  yes,  she  bade  me  farewell ;  but 
I  was  unsteady  and  unsettled  after  too  much 
drink,  and  did  not  comprehend  her  mean- 
ing.' 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  ahnost 
frantic  distraciion  of  that  loving  father,  who, 
as  he  said,  had  no  proj^  to  lean  ujsou  but  his 
Cuoleen  Baim,  for  he  himself  often  loved  to 
call  her  by  that  ajijiellation. 

"Cummiskey,"  he  proceeded,  "we  will 
jiursue  them — we  must  have  my  darling 
back :  yes,  and  I  will  forgive  her,  for  what 
is  she  but  a  child,  Cummiskey,  not  yet 
twenty.  But  in  the  meantime  I  will  shoot 
him  dead — dead — dead — if  he  had  a  thou- 
sand lives  ;  and  from  this  night  out  I  shall 
pursue  Pojiery,  in  all  its  shapes  and  dis- 
gaiises  ;  I  will  imjirison  it,  transport  it,  hang 
it—  hang  it,  Cummiskey,  as  round  as  a  hoop. 
Pdng  the  bell,  and  let  Lanigan  imload,  and 
then  reload  my  pistols  ;  he  always  does  it ; 
his  father  was  my  grandfather's  gamekeeper, 
and  he  understands  fire-arms.  Here,  though, 
help  me  on  with  my  boots  first,  and  then  I 
will  be  dressed  immediately.  After  gi'ving 
the  pistols  to  Lanigan,  desu-e  the  grooms 
and  hostlers  to  saddle  all  the  horses  in  the 
stables.  We  must  set  out  and  pursue  them. 
It  is  possible  we  may  overtake  them  yet.  I 
will  not  level  a  pistol  against  my  child  ;  but, 
by  the  great  Boyne  !  if  we  meet  them,  come 
up  with  them,  overtake  them,  his  guiltj-  spuit 
mil  stand  before  the  throne  of  judgment  this 
night.  Go  now,  give  the  jjistols  to  Lanigan, 
and  tell  him  to  reload  them  steadily." 

AVe  lea\'e  them  now,  hi  order  that  we  may 
follow  the  sheriff  and  his  party,  who  went  to 
secure  the  body  of  the  Eed  Eajiparee.  This 
worthy  person,  not  at  all  aware  of  the  fiieudly 
office  which  his  jiatron,  Sir  Robert,  intended 
to  discharge  towards  him,  felt  liiniself  quite 
safe,  and  consequently  took  very  little  pains 
to  secure  his  concealment.  Lideed,  it  could 
hardly  be  exjjected  that  he  should,  inasmuch 
as  Wiiitecraft  had  led  him  to  understand,  as 
we  have  said,  that  Government  had  pardoned 
him  his  social  trangxessions,  as  a  ^jo-  conim 
for  those  political  ones  which  they  stiU  ex- 


V/IZry  HE  ILLY. 


130 


pectecl  fi'om  bim.  Sucli  was  liis  o^vn  view  of 
the  case,  although  he  was  not  altogether 
free  from  misgi^-ing,  and  a  certain  vague 
apprehension.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  had 
yet  to  learn  a  lesson  which  his  employer 
was  not  disposed  to  teacli  him  by  any 
other  means  than  handing  him  over  to  the 
authorities  on  the  following  day.  How 
matters  might  have  terminated  between  him 
and  the  baronet  it  is  out  of  our  power  to  de- 
tail. The  man  was  at  aU  times  de.sperate 
and  dreadful,  where  either  revenge  or  anger 
was  excited,  especially  as  he  Inbored  under 
the  sujoerstitious  imj)ression  that  he  was 
never  to  be  hanged  or  perish  by  a  violent 
death,  a  sentiment  then  by  no  means  un- 
common among  persons  of  his  outrageous 
and  desperate  life.  It  has  been  obsei-ved, 
and  with  truth,  tliat  the  L-ish  Kapp.arees  sel- 
dom indulged  in  the  iiab'it  of  intoxication  or 
intemperance,  and  this  is  not  at  all  to  be 
wondered  at.  The  meshes  of  authority  were 
alw.ays  spread  for  them,  and  the  very  con- 
sciousness of  this  fact  sharpened  their  wits, 
and  kept  them  iserpetually  on  their  guard 
against  the  possibility  of  arrest.  Nor  was 
this  all.  The  very  nature  of  the  lawless  and 
outrageous  life  they  led,  and  their  frequent 
exposiu'e  to  danger,  rendered  habits  of  cau- 
tion necessary — and  those  were  altogether 
incompatible  with  habits  of  intemjjerance. 
Self-preservation  rendered  this  policy  neces- 
sary, and  we  believe  there  are  but  few  in- 
stances on  record  of  a  Rapparee  having  been 
arrested  in  a  state  of  intoxication.  Their 
laws,  in  fact,  however  barbarous  they  were 
in  other  matters,  rendered  three  cases  of 
drunkenness  a  cause  of  expulsion  fr-om  the 
gang.  O'Donuel,  however,  had  now  relaxed 
from  the  rigid  observation  of  his  own  rules, 
2)rincipa!ly  for  the  reasons  we  have  already 
stated — by  which  we  mean,  a  conviction  of 
his  own  impunity,  as  falsely  communicated 
to  him  by  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft.  The 
sheriff  had  not  at  iirst  intended  to  be  person- 
ally present  at  his  capture  ;  but  upon  second 
consideration  he  came  to  the  determination 
of  heading  the  party  who  were  autliorized  to 
secure  him.  This  resolution  of  Oxley's  had, 
as  will  presently  be  seen,  a  serious  eifect 
upon  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  the  Gooleen 
Bawn  and  her  lover.  The  party,  who  were 
guided  by  Tom  Steeple,  did  not  go  to  Mary 
Mahon's,  but  to  a  neighboring  cottage,  which 
was  inhabited  by  a  distant  relative  of  O'Don- 
nel. .  A  qu  u'rel  had  taken  place  between  the 
fortune-teller  and  him,  arising  from  his 
jealou.sy  of  Sir  Robert,  which  caused  such 
an  estrangement  as  prevented  him  for  some 
time  from  visiting  her  house.  Tom  Steeple, 
however,  had  haunted  him  as  his  shadow, 
without  ever  coming  in  contact  with  nim  per- 


sonally, and  on  this  night  he  had  him  set  as  » 
soho  man  has  a  hare  in  her  form.  Guided, 
therefore,  by  the  intelligent  idiot  and  Fer- 
gus, the  l^arty  reached  the  cottage  in  which 
the  Rajiparee  resided.  The  house  was  in* 
stantly  suri'ounded  and  the  door  knocked  at, 
for  the  party  knew  that  the  man  was  inside. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman 
who  kept  the  cottage. 

"  Open  the  door  instantly,"  said  the  sher- 
ift^  "or  we  shall  smash  it  in." 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  rephed  ;  "no,  I  won't, 
you  bosthoon,  whoever  you  are.  I  never 
did  nothin'  agin  the  laws,  bad  luck  to  them, 
and  I  won't  ojsen  my  door  to  any  strolling 
vagabone  like  you." 

"  Produce  the  man  we  want,"  said  the 
sheriff,  "  or  we  shall  arrest  you  for  harbor- 
ing an  outlaw  and  a  murderer.  Your  house 
is  now  surrounded  by  mOitaiy,  acting  under 
the  king's  orders." 

"Give  me  time,"  said  the  crone  ;  "I  was 
at  my  jJrayers  when  you  came  to  chsturb 
me,  and  I'll  finish  them  before  I  open 
the  door,  if  you  were  to  bui-n  the  house 
over  my  head,  and  myself  in  it.  Up," 
said  she  to  the  Rapparee,  "through  the  roof 
— get  that  ould  table  undher  jour  feet — the 
thatch  is  thin — shji  out  and  he  on  the  roof 
till  they  go,  and  then  let  them  whistle  jigs  to 
the  larks  if  they  hke." 

The  habits  of  escape  pecidiar  to  the  Rap- 
j)arees  were  well  known  to  Fergus,  who 
cautioned  those  who  sui'roimded  the  house 
to  watch  the  roof.  It  was  well  they  did  so, 
for  in  less  time  than  we  have  taken  to  de- 
scribe it  the  body  of  the  Rajiparee  was  seen 
projectiug  itself  ujiwards  through  the  thin 
thatch,  and  in  an  instant  several  muskets 
were  levelled  at  him,  accompanied  by  instant 
orders  to  surrender  on  jyam  of  being  shot. 
Under  such  circumstances  there  w-as  no  al- 
ternative, and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  hand- 
cuffed and  a  jDrisoner.  The  party  then  pro- 
ceeded along  the  road  on  which  some  of  the 
adventures  already  recorded  in  this  narrative 
had  taken  j^lace,  when  they  were  met,  at  a 
sharp  angle  of  it,  by  Reilly  and  his  Cooleen 
Bawn,  both  of  whom  were  almost  instantly 
recognized  by  the  sheriff  and  his  party. 
Their  arrest  was  immediate. 

"'Mi:  ReiUy,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  am  sori-y 
for  this.  You  must  feel  aware  that  I  neither 
am  or  ever  was  disposed  to  be  your  enemy ; 
but  I  now  find  you  canying  away  a  Protes- 
tant heiress,  the  daughter  of  my  friend, 
contrary  to  the  law's  of  the  land,  a  fact  which 
in  itself  gives  me  the  power  and  authoritj'  to 
take  you  into  custody,  which  I  accordingly 
do  in  liis  Majesty's  name.  I  owe  you  no  ill 
will,  but  in  the  meantime  you  muDt  return 
with  me  to  Squii-e  FoUiard's  house.      Miss 


140 


WILLTAM    CAllLETON'S    WORKS. 


FoUiard,  you  muat,  .is  you  know  me  to  be 
your  father  ;^  friend,  consider  that  I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  restore  yoii  to  him." 

"I  am  not  without  means  of  defence," 
repUed  Eeilly,  "but  the  exercise  of  such 
means  would  be  useless.  Two  of  your  Uves 
I  might  take  ;  liut  youi:%  Mi:  Sherift",  could 
not  be  one  of  them,  and  that  you  must  feel." 

"I  feel,  Mr.  EeUly,  that  you  are  a  man  of 
honor  ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  there  is  ample 
apology  for  your  conduct  in  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  the  j'oung  lady  who  accompanies 
you  ;  but  I  must  also  feel  for  lier  father, 
whose  bereavement,  occasioned  by  her  loss, 
would  most  assuredly  break  his  lieart." 

Here  a  deep  p.anting  of  the  bosom,  ac- 
comjDanied  by  violent  sobs,  was  heard  by  the 
party,  and  Coleen  Ikiwn  whisp)ered  to  Rcillj', 
in  a  voice  nearly  stifled  by  grief  and  excite- 
ment : 

"  Dear  Eeilly,  I  love  you  ;  but  it  was  mad- 
ness in  us  to  t.ake  this  step  ;  let  me  return  to 
my  father — only  let  me  see  him  safe  ?  " 

"But^^Hiiteeraff?" 

"Death  sooner.  Eeilly,  I  am  HI,  I  am  lE  ; 
this  struggle  is  too  much  for  me.  What 
shall  I  do  ?     My  head  is  swimming." 

She  liad  scarcely  uttered  these  words  when 
Ler  father,  accomiJanied  \>j  his  servants, 
dashed  rajiidly  uj),  and  Cummiskey,  the  old 
liuutsman,  inst.antlj'  seized  Eeilly,  exclaim- 
ing, "Mr.  EeiUy,  we  have  you  now;"  and 
whilst  he  spoke,  his  impetuous  old  master 
dashed  his  horse  to  one  side,  and  discharged 
a  pistol  at  our  hero,  and  tliis  failuig,  he  dis- 
charged another.  Thanks  to  Lanigan,  how- 
ever, they  were  both  harmless,  that  worthy 
man  having  forgotten  to  put  in  buUets,  or 
even  as  much  powder  as  would  singe  an  or- 
dinary whisker. 

"Forbear,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  sheriff,  ad- 
dressing Cummiskey  ;  "  unhand  Mx.  EeiUy. 
He  is  already  in  custody,  and  you,  Mi-.  Fol- 
liard,  may  thank  God  that  you  are  not  a 
murderer  tliis  night.  As  a  father,  I  grant 
that  an  apology  may  be  made  for  j'our  re- 
sentment, but  not  to  the  shedding  of  blood." 

"  Lanigan  !  villain  !  treacherous  and  de- 
ceitful villain  !"  shouted  the  squire,  "it  was 
your  2Jerfidy  that  deprived  me  of  my  revenge. 
Begone,  you.  .sneaking  old  jDrofligate,  and 
never  let  me  see  your  face  again.  You  did 
not  load  my  pistols  as  you  ought." 

"No,  ,sir,"  replied  Lanigan,  "and  I  thank 
God  that  I  did  not.  It  wasn't  my  intention 
to  see  your  honor  hanged  for  murder." 

"  Ml'.  FoUiard,"  observed  the  sheriff,  you 
ought  to  bless  God  that  gave  you  a  j)rudent 
servant,  who  had  too  much  conscience  to 
become  the  instrument  of  your  vengeance. 
Restrain  your  resentment  for  the  present, 
and  leave  Mi\  Reilly  to  the  laws  of  his  coiui- 


try.  We  shall  now  proceed  to  yoiu-  house, 
where,  as  a  magistrate,  you  can  commit  him 
to  jJi-ison,  and  I  will  see  the  warrant  execut- 
ed this  night.  We  \r.v.  e  ;ilso  another  jJi'is- 
oner  of  some  celebrity,  the  Eed  Eapparee." 

"By  sun  and  moon,  I'll  go  bail  for  him," 
replied  the  infm-iated  squire.  "  I  like  that 
fellow  because  Eeilly  does  not.  Sir  Robert 
spoke  to  me  in  liis  favor.  Yes,  I  shall  go 
bail  for  him,  to  any  amount." 

"  His  offence  is  not  a  bailable  one,"  said 
the  cool  sheriff;  "nor,  if  the  thing  were 
possible,  would  it  be  creditable  in  you,  as 
a  magistrate,  to  offer  yourself  as  bail  for  a 
common  robber,  one  of  the  most  notorious 
highwaymen  of  the  day." 

"  WeU,  but  come  along,"  replied  the 
squire;  "I  have  changed  my  mind;  we 
shall  hang  them  both  ;  Sir  Eobert  wiU  assist 
and  support  me.  I  could  overlook  the  of- 
fence of  a  man  who  only  took  my  purse  ; 
yes,  I  could  overlook  that,  but  the  man  who 
would  rob  me  of  my  child — of  the  solace 
and  prop  of  my  heart  and  life — of — of — 
of—" 

Here  the  tears  came  down  his  cheeks  so 
copiously  that  his  sobs  jn-eveuted  him  from 
proceeding.  He  recovered  himself,  liowever, 
tor  indeed  he  was  yet  scarcely  sober  after 
the  evening's  indulgence,  and  the  two  parties 
returned  to  his  house,  where,  after  having 
two  or  three  glasses  of  Burgundy  to  make 
his  hand  steady,  he  j)repared  himself  to  take 
the  sheriff's  informations  and  sign  unfor- 
tunate EeiUy 's  committal  to  Sligo  jail.  The 
vindictive  tenacity  of  resentment  by  which 
the  heart  of  the  ruffian  Ea23j)aree  was  ani- 
mated against  that  young  man  was  evinced, 
on  this  occasion,  by  a  satanic  ingenuity  of 
malice  that  was  comjaletely  in  keeping  with 
the  ruifian's  character.  It  was  quite  clear, 
from  the  circumstances  we  are  about  to  relate, 
that  the  red  miscreant  had  intended  to  rob 
I'oUiard's  house  on  the  night  of  his  attack 
upon  il,  in  addition  to  the  violent  abduction 
of  his  daughter.  We  must  premise  here  that 
EeiUy  and  the  Eapj^aree  were  each  strongly 
guarded  in  different  rooms,  and  the  lirst 
thing  the  latter  did  was  to  get  some  one  to 
inform  Mi'.  Folliard  that  he  had  a  matter  of 
importance  concerning  EeiUy  to  mention  to 
him.  This  was  immediately  on  their  return, 
and  before  the  informations  agamst  ReQly 
were  drawn  uj}.  FoUiard,  who  knew  not 
what  to  think,  jjaused  for  some  time,  and  at 
last,  taking  the  sheriff  along  with  him,  went 
to  hear  what  O'Donnel  had  to  say. 

"Is  that  ruffian  safe?"  he  asked,  before 
entering  the  room  ;  "have  you  so  secured  him 
that  he  can't  be  mischievous'?" 

"Quite  safe,  your  honor,  and  as  harmless 
as  a  lamb." 


LIBRARY 

V  THE 

jNIVERSli  Y  OF  ILLINOIC 


WILLY   n LILLY: 


141 


He  and  the  sheriff  then  entered,  and  foimd 
(be  huge  sivage  ehampmg  his  teeth  and 
ohiimiug  with  his  jaws,  until  a  line  of  v.-hite 
froth  eneii'cled  his  mouth,  rendering  him  a 
hideous  and  feai'ful  object  to  look  at. 

"  What  is  this  you  want  with  me,  you  mis- 
begotten villain,"  said  the  squire.  "Stand 
between  the  ruifian  and  me,  fellows,  in  the 
meantime — what  is  it,  su-ra  ?  " 

"Wlio's  the  robber  now,  JMi-.  Folliard?" 
he  asked,  with  something,  however,  of  a 
doubtfid  triumph  in  his  red  glaring  eye. 
"  Your  daughter  had  jewels  in  a  black  cabi- 
net, and  I'd  have  secured  the  same  jewels  and 
your  daughter  along  with  them,  on  a  certain 
night,  only  for  Reilly  ;  and  it  was  very 
uatur.d  he  shoidd  out-general  me,  which  he 
did  ;  but  it  was  only  to  get  both  for  himself. 
Let  him  be  searched  at  wanst,  and,  although 
I  don't  say  he  has  them,  yet  I'd  give  a  hun- 
dred to  one  he  has  ;  t-he  would  never  caiTy 
them  while  he  was  with  her." 

The  old  squire,  who  would  now,  with 
23ecnli:u'  pleasure,  have  acted  in  the  capacity 
of  hangman  in  ReUly's  case,  had  that  unfor- 
tunate young  man  been  doomed  to  undergo 
the  penalty  of  the  law,  and  that  no  jjerson  in 
the  shape  of  Jack  Ketch  was  forthcoming 
— he,  we  say — the  squire — started  at  once 
to  the  room  where  Eeilly  was  seciu-ed,  ac- 
companied also  by  the  sheriff,  and,  after 
nisliing  in  with  a  countenance  inflamed  by 
passion,  shouted  out : 

"  Seize  and  esamuie  that  ^•illain  ;  he  has 
robbed  me — examine  him  instantly  :  he  has 
stolen  the  family  jewels." 

Keilly's  countenance  fell,  for  he  knew  his 
fearful  position ;  but  that  which  weighed 
heaviest  upon  his  heart  was  a  consciousness 
of  the  misinteii^retatious  which  the  world 
might  put  ujjon  the  motives  of  his  conduct 
in  this  elopement,  imputing  it  to  selfishness 
and  a  mercenary  spirit.  "VNTien  about  to  be 
searched,  he  said  : 

"  You  need  not ;  I  will  not  submit  to  the 
indignity  of  such  an  examination.  I  have 
and  hold  the  jewels  for  Jliss  FoUiard,  whose 
iudiviiluid  property  I  believe  they  are  ;  nay, 
I  am  certain  of  it,  because  she  told  me  so, 
and  requested  me  to  keep  them  for  hei'.  Let 
her  be  sent  for,  imd  I  shall  hand  them  back 
to  her  at  once,  but  to  no  other  person  mth- 
out  violence." 

"  But  she  is  not  in  a  condition  to  receive 
them,"  replied  the  sheriff"  (which  was  a  fact)  ; 
"  I  pledge  my  honor  she  is  not." 

"  Well,  then,  iMi-.  Sheriff,  I  place  them  in 
yoiu'  hanils  ;  you  can  do  with  them  as  you 
wish — that  is,  either  return  them  to  Miss 
FolUard,  the  legal  o-mier  of  them,  or  to  her 
father." 

The  sheriff  received  the  casket  which  con- 


tained them,  and  immediately  handed  it  to 
j\Ii\  FoUiard,  who  put  it  in  his  pocket,  ex- 
clauning  : 

"  Now,  Eeilly,  if  we  can  hang  you  for  noth- 
ing else,  we  can  hang  you  for  this  ;  and  we 
vrill,  sir-." 

"You,  sir,"  said  Eeilly,  with  melancholy 
indignation,  "  are  j)rivileged  to  insult  me  ; 
so,  alas  !  is  every  man  now  ;  but  I  can  retire 
into  the  integrity  of  my  own  heart  and  find 
a  consolation  there  of  which  you  cannot 
deprive  me.  My  Ufe  is  now  a  consideration 
of  no  importance  to  myself  since  I  shall  die 
with  the  consciousness  that  your  daiighter 
loved  me.  You  do  not  hear  this  for  the  first 
time,  for  that  daughter  avowed  it  to  your- 
self !  and  if  I  had  been  mean  and  imprin- 
cipled  enough  to  have  abandoned  my  religion, 
and  that  of  my  persecuted  forefathers,  I 
might  ere  this  have  been  her  husband." 

"  Come,"  said  FoUiard,  who  was  not  pre- 
pai'ed  ■with  an  answer  to  this,  "  come,"  said 
he,  addressing  the  sheriff',  "come,  tiU  we 
make  out  liis  mittimus,  and  give  him  the  first 
shove  to  the  gaUows." 

They  then  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Sir  Robert  Accepts  of  an  Invitation. 

The  next  morning  rumor  had,  as  they  say, 
her  hands  and  tongues  very  fuU  of  business. 
Eeilly  and  the  Eed  Eappai'ee  were  lodged  in 
Shgo  jail  that  night,  and  the  next  momiag 
the  fact  was  carried  by  the  aforesaid  rumor 
far  and  wide  over  the  whole  coimtiy.  One 
of  the  fii'st  whose  ears  it  reached  was  the 
gallant  and  ^^l•tuous  Sii-  Eobert  Whitecraft, 
who  no  sooner  heard  it  than  he  ordered  his 
horse  and  rode  at  a  rapid  rate  to  see  Mr.  Fol- 
Hiu-d,  in  order,  now  that  EeOly  was  out  of  the 
way,  to  jDropose  an  instant  mai'riage  with  the 
Cooleen  Bawii.  He  found  the  old  man  in  a 
state  veiy  difficult  to  be  described,  for  he 
had  only  jvist  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
fi'om  the  strongly  sentineUed  chamber  of  his 
daughter.  Indignation  ag.aiust  EeUly  seem- 
ed now  nearly  lost  in  the  melancholy  situation 
of  the  wi-etched  Cooleen  Bawn.  He  had  just 
seen  her,  but,  somehow,  the  interriew  had 
saddened  and  depressed  his  heart.  Her 
position  and  the  state  of  her  feelings  would 
have  been  pitiable,  even  to  the  eye  of  a 
stranger  ;  what,  then,  must  they  not  have 
been  to  a  father  who  loved  her  as  he  did  ? 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  as  he  took  a  ehau'  in  her 
room,  after  her  guards  had  been  desu-ed  to 
withdraw  for  a  time,  "  Helen,  are  you  aware 
that  you  have  eternaUy  disgraced  your  own 


U2 


WJLL/AM  CARLETO:i\S   WORKS. 


name,  and  tli:tt  of  your  father  and  yoiu-  fam- 
ily?" 

Helen,  who  was  as  pale  as  death,  looked 
at  him  with  vacant  and  imrecogniziug  eyes, 
but  made  no  reply,  for  it  was  evident  that 
she  either  had  not  heard,  or  did  not  under- 
stand, a  word  he  said. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "  did  you  hear  me  ?  " 

She  looked  uj^on  him  with  a  long  look  of 
distress  and  misery,  but  there  was  the  vacancy 
still,  and  no  recognition. 

This,  I  sujijiose,  thought  the  father,  is  just 
the  case  with  every  love-sick  gii'l  in  her  con- 
dition, who  will  not  be  allowed  to  have  her 
own  way  ;  but  of  what  use  is  a  father  unless 
he  puts  all  this  nonsense  down,  and  substi- 
tutes his  ow^l  judgment  for  that  of  a  silly 
girl.  I  wiU  say  something  now  that  will 
startle  her,  and  I  viill  say  nothing  but  what 
I  will  bring  about. 

"Helen,  my  darhng,"  he  said,  "are  you 
Tjoth  deaf  and  blind,  that  you  can  neither  see 
nor  hear  yoiu*  father,  and  to-morrow  your 
wedding-day  ?  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  ^vill  be 
here  early  ;  the  sjjecial  Ucense  is  procured, 
and  after  marriage  you  and  he  start  for  his 
English  estates  to  spend  the  honeymoon  there, 
after  which  you  both  must  return  and  live 
with  me,  for  I  need  scarcely  say,  Helen,  that 
I  could  not  live  mthout  you.  Now  I  thmk 
you  ought  to  be  a  happy  girl  to  get  a  hus- 
band possessed  of  such  immense  jjroperty." 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  with  some- 
thing like  returnmg  consciousness.  "But 
where  is  WiUy  ReUly  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  viUain  that  would  have  robbed  me 
of  my  projDerty  and  my  daughter  is  now  safe 
in  Sligo  jail." 

A  flash  of  something  Uke  joy — at  least  the 
father  took  it  as  such — sparkled  in  a  strange 
kind  of  ti'iumph  fi'ora  her  eyes. 

"Ha,"  said  she,  "is  that  viUain  safe  at 
last?  Dear  papa,  I  am  tu-ed  of  all  this — 
this — yes,  I  am  tired  of  it,  and  it  is  time  I 
should  ;  but  you  talked  about  something 
else,  did  you  not?  Something  about  Sir 
Eobert  Whitecraft  and  a  marriage.  And 
what  is  my  reply  to  that  ?  why,  it  is  this, 
papa  :  /  heme  hut  one  life,  sir.  Now  begone, 
and  leave  me,  or,  upon  my  honor,  I  will  j)ush 
you  out  of  the  room.  Have  I  not  consented 
to  all  your  terms.  Let  Sir  Robert  come  to- 
morrow and  he  shall  call  me  his  wife  before 
the  sun  reaches  his  meridian.  Now,  leave 
me  ;  leave  me,  I  say." 

In  this  uncertain  state  her  father  found 
himself  comi:>elled  to  retire  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Sir  Eobert  and  he  met. 

"'Mi:  FoUiard,"  said  the  baronet,  "is 
this  tnie  ?  " 

"  Is  what  tiTie,  Sir  Robert  ? "  said  he 
sharply. 


"  Wlij,  that  Eeilly  and  the  Red  Rapparet 
are  both  in  Shgo  jail  ?  " 

"  It  IK  true.  Sir  Robert ;  and  it  must  be  ;» 
cursed  thing  to  be  in  jaU  for  a  capital 
crime." 

"  Ai'e  j'ou  becoming  penitent,"  asked  the 
other,  "  for  bringing  the  laws  of  the  land  to 
bear  upon  the  villain  that  would  have  dis- 
graced, and  might  have  ruined,  your  only 
daughter  ?  " 

The  father's  hear't  was  stung  by  the  dia- 
bolical pungency  of  this  question. 

"  Sir  Robert,"  said  he,  "  we  will  hang  him, 
if  it  was  only  to  get  the  viUain  out  of  the 
waj' ;  and  if  you  will  be  here  to-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock,  the  marriage  must  take  place.  I'll 
suffer  no  fiu-ther  nonsense  about  it ;  but, 
mark  me,  after  the  honeymoon  shall  have 
jjassed,  you  and  she  must  come  and  reside 
here  ;  to  think  that  I  could  live  without  her 
is  imjiossible.  Be  here,  then,  at  ten  o'clock  ; 
the  special  license  is  ready,  and  I  have 
asked  the  Rev.  Samson  Strong  to  perform 
the  ceremony.  A  couple  of  my  neighbor 
Ashford's  daughters  wiU  act  as  bridesmaids, 
and  I  myself  will  give  her  away  :  the  mar- 
riage articles  are  drawn  up,  as  you  know, 
and  there  -will  be  little  time  lost  in  signing 
them  ;  and  yet,  it's  a  jiity  to — but  no  matter 
— be  here  at  ten." 

"\ATiitecraft  took  his  leave  in  high  spirits. 
The  arrest  and  imprisonment  of  ReUly  had 
removed  the  great  imisediment  tliat  had 
hitherto  lain  in  the  way  of  his  marriage  ; 
but  not  so  the  imprisonment  of  the  Red 
Rapf)aree.  The  baronet  regretted  that  that 
IJubUc  and  notorious  malefactor  had  been 
taken  out  of  his  own  hands,  because  he 
wished,  as  the  reader  knows,  to  make  the 
delivering  of  him  up  to  the  Government  one 
of  the  elements  of  his  reconcihation  to  it. 
Still,  as  matters  stood,  he  felt  on  the  whole 
gratified  at  what  had  happened. 

FoUiard,  after  the  baronet  had  gone,  knew 
not  exactly  how  to  dispose  of  himself.  The 
truth  is,  the  man's  heart  was  an  anomaly — a 
series  of  contradictions,  in  which  one  feeling 
opposed  another  for  a  brief  sjiace,  and  then 
was  obliged  to  make  way  for  a  new  prejudice 
equally  transitory  and  evanescent.  White- 
craft he  never  heartily  liked  ;  for  though  the 
man  was  blunt,  he  could  look  through  a 
knave,  and  apiijreciate  a  man  of  honor,  with 
a  great  deal  of  shrewd  acciu'acy.  To  be 
siu'e,  Whitecraft  was  enormously  rich,  but 
then  he  was  ijenurious  and  inhospitable, 
two  vices  strongly  and  decidedly  oiij)osed  to 
the  national  feeling. 

"  Curse  the  long-legged  scoundrel,"  lie 
exclaimed  ;  "  if  he  should  beget  me  a  young 
breed  of  Whitecrafts  like  himself  I  would 
rather  my  daughter  were  dead  than  man-y 


WILLY  JiEILLY. 


143 


aim.  Then,  on  the  otlier  hand,  Keilly  ; 
hang  the  fellow,  had  he  only  recanted  his 
nonsensical  creed,  I  could — hut  then,  again, 
he  might,  after  marriage,  brmg  her  over 
to  the  Pafiists,  and  then,  by  the  Boyue,  all 
my  immense  property  would  become  Roman 
Catholic.  By  Strougbow,  he'd  teach  the  very 
i-ivers  that  run  through  it  to  sing  Poj)ish 
jjsalms  in  Latin  :  he  would.  However,  the 
best  way  is  to  hang  him  out  of  the  way,  and 
when  Jack  Ketch  has  done  with  him,  so  has 
Helen.     Curse  "Wliiteeraft,  at  all  events  !  " 

We  may  as  well  hint  here  that  he  had 
touched  the  Burgundy  to  some  purpose  ;  he 
was  now  in  that  state  of  mental  imbecility 
where  reason,  baffled  and  jjrostrated  by 
severe  mental  suti'ering  and  agitation,  was 
incapable  of  sustaining  him  without  having 
recoiu'se  to  the  bottle.  In  the  due  progress 
of  the  night  he  was  heljDed  to  bed,  and  had 
scarcely  been  placed  and  covered  up  there 
when  he  fell  fast  asleep. 

Whitecraft,  in  the  meantime,  suspected, 
of  course,  or  rather  he  was  perfectly  aware 
of  the  fact,  that  unless  by  some  ingenious 
manoeuvre,  of  which  he  could  form  no  con- 
cejstion,  a  mai-riage  with  the  t'ooleen  Bawn 
(vovdd  be  a  matter  of  surpassing  difficulty ; 
but  he  cared  not,  provided  it  could  be  effect- 
ed by  any  means,  whether  foul  or  fair.  The 
attachment  of  this  scoundrel  to  the  fair  and 
beautiful  Cooleen  Bawn  was  composed  of 
two  of  the  worst  principles  of  the  heart — 
sensuality  and  avarice  ;  but,  in  this  instance, 
avarice  came  in  to  support  sensuality.  What 
the  licentious  jjassious  of  the  debauchee 
might  have  failed  to  temjjt  him  to,  the  con- 
sideration of  her  large  fortune  accomjjlished. 
And  such  was  the  sordid  and  abominable 
union  of  the  motives  which  spurred  hun. 
on  to  the  marriage. 

The  next  morning,  being  that  which  was 
fixed  for  his  wedding-day,  he  was  roused  at 
an  e:u-ly  hour  by  a  loud  rajjping  at  his  hall- 
door.  He  started  on  his  elbow  in  the  bed, 
and  ringing  the  bell  for  his  valet,  asked, 
when  that  gentleman  entered  his  apartment 
half  dressed,  "  What  was  the  matter  ?  what 
cursed  knocking  was  that?  Don't  they  know 
I  can  hunt  neither  priest  nor  Papist  now, 
since  this  polite  %'ieeroy  came  here." 

"I  don't  know  what  the  matter  is.  Sir 
Robert ;  they  ai-e  at  it  again  ;  shall  I  open 
the  door,  sir  ?  " 

"  Certainlj' ;  open  the  door  immediately." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  dress.  Sir  Robert, 
and  see  what  they  want." 

The  baronet  thi-ew  his  long  fleshless 
shanks  out  of  the  bed,  and  began  to  get  on 
his  clothes  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"  Ha ! "  said  he,  when  he  was  nearly 
th-essed,  "  what  if  this  should  be  a  Govern- 


ment prosecution  for  wuat  I  have  undertaken 
to  do  on  my  own  responsibility  during  the 
last  Administration  ?  But  no,  surely  it  can- 
not be  ;  they  would  have  given  me  some  in- 
timation of  then-  proceedings.  This  was 
due  to  my  rank  and  station  in  the  country, 
and  to  my  exertions,  a  zealous  Protestant,i 
to  sustain  the  existence  of  Church  and  State. 
Curse  Chiu'ch  and  State  if  it  be  !  I  have 
got  mj'self,  perhaj)s,  into  a  pretty  mess  by 
them." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  last  words 
when  Ml".  Hastings,  accompanied  by  two  or 
three  officers  of  justice,  entered  his  bedroom. 

"  All,  Hastings,  my  dear  fi'iend,  what  is 
the  matter '?  Is  there  any  thing  wi'ong,  or 
can  I  be  of  any  assistance  to  you  ?  if  so,  com- 
mand me.  But  we  are  out  of  power  now, 
j'ou  know.  Still,  show  me  how  I  can  assist 
you.  How  do  you  do '? "  and  as  he  sj)oke 
he  i)ut  his  hand  out  to  shake  hands  with 
Ml'.  Hastings. 

"No,  Sir  Robert,  I  cannot  take  your 
hand,  nor  the  hand  of  any  man  that  is  red 
with  the  blood  of  mui'der.  This,"  said  he, 
turning  to  the  officers,  "  is  Su-  Robert  White- 
craft  ;  arrest  him  for  mui'der  and  arson." 

"Why,  bless  me.  Mi'.  Hastings,  are  you 
mad '?  Surely,  I  did  nothing,  unless  under 
the  sanction  and  by  the  instructions  of  the 
last  Government  ?  " 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen,  Sii'  Robert ; 
but,  at  all  events,  I  cannot  enter  into  any 
discussion  \di\i  you  at  present.  I  am  here 
as  a  magistrate.  Informations  have  been 
sworn  against  you  by  severtil  parties,  and 
you  must  now  consider  yourseK  our  jirisoner 
and  come  along  with  us.  There  is  a  party 
of  cavah'y  below  to  escort  you  to  Shgo  jail." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  be  conveyed  there  ?  I 
hoj)e  I  will  be  allowed  my  own  carriage  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,"  rejjlied  Mi'.  Hastings  ; 
"  I  was  about  to  have  jirojaosed  it  myself. 
You  shall  be  treated  with  every  respect,  sir." 

"  May  I  not  breakfast  before  I  go  ?" 

"  Certainly,  sir  ;  we  wish  to  discharge  our 
duty  in  the  mildest  possible  maunei'." 

"  Thank  you,  Hastings,  thank  you  ;  you 
were  always  a  good-hearted,  gentlemanly 
fellow.  You  will,  of  course,  breakfast  with 
me  ;  and  these  men  must  be  attended  to." 

And  he  rang  the  bell. 

"I  have  already  breakfasted,  Sii-  Robert  ; 
but  even  if  I  had  not,  it  would  not  become 
me,  as  your  prosecutor,  to  do  so  ;  but  per- 
haps the  men — " 

"  What,"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  inter- 
rupting him,  "you  my  prosecutor  I  For 
what,  jiray  ?  " 

"That  will  come  in  time,"  reisHed  the 
other  ;  "  and  you  may  rest  assui'ed  that  I 
would  not  be  here  now  were  I  not  made 


144 


WILIJA2L  CARLETOX'S  WORKS. 


aware  tb.it  jon  were  about  to  be  married  to 
that  sweet  girl  whom  yoxi  have  jseraeeutecl 
with  such  a  mean  and  unmanly  sjjirit,  and 
designed  to  start  with  her  for  England  this 
day." 

Wliitecraft,  now  that  he  felt  the  dreadful 
consequences  of  the  awful  position  in  which 
he  was  placed,  became  the  veiy  picture  of 
despair  and  pusillanimity  ;  his  complexion 
turned  haggard,  his  eyes  -wild,  and  his  hands 
trembled  so  much  that  he  was  not  able  to 
bring  the  tea  or  bread  and  butter  to  his  lips  ; 
in  fact,  such  an  impersonation  of  rank  and 
unmanly  cowardice  could  not  be  witnessed. 
He  rose  up,  exclaiming,  in  a  faint  and  hollow 
voice,  that  echoed  no  other  sensation  than 
that  of  horror : 

"  I  cannot  breakfast ;  I  can  eat  nothing. 
What  a  fate  is  this  !  on  the  very  day,  too, 
which  I  thought  would  have  consivumated 
my  haj^ijiness  !     Oh,  it  is  dreadfid  !  " 

His  servant  then,  by  Mr.  Hastings'  orders, 
packed  ujj  changes  of  linen  and  a25i3arel  in 
his  trunk,  for  he  saw  that  he  himself  had 
not  the  jireseuce  of  mind  to  pay  attention  to 
any  thing.  Li  the  course  of  a  few  minutes 
the  carriage  was  ready,  and  with  tottering 
steps  he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  was 
obliged  to  be  assisted  into  it  by  two  con- 
stables, who  took  their  places  beside  him. 
Mr.  Hastings  bowed  to  him  coldly,  but  said 
nothing  ;  the  coachman  smacked  his  whip, 
and  was  about  to  start,  when  he  turned 
round  and  said  : 

"  Where  am  I  to  drive,  Sir  Robert  ?  " 

"  To  Sligo  jail,"  replied  one  of  the  eon- 
stables,  "as  quick  as  you  can  too." 

The  horses  got  a  lash  or  two,  and  boiuided 
on,  whUst  an  escort  of  cavah'v,  with  swords 
drawn,  attended  the  coach  until  it  reached  its 
gloomy  destination,  where  we  will  leave  it  for 
the  present. 

The  next  morning,  as  matters  a23proached 
to  a  crisis,  the  vmsteady  old  squire  began  to 
feel  less  comfortable  in  his  mind  than  he 
could  have  expected.  To  say  trath,  he  had 
often  felt  it  rather  an  unnatural  jjrocess  to 
marry  so  lovely  a  girl  to  "  such  an  ugly  stork 
of  a  man  as  Whitecraft  was,  and  a  knave  to 
boot.  I  cannot  forget  how  he  took  me  in 
by  the  '  Hop-and-go-coustant '  affair.  But 
then  he's  a  good  Protestant — not  that  I  mean 
he  has  a  single  spark  of  religion  in  his  non- 
descript carcass  ;  but  in  those  times  it's  not 
canting  and  psalm-singing  we  want,  but  good 
political  Protestantism,  that  will  enable  us  to 
maintain  our  ascendancy  by  other  means  than 
praying.  Curse  the  hound  that  keeps  him  ? 
Is  this  a  day  for  him  to  be  late  on  ?  and  it 
now  half  past  ten  o'clock  ;  however,  he  must 
come  soon  ;  but,  uj)on  my  honor,  I  dread 
what  wiU  happen  when  he  does.     A  scene 


there  will  be  no  doubt  of  it ;  however,  we 
must  only  struggle  through  it  as  well  as  wp 
can.  I'U  go  and  see  Helen,  and  try  to  i-e- 
concile  her  to  this  chap,  or,  at  all  events,  to 
let  her  know  at  once  that,  be  the  conseejuences 
what  they  may,  she  m  ud  marry  him,  if  I  were 
myself  to  hold  her  at  the  altar. " 

When  he  had  concluded  this  soliloquy, 
Ellen  Connor,  mthout  whose  society  Helen 
could  now  scarcely  Uve,  and  who,  on  this  ac- 
coiuit,  had  not  been  discharged  after  her 
elopement,  she,  we  say,  entered  the  room, 
her  eye  resolute  with  determination,  and 
sparkling  with  a  feehng  which  evinced  an  in- 
dignant sense  of  his  cruelty  in  enforcing  this 
odious  match.  The  old  man  looked  at  hei- 
with  surprise,  "for  it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  ventured  to  obti-ude  her  conversa- 
tion upon  him, or  to  sfieak.unless  when  spoken 
to. 

"Well,  madam,"  said  he,  "what  do  you 
want  ?  Have  you  any  message  from  your 
mistress  ?  if  not,  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"I  have  no  message  fi'om  my  mistress," 
she  replied  in  a  loud,  if  not  in  a  vehement, 
voice  ;  "I  don't  think  my  mistress  is  caj^able 
of  sending  a  message  ;  but  I  came  to  tell  you 
that  the  God  of  heaven  will  soon  send  you  a 
message,  and  a  black  one  too,  if  you  allow 
this  cursed  marriage  to  go  on." 

"  Get  out,  you  jade — leave  the  room  ;  how 
is  it  your  aflaii-  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  what  you  want — a  heart 
of  pity  and  affection  in  my  breast.  Do  j'ou 
want  to  drive  your  daughter  mad,  or  to  take 
her  life  ?  " 

"  Begone,  you  impudent  hussy  ;  why  do 
you  dare  to  come  here  on  such  an  occasion, 
only  to  annoy  me  ?  " 

"I  will  not  begone,"  she  rej)lied,  \n{\\  a 
glowing  cheek,  "  unless  I  am  put  out  by  force 
— until  I  point  out  the  conse(|Liences  of  your 
selfish  tyranny  and  weakness.  I  don't  come 
to  annoy  you,  but  I  come  to  warn  you,  and 
to  tell  you,  that  I  know  your  daughter  better 
thiui  j-ou  do  3'ourself.  This  marriage  must 
not  go  on  ;  or,  if  it  does,  send  without  delay 
to  a  lunatic  asylum  for  a  keejier  for  that  only 
daughter.  I  know  her  well,  and  I  teU  yovL 
that  that's  what  it'll  come  to." 

The  squire  had  never  been  in  the  habit 
of  being  thus  addi-essed  bj-  nixy  of  his  ser- 
vants ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  the 
thing  was  new  to  him  ;  so  much  so  that  lie 
felt  not  only  annoyed,  but  so  much  astound- 
ed, that  he  absolutely  lost,  for  a  brief  jjeriod, 
the  use  of  his  sjjeech.  He  looke  1  at  her  with 
astonishment — then  about  the  room — then 
up  at  the  ceiUng,  and  at  leugtli  spoke  : 

"What  the  deuce  does  all  this  mean  ?  What 
are  j-ou  driving  at  ?  Prevent  the  mai-riage, 
you  say  ?  " 


WILLY  REILLY. 


145 


"  K  the  man,"  proceeded  Connor,  not  even 
waiting  to  give  him  an  answer — "if  the  man 
had  but  one  good  point  — one  good  quahty 
—  one  ■\'irtue  in  his  whole  com2)osition  to  re- 
deem him  from  contempt  and  hatred — if  he 
had  but  one  feature  in  his  face  only  as 
handsome  as  the  worst  you  could  find  in  the 
devU's — yes,  if  he  had  but  one  good  thought, 
or  one  good  feature  in  either  his  soid  or  body, 
why — \'ile  as  it  would  be — and  barbarous  as 
it  woiild  be — and  shameful  and  cruel  as  it 
would  be — stUl,  it  would  have  the  one  good 
thought,  and  the  one  good  featiu'e  to  justifj' 
it.  But  here,  in  tliis  deep  and  ^^Tetched  vil- 
lain, there  is  nothing  but  one  mass  of  vice 
and  crime  and  deformity  ;  all  that  the  eye 
can  see,  or  the  heart  discover,  in  his  soul  or 
body,  is  as  black,  odious,  and  repulsive  as 
coidd  be  conceived  of  the  worst  imp  of  per- 
dition. And  this  is  the  man — the  persecutor 
— the  miser — the  debauchee — the  hjiiooiite 
— the  murderer,  and  the  coward,  that  you  are 
going  to  join  your  good — wtuous — spotless 
— and  beautiful  daughter  to !  Oh,  shame 
upon  you,  you  heartless  old  man  ;  don't  dare 
to  say,  or  pretend,  that  you  love  her  as  a 
father  ought,  when  you  would  sacrifice  her 
to  so  base  and  damnable  a  villain  as  that. 
And  again,  and  what  is  more,  I  tell  you  not 
to  prosecute  Reilly  ;  for,  as  sure  as  the  Lord 
above  is  in  heaven,  your  daughter  is  lost,  and 
you'U  not  only  curse  YNTiitecraft,  but  the  day 
and  hour  in  which  you  were  born — black  and 
hopeless  will  be  your  doom  if  j'ou  do.  And 
now,  sir,  I  have  done  ;  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty 
to  tell  you  this,  and  to  warn  you  against  what 
I  know  will  happen  imless  you  go  back  ujion 
the  steps  you  have  taken." 

She  then  courtesied  to  him  respectfully, 
and  left  the  room  in  a  burst  of  giief  which 
seized  her  when  she  had  conckxded. 

Ellen  Connor  was  a  girl  by  no  means  de- 
ficient in  education — thanks  to  the  cai-e  and 
kindness  of  the  Cooleen  Bawn,  who  had  lier- 
seK  instructed  her.  'Tis  true,  she  had  in 
ordinary  and  famUiar  conversation  a  touch 
of  the  brogue  ;  but,  when  excited,  or  holding 
converse  \\'ith  respectable  j)ersons,  her  lan- 
guage was  such  as  would  have  done  no  dis- 
credit to  many  persons  in  a  much  higher 
rank  of  life. 

After  she  had  left  the  room,  FoUiard 
looked  towards  the  door  by  which  she  had 
taken  her  exit,  as  if  he  had  her  still  in  his  vi- 
sion. He  paused — he  meditated — he  walked 
about,  and  seemed  taken  thoroughly  aback. 

"By  earth  and  sky,"  he  exclaimed,  "but 
that's  the  most  comical  affair  I  have  seen  yet. 
Comical !  no,  not  a  touch  of  comicality  in  it. 
Zounds,  is  it  possible  that  the  jade  has  co- 
erced and  beaten  me  ? — dared  to  beard  the 
lion  in  his  o'vax  den — to  strip  him,  as  it  were, 


of  his  claws,  and  to  pnU  the  very  fangs  out 
of  his  jaws,  and,  after  all,  to  walk  away  in 
triuraiih  ?  Hang  me,  but  I  must  have  a 
strong  touch  of  the  coward  in  me  or  I  would 
not  have  knuckled  as  I  did  to  the  jade.  Yet, 
hold — can  I,  or  ought  I  to  be  angry  with 
her,  when  I  know  that  this  hellish  racket  all 
proceeded  from  her  love  to  Helen.  Hang 
me,  but  she's  a  precious  bit  of  goods,  and 
I'll  contrive  to  make  her  a  jiresent,  somehow, 
for  her  courage.  Beat  me  !  by  sim  and  sky 
she  did." 

He  then  proceeded  to  Helen's  chamber, 
and  ordered  her  attendants  out  of  the  room  ; 
but,  on  looking  at  her,  he  felt  surprised  to 
perceive  that  her  complexion,  instead  of 
being  pale,  was  quite  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
flashing  with  a  strange  wild  light  that  he 
had  never  seen  in  them  before. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "  what's  the  matter,  love  ? 
are  you  unwell  ?  " 

She  placed  her  two  snowy  hands  on  her 
temples,  and  pressed  them  tightly,  as  if 
stri\ing  to  comjjress  her  brain  and  bring  it 
within  the  influence  of  reason. 

"I  fear  you  are  unwell,  darling,"  he  con 
tinned  ;  "  you  look  flushed  and  feverish. 
Don't,  however,  be  alarmed ;  if  you're  not 
well,  I'd  see  that  knave  of  a  fellovi'  hanged 
before  I'd  maiTy  you  to  him,  and  you  in  that 
state.  The  thing's  out  of  the  question,  my 
darling  Helen,  and  must  not  be  done.  No  : 
God  forbid  that  I  should  be  the  means  of 
murdering  my  own  child. " 

So  much,  we  may  fairly  presume,  pro- 
ceeded from  the  pithy  lecture  of  EUen 
Connor ;  but  the  truth  was,  that  the  imdc- 
finable  old  squfre  was  the  gi'eatest  jiarentnl 
coward  in  the  world.  In  the  absence  of  his 
daughter  he  would  rant  and  swear  and  vajjor, 
strike  the  ground  with  his  stall",  and  give 
other  indications  of  the  most  extraordinai-y 
resolution,  combined  with  fiery  passiou,  that 
seemed  alarming.  No  sooner,  however,  did 
he  go  into  her  jiresence,  and  contemplate 
not  onlj'  her  wondei-ful  beauty,  but  her 
goodness,  her  tendeiiiess  and  affection  for 
himself,  than  the  bluster  departed  from 
him,  his  resolution  fell,  his  courage  oozed 
awaj',  and  he  felt  th;it  he  was  fairlj'  subdued, 
imder  which  circumstances  he  generally 
entered  into  a  new  treaty  of  fiiendship  and 
alFe<'tion  with  the  enemy. 

Helen's  head  was  aching  dreadfully,  and 
she  felt  feverish  and  distracted.  Her  father's 
words,  however,  and  the  aiffection  which 
they  expressed,  went  to  her  heart ;  she 
threw  her  ai'ms  about  him,  kissed  him,  and 
was  reHeved  bj'  a  copious  flood  of  tears. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "you  are  both  kind  and 
good  ;  surely  you  wouldn't  kill  your  poor 
Helen?" 


146 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Me  kill  you,  Heleu  ! — oh,  no,  faitli.  If 
Wliitecraft  were  banged  to-morrow  it 
wouldn't  give  me  Lalf  so  mucL  jDain  as  if 
your  little  finger  ached." 

Just  at  this  j^rogress  of  the  dialogue  a 
smai-t  and  imj^atient  knock  came  to  the 
door. 

" Who  is  that ?"  said  the  squire;  "come 
in — or,  stay  till  I  see  who  you  are."  He 
then  oj^ened  the  door  and  exclaimed,  "  What ! 
Lanigan  ! — why,  you  infernal  old  scountlrel ! 
how  dare  you  have  the  assiu-auce  to  look  me 
iu  the  face,  or  to  come  under  my  roof  at  all, 
after  what  I  said  to  you  about  the  pistols  ?  " 

"  Aj',  but  you  don't  know  the  good  news 
I  have  for  you  and  Miss  Helen." 

"Oh,  Lanigan,  is  Eeilly  safe? — is  he  set 
at  large  ?  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  must  be.  Never 
was  so  noble,  so  jiure,  and  so  innocent  a 
heart." 

"Curse  him,  look  at  the  eje  of  him," 
Baid  her  father,  pointing  his  cane  at  Lani- 
gan ;  "  it's  like  the  eye  of  a  shai'jj-shooter. 
What  ai'e  you  grinning  at,  you  old  scoun- 
drel ?  " 

"Didn't  you  expect  Sir  Eobert  Wliitecraft 
here  to-day  to  marry  ]\Iiss  Folhard,  sir  ?  " 

"I  did,  sirra,  and  I  do  ;  he'll  be  here  im- 
mediately." 

"Devil  a  foot  he'U  come  to-day,  I  can  teU 
you ;  and  that's  the  way  he  treats  your 
daughter ! " 

" ^Mlat  does  this  old  idiot  mean,  Helen? 
Have  you  Ijeen  drinking,  sirra  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  SU-,  but  jslaise  the  Lord  I'U 
soon  be  at  it." 

"Lanigan,"  said  Helen,  "will  j'ou  state  at 
once  what  you  have  to  say  ?  " 

"I  will,  miss;  but  fii'st  and  foremost,  I 
must  show  you  how  to  dance  the  '  Little 
House  under  the  HiU,'  "  and  as  he  spoke  he 
commenced  whisthng  that  celebrated  air  and 
dancing  to  it  wth  considerable  alacrity  and 
vigor,  making  allowances  for  his  age. 

The  father  and  daughter  looked  at  each 
other,  and  Heleu,  notmthstandiug  her  brok- 
en spirits,  could  not  avoid  smiling.  Lanigan 
continued  the  dance,  kept  wheeling  about  to 
all  parts  of  the  room,  like  an  old  madcaji, 
cutting,  capering,  and  knocking  up  his  heels 
against  his  ham,  with  a  vivacity  that  was  a 
perfect  mystery  to  his  two  spectators,  as  was 
liis  whole  conduct. 

"Now,  you  dnmken  old  scoimdrel,"  said 
his  master,  catching  him  by  the  collar  and 
Houiiahiug  the  cane  over  his  head,  "if  you 
iloiit  give  a  direct  answer  I  will  cane  you 
within  an  inch  of  your  life.  "\Miat  do  you 
mean  when  you  say  that  Sir  Robert  ^Vhite- 
craft  won't  come  here  to-day  ?  " 

"Bekaise,  sir,  it  isn't  couvanient  to  him." 

"  Why  isii't  it  convenient,  you  scoundrel  ?  " 


"Bekaise,  sir,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to 
try  a  change  of  air  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health  before  he  starts  ujwn  his  journey ; 
and  as  he  got  a  very  fiieutUy  invilation  "to 
spend  some  time  in  Sligo  jaU  he  accept  I'd  it, 
and  if  you  go  there  you  wUl  find  him  before 
you.  It  seems  he  started  this  morning  in 
great  state,  with  two  nice  men  belonging  to 
the  law  in  the  carriage  with  him,  to  see  that 
he  should  want  for  nothing,  and  a  f)arty  of 
cavalry  siuTOundin'  his  honor's  coach,  as  if  he 
was  one  of  the  judges,  or  the  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant." 

The  figTii-ative  style  of  his  narrative  would 
xmquestionably  have  caused  him  to  catch  the 
weight  of  the  cane  aforesaid  had  not  Helen 
interfered  and  saved  him  for  the  nonce. 

"Let  me  at  him,  Helen,  let  me  at  him — 
the  drunken  old  rip  ;  why  does  he  dare  to 
humbug  us  iu  this  manner  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  su-,  if  you  wish  to  hear  the 
good  news,  and  esjoeeially  you.  Miss  Folliaj-d. 
it  will  j)robably  reheve  yoirr  heart  when  3 
tell  you  that  Sir  Eobert  Wliitecraft  is,  before 
this  time,  iu  the  jaU  of  Sligo,  for  a  charge 
of  miu'dher,  and  for  burnin'  Mr.  Eeilly's 
house  and  promises,  which  it  now  seems 
aren't  Mi-.  Eeilly's  at  all — nor  ever  were — 
but  belong  to  Sir.  Hastings." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  the  squu'ej 
"  this  is  dreadful :  but  is  it  true,  sirra  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  if  you  go  to  his  house  you'll 
find  it  so." 

"  Oh,  j)apa,"  said  Helen,  "  sui-ely  they 
wouldn't  hang  him  ?  " 

"  Hang  him,  Helen  ;  why,  Helen,  the 
tide's  tiu'ned  ;  they  want  to  make  him  an 
examjile  for  the  outrages  that  he  and  others 
have  committed  against  the  imfortimate  Pap- 
ists. Hang  him  ! — as  I  live,  he  and  the  Red 
Eapparee  will  both  swing fiom  the  same  gal- 
lows ;  but  there  is  one  thing  I  say  -  if  he 
hangs  I  shall  take  cai'e  that  that  obstinate 
scoundrel,  EeUly,  shall  also  s\\'ing  along  with 
him." 

Helen  became  as  pale  as  ashes,  the  flush 
had  disappeared  fi'om  her  countenance,  and 
she  biu'st  again  into  teai's. 

"  Oil,  pajia,"  .she  exclaimed,  "  spare  EeUly : 
he  is  innocent." 

"  I'U  hang  him,"  he  rephed,  "  if  it  should 
cost  me  ten  thousand  pounds.  Go  you, 
suTa,  and  desire  one  of  the  grooms  to  saddle 
me  Black  Tom  ;  he  is  the  fastest  horse  in 
my  stables  ;  I  cannot  rest  tUl  I  ascertixin  the 
truth  of  this." 

On  passing  the  dra^\dng-room  he  looked 
in,  and  found  Mi\  Strong  and  the  two  Misses 
Ashford  waiting,  the  one  to  jierform,  and  the 
others  to  attend,  at  the  ceremony. 

"Mr.  Strong  and  ladies,"  said  he,  vrith 
looks  of  great  distraction,  "I  fear  there  wUl 


WILLY  REILLT. 


147 


be  no  man-iage  here  to-day.  An  accident, 
I  believe,  has  happened  to  Sii-  Robert  White- 
craft  that  vrill  prevent  his  being  a  party  in 
the  ceremon}',  for  this  day  at  least." 

"An  accident !  "  exclaimed  the  ladies  and 
the  clergyman.  "Pray,  3Ii-.  Folliard,  what 
is  it?  how  did  it  hajjpen  ?  " 

"I  am  just  going  to  ride  over  to  Sir 
Roberts  to  leai-n  everything  about  it,"  he 
rephed  ;  "I  will  be  but  a  short  time  absent. 
But  how!"  he  added,  "here's  his  butler, 
and  I  will  get  everything  fi-om  him.  Oh, 
Thomas,  is  tliis  you  ?  follow  me  to  my  study, 
Thomas." 

As  the  reader  already  knows  all  that 
Thomas  could  tell  him,  it  is  only  necessarj- 
to  say  that  lie  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
■with  a  sad  and  melancholy  asj)ect. 

"There  is  no  use,"  said  he,  adch'essing 
them,  "in  concealing  what  will  soon  be 
tnown  to  the  world.  Su'  Robert  Whiteeraft 
has  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of  murder 
and  ai'son,  and  is  now  a  prisoner  in  the 
county  jail." 

This  was  starthng  intelligence  to  them  all, 
especially  to  the  parson,  who  found  that  the 
hangman  was  likely  to  cut  him  out  of  his 
fees.  The  ladies  screamed,  and  said,  "  it 
was  a  shocking  thing  to  have  that  delightful 
man  hanged  ; "  and  then  asked  if  the  bride- 
elect  had  heard  it. 

"  She  has  heard  it,"  rephed  her  father, 
■■  and  I  have  just  left  her  in  tears  ;  but  upon 
my  soul,  I  don't  think  there  is  one  of  them 
shed  for  him.  Well,  ]\Ir.  Strong,  I  believe, 
after  all,  there  is  hkely  to  be  no  marriage, 
but  that  is  not  your  fault ;  j-ou  came  here  to 
do  your  duty,  and  I  think  it  only  just — a 
word  ■with  you  in  the  next  apartment,"  he 
added,  and  then  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room.  "I  was  about  to  say,  ilr.  Strong, 
that  it  would  be  neither  just  nor  reasonable 
to  dejirive  you  of  your  fees  ;  here  is  a  ten- 
pound  note,  and  it  would  have  been  twenty 
had  the  marriage  taken  place.  I  must  go  to 
Sligo  to  see  the  unfortunate  baronet,  and 
try  what  can  be  done  for  him — that  is,  if 
anj-thing  can,  which  I  greatly  doubt." 

The  parson  protested  against  the  receipt 
of  the  ten-iDound  note  very  much  in  the  style 
of  a  bashful  schoolboy,  who  j)retends  to  re- 
fuse an  ajjple  fi'om  a  strange  relation  when 
he  comes  to  pay  a  ^dsit,  whilst,  at  the  same 
time,  the  young  monkey's  chops  are  watering 
for  it.  With  some  faint  show  of  reluctance 
he  at  length  received  it,  and  need  we  saj- 
that  it  soon  disajjpeared  in  one  of  his  sancti- 
fied pockets. 

"  Strong,  my  dear  fellow,"  proceeded  the 
squire,  "you  wiU  take  a  seat  with  these 
ladies  in  their  carriage  and  see  them  home." 

"  I  would,  with  pleasure,  my  dear  fi-iend,  ! 


but  that  I  am  ciilled  upon  to  console  poor 
Mrs.  Smellpriest  for  the  loss  of  the  captain." 

"The  captain!  why,  what  has  happened 
him?" 

"  Alas !  sir,  an  unexpected  and  imhappy 
fate.  He  went  out  last  night  a  priest-hunt- 
ing, like  a  gotUy  sportsman  of  the  Church, 
as  he  was,  and  on  his  return  fi-om  an  im- 
successful  chase  fell  otf  his  horse  whUe  in 
the  act  of  singing  that  feu'-famed  melody 
called  'LUlibullero,'  and  sustained  such 
severe  injuries  that  he  died  on  that  very 
night,  exjjressing  a  verj'  ungodly  penitence 
for  his  loyalty  in  jDersecuting  so  many  trea- 
sonable Poijish  priests." 

The  squire  seemed  amazed,  and,  after  a 
pause,  said  : 

"  He  rejiented,  you  say  ;  upon  my  soul, 
then,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  it  is  more 
than  I  expected  from  him,  and,  between  you 
and  mo.  Strong,  I  fear  it  must  have  taken  a 
de\'ilish  large  extent  of  repentance  to  clear 
him  from  the  crimes  he  committed  against 
both  priests  and  Popery." 

"Ah,"  replied  Strong,  •with  a  gi-oan  of 
deep  despondency,  "  but,  unfortunately,  mj' 
dear  sii',  he  did  not  repent  of  his  sins — that 
is  the  worst  of  it — Satan  must  liave  tempted 
him  to  transfer  his  repentance  to  those  very 
acts  of  his  hfe  upon  which,  as  Chi-istian 
champion,  he  should  have  depended  for 
justification  above — I  mean,  devoting  his 
great  energies  so  zealously  to  the  extermina- 
tion of  idolatry  and  error.  What  was  it  but 
repenting  for  his  chief  virtues,  instead  of  re- 
lying, like  a  brave  and  dauntless  soldier  of 
our  Establishment,  u2)on  his  jiraiseworthy 
exertions  to  rid  it  of  its  iasidious  and  relent- 
less enemies  ?  " 

The  squire  looked  at  him. 

"I'll  teU  you  what,  Strong — by  the  great 
BoTOe,  I'd  give  a  tritle  to  see  you  get  a 
smart  touch  of  persecution  in  your  o'wu  jJer- 
son  ;  it  might  teach  you  a  httle  more  charity 
towards  those  who  differ  with  you  ;  but, 
upon  my  honor,  if  any  change  in  our  natiou:d 
parties  should  soon  take  place,  and  that  the  Pa- 
pists should  get  the  upper  hand,  I  tell  you  to 
your  teeth  that  if  ever  yoiu'  fat  ribs  should 
be  tickled  by  the  whip  of  persecution,  they 
would  render  you  great  injustice  who  should 
do  it  for  the  sake  of  religion — a  commodity 
■with  which  I  see,  fi-om  the  sisirit  of  your 
present  sentiments,  you  are  not  over-bur- 
dened. However,  in  the  meantime,  I  daresay 
that  whatever  portion  you  possess  of  it,  you 
will  charitably  expend  in  consohng  his  widow, 
as  you  say.     Good-morning  !  " 

We  must  retui-n,  however,  to  the  close  of 
Smellpriest 's  very  sudden  and  premature  de- 
parture from  the  scene  of  his  cruel  and 
merciless  labors.     Having  reached  the  stripe 


1*8 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


already  described  to  him  by  Mr.  Strong,  and 
to  -which  he  was  guided  by  his  men,  he  him- 
self having  been  too  far  advanced  iu  liquor 
to  make  out  his  way  with  any  kind  of  cer- 
tainty, he  jwoceeded,  still  under  their  direc- 
tion," to  the  cottage  adjoining,  which  was  im- 
mediately surrounded  by  the  trooi^ers.  After 
knocking  at  the  door  with  Ndolence,  and 
demanding  instant  admittance,  under  the 
threat  of  smasliing  it  in,  and  bm-ning  the 
house  as  a  harbor  for  rebeUious  priests,  the 
door  was  immediately  opened  by  a  gray- 
headed  old  m:in,  feeble  and  decrei^it  in  ap- 
pearance, but  yet  without  any  manifestation 
of  terror  either  in  his  voice  or  features.  He 
held  a  candle  iu  his  hand,  and  asked  them, 
in  a  calm,  comj^osed  voice,  what  it  was  they 
wanted,  and  why  they  thus  came  to  disturb 
him  and  his  family  at  such  an  unseasonable 
hour. 

"  Why,  you  treasonable  old  scoundrel," 
shouted  SmeUpriest,  "  haven't  you  got  a  rebel 
and  recusant  Popish  pi'iest  in  the  house  ?  I 
say,  you  gray-headed  old  villain,  turn  him 
out  on  the  instant,  or,  if  you  hesitate  but 
half  a  minute,  we'll  make  a  bouhre  of  you, 
him,  the  house,  and  all  that's  in  it.  Zounds, 
I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  burn  a  house  as 
well  as  Whitecraft.  That  cursed  baronet  is 
getting  ahead  of  me,  but  I  think  I  am  en- 
titled to  a  bonfire  as  well  as  he  is.  Shall  we 
burn  the  house  ?  "  he  added,  addi-essing  his 
men. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  not,  captain,"  re- 
plied the  principal  of  them  ;  "  recollect  there 
are  new  regulations  now.  It  wouldn't  be 
s.afe,  and  might  only  end  in  hanging  every 
man  of  us — yoiu-self  among  the  rest." 

"Butwhj'  doesn't  the  old  rebel  produce 
the  priest  ?  "  asked  their  leader.  "  Come 
here,  sirra — hear  me — produce  that  lurking 
pi'iest  immediately." 

"I  don't  exactly  understand  you,  captain," 
i-eplied  the  old  man,  who  appeai-ed  to  know 
SmeUpriest  right  well.  "  I  don't  think  it's  to 
my  house  you  should  come  to  look  for  a 
priest." 

"WTiy  not,  you  villain?  I  have  been 
directed  here,  and  told  that  I  would  lind  my 
game  under  your  roof." 

"In  the  first  place,"  rejrilied  the  old  man, 
wth  a  finn  and  intrepid  voice,  "I  am  no 
villain  ;  and  in  the  next,  I  say,  that  if  any 
man  directed  you  to  this  house  in  quest  of  a 
priest,  he  must  have  purposely  sent  you  upon 
a  fool's  errand.  I  am  a  Protestant,  Captain 
SmeUpriest ;  but,  Protestant  as  I  am,  I  tell 
you  to  your  face  that  if  I  could  give  shelter 
to  a  poor  persecuted  priest,  and  save  him 
from  the  clutches  of  such  men  as  you  and 
Sir  Robert  Wiitecraft,  I  would  do  it.  In 
the  meantime,  there  is  neither  priest  nor 


fiiar  under  this  roof ;  you  can  come  in  and 
search  in  the  house,  if  you  vrish." 

"  ^\'hy,  gog's  ouns,  father,"  exclaimed  one 
of  the  men,  "  how  does  it  come  that  we  find 
yoTi  here  ?  " 

"Very  simply,  John,"  rei^Ued  bis  father — 
for  such  he  was — "  I  took  this  cottage,  and 
the  bit  of  land  that  goes  with  it,  fi'om  honest 
Andy  Morrow,  and  we  are  not  many  hours  in 
it.  The  house  was  emi^ty  for  the  last  six 
months,  so  that  I  say  again,  whoever  sent 
Captain  SmeUpriest  here  sent  him  upon  a 
fool's  eiTand — upon  a  wUd-goose  chase." 

The  gaUant  captain  stai-ted  ujjon  hearing 
these  latter  words. 

"  What  does  he  say,"  he  asked — "  a  wild 
goose  chase  !  Eighth — right,"  he  added,  in  s 
soliloquy  ;  "  Strong  is  at  the  bottom  of  it 
the  black  scoundrel !  but  stUl,  let  us  searcl 
the  house  ;  the  old  feUow  admits  that  ho 
would  shelter  a  joriest.  Search  the  house  I 
say. 

"  '  There  was  an  old  prophecy  found  in  a  bog, 
LillibuUero,  buUen  ahi,  itc,  &c.'  " 

The  house  was  accordingly  searched,  but 
it  is  unnecessary  to' add  that  neither  priest 
nor  friar  was  found  under  the  roof,  nor  any 
nook  or  corner  in  which  either  one  or  the 
other  could  have  been  concealed. 

The  party,  who  then  directed  their  steps 
homewards,  were  proceeding  across  the  fields 
to  the  mountain  road  which  ran  close  by, 
and  paraUel  with  the  strij)e,  when  they  ■per- 
ceived  at  once  that  SmeUpriest  was  in  a  rage, 
by  the  fact  of  his  singing  "  LiUibviUero  ; " 
for,  whenever  either  his  rage  or  loyalty  hap- 
pened to  run  high,  he  luiiformly  made  a 
point  to  indulge  himseH  iu  singing  that  cele- 
brated baUad. 

"By  jabers,"  said  one  of  them  to  his  com- 
panions, "  there  wiU  be  a  battle  royal  between 
the  cajatain  and  Mi-.  Strong  if  he  Ibids  the 
parson  at  home  before  him." 

"  If  there  won't  be  a  tight  with  the  parson, 
there  wUl  with  the  wife,"  rejihed  the  other. 
"  Hang  the  same  parson,"  he  added  ;  "  many 
a  dreary  chase  he  has  sent  us  upon,  with 
nothing"  but  the  fatigue  of  a  dark  and  slavish 
journey  for  oiu-  j^ains.  With  what  bitterness 
he's  giring  us  'LiUibuUero,'  and  he  scai-cely 
able  to  sit  on  his  horse  !  I  think  I'U  advance, 
and  ride  beside  him,  otherwise,  he  may  get 
an  ugly  tumble  on  this  hiu-d  road." 

He  accordingly  did  so,  obsening,  as  he 
got  near  him,  "I  have  taken  the  hberty  to 
ride  close  beside  j-ou,  lest,  as  the  night  is 
dark,  your  horse  might  stumble." 

"  What !  do  you  tliink  I'm  drunk,  you 
scoundrel '? — fall  back,  sir,  immediately. 

"  '  LillibuUero,  bullcn  ala.' 
"  I  say  I'm  not  drunk  ;  but  I'm  in  a  terribk 


WILLY  B FILLY. 


149 


passion  at  that  treacherous  scoundrel ;  but 
no  matter,  I  saw  something  to-night — never 
mind,  I  say. 

■ '  '  There  was  an  old  prophecy  found  in  a  bog, 

Lillibullero,  bnllen  ala  ; 
That  Ireland  should  be  ruled  by  an  Ass  and  a  Dog, 

Lillibullero,  bullen  ala; 
And  now  thatsame  prophecy  has  come  to  pass — 

Lillibullero.  bullen  ala  ; 
For  Talbot's  the  Dog,  and  James  is  the  Ass, 

LiUibullero,  bullen  ala.' 

"  Never  mind,  I  say  ;  hang  me,  but  I'll  crop 
the  villain,  or  crop  both,  which  is  better 
still — steady,  Schomberg — curse  you." 

The  same  rut  or  chasm  across  the  more 
open  road  on  Avhieh  they  had  now  got  out, 
and  that  had  nearly  been  so  fatal  to  Jlr.  Brown, 
became  decidedly  so  to  unfortunate  Smell- 
priest.  The  horse,  as  his  rider  spoke,  stop- 
ped suddenly,  and,  shjing  quickly  to  the  one 
side,  the  captain  was  pitched  off,  and  fell 
■vsdtli  his  whole  weight  ui:)on  the  hard  pave- 
ment. The  man  was  an  unwieldy,  and  eon- 
seqiiently  a  heavy  man,  and  the  unesj>ected 
fall  stunned  him  into  insensibiUty.  After 
about  ten  minutes  or  so  he  recovered  his  con- 
sciousness, however,  and  having  been  once 
more  25laced  upon  his  horse,  was  conducted 
home,  two  or  three  of  Lis  men,  mth  much 
difficulty,  enabling  him  to  maintain  his  seat 
in  the  saddle.  In  this  manner  they  reached 
his  house,  where  they  strijDped  and  put  him 
to  bed,  having  observed,  to  theu-  conster- 
nation, that  strong  gushes  of  blood  welled, 
every  three  or  four  minutes,  fi'om  his  mouth. 

The  giief  of  his  faithful  wdfe  was  outrage- 
ous ;  and  ]\Ii\  Strong,  who  was  still  there 
kindly  awaiting  his  safe  return,  endeavored 
to  compose  her  distraction  as  well  as  he 
could. 

"My  dear  madam,"  said  he,  "why  mil 
vou  thus  permit  your  grief  to  overcome  you  ? 
Vou  wiU  most  assuredly  injui-e  youi-  own 
precious  health  by  this  dangerous  outburst 
of  sorrow.  The  zealous  and  truly  loyal  cap- 
tain is  not,  I  trust,  seriously  injured  ;  he  wiU 
recovei-,  luider  God,  in  a  few  days.  You  may 
rest  assured,  my  dear  Mi's.  Smellpriest,  that 
his  life  is  too  valuable  to  be  taken  at  this  im- 
happy  iseriod.  No,  he  will,  I  trust  and  hope, 
be  spared  untd  a  strong  anti-Popish  Govern- 
ment shall  come  in,  when,  if  he  is  to  lose  it, 
he  will  lose  it  in  some  gi-eat  and  godly  ex- 
ploit against  the  harlot  of  abominations." 

"Alas!  my  dear  'Mi:  Strong,  that  is  aU 
very  kind  of  you,  to  support  mj'  breaking 
heart  with  such  comfort ;  but,  when  he  is 
gone,  what  %\ill  become  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  wiU  not  be  left  desolate,  m}'  dear 
madam — you  will  be  supported — cheered — 
consoled.  Captain,  my  fiiend,  how  do  you 
feel  now  ?   Are  you  easier  ?  " 


"  I  am,"  replied  the  captain  feebly — for  he 
had  not  lost  his  speech — "come  near  me. 
Strong." 

"With  pleasiu'e,  dear  captain,  as  becomes 
my  duty,  not  only  as  a  fiiend,  but  as  an  hum- 
ble and  unworthy  minister  of  rehgion.  I 
trust  you  are  not  in  danger,  but,  imder  anj- 
circumstances,  it  is  best,  you  know,  to  be 
i  prepai'ed  for  the  worst.  Do  not  then  be  cast 
down,  nor  allow  your  heart  to  sink  into  de- 
sj)air.  Remember  that  you  have  acted  the 
part  of  a  zealous  and  faithftil  champion  on 
behalf  of  our  holy  Chiuxh,  and  that  you  have 
been  a  blessed  scourge  of  Poj)ery  in  this  Pope- 
ridden  country.  Let  that  reflection,  then,  be 
yoiu-  consolation.  Think  of  the  many  priests 
you  have  hunted — and  hunted  successfully 
too  ;  think  of  how  many  bitter  Papists  of 
every  class  you  have  been  the  blessed  means 
of  committmg  to  the  justice  of  our  laws  ; 
think  of  the  numbers  of  Popish  priests  and 
bishops  you  have,  in  the  faitliful  discharge 
of  your  jjious  duty,  committed  to  chains,  im- 
jjrisonment,  transportation,  and  the  scaffold 
— think  of  all  these  things,  I  say,  and  take 
comfort  to  your  soul  by  the  retrospect. 
Would  you  ^-ish  to  receive  the  rites  and  con- 
solations of  religion  at  my  hands  ?  "' 

"  Come  near  me.  Strong."  repeated  Smell- 
priest.  "The  rites  of  reUgion  from  ?/ow — 
the  rights  of  perdition  as  soon,  you  hyjjo- 
critical  scoundrel  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he 
caught  a  gush  of  blood  as  it  issued  from  his 
mouth  and  flung  it  with  all  the  strength  he 
had  left  right  into  the  clergyman's  face. 
"  Take  that,  you  villain,"  he  added  ;  "  I  die 
in  every  sense  with  my  blood  upon  you. 
And  as  for  my  hunting  of  priests  and  Papists, 
it  is  the  only  thing  that  lies  at  this  moment 
heavy  over  my  heart.  And  as  for  that  wife 
of  mine,  I'm  sorry  she's  not  in  my  place.  I 
know,  of  course,  I'LL  be  damned  ;  but  it  can't 
be  helped  now.  If  I  go  down,  as  down  I 
vnR  go,  won't  I  have  jDlenty  of  fiiends  to 
keep  me  in  countenance.  I  know — I  feel 
I'm  djing ;  but  I  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. In  the  meantime,  my  best  word 
and  wish  is,  that  that  yUe  jade  shan't  be 
permitted  to  approach  or  touch  my  body 
after  I  am  dead.  My  curse  upon  you  both  ! 
for  you  brought  me  to  this  untimely  death 
between  you." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Smellpriest — "  exclaimed 
the  wife. 

"  Don't  call  me  Smellpriest,"  he  replied, 
interrupting  her;  "my  name  is  Norbmw- 
But  it  doesn't  matter — it's  all  up  with  me, 
and  I  know  it  will  soon  be  aU  down  with  me  ; 
for  down,  down  I'll  go.  Strong,  you  hypo- 
critical scoundrel,  don't  be  a  persecutor : 
look  at  me  on  the  very  brink  of  perdition 
for  it.      lud  now  the  only  comfort  I  have  is, 


i50 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


that  I  let  the  poor  Popish  bishop  off.  I 
could  not  shoot  him,  or  at  any  rate  make  a 
prisoner  of  him,  and  he  engaged  in  the  wor- 
ship of  God." 

"  Alas  !  "  whispered  Strong,  "  the  jjoor 
man  is  verging  on  rank  Poi^ery — he  is  hope- 
less." 

"But,  Tom,  dear,"  said  the  wife,  "why 
are  you  disf)leased  with  me,  yoiu-  own  faith- 
ful partner  ?  I  that  was  so  loving  and  afi'ec- 
tionate  to  you  ?  I  that  urged  you  on  in  the 
path  of  duty?  I  that  scoured  your  arms 
and  regimentals  with  my  own  hands — that 
mixed  you  your  punch  before  you  went  after 
the  hla<:k  game,  as  you  iisecl  to  say,  and, 
again,  had  it  ready  for  you  when  you  re- 
turned to  precious  jVIr.  Strong  and  me  after 
a  long  hunt.  Don't  die  in  auger  mth  j'oiir 
own  Giizzey,  as  you  iised  to  call  me,  my 
dear  Tom,  or,  if  you  do,  I  feel  that  I  won't 
long  survive  you." 

"Ala!  you  jade,"  replied  Tom,  "didn't  I 
see  the  wink  between  you  to-night,  although 
you  thought  I  was  drank '?  Ah,  these  wild- 
goose  chases !  " 

"  Tom,  dear,  we  are  both  innocent.  Oh, 
forgive  your  own  Grizzey  !  " 

"  So  I  do,  you  jade — my  ciu'se  on  you 
both." 

Whether  it  was  the  effort  necessary  to 
speak,  in  addition  to  the  excitement  occa- 
sioned by  his  suspicions,  and  whether  these 
suspicious  were  well  founded  or  not,  we  do 
not  presume  to  say  ;  but  the  fact  was,  that, 
after  another  outgulp  of  blood  had  come  up, 
he  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  his  under-jaw 
fell,  and  the  vwetched,  half-penitent  Captain 
Smellpriest  breathed  his  last.  After  which 
his  wife,  whether  fi-om  sorrow  or  remorse, 
became  insensible,  and  remained  in  that 
state  for  a  considerable  time  ;  but  at  length 
she  recovered,  and,  after  exjjressuig  the 
most  violent  sorrow,  literally  drove  the  Rev. 
Ml'.  Strong  out  of  the  house,  with  many 
deep  and  bitter  curses.     But  to  return  : 

In  a  few  minutes  the  parties  dispersed, 
and  Folliard,  t(_)o  much  absorbed  in  the  fates 
of  ReUy  and  ^^^litecraft,  prejjared  to  ride 
to  Sligo,  to  ascertain  if  any  thing  could  be 
done  for  the  baronet.  In  the  meantime, 
while  he  and  his  old  friend  Cummiskey  are 
on  their  way  to  see  that  gentleman,  we  will 
ask  the  attention  of  ova  readers  to  the  state 
of  Helen's  mind,  as  it  was  affected  by  the 
distressing  events  wliich  had  so  rapitlly  and 
recently  occurred.  We  need  not  assiu-e 
them  that  deej)  anxiety  for  tlie  fate  of  her 
unfortunate  lover  lay  upon  her  heart  Uke 
gloom  of  death  itself.  His  image  and  his 
natural  nobiUty  of  character,  but,  above  all, 
the  pimty  and  delicacy  of  his  love  for  her- 
self ;  his  manly  and  fiiithful  attachment  to 


his  rehgion,  under  temptations  which  few 
hearts  could  resist — temptations  of  which 
she  herself  was,  beyond  all  comparison,  the 
most  trjing  and  the  most  difficult  to  be 
withstood  ;  his  refusal  to  leave  the  comitry 
on  her  account,  even  when  the  bloodhounds 
of  the  law  were  pursuing  him  to  his  death 
in  every  du-ection  ;  and  the  reflection  tha»- 
this  resolution  of  abiding  by  her,  and  watch- 
ing over  her  welfare  and  hajipiness,  and 
guarding  her,  as  far-  as  he  could,  from  do- 
mestic pei'secution — all  these  reflections,  in 
short,  crowded  upon  her  mind  with  such 
fearfid  force  that  her  reason  began  to  totter, 
and  she  felt  apjjrehensive  that  she  might 
not  be  able  to  bear  the  trial  which  ReiUy's 
position  now  placed  before  laer  in  the  most 
hideous  colors.  On  the  other  h.and,  there 
was  Whitecraft,  a  man  certainly  who  had 
committed  many  crimes  and  murders  and 
burnings,  often,  but  not  always,  iipon  his 
own  responsibility  ;  a  man  who,  she  knew, 
entertained  no  manly  or  tender  affection  for 
her  ;  he  too  about  to  meet  a  violent  death  ! 
That  she  detested  him  with  an  abhorrence 
as  deep  as  ever  woman  entertained  against 
man  was  true  ;  yet  she  vas  a  woman,  and 
this  ruiha25py  fate  that  impended  over  him 
was  not  excluded  out  of  the  code  of  her 
heart's  humanity.  She  wished  him  also  to 
be  saved,  if  only  that  he  might  withdraw 
fi'om  Ii'eland  and  rej^ent  of  his  crimes.  Al- 
together she  was  in  a  state  bordering  on 
fi'enzy  and  desjaaii",  and  was  often  incaj)able 
of  continuing  a  sustained  conversation. 

Wlien  AVhitecraft  reached  the  jail  in  his 
carriage,  attended  by  a  gaiard  of  troopers, 
the  jailer  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it ;  but 
seeing  the  carriage,  which,  after  a  glance  or 
two,  he  immediately  recognized  as  that  of 
the  well-known  grand  jnror,  he  came  out, 
with  hat  in  hand,  bowing  most  obsequiously. 

"I  hope  yoiu-  honors  well ;  you  are  com- 
ing to  inspect  the  prisoners,  I  suppose? 
Always  active  on  behalf  of  Chui'ch  and  State, 
Sir  Robert." 

"  Come,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,"  said  one  of 
the  constables,  "get  on  ■^^'ith  no  nonsense. 
You're  a  mighty  Church  and  State  man  now  ; 
but  I  remember  when  there  was  as  rank  a 
rebel  under  your  coat  as  ever  thumjjed  a 
craw.  Sir  Robert,  su',  is  here  as  our  pris- 
oner, and  wiU  soon  be  yovu-s,  for  murder 
and  arson,  and  God  knows  what  besides. 
Be  pleased  to  walk  into  the  hatch.  Sir 
Robert,  and  there  we  surrender  you  to  Mr. 
O'Shaughnessy,  who  will  treat  you  well  if  you 
pay  him  well." 

Tliey  then  entered  the  hatch.  The  con- 
stable produced  the  wi //////if/.'!  and  the  baro- 
net's j)erson  both  together,  after  which  they 
withdrew,  having  failed  to  get  the  price  of 


WILLY  B FILLY 


151 


a  glass  from  the  bai-onet  as  a  reward,  for 
tlieir  civility. 

Such  scenes  have  been  described  a  hun- 
dred times,  and  we  cousequeutly  shall  not 
delay  our  readers  upon  this.  The  baronet, 
indeed,  imagined  that  fi'om  his  rank  and 
influence  the  jailer  might  be  induced  to  give 
him  comfortable  apartments.  He  was  in, 
however,  for  two  cajoital  felonies,  and  the 
jailer,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  tiu-n 
that  pubhe  affau's  had  taken,  told  him  that 
upon  his  soul  and  conscience  if  the  matter 
lay  with  him  he  would  not  put  his  honor 
among  the  felons  ;  but  then  he  had  no  dis- 
cretion, because  it  was  as  much  as  liis  place 
was  worth  to  break  the  rules — a  thing  he 
couldn't  think  of  doing  as  an  honest  man 
and  an  upright  oliicer. 

"  But  whatever  I  can  do  for  j'ou,  Sir 
Robert,  111  do." 

"  You  wiU  let  me  have  pen  and  ink,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"  Well,  let  me  see.  Yes,  I  will,  Sir 
Robert ;  I'll  stretch  that  far  for  the  sake  of 
ould  times." 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

The  Squire   Comforts   Whitecruft  in  his  Affliction. 

The  old  squu-e  and  Cummiskey  lost  Httle 
time  in  getting  over  the  ground  to  the  town 
of  SUgo,  and,  in  order  to  reach  it  the  more 
quickly,  they  took  a  short  cut  by  the  old 
road  which  we  have  desci'ibed  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  narrative.  On  arriving  at  that 
■part  of  it  from  which  they  could  view  the 
spot  where  ReiUy  rescued  them  from  the 
murderous  violence  of  the  Red  Raj^paree, 
Cummiskej'  pointed  to  it. 

"  Does  your  honor  rememljer  that  jjlace, 
where  you  see  the  ould  buildin'  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  Is  not  that  the  jjlace 
where  the  cm-sed  RajJparee  attacked  us  ?  " 

"  It  is,  sir ;  and  where  poor  ReiUy  saved 
both  om-  lives  ;  and  yet  your  honor  is  goin' 
to  hang  him." 

"You  know  nothing  about  it,  you  old 
blockhead.  It  was  all  a  plan  got  up  by  Reil- 
ly  and  the  Rapparee  for  the  I3uii30se  of  get- 
ting introduced  to  my  daughter,  for  his  ovm. 
base  and  sellish  puiijoses.  Yes,  I'U  hang 
him  certainly — no  doubt  of  that." 

""Well,  sir,"  rej)lied  Cummiskey,  "  it's  one 
comfort  that  he  won't  hang  hj  himself." 

"No,"  said  the  other,  "he  and  the  Rap- 
paree will  stretch  the  same  rojse." 

"The    Rai>paree!     faith,    sir,    he'll    have 
worse  company." 
•  "  Wliat  do  you  mean,  sirra  ?  " 

"  Why,  Sir  Robert  "VMiitecraft,  sir  ;  he  al- 


ways had  gallows  written  in  his  face  ;  but, 
upon  my  soul,  he'U  soon  have  it  about  his 
neck,  jjlease  God." 

"  Faith,  I'm  afi-aid  you  are  not  far  from 
tne  truth,  Cummiskey,"  rejjlied  his  master  : 
"  however,  I  am  going  to  make  arrangements 
with  him,  to  see  what  can  be  done  for  the 
unfortunate  man." 

"  If  you'll  take  my  advice,  sir,  you'U  have- 
nothing  to  do  ■nith  him.  KeejJ  j'our  hand 
out  o'  the  pot ;  there's  no  man  can  skim 
boiling  lead  \\ith  his  hand  and  not  biu'n  his 
lingers — but  a  tinker." 

"  Don't  be  saucy,  you  old  dog  ;  but  ride 
on,  for  I  must  put  Black  Tom  to  his  speed.' 

On  arririug  at  the  prison,  the  squire  found 
Sii-  Robert  pent  up  in  a  miserable  cell,  with 
a  table  screwed  to  the  flo«r,  a  pallet  bed, 
and  a  deal  form.  PerhajDS  his  comfort 
might  have  been  improved  through  the  me- 
dium of  his  pm-se,  were  it  not  that  the  Prison 
Board  had  held  a  meeting  that  veiy  day, 
subsequent  to  his  committal,  in  which,  mth 
some  dissentients,  they  considered  it  theu* 
d«ty  to  warn  the  jailer  against  granting  him 
any  indulgence  beyond  what  he  was  entitled 
to  as  a  felon,  and  this  tmder  pain  of  their 
earnest  disjjleasui-e. 

When  the  squire  entered  he  found  the 
melancholy  baronet  and  priest-hunter  sitting 
upon  the  hard  form,  his  he.id  hanging  down 
upon  his  breast,  or,  indeed,  we  might  say 
much  farther  ;  for,  in  consequence  of  the 
almost  unnatural  length  of  his  neck,  it  ap- 
jDcared  on  that  occasion  to  be  growing  out  of 
the  middle  of  his  body,  or  of  that  fleshless 
vertebnil  column  which  passed  for  one. 

"  Well,  bai-onet,"  exclaimed  FoUiai'd  i^retty 
loudly,  "  here's  an  exchange  !  fi'om  the  altar 
to  the  halter  ;  fi-om  the  matrimonial  noose  to 
honest  Jack  Ketch's — and  a  devilish  good  es- 
cixpe  it  would  be  to  many  unfortunate 
wretches  in  this  same  world." 

"  Oh,  JIi-.  FoUiard,"  said  the  biironet,  "  i,^ 
not  this  miserable?  "WTiat  will  become  of 
me?" 

"Now,  I  teU  you  what,  "UTiitecraft,  I  am 
come  to  speak  to  you  upon  youi-  jjositiou  ; 
but  before  I  go  farther,  let  me  say  a  word  or 
two  to  make  you  repent,  if  possible,  for  what 
you  have  done  to  others." 

"  For  what  I  have  done,  'Mi:  FoUiard  !  why 
should  I  not  repent,  when  I  find  I  am  to  be 
hanged  for  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  hanged  you  -nill  be,  there  is  no 
doubt  of  that ;  but  now  consider  a  httle  ; 
here  you  are  -wiih.  a  brown  loaf,  and — is  that 
water  in  the  jug  ?  " 

"It  is." 

"  Very  well ;  here  you  are,  hard  and  fast- 
you  who  were  accustomed  to  luxuries,  to  the 
richest  meats,  and  the  richest  wines — here 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


you  are  with  a  brown  loaf,  a  jup;  of  water, 
and  the  gallows  before  you  !  However,  if 
you  wish  to  repent  trulj'  and  sincerely,  reflect 
upon  the  numbers  that  j-ou  and  your  blood- 
hounds have  consigned  to  places  Uke  this, 
and  sent  fi'om  this  to  the  gibbet,  while  you 
were  rioting  in  luxury  and  triumph.  Good 
God,  sii",  hold  up  j'our  head,  and  be  a  man. 
What  if  you  are  hanged?  Manj'  a  better 
man  was.     Hold  up  your  head,  I  say." 

"  I  can't,  my  dear  FoUiard  ;  it  won't  stay 
up  for  me." 

"Egad  !  and  you'll  soon  get  a  receij)t  for 
holding  it  uj).  Why  the  mischief  can't  you 
have  spunk?" 

"  Sjjunk  ;  how  the  deuce  could  you  expect 
spunk  from  any  man  in  my  condition  ?  It 
is  difficult  to  understand  you,  IMi'.  Folliard  ; 
you  told  me  a  minute  ago  to  repent,  and  now 
you  tell  me  to  have  S2:)unk  ;  pray  what  do  you 
mean  by  that  ?  " 

"Why,  confound  it,  I  mean  that  you 
should  rejjent  with  spunk.  However,  let  us 
come  to  more  imj)ortant  matters  ;  what  can 
be  done  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  not ;  I  am  incapable  of  think- 
ing on  any  thing  but  that  damned  gallows 
without  ;  yet  I  should  wish  to  make  my 
wUl." 

"  Your  will !  Why,  I  think  you  have  lost 
your  senses  ;  don't  you  know  that  when  you're 
hanged  every  shilling  and  acre  you  are  pos- 
sessed of  wUl  be  forfeited  to  the  crown  ?  " 

"  TiTie,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  had  forgot- 
ten that.  Could  Hastings  be  induced  to  de- 
cline prosecuting  ?  " 

"  What !  to  comp)romise  a  felony,  and  be 
transported  himself.  Thank  you  for  nothing 
baronet ;  that's  rather  a  blue  look  up.  No, 
our  only  plan  is  to  try  and  influence  the  grand 
'ury  to  throw  out  the  bills  ;  but  then,  again, 
I'here  are  indictments  against  you  to  no  end. 
Hastings'  ense  is  only  a  single  one,  and,  even 
if  he  failed,  it  would  not  better  your  con- 
dition a  whit.  Under  the  late  Administration 
we  could  have  saved  you  by  getting  a  packed 
jury  ;  but  that's  out  of  the  question  now.  All 
we  can  do,  I  think,  is  to  get  up  a  memorial 
strongly  signed,  supplicating  the  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant to  comnmte  your  sentence  fi'om  hang- 
ing to  transportation  for  life.  I  must  con- 
fess, however,  there  is  little  hope  even  there. 
They  will  come  down  with  their  cursed  rea- 
soning and  tell  us  that  the  rank  and  educa- 
tion of  the  offender  only  aggravate  the  ofi'ence  ; 
and  that,  if  they  allow  a  niau  so  convicted  to 
escape,  in  consequence  of  his  high  position 
m  life,  every  humble  mim  foiuid  guUty  and 
executed  for  the  same  crime — is  miu'dered. 
They  will  tell  us  it  would  be  a  prostitution 
of  the  prerogative  of  the  Crown  to  connive  at 
crime  in  the  rich  and  pimish  it  in  the  poor. 


And,  again,  there's  the  de^il  of  it ;  your  beg« 
garly  want  of  hospitahty  in  the  first  place,  and 
the  cursed  swaggering  severity  with  which 
you  carried  out  your  loyalty,  by  making  un- 
expected domieiUary  \dsits  to  the  houses  of 
loyal  but  humane  Protestant  famUies,  with 
the  exj)ectation  of  finding  a  priest  or  a  Papist 
under  their  protection  :  both  these,  I  say, 
have  made  you  the  most  iinpof)ular  man  in 
the  coimty  ;  and,  upon  my  soul.  Sir  Robert, 
I  don't  tliink  there  will  be  a  man  upon  the 
gi'and  jury  whose  family  you  have  not  insulted 
by  your  inveterate  loyalty.  No  one,  I  tell 
you,  likes  a  persecutor.  Still,  I  say,  I'll  try 
what  I  can  do  with  the  grand  jury.  I'U  see 
my  fiiends  and  yours — if  you  have  any  now, 
make  out  a  list  of  them  in  a  day  or  two — and 
you  may  rest  assui-ed  that  I  will  leave  nothing 
undone  to  extricate  you." 

"  Thank  you,  IVIr.  FoUiard  ;  but  do  you 
know  ifhy  I  am  here?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do." 

"  No,  yon  don't,  su\  WUHam  Eeilly,  the 
Jesuit  and  Pi^jiist,  is  the  cause  of  it,  and  will 
be  the  cause  of  my  utter  ruin  and  ignomini- 
ous death." 

"  How  is  that  ?  Make  it  plain  to  me  ;  only 
make  that  plain  to  me." 

"He  is  the  bosom  friend  of  Hastings,  and 
can  sway  him  and  move  him  and  manage  him 
as  a  father  would  a  cliild,  or,  rather,  as  a  child 
would  a  doting  father.  Eeilly,  sir,  is  at  the 
bottom  of  this,  his  great  object  always  hav- 
ing been  to  p)revent  a  marriage  between  me 
and  yoiu-  beautiful  daughter  ;  I,  who,  after 
all,  have  done  so  much  for  Protestantism, 
am  the  victim  of  that  Jesuit  and  Papist." 

This  vintlictive  suggestion  took  at  once, 
and  the  impetuous  old  squire  started  as  if  a 
new  light  had  been  let  in  upon  his  mind.  We 
call  him  imj)etuous,  because,  if  he  had  re- 
flected only  for  a  moment  u^ion  the  diabolic;il 
jaersecution,  both  in  person  and  jn-ojjerty, 
which  Reilly  had  sustained  at  the  liaronet  s 
hands,  he  ought  not  to  have  blamed  him  had 
he  sliot  the  scoiindrel  as  if  he  had  been  one 
of  the  most  rabid  dogs  that  ever  ran  frothing 
across  a  country.  We  say  the  suggestion, 
poisoned  as  it  was  by  the  most  specious 
falsehood,  failed  not  to  accomphsh  the  \il- 
lain's  object. 

Folliard  grasjjed  him  by  the  hand.  "  Never 
mind,"  said  he  ;  "  keep  yourself  quiet,  and 
leave  Keilly  to  me  ;  I  have  him, that's  enough." 

"No,"  replied  the  baronet,  "it  is  not 
enough,  because  I  know  what  wiU  happen : 
Miss  Folliard's  influence  over  you  is  a  pro- 
verb ;  now  she  will  cajole  and  flatter  and  be- 
guile you  imtil  she  prevails  ujion  you  to  let 
the  treacherous  Jesuit  slip)  through  your 
fingers,  and  then  he  will  get  oif  to  the  Con- 
tinent, and  laugh  at  you  all,  after  having  tak' 


WILLY  REILLY. 


VA 


eii  her  ^-itli  liim  ;  for  there  is  nothing  more 
certain,  if  he  escajDes  death  thi'ough  youi"  in- 
dulgence, than  that  you  will,  in  the  coiu'se  of 
a  few  yeai's,  find  yoiu'self  grandfather  to  a 
brood  of  young  Pajjisf  s  ;  and  when  I  say  Pa- 
pists, need  I  add  rebels  ?  " 

"  Come,"  replied  the  hot-headed  old  man, 
"  don't  insult  me  ;  I  am  master  of  my  o\yn 
house,  and,  well  as  I  loye  my  daughter,  I 
would  not  for  a  moment  sufier  her  to  intei-- 
fere  iu  a  pubhc  matter  of  this  or  any  other 
kind.  Now  good-by  ;  keej^  your  spiiits  uf), 
and  if  you  ai-e  to  die,  why  die  hke  a  man." 

They  then  separated  ;  and  as  Folhard  was 
passing  through  the  hatch,  he  called  the 
jailer  into  his  own  ofitice,  and  stroye  to  pre- 
yail  upon  him,  not  ineSectuaUy,  to  smuggle 
in  some  wine  and  other  comforts  to  the  bar- 
onet. The  man  told  him  that  he  would  -sx-ith 
2)leasure  do  so  if  he  dared ;  but  tTiat  the 
caution  agamst  it  wliieli  he  had  got  that  yery 
day  fi'om  the  Board  rendered  the  thing  im- 
possible. Ere  the  squii'e  left  him,  howeyer, 
his  scniples  were  oyercome,  and  the  baronet, 
before  he  went  to  bed  that  night,  had  a 
ro.ist  duck  for  sujiper,  with  two  bottles  of  ex- 
cellent claret  to  wash  it  down  and  lull  his 
conscience  into  slumber. 

"  Confound  it,"  the  squii-e  soliloquized,  on 
their  way  home,  "  I  am  as  stupid  as  ^Miite- 
eraft  himself,  who  was  never  stupid  until 
aow ;  there  have  I  been  with  him  iu  that 
cursed  dungeon,  and  neither  of  us  ever 
thought  of  taking  measures  for  his  defence. 
AVh}-,  he  must  have  the  best  lawyers  at  the 
Bar,  and  fee  them  hke  piinces.  Gad  !  I  have 
a  gi-eat  notion  to  ride  back  and  speak  to  him 
on  the  subject ;  he's  in  such  a  confoiuided 
trepidation  about  his  life  that  he  can  think 
of  nothing  else.  No  matter,  I  sh;xll  write  to 
him  by  a  special  messenger  earlj'  in  the 
morning.  It  would  be  a  cursed  slap  in  the 
face  to  have  one  of  our  leading  men  hanged 
— onlj",  after  all,  for  carrj-ing  out  the  wishes 
of  an  anti-Papist  Government,  who  connived 
at  his  conduct,  and  encouraged  hun  in  it.  I 
know  he  expected  a  coronet,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  he'd  have  got  one  had  his  party 
remained  in  ;  but  now  aU  the  unfortunate 
devU  is  hkely  to  get  is  a  rope — and  be  hanged 
to  them !  However,  as  to  my  own  case 
about  EeiUy— I  must  secure  a  strong  bar 
against  him  ;  and  if  we  can  only  prevail  upon 
Helen  to  state  the  facts  as  they  occuiTed, 
there  is  little  doubt  that  he  shall'  suifer  ;  for 
Lang  he  must,  iu  consequence  of  the  dis- 
grace he  has  brought  upon  my  daughter's 
name  and  mine.  'WTiatever  I  might  have 
forgiven,  I  vntU  never  forgive  him  that." 

He  then  rode  on  at  a  rapid  iiace,  and  did 
uot  slacken  his  speed  until  he  reached  home. 
Dinner  was  ready,  and  he  sat  down  with  none 


but  Helen,  who  could  scai'cely  touch  a  mor- 
sel. Her  father  saw  at  once  the  state  of  hei 
mind,  and  felt  that  it  would  be  injudicious 
to  introduce  am'  subject  that  might  be  cal- 
culated to  excite  her.  They  accordingly 
talked  upon  commonplace  tojjics,  and  each 
assumed  as  much  cheer^Hilness,  and  more 
than  they  could  command.  It  was  a  miser- 
able sight,  when  projjerly  understood,  to  see 
the  father  and  daughter  forced,  by  the  jjain- 
ful  pecuharity  of  theii'  cii'cumstances,  thus 
to  conceal  theu'  natui-al  sentiments  fi-om  each 
other.  Love,  however,  is  often  a  distiu'ber 
of  famOies,  as  in  the  case  of  EeiUj'  and  Coo- 
leen  Beam  ;  and  so  is  an  avaiicious  ambition, 
when  united  to  a  selfish  and  a  sensual  attach- 
ment, as  in  the  case  of  Whitecraft. 

It  is  unnecessary  now,  and  it  would  be 
only  tedious,  to  dwell  upon  the  energetic 
prepai'ations  that  were  made  for  the  thi'ee  ap- 
proaching trials.  Pubhc  rumor  had  taken 
them  up  and  sent  them  abroad  throughout 
the  greater  portion  of  the  kingdom.  The 
thi'ee  culprits  were  notorious — Sir  Robert 
WTiitecraft,  the  jjiiest-hunter  and  prose- 
cutor ;  the  notorious  Fied  Rapparee,  whose 
exfiloits  had  been  commemorated  in  a  thou- 
sand ballads  ;  and  "  Wdly  ReiUy,"  whose 
love  for  the  far-famed  Cooleen  Bawn,  togethei 
^yith  her  unconquerable  passion  for  him,  had 
been  kno\^'n  thi'oughout  the  empire.  In 
fact,  the  interest  which  the  pubhc  felt  in  the 
result  of  the  approaching  trials  was  intense, 
not  only  in  Ii-eland,  but  thi-oughout  England 
and  Scotland,  where  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  them  were  borne  on  the  wings 
of  the  press.  Love,  however,  especially  the 
romance  of  it — and  here  were  not  onlj' 
romance  but  reality  enough — love,  we  say, 
overcomes  all  collateral  interests — and  the 
historj'  of  the  loves  of  Willy  Reilly  and  his 
"  dear  Cooleen  Baicn  "  even  then  touched  the 
hearts  of  thousands,  and  moistened  many  a 
3'oung  eye  for  his  calamities  and  eaiiy  fate, 
and  the  sorrows  of  his  Cooleen  Bmvn. 

Helen's  father,  inspired  by  the  de^ahsh 
suggestions  of  '\\1iitecraft,  now  kept  aloof 
fi'om  her  as  much  as  he  could  with  decency 
do.  He  knew  his  own  weakness,  and  felt 
that  if  he  suffered  her  to  gain  that  portion  of 
his  societj'  to  which  she  had  been  accustom- 
ed, his  resolution  might  bi-eak  do-«-n,  and 
the  veiy  result  prognosticated  by  "Viliitecraft 
might  be  brought  about.  Indeed  his  time 
was  so  little  his  own,  between  his  activity 
in  defence  of  that  villain  and  his  energetic 
operations  for  the  prosecution  of  Reilly.  that 
he  had  not  much  to  spare  her,  excei^t  at 
meals.  It  was  not,  howevei-,  through  him- 
self that  he  wished  to  win  her  over  to  pros- 
ecute Reilly.  No  ;  he  felt  his  difficulty,  and 
knew  that  he  could  not  attempt  to  influence 


154 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


ner  with  a  good  grace,  or  any  force  of  argu- 
ment. He  resolved,  therefore,  to  set  his  at- 
torney to  work,  who,  as  he  understood  aU 
the  quii'ks  and  intricacy  of  the  law,  might  be 
able  to  puzzle  her  into  coiuijhance.  This 
gentleman,  however,  who  j)osses.sed  at  once 
a  rapacious  heart  and  a  stujaid  head,  might 
have  Heeced  half  the  country  had  the  one 
been  ui^on  a  par  with  the  other.  He  was, 
besides,  in  his  o^vn  estimation,  a  lady-kiUer, 
and  knew  not  how  these  interviews  with  the 
fair  Cooleen  Bawn  might  end.  He,  at  all 
events,  was  a  sound  Protestant,  and  if  it  were 
often  said  that  you  might  as  well  ask  a  High- 
lander for  a  knee-buckle  as  an  attorney  for 
rehgion,  he  could  conscientiously  fall  back 
u23on  the  fact  that  political  Protestantism  and 
religion  were  very  different  things — for  an 
attorney. 

Instructed  by  Folliard,  he  accordingly 
waited  upon  her  professionally,  in  her  father's 
study,  during  his  absence,  and  opened  his 
case  as  follows : 

"I  have  called  upon  you,  Miss  FoUiard, 
by  the  direction  of  your  father,  prufesmjimlUj, 
and  indeed  I  thank  my  stars  that  any  jjro- 
fessional  business  should  give  me  an  ojsjjor- 
tunity  of  admiring  so  far-famed  a  beauty." 

"Are  you  not  Mr.  Doldrum,"  she  asked, 
"  the  celebrated  attorney?  " 

"  Doldrum  is  certainly  my  name,  my  lovely 
client." 

"  Well,  Ml-.  Doldrum,  I  think  I  have  heard 
of  you  ;  but  jjermit  me  to  say  that  before  you 
make  love,  as  you  seem  about  to  do,  I  think 
it  better  you  should  mention  your  profes- 
sional business." 

"  It  is  very  simple,  Miss  FoUiard  ;  just  to 
know  whether  you  have  any  objection  to 
ap23ear  as  an  evidence  against — he-hem — 
against  Mr.  ReiUy." 

"  Oh,  then  yoiu-  business  and  time  with  me 
will  be  very  brief,  Mr.  Doldnim.  It  is  my 
intention  to  see  justice  done,  and  for  that 
puiijose  I  shall  attend  the  trial,  and  if  I  find 
that  my  evidence  will  be  necessary,  I  assure 
you  I  shall  give  it.  But,  INtr.  Doldrum,  one 
word  with  you  before  you  go." 

"  A  hundred — a  thousand,  my  dear  lady." 

"  It  is  this :  I  beg  as  a  personal  favor  that 
you  will  use  your  great  influence  with  my 
father  to  jjrevent  him  from  talking  to  me  on 
%is  subject  until  the  day  of  trial  comes.  By 
Being  kind  enough  to  do  this  j'ou  will  save 
me  from  much  anxiety  and  annoyance." 

"  I  pledge  you  my  honor,  madam,  that 
your  wishes  shall  be  comphed  with  to  the 
letter,  as  far,  at  least,  as  any  influence  of 
mine  can  accomplish  them." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  wish  you  a  good-morn- 
ing." 

"  Good-morning,  madam  ;  it  shall  not  be 


my  fault  if  you  are  harassed  upon  this  mosi 
painful  subject  ;  and  I  pledge  you  my  repu- 
tation that  I  never  contributed  to  hang  a  man 
in  my  Ufe  Tixith  more  regi-et  than  I  exi^erience 
in  this  unfortimate  case." 

It  is  quite  a  common  thing  to  find  vanity 
and  stujjidity  united  in  the  same  individual, 
as  they  were  in  Mi-.  Doldrum.  He  was  Mr. 
Folliard's  country  attorney,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  sti-ong  Protestant  pohtics,  was 
engaged  as  the  law  agent  of  his  jjrojjerty  ; 
and  for  the  same  reason — that  is,  because  he 
was  a  violent,  he  was  considered  a  vei-y  able 
man. 

There  is  a  class  of  men  in  the  world 
who,  when  they  once  engage  in  a  pursuit 
or  an  act  of  any  importance,  wOl  persist 
in  working  it  out,  rather  than  be  suj)- 
posed,  .  by  relinc[uishing  it,  when  they 
discover  themselves  ■OTong,  to  cast  an 
imijutation  on  theii-  own  judgments.  To 
such  a  class  belonged  Mi-.  Folliard,  who 
never,  in  point  of  fact,  acted  ui3on  anj-  fixed 
or  distinct  ijrinciple  whatsoever ;  yet  if  he 
once  took  a  matter  into  his  head,  under  the 
influence  of  caprice  or  impulse,  no  man 
could  evince  more  obstinacy  or  perseverance, 
apart  fiom  all  its  justice  or  moral  associations, 
so  long,  at  least,  as  that  caj)rice  or  imj)ulse 
lasted.  The  reader  may  have  jjerceived  from 
his  dialogue  with  Helen,  on  the  morning  ap- 
pointed for  her  marriage  with  'NMiitecraft, 
that  the  worthj-  baronet,  had  he  made  his 
apijearance,  stood  a  strong  chance  of  being 
sent  about  his  business  as  rank  a  bachelor  as 
he  had  come.  And  yet,  because  he  was  cun- 
ning enough  to  make  the  hot-brained  and 
credulous  old  man  beheve  that  EeiUj"  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  j)lan  for  his  destruction, 
and  Hastings  only  the  jiassive  agent  in  his 
hands ;  we  say,  because  he  succeeded  in 
making  this  imj)ression,  which  he  knew  to  be 
deliberatelj'  false,  ujion  his  jslastic  nature,  he, 
FoUiard,  worked  himself  up  into  a  vindictive 
bittei-uess  pecuUar  to  httle  mmds,  as  weU  as 
a  fixed  determination  that  EeiUy  should  die  ; 
not  liy  any  means  so  much  because  he  took 
away  his  daughter  as  that  his  death  might  be 
marked  in  this  conflict  of  pai-ties  as  a  set-oH 
against  that  of  "\Miitecraft. 

In  the  meantime  he  and  Helen  entertained 
each  a  difl'erent  aijprehension  ;  he  dreaded 
that  she  might  exercise  her  influence  over 
him  for  the  jmrpose  of  softening  hun  against 
ReUly,  whom,  if  he  had  sufl'ered  himself  to 
analyze  his  own  heart,  he  would  have  found 
there  in  the  shape  of  somethhig  very  like  a 
favorite.  Helen,  on  the  contrary,  knew  tluit 
she  was  expected  to  attend  the  trial,  in  order 
to  give  evidence  against  her  lover  ;  aod  she 
Uved  for  a  few  days  after  his  committal 
under  the   constant  dread   that  he^  father 


WILLY  ItEILLT. 


153 


would  persecute  lier  with  endless  arguments 
to  induce  her  attendance  at  the  assizes. 
Such,  besides,  was  her  love  of  truth  and 
candor,  and  her  hatred  of  dissimulation  in 
every  shape,  that,  if  either  her  father  or  the 
attorney  had  asked  her,  in  exijlicit  terms, 
what  the  tendency  of  her  evidence  was  to  be, 
she  would  at  once  have  satisfied  them  that  it 
should  be  in  favor  of  her  lover.  In  the 
meantime  she  felt  that,  us  they  did  not  press 
her  on  this  point,  it  would  have  been  mad- 
ness to  volunteer  a  disclosure  of  a  matter  so 
important  to  the  ^indication  of  ReiUy's  con- 
duct. To  this  we  may  add  her  intimate 
knowledge  of  her  father's  whimsical  charac- 
ter and  unsteadiness  of  purpose.  She  was 
not  ignorant  that,  even  if  he  were  absolutely 
aware  that  the  tenor  of  her  evidence  was  to 
go  against  Reilly,  his  mind  might  change  so 
decidedly  as  to  call  upon  her  to  give  evidence 
in  his  defence.  Under  these  circumstances 
she  acted  with  singular  j^mdence,  in  never 
alliid'cBg  to  a  topic  of  such  difficult}-,  and 
which  involved  a  contingency  that  might 
afl'e  't  her  lover  in  a  double  sense. 

Hn'  father's  conduct,  however,  on  this  oc- 
casion, saved  them  both  a  vast  deal  of 
trouble  and  annoyance,  and  the  consequence 
was  that  they  met  as  seldom  as  possible.  In 
addition  to  this,  we  may  state  that  Doldi-um 
coinmunieated  the  successful  result  of  his 
interview  with  Miss  FolUard — her  wiUingness 
to  attenil  the  trial  and  see  justice  done,  upon 
conilition  that  she  should  not  have  the  sub- 
ject obtruded  on  her,  either  by  her  father  or 
any  one  else,  until  the  apjDointed  day  should 
arilve,  when  she  would  punctually  attend. 
In  this  state  were  the  relative  positions  and 
feelings  of  f.ither  and  daughter  about  a 
month  before  the  opening  of  the  assizes. 

In  the  meantime  the  squire  set  himself  to 
work  for  the  baronet.  The  ablest  lawyers 
were  obtained,  but  Whitecraft  most  positive- 
ly objected  to  FoUiard's  proposal  or  engaging 
Doldrum  as  his  attorney ;  he  knew  the  stu- 
pidity and  ignorance  of  the  mau,  and  would 
h  ive  nothing  to  do  wth  him  as  the  conduc- 
tor of  his  case.  His  own  attorney,  Mr. 
Shai-ply,  was  engaged ;  and  indeed  his 
selection  of  a  keen  and  able  man  such  as  he 
was  did  credit  both  to  his  sagacity  and 
foresight. 

Consideiing  the  state  of  the  country  at 
that  particular  period,  the  matter  began  to 
assume  a  most  important  aspect.  A  j^ortion 
of  the  Protestant  party,  by  which  we  mean 
those  who  had  sanctioned  aU  Wliitecraft's 
brutal  and  murderous  excesses,  called  every 
energj'  and  exertion  into  work,  in  order  to 
defeat  the  Government  and  protect  the  lead- 
ing man  of  their  own  clique.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  was  the  Government,  firm  and 


decided,  by  the  just  operation  of  the  laws, 
to  make  an  example  of  the  man  who  had  not 
only  availed  himself  of  those  laws  when  they 
were  with  him,  but  who  scrujiled  not  to  set 
them  aside  when  they  were  against  him,  and 
to  force  his  bloodthirsty  instincts  upon  his 
own  responsibihty.  The  Government,  how- 
ever, were  not  without  large  and  active  sup- 
port from  those  Uberal  Protestants,  who  had 
been  disgusted  and  sickened  by  the  iiTe- 
sponsible  outrages  of  such  persecutors  as 
^VTiitecraft  and  Smelljjiiest.  Upon  those 
men  the  new  Govei-nmeut  relied,  and  relied 
with  safety.  The  country  was  in  a  tumult, 
the  bigoted  party  threatened  an  insurrection  ; 
and  they  did  so,  not  because  they  felt  them- 
selves in  a  position  to  effect  it,  but  in  order 
to  alarm  and  intimidate  the  Government. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Cathohcs,  who  had 
given  decided  jjroofs  of  then-  loyalty  by  re- 
fusing to  join  the  Pretender,  now  expressed 
their  determination  to  support  the  Govern- 
ment if  an  outbreak  among  that  section  o{ 
the  Protestant  party  to  which  we  have  just 
alluded  should  take  place. 

But  perhaps  the  real  cause  of  the  conduct 
of  the  Government  might  be  traced  to  White- 
craft's  outrage  upon  a  French  subject  in  the 

person  of  the  Abbe .     The  matter,  as  we 

have  stated,  was  seriously  taken  uj)  by  the 
French  Ambassador,  in  the  name,  and  by 
the  most  jsositive  instructions,  of  his  Court. 
The  villain  Whitecraft,  in  consequence  of 
that  wanton  and  unjustifiable  act,  went  far 
to  mvolve  the  two  nations  in  a  bitter  and 
bloody  war.  England  was  every  day  under 
the  apprehension  of  a  French  invasion, 
which,  of  course,  she  dreaded  ;  sometliing 
must  be  done  to  satisfy  the  French  Court. 
Perhaps,  had  it  not  been  for  this,  the  genenil 
outrages  committed  upon  the  imfortunate 
Catholics  of  Ireland  would  never  have  be- 
come the  subject  of  a  detailed  investigation. 
An  investigation,  however,  took  place,  by 
which  a  system  of  the  most  incredible  per- 
secution was  discovered,  and  a  milder  ad- 
ministration of  the  laws  was  found  judicious, 
in  order  to  conciliate  the  Catholic  jjarty,  and 
prevent  them  fi'om  embracing  the  cause  of 
the  Pretender.  At  aU  events,  what  between 
the  necessity  of  satisfying  the  claims  of  the 
French  Government,  and  in  ajjprehension  of 
a  Catholic  defection,  the  great  and  j^rincipal 
criminal  was  selected  for  punishment.  The 
Irish  Government,  hov/ever,  who  were  al- 
ready ijrejmred  with  their  charges,  found 
themselves  akeady  anticipated  bj'  IMi'. 
Hastings,  a  fact  which  enabled  them  to  lie 
on  their  oars  and  await  the  result. 

Such  was  the  state  and  condition  of  affairs 
as  the  assizes  were  within  ten  days  of  open- 


156 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


One  evening  about  this  time  the  old 
squire,  who  never  remained  long  in  the 
same  mode  of  feeling,  sent  for  his  daughter 
to  the  dining-room,  where  he  was  engaged 
at  his  Burgundy.  The  poor  gii-l  feared  that 
he  was  about  to  introduce  the  painful  sub- 
ject which  she  dreaded  so  much — that  is  to 
say,  the  necessity  of  giving  her  evidence 
against  Eeilly,  After  some  conversation, 
however,  she  was  relieved,  for  he  did  not 
allude  to  it ;  but  he  did  to  the  fate  of  ReiUy 
himself,  the  very  subject  which  was  wringing 
her  heart  with  agony. 

"Helen,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  thinking 
of  ReiUy's  affair,  and  it  strikes  me  that  he 
may  be  saved,  and  become  j'our  husband 
still ;  because,  you  know,  that  if  ^^^litecraft 
was  acquitted,  now  that  he  has  been  jjublicly 
disgraced,  I'd  see  the  devil  picking  his  bones 
•  —and  very  hard  j)icking  he'd  find  them — 
before  I'd  give  you  to  him  as  a  wife." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  papa  ;  but  let  me 
sask  Avhy  it  is  that  you  are  so  active  in  stir- 
ring Vi\)  his  party  to  defend  such  a  man  ?  " 

"  Foolish  girl,"  he  re^jUed  ;  "  it  is  not  the 
man,  but  the  cause  and  priuciijle,  we  de- 
fend." 

"  What,  papa,  the  cause !  bloodshed  and 
persecution  !  I  beUeve  you  to  be  possessed  of 
a  humane  heart,  pajja  ;  but,  notwithstanding 
his  character  and  his  crimes,  I  do  not  wish 
the  unfortunate  man  to  be  struck  into  the 
grave  without  repentance." 

"  Repentance,  Helen  !  How  the  deuce 
could  a  man  feel  repentance  who  does  not 
believe  the  Christian  religion  ?  " 

"  But  then,  sir,  has  he  not  the  reputation 
of  being  a  sound  and  leading  Protestant  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hang  his  rejsutatiou  ;  it  is  not  of 
liim  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  but  ReiUy." 

Helen's  heart  beat  rapidly  and  thickly, 
but  she  spoke  not. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  project  in  my 
dead  that  I  think  may  save  Reilly." 

"  Pray,  what  is  it,  may  I  ask,  pajja  ?" 

"No,  you  may  not;  but  to-morrow  I 
wiU  give  him  an  early  call,  and  let  you 
know  how  I  succeed,  after  my  return  to 
dinner ;  yes,  I  will  tell  you  after  dinner. 
But  listen,  Helen,  it  is  the  opinion  of  the 
baronet's  fiiends  that  they  will  be  able  to 
save  him." 

"  I  hope  they  may,  sir  ;  I  should  not  wish 
to  see  any  fellow-creature  brought  to  an 
ignominious  death  in  the  midst  of  his 
offences,  and  in  the  prime  of  life." 

"  But,  on  the  contrary,  if  he  swings,  we 
are  bound  to  sacrifice  one  of  the  Papist 
party  for  him,  and  ReiUy  is  the  man.  Now 
dou't  look  so  i)ale,  Helen — don't  look  .as  if 
death  v,-.ns  settled  in  your  face  ;  his  fate  may 
be  avoided ;  but  ask  me  nothing — the  pro- 


ject's my  own,  and  I  wUl  communicate  it  to 
no  one  until  after  I  shall  have  ascertained 
whether  I  fail  in  it  or  not." 

"I  trust,  sir,  it  will  be  nothing  that  wiU 
involve  him  in  anything  dishonorable  ;  but 
why  do  I  ask  ?    He  is  incapable  of  that." 

"  WeU,  well,  leave  the  matter  in  my  hand; 
and  now,  upon  the  strength  of  my  project, 
I'U  take  another  bumjjer  of  Bm-gimdy,  and 
diink  to  its  success." 

Helen  pleaded  some  cause  for  withdraw- 
ing, as  she  entertained  an  apprehension  that 
he  might  introduce  the  tojnc  which  'she 
most  dreaded — that  of  her  duty  to  give 
evidence  against  Reilly.  When  she  was 
gone  he  began  to  ponder  over  several  sub- 
jects connected  with  the  principal  characters 
of  this  narrative  until  he  became  drowsy, 
during  which  period  halters,  gibbets,  gal- 
lowses,' hangmen,  and  judges  jumbled  each 
other  alternately  through  his  fancy,  until  he 
fell  fast  asleejj  in  his  easj'-ehair. 


CHAPTER  XXin. 

Tlie  Squire  iecomes  llieologwal  nnd  a  Proselytiser, 
but  sigiiaUy  fails. 

The  next  morning  he  and  Cummiskey 
started  for  Sligo,  and,  as  usual,  when  they 
reached  the  jail  the  turnkey  was  about  to 
conduct  the  squire  to  Sir  Robert's  room, 
when  the  former  turned  and  said  : 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  ReiUy  ;  lead  me  to  his 
ceU." 

"  ReiUy,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  the  man  in  aston- 
ishment. "  Ai-e  you  sui'e,  sii',  it's  not  Sir 
Robert  \Miitecraft  you  want  ?  " 

"Are  you  sure,  sir,  that  it's  not  a  cut  of 
my  whip  about  the  ears  you  want  ?  Con- . 
duct  me  to  where  ReUly  is,  you  rascal ;  do 
you  pretend  to  know  the  individxial  I  wish 
to  see  better  than  I  do  myseM  ?  Push  along, 
sirra." 

The  turnkey  accordingly  conducted  him 
to  ReiUy's  cell,  which,  considerably  to  his 
surprise,  was  a  much  more  comfortable  one 
than  had  been  assigned  to  the  baronet. 
When  they  had  reached  the  corridor  in 
which  it  was  situated,  FoUiard  said,  "Knock 
at  the  door,  and  when  he  appears  teU  him 
that  I  wish  to  see  him." 

"I  wiU,  your  honor." 

"  Say  I  won't  detain  him  long." 

"I  wiU,  your  honor." 

"  Hang  3'oui'  honor,  go  and  do  what  I  de- 
sire you." 

"  1  wiU,  your  honor." 

ReiUy's  astonishment  was  beyond  belief 
on  learning  that   his  vindictive  prosecutor 


THl    aVSBOT    uF   THK   AaOOMKNT   IS  THIS,    THAT   THERE   IS   NOT   A  TOSS- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


VS\ 


bad  called  upon  him  ;  but  on  more  mature 
reflection,  and  comparing  what  had  hap- 
pened before  wth  the  only  motive  wliich  he 
could  assign  for  such  a  visit,  he  felt  pretty 
certain  that  the  squii'e  came  to  revive,  in  his 
o^vn  person,  a  subject  which  he  had  before 
proposed  to  him  tlu'ough  his  daughter. 
There  was  no  other  eartlily  object  to  which 
he  could  attribute  his  visit ;  but  of  course  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  receive  liim  with  every 
courtesy.  At  length  Folliard  entered,  and, 
before  Reilly  had  time  to  utter  a  syllable, 
commenced  : 

"Eeilly,"  said  he,  "you  are  astonished  to 
see  me  here  ?  " 

"I  am,  sir,"  replied  Reilly,  "very  much." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  would  ;  and  very 
few  persons,  excejjt  myself,  would  come 
upon  such  an  errand  to  the  man  that  has 
disgraced  my  daughter,  myself,  and  my 
family ;  you  have  stained  our  name,  sir — a 
name  that  was  never  associated  with  any 
thing  but  honor  and  purity  until  you  came 
among  us." 

"  If  you  have  paid  me  this  visit,  sir,  onlj"^ 
for  the  purpose  of  uttering  language  which 
you  know  must  be  very  painful  to  me,  I 
would  rather  you  had  declined  to  call  upon 
me  at  aU.  I  jjerceive  no  object  you  can 
have  in  it,  unless  to  gratify  a  feehng  of  en- 
mity on  your  pai't,  and  excite  one  of  sorrow 
on  mine.  I  say  sorrow,  because,  on  consid- 
ering our  relative  positions,  and  knowing 
the  impetuosity  of  your  temper,  I  am  sorry 
to  see  you  here  ;  it  is  scarcelj'  generous  in 
you  to  come,  for  the  purpjase  of  indulging 
in  a  poor,  and  what,  after  all,  may  be  an 
equivocal  and  premature  triumph  over  a 
man  whose  love  for  yom-  daughter,  you  must 
know,  wiU  seal  his  lij)s  against  the  exjires- 
sion  of  one  offensive  word  towards  you." 

"  But  how,  let  me  ask,  sir,  do  you  know 
what  brought  me  here  ?  I  didn't  come  to 
scold  j'ou,  nor  to  triumph  over  you  ;  and  I 
have  already  said  the  worst  I  shall  saj-.  I 
know  very  weU  that  you  and  "SVhitecraft 
will  be  hanged,  probably  from  the  same 
rojje  too,  but,  in  the  meantime,  I  would  save 
you  both  if  I  could.  I  fear  indeed  that  to 
save  him  is  out  of  the  question,  because  it 
appears  that  there's  a  cart-load  of  indict- 
ments against  him." 

"  How  could  you  doubt  it,  sir,  when  you 
know  the  incredible  extent  of  his  \*iUany, 
both  private  and  public  ?  and  yet  this  is  the 
man  to  whom  you  would  have  married  your 
daughter  !  " 

"  No  ;  when  I  found  Helen  reduced  to 
such  a  state  the  morning  on  which  they 
were  to  be  married,  I  told  her  at  once  that 
as  she  felt  so  bitterly  against  him  I  woidd 
never  sulfer  him  to  become   her   husband. 


Neither  will  I ;  if  he  were  acquitted  to- 
morrow I  would  tell  him  so  ;  but  you,  ReiUy, 
love  my  daughter  for  her  own  sake." 

"For  her  own  sake,  sir,  as  you  have  said, 
I  love  her.  If  she  had  millions,  it  could  not 
increase  my  afl'ection,  and  if  she  had  not  a 
penny,  it  would  not  diminish  it." 

"  Well,  but  you  can  have  her  if  you  wish, 
notwithstanding." 

Eeilly  first  looked  at  him  with  amazement ; 
but  he  was  so  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
his  character,  both  from  what  he  had  seen 
and  heard  of  it,  that  liis  amazement  passed 
away,  and  he  simply  rephed  : 

"  Pray  how,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Eeilly  ;  except 
with  respect  to  jDoUtical  principles,  I  don't 
think,  after  all,  that  there's  the  difference  of  a 
a  rush  between  the  Pajiist  and  the  Protestant 
Churches,  as  mere  rehgions.  My  own  02iin- 
ion  is,  that  there's  neither  of  them  any  great 
shakes,  as  to  any  effect  they  have  on  society, 
unless  to  disturb  it.  I  have  kno'mi  as  good 
Papists  as  ever  I  did  Protestants,  and  indeed 
I  don't  know  why  a  Papist  should  not  be  as 
good  a  man  as  a  Protestant ;  nor  why  a 
Protestant  should  not  be  as  good  a  man  as  a 
Papist,  on  the  other  hand.  Now,  do  you  see 
what  I'm  driving  at  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  exactly  say  that  I  do,"  re- 
phed Reilly. 

"Then  the  upshot  of  the  ai-gument  is* 
this,  that  there  is  not  a  toss-uji  between 
them,  and  any  man  getting  into  a  scrape, 
and  who  could  get  out  of  it  by  changing 
from  one  to  the  other — of  course  I  mean 
from  Popery  to  Protestantism — would  pirove 
himself  a  man  of  good  sound  sense,  and 
above  the  prejudices  of  the  world." 

The  truth  is,  Reilly  saw  ere  this  what  Fol- 
liard was  ajDjiroaching,  and,  as  he  determined 
to  allow  him  fiill  scope,  his  reply  was  brief : 

"You  seem  fond  of  indulging  in  sjiecula- 
tion,  sir,  "rephed  Reilly,  with  a  smile  ;  "  but  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  why  you  introduce 
this  subject  to  me  ?  " 

"  To  you  ?  "  replied  Folliard  ;  "  why,  who 
the  devil  else  should  or  could  I  introduce  it 
to  with  such  projiriety  ?  Here  now  are  two  re- 
ligions ;  one's  not  sixpence  better  nor  worse 
than  the  other.  Now,  you  belong  to  one  of 
them,  and  because  you  do  you're  here  snug 
and  fast.  I  say,  then,  I  have  a  projiosal  to 
make  to  you  :  you  are  yourself  in  a  difficulty 
— you  have  jjlaced  me  in  a  difficulty — and 
you  have  placed  poor  Helen  in  a  difficulty — ■ 
which,  if  any  thing  happens  you,  I  think 
will  break  her  heart,  poor  child.  Now  you 
can  take  her,  yourself,  and  me,  out  of  all  our 
difficu.lties,  if  you  have  only  sense  enough  to 

shove  over  from  the  old  P to  the  young 

P .     As   a  Protestant,   you  can  many 


ms 


WILLI  Air  CARLETOJS'S  WORKS. 


Helen,  Eeilly — but  as  a  Papist,  never !  and 
you  know  the  rest ;  for  if  you  are  obstinate, 
and  blind  to  your  own  interests,  I  must  do 
my  duty." 

""Will  you  allow  me  to  ask,  sii-,  whether 
Miss  Folliard  is  aware  of  this  mission  of 
yours  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  aware  !  She  never  dreamt  of  it ;  but 
I  have  promised  to  tell  her  the  result  after 
dinner  to-day." 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  Redly,  "will  you  al- 
low me  to  state  to  you  a  few  facts  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  go  on." 

"In  the  first  jjlace,  then,  such  is  youi- 
daughter's  liigh  and  exquisite  sense  of  in- 
tegrity and  honor  that,  if  I  consented  to  the 
terms  you  f)ropose,  she  would  reject  me  with 
indignation  and  scorn,  as  she  ought  to  do. 
There,  then,  is  your  project  for  accomjilish- 
ing  my  sellish  and  dishonest  aj)ostacy  given 
to  the  winds.  Your  daughter,  sir,  is  too 
jjiu'e  in  all  her  moral  feelings,  and  too  noble- 
minded,  to  take  to  her  arms  a  renegade 
husband — a  renegade,  too,  not  from  convic- 
tion, but  fi'om  selfish  and  mercenary  pur- 
poses." 

"Confound  the  thing,  this  is  but  sphtting 
hairs,  Reilly,  and  talkiug  big  for  effect. 
Spciit,  however,  for  yourself ;  as  for  Helen, 
I  know  very  well  that,  in  spite  of  youi-  he- 
roics and  her's,  she'd  be  devilish  glad  j'ou'd 
become  a  Protestant  and  marry  her." 

"lam  sorry  to  say,  su-,  that  you  don't 
know  your  own  daughter  ;  but  as  for  me, 
Mr.  Folliard,  if  one  word  of  your 's,  or  of  her's, 
could  place  me  on  the  British  thi'one,  I 
would  not  abandon  my  rehgion.  Under  no 
circumstances  would  I  abandon  it  ;  but  least 
of  all,  now  that  it  is  so  barbarously  perse- 
cuted by  its  enemies.  This,  sir,  is  my  final 
■determination." 

"  But  do  you  know  the  alternative  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  nor  do  you." 

"  Don't  I,  faith '?  AMiy,  the  alternative  is 
simply  this — either  marriage  or  hanging  !  " 

"  Be  it  so  ;  in  that  case  I  wdl  die  hke  a 
man  of  honor  and  a  true  Christian  and  Cath- 
olic, as  I  hoiDe  I  am." 

"As  a  true  fool,  Eeilly — as  a  time  fool. 
I  took  this  step  jHivately,  out  of  respect  for 
your  chai'aeter.  See  how  many  of  your-  creed 
become  Protestants  for  the  sake  of  mere 
jDroperty  ;  think  how  many  of  them  join  oiu- 
Church  for  the  purjiose  of  oustiug  their  o^vn 
fathers  imd  relatives  from  their  estates  ;  and 
what  is  it  all,  on  their  parts,  but  the  conse- 
quence of  an  enlightened  judgment  that 
shows  them  the  errors  of  their  old  creed, 
and  the  truth  of  ours  ?  I  thiuk,  EeiUy,  you 
ai'e  loose  about  the  brains." 

"  That  may  be,  su',  but  you  ^ill  never  find 
me  loose  about  my  principles." 


"  Ai-e  you  aware,  sir,  that  Helen  is  to  appear 
against  you  as  an  evidence  "? " 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  not,  neither  do  I  believe  it. 
But  now,  sir,  I  beg  you  to  terminate  this 
useless  and  unpleasant  interview.  I  can  look 
into  mj'  own  conscience  with  satisfaction,  and 
am  f)repared  for  the  worst.  If  the  scaft'old 
is  to  be  my  fate,  I  cannot  but  remember  that 
many  a  noble  spuit  has  closed  the  cares  of  an 
unhappy  life  upon  it.  I  wish  you  good-day, 
Mr.  FoiUard." 

"  By  the  Bojaie  !  you  are  the  most  obstinate 
blockhead  that  ever  Hved  ;  but  I've  done  ;  I 
did  all  in  my  power  to  save  you — yet  to  no 
p)m'iDose.  UiDon  my  soul,  I'll  come  to  yoiu" 
execution." 

"  And  if  you  do,  you  will  see  me  die  like  a 
man  and  a  gentleman ;  may  I  humbly  add, 
like  a  Christian  ! " 

The  squire,  on  his  way  home,  kept  up  a 
long,  low  whistle,  broken  only  by  occasional 
sohloquies,  in  which  Eeilly's  want  of  common- 
sense,  and  neglect  not  only  of  his  temporal 
interests,  but  of  his  life  itself,  were  the  jjre- 
vaOiug  sentiments.  He  regi-etted  his  want  of 
success,  which  he  imjsuted  altogether  to 
ReiUy's  obstmacy,  instead  of  his  integrity, 
firmness,  and  honor. 

This  train  of  reflection  threw  him  into  one 
of  those  capricious  fits  of  resentment  so 
peculiar  to  his  unsteady  temper,  and  as  he 
went  along  he  kept  lashing  himself  uji  into  a 
red  heat  of  indignation  and  vengeance  against 
that  unfortunate  gentleman.  After  dinner 
that  day  he  felt  somewhat  jrazzled  as  to 
whether  he  ought  to  communicate  to  his 
daughter  the  result  of  his  iutervie^^■  with 
Reilly  or  not.  Ujjou  consideration,  however, 
he  deemed  it  more  prudent  to  avoid  the 
subject  altogether,  for  he  felt  ajiprehcnsive 
that,  however  she  might  ajijirove  of  her  lover's 
conduct,  the  knowledge  of  his  fate,  which 
dejDended  on  it,  would  oidy  plunge  her  into 
dee^jer  distress.  The  evening  consequently 
passed  without  any  allusion  to  the  subject, 
uidess  a  ijeculiar  tendency  to  melody,  on  his 
jsart,  might  be  taken  to  mean  something  ;  to 
this  we  might  add  short  abru2:)t  ejaculations 
unconsciously  uttered — such  as — "Whew, 
whew,  whew-o-whew-o — hang  the  fellow  ! 
TMiew,  whew-o-whew — he's  a  curssed  goose, 
but  au  obstinate — whew,  -whew-o-whew-o. 
Ay,  but  no  matter — well — whew,  whew-o, 
whew,  whew !  Helen,  a  cup  of  tea.  Now, 
Helen,  do  you  know  a  discoveiy  I  have  made 
— but  how  could  you  ?  No,  you  don't,  of 
course  ;  but  listen  and  i^ay  attention  to  me, 
because  it  deejjly  aft'eets  myself." 

The  poor  girl,  ajjpreheusive  that  he  was 
about  to  divulge  some  painfid  secret,  1  )ecame 
jDale  and  a  good  deal  agitated  ;  she  gave  him 
a  long,  inquii-ing  look,  but  said  nothing. 


WILLY   R FILLY. 


154 


"  ^es,  Helen,  aud  the  discovery  is  this  :  I 
tina  from  experience  that  tea  aud  Burgundy 
— or,  iudeed,  tea  and  any  kind  of  ^vine — 
don't  agree  with  my  constitution  :  ciu'se  the 
fel — whew,  whew,  whew,  whew-o-whew  ;  no, 
tli6  confounded  mixtiu'e  turus  my  stomach 
into  uothiug  more  nor  less  than  a  bag 
of  aquafortis — if  he  had  but  common — 
whew — " 

"  Well,  but,  papa,  why  do  you  take  tea, 
then?" 

"  Because  I'm  an  old  fool,  Helen  ;  and  if  I 
am,  there  ai-e  some  yoimg  oues  Ijesides  ;  but 
it  can't  be  helped  now — whew,  whew — it  was 
done  for  the  best." 

In  this  manner  he  went  on  for  a  consider- 
able time,  ejaculating  mysteries  aud  enigmas, 
iintil  he  finished  the  second  bottle,  after 
which  he  went  to  bed. 

It  may  be  necessary  to  state  here  that,  not- 
withstanding the  incredible  force  and  tender- 
ness of  his  affection  for  his  daughter,  he  had, 
ever  since  her  elojjement  with  Eeillj',  kej)t 
her  under  the  strictest  surveillance,  and  in 
the  greatest  seclusion — that  is  to  say,  as  the 
23roverb  has  it,  "he  locked  the  stable  door 
when  the  steed  was  stolen  ;  "  or  if  he  did  not 
realize  the  aj)horism,  he  came  very  neai'  it. 

Time,  however,  passes,  and  the  assizes 
were  at  hand,  a  fearful  Avatar  of  judicial 
power  to  the  guilty.  The  struggle  between 
the  parties  who  were  interested  ui  the  fate  of 
WTiitecraft,  aud  those  who  felt  the  extent  of 
his  unparalleled  guilt,  and  the  necessity  not 
merely  of  making  him  an  examjjle  but  of 
punishing  him  for  his  enormous  crimes,  was 
di'eadful.  The  infatuation  of  pohtical  rancor 
on  one  side,  an  infatuation  which  could  per- 
ceive nothing  but  the  vu'tue  of  high  and  res- 
olute Protestantism  iu  his  conduct,  bhnded 
his  supjjorters  to  the  enormity  of  his  conduct, 
aud,  as  a  matter  of  coiu'se,  they  left  no  stone 
UJiturned  to  save  his  life.  As  we  said,  how- 
ever, they  were  outnumbered  ;  but  still  they 
did  not  despair.  KeiUy's  friends  had  been 
early  in  the  legal  market,  and  succeeded  in 
retaining  some  of  the  ablest  men  at  the  bar, 
his  leading  counsel  being  the  celebrated  ad- 
vocate Fox,  who  was  at  that  time  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  men  at  the  Ii-ish  bar. 
Helen,  as  the  assizes  approached,  broke  down 
so  completely  in  her  health  that  it  was  felt, 
if  she  remained  in  that,  state,  that  she  would 
be  unable  to  attend  ;  and  although  EeiUy's 
trial  was  first  ou  the  list,  his  oj^ijosing  counsel 
succeeded  in  getting  it  postponed  for  a  day 
or  two.  in  order  that  an  important  witness, 
then  ill,  he  said,  might  be  able  to  appear  ou 
their  part. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  go  through  the 
details  of  the  trial  of  the  Bed  Eapjsaree.  The 
evidence  of  jVLary  Mahon,  Fergus  O'Eeilly, 


and  the  sheriff,  was  complete  ;  the  chain  was 
unbroken  ;  the  change  of  apparel — the  dia- 
logue in  Mary  Mahon's  cabin,  in  which  he 
avowed  the  fact  of  his  ha\ing  robbed  the 
sheriff — the  identification  of  his  person  by 
the  said  sheriff  iu  the  farmer's  house,  as 
before  stated,  left  nothing  for  the  juiy  to  do 
but  to  bring  in  a  verdict  of  guilty.  Mercy 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  hardened  ruffian 
— the  treacherous  ruffian — who  had  lent  him- 
self to  the  bloodthu'sty  schemes  of  White- 
craft — and  aJl  this  came  out  upon  his  trial, 
not  certainly  to  the  advantage  of  the  baro- 
net— this  hai'deued  and  treacherous  noffian, 
we  say,  who  had  been  a  scourge  to  that  part 
of  the  country  for  years,  now  felt,  when  the 
verdict  of  guilty  was  brought  in  against  him, 
just  as  a  smith's  anvil  might  feel  when  struck 
by  a  feather.  On  hearing  it,  he  gi-owled  a 
hideous  laugh,  aud  exclaimed  : 

"  To  the  divil  I  pitch  you  all ;  I  wish,  though, 
that  I  had  Tom  BraiUey,  the  prophecy  man, 
here,  who  tould  me  that  I'd  never  be  hanged, 
and  that  the  rope  was  never  born  for  me." 

"  If  the  rope  was  not  born  for  you,"  ob- 
served the  judge,  "  I  fear  I  shall  be  obhged 
to  inform  you  that  you  were  born  for  the 
rope.  Yoiu-  life  has  been  an  outrage  upon 
civilized  society." 

"  Wliy,  you  ould  dog  ! "  said  the  Eajv 
paree,  "you  can't  hang  me  ;  haven't  I  a  pai-- 
dou  ?  didn't  Sir  Eobert  WTiitecraft  get  me  a 
pardon  fi-om  the  Government  for  tiu-nin' 
against  the  CathoUcs,  aud  tellin'  him  where 
to  find  the  f)riests  ?  WTiy,  you  joulter-headed 
ould  dog,  you  can't  hang  me,  or,  if  you  do, 
I'll  leave  them  behind  me  that  wiU  put  such 
a  half  ounce  pill  into  yom-  guts  as  will  make 
you  tiu'u  ujj  the  whites  of  your  eyes  Uke  a 
duck  in  tundher.  You'll  hang  me  for  rob- 
bery, you  ould  sinner  !  But  what  is  one  half 
the  world  dom'  but  robbiu'  the  other  half? 
and  what  is  the  other  half  doin'  but  robbin' 
them  ?  As  for  Sir  Eobert  Wliitecraft,  if  he 
desaved  me  by  lies  and  falsehoods,  as  I'm 
afi-aid  he  did,  all  I  say  is,  that  if  I  had  him 
here  for  one  minute  I'd  show  him  a  trick 
he'd  never  teU  to  mortal.     Now  go  on,  big- 

^'ig;" 

Notwithstanding  the  solemnity  of  the  posi- 
tion iu  which  this  obdurate  ruffian  was 
placed,  the  judge  found  it  nearly  imijossible 
to  silence  the  laughter  of  the  audience  and 
pi'eserve  order  iu  the  court.  At  length  he 
succeeded,  and  continued  his  brief  address 
to  the  Eapj)aree  : 

"  Hardened  and  impenitent  reprobate,  in 
the  course  of  my  judicial  duties,  onerous  and 
often  painful  as  they  are  and  have  been,  I 
must  say  that,  although  it  has  fallen  to  my 
lot  to  25ronounce  the  a\\'ful  sentence  of  death 
upon  many  an  unfeeling  felon,  I  am  bound 


IGO 


WILLIAM  CARLETO^^'S   WOIiA'S. 


to  say  that  a  public  malefactor  so  utterly 
devoid  of  all  the  fpoliiiifs  wliich  beloiisjf  to 
man,  and  so  strou}j;ly  iniproguntpd  witli  those 
of  the  savage  auinial  as  you  arc,  has  never 
stood  in  a  dock  before  nie,  nor  probably 
before  anj-  other  judfje,  liviup;  or  dead. 
Would  it  bo  a  waste  of  lanp:uaj,'e  to  enforce 
upon  you  the  necessity  of  repentance  ?  I 
fear  it  would  ;  but  it  matters  not ;  the  guilt 
of  imijcnitence  be  on  your  own  head,  still  I 
must  do  my  duty  ;  try,  then,  and  think  of 
death,  and  a  far  more  awful  judgment  than 
mine.  Think  of  the  necessity  you  have  for 
supplicating  mercy  at  the  throne  of  your  Re- 
deemer, who  himself  died  for  you,  a.ud  for 
all  of  us,  between  two  thieves." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  case  ;  I 
never  was  a  thief  ;  I  robbed  like  an  honest 
man  on  the  king's  highways ;  but  as  for 
thievin',  whj-,  you  ould  sinner,  I  never  stole 
a  farthing's  worth  in  my  life.  Don't,  then, 
jiitch  such  beggarly  comparisons  into  my 
teeth.  I  never  ilid  what  you  and  your  class 
often  did  ;  I  never  robbed  the  jioor  in  the 
name  of  the  blessed  laws  of  the  Land  ;  I  never 
oppressed  the  widow  or  the  orphan  ;  and  for 
all  that  I  took  from  those  that  did  oppress 
them,  the  divil  a  grain  of  sorrow  or  repent- 
ance I  feel  for  it,  nor  ever  will  feel  for  it. 
Oh  !  mother  of  Moses !  if  I  had  a  glass  of 
whiskey  ! " 

The  judge  was  obliged  to  enforce  silence 
a  second  time  ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  there 
■•vas  something  so  ludicrously  imjienitent  in 
the  conduct  of  this  hardened  convict  that  the 
audience  coidd  not  i-esist  it,  especisilly  when 
it  is  remembered  that  the  symjiathies  of  the 
lower  Irish  are  always  with  such  culprits. 

"  'Well,"  continued  the  judge,  when  silence 
was  again  restored,"  your  unparalleled  obdu- 
racy has  gained  one  point ;  it  was  my  inten- 
tion to  have  ordered  you  for  execution  to- 
morrow at  the  hour  of  twelve  o'clock  ;  but, 
as  a  Christi.an  man,  I  could  not  think  for  a 
moment  of  hurrying  you  into  eternity  in  your 
pi'esent  state.  The  sentence  of  the  court 
then  is  that  you  be  taken  from  the  dock  in 
which  you  now  stand  to  the  prison  fi'om 
whence  you  came,  and  that  from  thence  you 
be  bi'ought  to  the  place  of  execution  on  next 
Saturday,  and  there  be  iLHiged  by  the  neck 
until  you  be  dead,  tmd  may  God  have  mercy 
on  your  soul !  " 

Tlie  Rapparee  gazed  at  him  viHh  a  look  of 
the  most  hardened  eti'rontery,  and  exclaimed, 
"Is  it  in  earnest  you  are?"  after  which  he 
was  once  more  committed  to  his  cell,  loa«.led 
witli  heavy  chains,  which  he  wore,  by  the 
way,  during  his  trial. 

Now,  in  order  t  o  account  for  his  outrage- 
ous conduct,  we  must  msike  a  disclosure  to 
the  reader.     There  is  iu  and  about  all  jails  a 


certain  officer  yclejit  a  hangm.au — an  officer 
who  is  permitted  a  freer  ingress  and  egress 
th.an  almost  any  other  person  connected  with 
those  gloomy  establishments.  This  hangman, 
who  resided  in  the  prison,  had  a  lirothcr 
whom  Sir  Robert  \Vlntccraft  had  hanged, 
and,  it  was  thought,  innocently.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  man  in  question  was  heard  to  ut- 
ter strong  threats  of  vengeance  against  Sir 
Robert  for  having  his  brother,  whose  inno- 
cence he  .asserted,  brought  to  execution.  In 
some  time  after  this  a  pistol  was  tired  one 
night  at  Sir  Robert  from  behind  a  hedge, 
which  missed  him  ;  but  as  his  myrmidons 
were  with  him,  and  the  night  w.as  light,  a 
pursuit  took  plaee,  and  the  guilty  wretch  was 
taken  prisoner,  with  the  jiistol  on  his  person, 
still  warm  after  himng  been  disi'h.irged.  The 
consequence  was  that  he  was  condemned  to 
death.  Rut  it  so  happened  tliat  at  tliis  pe- 
riod, although  there  were  five  or  six  executions 
to  take  i>lace,  yet  there  was  no  hangman  to 
be  had,  that  ollicer  having  died  suddenly, 
after  a  fit  of  lit]uor,  .and  the  sheriff  would 
have  been  obliged  to  discharge  the  office  with 
his  own  hands  luiless  a  finisher  of  the  law 
coidd  be  found.  In  brief,  he  was  found,  and 
iu  the  person  of  the  indi^■idual  alluded  to, 
who,  iu  consequence  of  his  consenting  to  ac- 
cpjit  t  he  office,  got  a  pardon  from  the  Crown. 
Now  this  m.an  and  the  Rapparee  h.ad  becu 
old  acquaintances,  and  i-enewed  their  friend- 
shii>  iu  2'rison.  Through  the  meims  of  the 
hangman  O'Donnel  got  iu  as  nuich  whiskey 
as  he  2^1eased,  and  we  need  sciu-cely  say  that 
they  often  got  intoxicated  together.  The  se- 
cret, therefore,  which  we  had  to  <lisclose  to 
the  reader,  in  explanation  of  the  Riippsu-ee's 
conduct  at  his  trial,  w.as  simjily  this,  that  the 
man  was  three-quarters  drunk. 

After  trial  he  was  jilaced  in  a  darker  dun- 
geon than  before  ;  but  such  was  the  influence 
of  the  worthy  executioner  with  every  officer" 
pf  the  jail,  that  he  was  i)ermitteil  to  go  either 
in  or  out  without  search,  and  as  he  often  gave 
a  "slug,"  as  he  called  it.  to  the  turnkey's,  they 
consequently  allowed  him.  in  this  respect, 
whatever  privileges  he  wished.  Even  the 
Rapparce's  dungeon  was  not  im2^enctrable  to 
him,  especially  as  he  put  tlie  matter  on  a  re- 
ligious footing,  to  wit,  that  as  the  unfortu- 
nate robber  was  not  allowed  the  spiritual  aid 
of  his  ovrn  clergy,  he  himself  was  tlie  only 
person  left  to  prep.are  him  for  death,  which 
ho  did  with  the  whiskey-bottle. 

The  assizes  on  that  occasion  wereprotn;ct- 
ed  to  an  unusual  length.  The  country  was 
in  a  most  excited  state,  .and  jiarty  feeling  ran 
fearfully  high.  Nothing  was  talked  of  but  the 
tiro  tviiiis.  pin-  r.ro'llriicr,  to  wit,  thatof  Whife- 
crixft  and  Reilly  ;  ,and  scarcely  a  f;ur  or  niai"- 
ket,  for  a   considerable  time  pre\ious,  ev« 


WILLY  REILLY. 


Hj). 


came  round  in  wliifli  there  was  not  a  battle 
on  the  subject  of  either  one  or  the  other  of 
them,  and  not  uufi-equently  of  both.  Nobody 
was  surpiised  at  the  oouviction  of  the  lied 
Rapparee  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  every  one 
was  pflad  that  the  country  had  at  last  got  rid 
of  him. 

Poor  Helen,  however,  was  not  permitted 
to  remain  quiet,  as  she  had  expected.  'N^lien 
Mr.  Doldruni  had  furnished  the  leading 
counsel  with  his  brief  and  a  list  of  the  wit- 
nesses, the  latter  gentleman  was  surprised  to 
see  the  name  of  Helen  Folliai'd  among  them. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  he  inquired  ;  "  is  not  this 
the  celebrated  beauty  who  eloped  with  him  ?  " 

"  It  is,  sir,"  replied  Doldrum. 

"But,"  proceeded  the  other,  "you  have 
not  instructed  me  in  the  nature  of  the  evi- 
dence she  is  prepared  to  give." 

"  She  is  deeply  penitent,  sir,  and  in  a  ven- 
feeble  state  of  health ;  so  mucli  so  that  we 
were  obliged  to  leave  the  tendency  of  her 
evidence  to  be  brought  out  on  the  trial." 

"  Have  j-ou  subpoenaed  her  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  And  why  not,  Mr.  Doldrum  ?  Don't  you 
know  tliat  there  is  no  understanding  the 
caprices  of  women  V  You  nwjht  to  have  sup- 
pa  iiaed  her,  because,  if  she  be  a  leading 
evidence,  she  may  still  change  her  mind  and 
leave  us  in  the  lurch." 

"  I  certainly  did  not  subpoena  hei\"  replied 
Doldrum,  "  because,  when  I  mentioned  it  to 
her  father,  he  told  me  that  if  I  attempted  it 
he  would  break  my  head.  It  was  enough, 
he  said,  that  she  had  given  her  promise — a 
thing,  he  added,  which  she  was  never 
known  to  bi-eak." 

"  Go  to  her  again,  Doldrum  ;  for  unless 
we  know  what  she  can  prove  we  \rill  be  only 
working  in  the  dark.  Try  her,  at  all  events, 
and  glean  what  you  can  out  of  her.  Her 
father  tells  me  she  is  somewhat  better,  so  I 
don't  apprehend  you  will  have  much  diffi- 
culty m  seeing  her." 

Doldrum  did  see  her,  and  was  astonished 
at  the  striking  change  which  had,  m  so  short 
a  time,  taken  place  in  her  appearance.  She 
was  pale,  and  exhibited  all  the  symptoms  of 
an  invahd,  with  the  exception  of  her  eyes, 
which  were  not  merely  brilliant,  but  dazz- 
ling, and  full  of  a  fire  that  flashed  from  them 
with  something  like  triumph  whenever  her 
attention  was  directed  to  the  puiport  of  her 
testimony.  On  this  subject  they  s;iw  that  it 
would  be  quite  useless,  and  probably  worse 
than  useless,  to  press  her,  and  they  did  not, 
consequently,  put  her  to  the  necessity  of 
specifying  the  purport  of  her  evidence. 

"I  have  ah-eady  stated,"  said  she,  "that  I 
shall  attend  the  trial  ;  that  ouglit,  and  must 
be,  sufficient  for  you.     I  beg,  then,  vou  will 


withdraw,  sir.  My  improved  health  will 
enable  me  to  attend,  and  you  may  rest 
assured  that  if  I  have  life  I  shall  be  there,  as 
I  have  ah-eady  told  you  ;  but,  I  say,  that  if 
you  wish  to  press  me  for  the  nature  of  mj* 
evidence,  you  shall  have  it,"  and,  as  she 
spoke,  her  eyes  Hashed  fearfully,  as  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  doing  whenever  she  felt 
deeply  excited.  Folliai'd  hiujself  became 
aj^pn^hensive  of  the  danger  which  might 
result  fi'om  the  discussion  of  any  subject 
calculated  to  distui-b  her,  and  insisted  that 
she  should  be  allowed  to  take  her  own  way. 
Li  the  meantime,  after  they  had  left  her,  at 
her  own  request,  her  father  informed  the 
attorney  that  she  was  getting  both  strong 
and  cheerful,  in  spite  of  her  looks. 

"  To  be  sui'e,"  said  he,  "  she  is  p.ale  !  but 
that's  only  natural,  after  her  recent  slight 
attack,  and  all  the  excitement  and  agitation 
she  has  for  some  time  past  undergone.  She 
sings  and  plaj's  now,  although  I  have  heai'd 
neither  a  song  nor  a  tune  from  her  for  a 
long  time  past.  In  the  evening,  too,  she  is 
exceedingly  cheerful  when  we  sit  together 
in  the  drawing-room  ;  and  she  often  laughs 
more  heartily  than  I  ever  knew  her  to  do 
before  in  my  Ufe.  Now,  do  you  think,  Dol- 
drum, if  she  was  breaking  her  heart  about 
Reilly  that  she  would  be  in  such  spirits  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  she  would  be  melancholy  and 
silent,  and  would  neither  sing,  nor  laugh,  nor 
play  ;  at  least  I  felt  so  when  I  was  in  love 
with  Miss  Swithers,  who  kej^t  me  in  a  state 
of  eipi'dihnuin  for  better  than  two  years; 
but  that  wasn't  the  worst  of  it,  for  she 
knocked  the  loyalty  clean  out  of  me  besides 
— indeed,  so  decidedly  so  that  I  never  once 
sang  '  Lillibullero  '  during  the  whole  period 
of  my  attachment,  and  be  hanged  to  hei\" 

"  And  what  became  of  her  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  married  my  clerk,  who  used 
to  sen'e  my  love-letters  upon  her ;  and  when 
I  expected  to  come  in  by  execution — that  is, 
by  maniage — that  cursed  Uttle  sheriff,  Cupid, 
made  a  return  of  ^ni]](i  b:>na.  She  and  Sam 
Snivel — a  kind  of  half  Puritan— entered  a 
ffeappearance,  and  I  never  saw  them  since ; 
but  I  am  told  they  are  in  America.  From 
what  you  tell  me,  sir,  I  have  no  doubt  but 
Miss  Folhard  will  make  a  capital  witness. 
In  fact,  ReiUy  ought  to  feci  jJi'ond  of  the 
honor  of  being  hanged  by  her  evidence  ;  she 
will  be  a  host  in  herself." 

We  have  already  stated  that  the  leading 
counsel  against  ReiUy  had  succeeded  in 
getting  his  trial  postponed  until  Miss  Fol- 
hard should  arrive  at  a  sufficient  state  of 
health  to  appear  against  liim.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  baronet's  trial,  which  was  in  a 
political,  indeed,  we  might  say,  a  national 
point  of  view,  of  far  more  imjjortance  than 


162 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


Reilly's,  was  to  come  on  next  day.  In  the  | 
general  extent  of  notoriety  or  fame,  Reilly  I 
had  got  in  advance — though  not  mucla 
— of  his  implacriljle  rival.  The  two  trials 
were,  in  fact,  so  closely  united  by  the  rela- 
tive position  of  the  parties  that  public 
opinion  was  strangely  and  strongly  divided 
between  them.  Reilly  and  liis  C'ooleejt  Bawn 
had,  by  the  unhappy  peculiarity  of  their 
fate,  excited  the  interest  of  all  the  youthful 
and  loving  part  of  society — an  interest  wliich 
was  necessarily  reflected  upon  Whitecraft,  as 
EeiUy's  rival,  independently  of  the  hold 
which  his  forthcoming  fate  had  upon  grave 
and  serious  politicians.  Eeilly's  leading 
coxmsel,  Fox,  a  man  of  great  judgment  and 
ability,  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  in  conse- 
quence of  the  exacerbated  state  of  feeUug 
produced  against  the  Catholics  by  the  pro- 
secution of  Whitecraft — to  ajspease  whom, 
the  opinion  went  that  it  was  instituted — it 
seemed  unlikely  that  Reilly  had  a  single 
chance.  Had  his  trial,  he  said,  taken  place 
previous  to  that  of  Wliitecraft's,  he  might 
have  escaped  many  of  the  consequences  of 
Whitecraft's  conviction ;  but  now,  should 
the  latter  be  con-\-icted,  the  o^jposing  party 
would  die  in  the  jury-box  rather  than  let 
Reilly  escape. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Preparations — Jury  of  the  Olden  Time — T?ie  Scales 
of  Justice. 

At  last  the  trial  came  on,  and  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft,  the  great  chamj)ion  of  Protes- 
tantism— a  creed  which  he  did  not  beheve 
— was  conducted  into  the  court-house  and 
placed  in  the  dock.  He  was  dressed  in  his 
best  apparel,  in  order  to  distinguish  himself 
from  common  culjDrits,  and  to  give  this  j^oor 
external  evidence  of  his  rank,  with  a  hope 
that  it  might  tell,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least, 
iipon  the  feeling  of  the  jury.  When  placed  in 
the  dock,  a  general  buzz  and  bustle  agitated 
the  whole  court.  His  friends  became  alert, 
and  whispered  to  each  other  with  much 
earnestness,  and  a  vast  number  of  them  bow- 
ed to  him,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
advised  him  to  be  cool,  and  keep  up  his  spi- 
rits. His  appearance,  however,  was  any  thing 
but  firm  ;  his  face  was  deadly  pale,  his  eyes 
dull  and  cowardly,  liis  knees  trembled  so 
much  that  he  was  obhged  to  support  himself 
on  the  front  of  the  dock. 

At  length  the  trial  commenced,  and  the 
case  having  been  opened  by  a  young  lawyer, 
a  taU,  intellectual-looking  man,  about  the 
middle  age,  of  p;de  but  handsome  featiu'es, 


and  an  eye  of  singular  penetration  and  bril- 
liancy, rose  ;  and  after  puUing  up  his  gown 
at  the  shoulders,  and  otheiTvise  adjusting  it, 
proceeded  to  lay  a  statement  of  this  extra- 
ordinary case  before  the  juiy. 

He  dwelt  upon  "  the  jjam  which  he  felt  in 
contemplating  a  gentleman  of  rank  and  vast 
wealth  occupying  the  degraded  jjosition  of  a 
felon,  but  not,  he  was  sorry  to  say,  of  a  com- 
mon felon.  The  circumstances,  my  lord,  and 
gentlemen  of  the  juiy,  which  have  brought 
the  prisoner  before  you  this  day,  involve  a 
long  catalogue  of  crimes  that  as  far  transcend, 
in  the  hideousness  of  their  guilt,  the  ofi'ences 
of  a,  common  felon  as  his  rank  and  position  in 
life  do  that  of  the  humblest  villain  who  ever 
stood  before  a  court  of  justice. 

"  The  position,  gentlemen,  of  this  counti'y 
has  for  a  long  series  of  years  been  peculiar, 
anomalous,  and  unhappy.  Divided  as  it  is, 
and  has  been,  by  the  bitter  contiict  between 
two  opposing  creeds  and  parties,  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  it  should  be  a  melancholy 
scene  of  misery,  destitution,  famine,  and 
crime  ;  and,  unhr.pinly,  it  presents  to  us  the 
fi-ightfid  aspect  of  all  these.  The  nature,  how- 
ever, of  the  conflicts  between  those  ci-eeds 
and  parties,  inasmuch  as  it  bears  upon  the 
case  of  the  prisoner,  gentlemen,  who  now 
stands  for  trial  and  a  verdict  at  jour  hands, 
is  such  as  forces  me,  on  that  account,  to  dwell 
briefly  vij)on  it.  In  doing  so,  I  wiU  have  much, 
for  the  stke  of  our  common  humanity,  to  re- 
gi'et  and  to  deplore.  It  is  a  fimdamental 
principle,  gentlemen,  in  our  great  and  glori- 
ous Constitution,  that  the  jjaramount  end 
and  object  of  our  laws  is  to  jirotect  the  ])er- 
son,  the  libertj',  and  the  projserty  of  the  sub- 
ject. But  there  is  something,  gentlemen,  still 
dearer  to  us  than  either  liberty,  person,  or 
j)roperty ;  something  which  claims  a  jsro- 
tection  from  those  laws  that  stamps  tliem  with 
a  nobler  and  a  loftier  character,  when  it  is  af- 
forded, and  weaves  them  into  the  hearts  and 
feelings  of  men  of  idl  creeds,  when  this  di- 
vine mission  of  the  law  is  fulfilled.  I  allude, 
gentlemen,  to  the  inalienable  right  of  every 
man  to  worshij)  God  fieely,  and  according  to 
his  own  conscience — without  restraint — with- 
out terror — without  opjsression,  and,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  imtlioiit  perHi'cutior).  A  man, 
or  a  whole  jseojjle,  worship  God,  we  will  as- 
sume, sincerely,  according  to  their  notions- of 
what  is  right,  and,  I  say,  gentlemen,  that  (he 
individual  who  persecutes  that  man,  or  those 
people,  for  piously  worshi23ping  their  Creatoi-, 
commits  blasphemy  against  the  Almighty — 
and  stains,  as  it  were,  the  mercy-seat  with 
blood. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  juiy,  let  me  ask  you 
what  has  been  tlie  state  and  condition  of  this 
unhajJijy  and   distracted   country  ?     I  have 


WILLY  BE  ILLY 


163 


mentioned  two  opposing  creeds,  and  conse- 
quently two  opposing  parties,  and  I  have  aiso 
mentioned  persecution  ;  Ijut  let  me  also  ask 
you  again  on  which  side  has  the  jjersecution 
existed?  Look  at  your  Roman  CathoUc  fel- 
low-subjects, and  ask  youi-selves  to  what 
terrible  outburst  of  political  and  religious 
vengeance  have  they  not  been  subjected? 
But  it  is  said  they  are  not  faithful  and  loyal 
subjects,  and  that  they  detest  the  laws. 
Well,  let  us  consider  tliis — let  us  take  a 
cursory  view  of  all  that  the  spirit  and  ojiera- 
tion  of  the  laws  have  left  them  to  be  thank- 
ful for — have  brought  to  bear  upion  them  for 
the  piu-jjose,  we  must  sujjpose,  of  securing 
their  attachment  and  theii-  loyalty.  Let  lis, 
gentlemen,  calmly  and  solemnl}',  and  in  a 
Christian  temper,  take  a  brief  glance  at  the 
adventures  whicli  the  free  and  glorious  sjiirit 
of  the  British  Constitution  has  held  out  to 
them,  in  order  to  secure  their  allegiance.  In 
the  first  j)lace,  their  nobles  and  their  gentry 
have  been  dejnived  of  their  property,  and 
the  right  of  tenui-e  has  been  denied  even  to 
the  people.  Ah,  my  lord,  and  gentlemen  of 
the  jurj',  what  imgratefid  and  disloyal  mis- 
creant could  avoid  loving  a  Constitution,  and 
hugging  to  his  grateful  heart  laws  which 
showered  down  such  blessings  upon  him, 
and  upon  all  those  who  belong  to  a  creed  so 
favored  ?  But  it  would  seem  to  have  been 
felt  that  these  laws  had  still  a  stronger  claim 
upon  their  affections.  They  would  protect 
their  rehgion  as  they  did  their  proiDerty ; 
and  in  order  to  attach  them  still  more 
strongly,  they  shut  up  theu*  places  of  worship 
— they  proscribed  arftl  banished  and  himg 
their  clergy — they  hung  or  shot  the  unfor- 
tunate people  who  fled  to  worship  God  m  the 
desert — in  mountain  fastnesses  and  in  caves, 
and  threw  their  dead  bodies  to  find  a  tomb  in 
the  entraOs  of  the  bii'ds  of  the  aii-,  or  the  dogs 
which  even  persecution  had  made  mad  with 
hunger.  But  again — for  this  pleasing  pan- 
orama is  not  yet  closed,  the  hapj^y  Cathohcs, 
who  must  have  danced  with  delight,  under 
the  privileges  of  such  a  Constitution,  were 
deprived  of  the  right  to  occujiy  and  possess 
aU  civil  offices — theii-  enter25rise  was  ci-ushed 
— their  industry  made  subservient  to  the 
rapacity  of  their  enemies,  and  not  to  their 
own  prosperity.  But  this  is  far  fi-om  being 
all.  The  sources  of  knowledge — of  knowl- 
edge which  only  can  enlighten  and  civihze 
the  mind,  prevent  crime,  and  promote  the 
progress  of  human  society — these  sources  of 
knowledge,  I  say,  were  sealed  against  them  ; 
they  were  consequently  left  to  ignorance,  and 
its  inseparable  associate — vice.  All  those 
noble  principles  which  result  fi-om  education, 
and  which  lead  youth  into  those  moral  foot- 
stejis  in  which  thej'  should  tread,  were  made 


criminal  in  the  CathoHc  to  pursue,  and  im- 
possible to  attain  ;  and  having  thus  been  re- 
duced by  ignorance  to  the  perpetration  of 
those  crimes  which  it  luiiformly  jiroduces — 
the  jieople  were  punished  for  that  wluch  op- 
pressive laws  had  generated,  and  the  ignor- 
ance which  was  forced  upon  them  was  turned 
into  a  penalty  and  a  persecution.  They  were 
first  made  ignorant  by  one  Act  of  Parhament, 
and  then  f)n'iisl)ed  by  another  for  those 
crimes  which  ignorance  produces. 

"  And  now,  my  lord,  and  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  it  remains  for  me  to  take  another  view 
of  the  state  and  condition  of  this  wretched 
country.  Perhaps  there  is  not  in  the  world 
so  hideously  a  penal  code  of  laws  as  that 
which  apjiertains  to  the  civil  and  religious 
rights  of  our  unfortunate  Roman  Catholic 
countrymen.  It  is  not  that  this  code  is 
fierce,  inhuman,  imchristian,  barbarous,  and 
Draconic,  and  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  blood 
— because  it  might  be  all  this,  and  yet, 
through  the  hberality  and  benevolence  of 
those  into  whose  hands  it  ought  to  be  en- 
trusted for  administration,  much  of  its  dread- 
ful spirit  might  be  mitigated.  And  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  a  large  and  important  class 
of  the  Protestant  community  look  upon  such 
a  code  nearly  with  as  much  horror  as  the 
Catholics  themselves.  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, in  every  state  of  society  and  of  law 
analogous  to  ours,  a  certain  class  of  men, 
say  rather  of  monsters,  is  sure  to  spring  up, 
as  it  were,  from  hell,  theu'  throats  still 
parched  and  heated  with  that  insatiable  thirst 
which  the  guilty  glutton  felt  before  them, 
and  which  they  now  are  determined  to  slake 
with  blood.  For  some  of  these  men  the 
apology  of  selfishness,  an  anxiety  to  raise 
themselves  out  of  the  strviggles  of  genteel 
poverty,  and  a  wolfish  wish  to  earn  the  wages 
of  oppression,  might  be  pleaded  ;  although, 
heaven  knows,  it  is  at  best  but  a  desperate 
and  cowardly  apologj-.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  men  not  mei'ely  independent,  but 
wealthy,  who,  imbued  with  a  fierce  and  un- 
reasoning bigotry,  and  stained  by  a  black 
and  unscrupulous  and)ition,  start  uj)  into 
the  front  ranks  of  persecution,  and  carrj'  tire 
and  deatli  and  murder  as  they  go  along,  and 
all  this  for  the  salve  of  adding  to  their  re- 
p)robate  names  a  title — a  title  earned  by  the 
shedding  of  innocent  blood — a  title  earned 
by  the  oppression  and  persecution  of,  their 
unresisting  fellow-subjects — a  title,  jjerhaps 
that  of  barone.l  ;  if  I  am  mistaken  in  this,  the 
individual  wh'o  stands  before  you  in  that 
dock  could,  for  he  might,  set  me  right. 

"In  fact,  who  are  those  who  have  lent  them- 
selves wdth  such  dehght  to  the  execution  of 
bad  laws  ?  of  laws  that,  for  the  sake  of  re- 
ligion and  Christianity,  never  ought  to  have 


iU 


W/LL/AM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


been  enacted  ?  Are  tbey  men  of  moral  and 
Cliristian  lives  ?  men  whose  walk  has  been 
edifj-ing  in  the  sight  of  their  fellows  ?  are 
they  men  to  whom  society  could  look  uj)  as 
examples  of  private  ^drtue  and  the  decorous 
intiuence  of  religion  '?  are  they  men  who,  on 
the  Sabbath  of  God,  repaii-  with  their  wives 
and  famihes  to  his  holy  worshiii  ?  Alas  !  no. 
These  heroic  persecutors,  who  hunt  and 
jjunish  a  set  of  disai'med  men,  are,  in  jjoiut 
of  fact,  not  only  a  disgrace  to  that  religion 
in  whose  name  they  are  jiersecutors,  and  on 
whose  merciful  precepts  they  trample,  but 
to  all  rehgion,  in  whatever  light  true  reUgion 
is  contemplated.  Vicious,  ignorant,  prof- 
hgate,  hcentious,  but  cunning,  cruel,  bigot- 
ed, and  selfish,  they  make  the  spuit  of  op- 
pressive laws,  and  the  miserable  state  of  the 
countrj',  the  harvest  of  their  gain.  Look 
more  closely  at  the  picture,  gentlemen  of 
the  juiy,  and  make,  as  I  am  sure  you  wiU, 
the  dismal  and  terrible  circumstances  which 
I  wiU  lay  before  you  your  own.  Imagine 
for  a  moment  that  those  who  are  now,  or 
at  least  have  been,  the  objects  of  hot  and 
blood-scenting  persecution,  had,  by  some 
poHtical  revolution,  got  the  power  of  the 
8tate  and  of  the  laws  into  their  own  hands  ; 
suppose,  for  it  is  easily  supposed,  that  they 
had  stripped  you  of  your  jjrojjerty,  dejiiived 
you  of  your  civil  rights,  disarmed  you  of  the 
means  of  self-defence,  persecuted  yourselves 
and  proscribed  yom'  religion,  or,  vice  verm, 
j)roscribed  yourselves  and  persecuted  your 
religion,  or,  to  come  at  once  to  the  truth, 
in-oscribed  and  persecuted  both  ;  suppose 
yoiir  chui'ches  shut  ujj,  your  pious  clergy 
banished,  and  that,  when  on  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness or  of  death,  some  of  your  family,  hear- 
ing yoiu-  cries  for  the  consolatioxis  of  relig- 
ion, ventiu'ed  out,  under  the  clouds  of  the 
night,  pale  with  sorrow,  and  trembling  with 
apj)rehension,  to  i^teal  for  you,  at  the  risk  of 
liie,  that  comfort  which  none  but  a  minister 
of  God  can  efl'ectuaUy  bestow  upon  the  part- 
ing sjjiiit ;  suppose  this,  and  suppose  that 
youi-  house  is  instantly  surrounded  by  some 
cruel  but  plausible  Sir  Eobert  AMiitecraft, 
or  some  diiinken  and  ruffianly  Caj^tain 
Smellpriest,  who,  surrounded  and  sujiported 
by  armed  miscreants,  not  only  breaks  open 
that  house,  but  violates  the  awful  sanctity  of 
the  deathbed  itself,  drags  out  the  minister 
of  Christ  fi'om  his  work  of  mercy,  and  leaves 
him  a  bloody  coi-pse  at  your  threshold.  I 
say,  change  places,  gentlemen  of  the  jurj', 
and  suppose  in  your  owni  imaginations  that 
all  those  monstrous  persecutions,  all  those 
miu'derous  and  flagitious  outrages,  had  been 
inflicted  upon  yovirselves,  with  others  of  an 
ecjuaUy  nefarious  character  ;  suppose  aU  this, 
and  3'ou  may  easily  do  so,  for  you  have  seen 


it  all  perj)etrated  in  the  name  of  God  and 
the  law,  or,  to  say  the  truth,  in  the  hideous 
union  of  mammon  and  murder  ;  supjjose  all 
this,  and  you  wiU  feel  what  such  men  as  he 
who  stands  in  that  dock  deserves  from  hu- 
manity and  natural  justice  ;  for,  alas  !  I  can- 
not say,  from  the  laws  of  his  country,  under 
the  protection  of  which,  and  in  the  name  of 
which,  he  and  those  v.ho  resemble  him  have 
deluged  that  couutrj'  with  innocent  blood, 
laid  waste  the  cabin  of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan,  and  cariied  death  and  desolation 
wherever  they  went.  But,  gentlemen,  I 
shall  stoj)  here,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  inflict 
unnecessaiy  jsain  upon  you,  even  by  this, 
mitigated  view  of  atrocities  which  have  taken 
place  before  yovu'  own  eyes  ;  yet  I  cannot 
close  this  portion  of  my  address  without  re- 
ferrhig  to  so  large  a  number  of  our  fellow- 
Protestants  with  pride,  as  I  am  sure  their 
Roman  Catholic  friends  do  with  gTatitude. 
^ATio  were  those  who,  among  the  Protestant 
party,  threw  the  shield  of  their  name  and 
influence  over  their  Catholic  neighbors  and 
fiiends  ?  ^Mio,  need  I  ask '?  The  j^i'^us, 
the  humane,  the  charitable,  the  liberal,  the 
benevolent,  and  the  enlightened.  Those 
were  they  w'ho,  overlookmg  the  mere  theo- 
logical distinctions  of  jjarticular  doctiines, 
united  in  the  great  and  univer.sal  creed  of 
chaiity,  held  by  them  as  a  common  piinciiJle 
on  which  they  might  meet  and  understand 
and  love  each  other.  And  indeed,  gentle- 
men of  the  jvuy,  there  cannot  be  a  greater 
proof  of  the  oppressive  spirit  which  animates 
this  i^enal  and  inhuman  code  than  the  fact 
that  so  many  of  thos^,  for  whose  benefit  it 
was  enacted,  resisted  its  influence,  on  behalf 
of  their  Catholic  feUow-subjects,  as  far  as 
they  could,  and  left  nothing  undone  to  sup- 
port the  laws  of  humanity  against  those  of 
injustice  and  ojipressiou.  "U'hen  the  perse- 
cuted Catholic  could  not  invest  his  capital 
in  the  purchase  of  property,  the  generous 
Protestimt  came  forward,  purchased  the 
property  in  his  own  name,  became  the  bona 
fide  proj)rietor,  and  then  transferred  its  use 
and  advantages  to  his  CathoUc  friend.  And 
again,  under  what  roof  did  the  hunted  Cath- 
olic 23riest  first  take  refuge  fi'om  those  blood- 
hoiuids  of  persecution  ?  In  most  cases 
under  that  of  his  charitable  and  Christian 
brother,  the  Protestant  clergyman.  Gentle- 
men, could  there  be  a  bitterer  Ubel  upon 
the  23enal  laws  than  the  notorious  facts  which 
I  have  the  honor  of  stating  to  you  ? 

"The  facts  which  have  placed  the pri.soner 
at  the  bar  before  you  are  these,  and  in  de- 
tailing them  I  feel  myself  placed  in  circum- 
stances of  great  difficulty,  and  also  of  pecu- 
liar delicacy.  The  discharge,  however,  of  a 
public  duty,  which  devolves  upon  me  as  lead- 


WILLY   REILLY 


165 


ing  haw  officer  of  the  Crowu,  forces  me  into 
a  coiu'se  wliicli  I  cannot  avoid,  unless  I 
should  shrink  fi'om  promoting  and  accom- 
phshing  the  ends  of  j^ubhc  justice.  In  my 
position,  and  in  the  discharge  of  my  solenm 
duties  here  to-daj-,  I  can  recognize  no  man's 
rank,  no  man's  wealth,  nor  the  prestige  of 
any  man's  name.  So  long  as  he  stands  at 
that  bar,  charged  with  gxeat  and  heinous 
crimes,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  strip  him  of  all 
the  advantages  of  his  birth  and  rank,  and  con- 
sider him  simijly  a  mere  subject  of  the  realm. 
"  In  order  to  show  you,  gentlemen  of  the 
jirry,  the  anlmux  under  which  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  acted,  in  the  case  before  vis,  I  must 
go  back  a  little — a  peinod  of  some  months. 
At  that  time  a  highly  respectable  gentleman 
of  an  ancient  and  honored  family  in  this 
country'  was  one  evening  on  his  way  home 
from  this  town,  attended,  as  usual,  by  his  ser- 
vant. At  a  lonely  jalace  on  a  remote  and  anti- 
quated road,  which  they  took  as  a  shorter 
way,  it  so  happened  that,  in  consequence  of 
a  sudden  mist  peculiar  to  those  wild  moors, 
they  lost  their  jsath,  and  found  themselves  in 
circumstances  of  danger  and  distress.  The 
servant,  however,  whistled,  and  his  whistle 
was  answered  ;  a  party  of  men,  of  fi-eeboot^ 
ers,  of  robbers,  headed  by  a  person  called 
the  Red  Rapparee,  who  has  been  convicted 
at  these  assizes,  and  who  has  been  the 
scoiu-ge  of  the  country-  for  years,  came  v\)  to 
them,  and  as  the  Rapparee  had  borne  this 
respectable  gentleman  a  deadly  and  implaca- 
ble enmity  for  some  time  past,  he  was  about 
to  murder  both  master  and  man,  and  actual- 
ly had  his  musket  levelled  at  him,  as  others 
of  his  gang  had  at  his  aged  servant,  when  a 
person,  a  gentleman  named  ReiUy — [here 
there  was  a  loud  cheer  throughout  the  coiu-t, 
which,  however,  was  soon  repressed,  and  the 
Attorney-General  proceeded] — this  person 
started  out  from  an  old  ruin,  met  the  robber 
face  to  face,  and,  in  short,  not  only  saved  the 
lives  of  the  gentleman  and  his  sei^ant,  but 
conducted  them  safely  home.  This  act  of 
corn-age  and  humanity,  by  a  Roman  Catholic 
to  a  Protestant,  had  such  an  effect  upon  the 
old  gentleman's  daughter,  a  lady  whose  name 
has  gone  far  and  wide  for  her  many  virtues 
and  wonderful  beauty,  that  an  attachment 
was  formed  between  the  young  gentleman 
and  her.  The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  gentle- 
men, was  a  suitor  for  her  hand  ;  but  as  the 
young  and  amiable  lady  was  acquainted  mth 
his  character  as  a  priest-hunter  and  jierse- 
cutoi',  she,  though  herself  a  Protestant, 
could  look  upon  him  only  with  abhoiTenee. 
At  all  events,  after  the  rescue  of  her  father's 
life,  and  her  acquaintance  with  ^Ii\  ReUly, 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar  was  rejected  with 
disdain,  as  he  would  have  been,  it  seems,  if 


ReiUy  never  had  existed.  Now,  gentlemen 
of  the  jiu-y,  obsen'e  that  ReiUy  was  a  Cath- 
oUc,  which  was  bad  enough  in  the  eyes  of  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  ;  but  he  was  more ;  he 
was  a  rival,  and  were  it  not  for  the  state  of 
the  law,  would,  it  appears,  for  there  is  no 
doubt  of  it  now,  have  been  a  successful  one. 
From  henceforth  the  j)risoner  at  the  bar 
marked  111-.  ReiUy  for  vengeance,  for  de- 
struction, for  death.  At  this  time  he  was  in 
the  fuU  exercise  of  irresponsible  authority  ; 
he  could  burn,  hang,  shyot,  without  being 
eaUed  to  account ;  and  as  it  wiU  appeal-  be- 
fore you,  gentlemen,  this  consciousness  of 
impunity  stimulated  him  to  the  jierj^etration 
of  such  outrages  as,  in  civU  Ufe,  and  in  a 
country  free  from  civU  war,  ai-e  imiJaraUeled 
in  the  annals  of  ci-itne  and  cruelty. 

"  But,  gentlemen,  what  did  this  man  do  ? 
this  man,  so  anxious  to  presei-^-e  the  peace  of 
the  countn' ;  this  man,  the  terror  of  the  sur- 
rounding districts  ;  what  did  he  do,  I  ask  ? 
Why,  he  took  the  most  notorious  robber  of 
his  d.ay,  the  tierce  and  giiilty  RajDparee — he 
took  him  into  his  councUs,  in  order  that  he 
might  enable  him  to  trace  the  oliject  of  his 
vengeance,  ReUly,  in  the  iirst  place,  and  to 
lead  him  to  the  hiding-places  of  such  unfor- 
tunate Catholic  jjriests  as  had  taken  refuge 
in  the  caves  and  fastnesses  of  the  mountains. 
Instead  of  inmishiug  this  notorious  male- 
factor, he  took  him  into  his  own  house,  made 
him,  as  he  was  proud  to  caU  them,  one  of  his 
prii'^thoiinrh,  an<l  induced  him  to  believe  that 
he  had  procured  him  a  pardon  from  Govern- 
ment. 1  ReiUy's  name  he  had,  by  his  foul 
misrepresentations,  got  into  the  Hue-and-Gry, 
and  subsequently  had  him  gazetted  as  an 
outlaw  ;  and  aU  this  ujjon  his  own  irrespon- 
sible authority.  I  mention  riothing,  gentle- 
men, in  connection  with  this  trial  which  we 
are  not  in  a  cajjacity  to  prove. 

"  Having  forced  ReUly  into  a  variety  of  dis- 
guises, and  hunted  him  Uke  a  mad  dog 
through  the  country  ;  ha^-ing  searched  every 
liu'king-place  in  which  he  thought  he  might 
find  him,  he  at  length  resolved  on  the  only 
course  of  vengeance  he  could  pui-sue.  He 
surroimded  his  habitation,  and,  after  search- 
ing for  ReiUy  himself,  he  openly  robbed  him 
of  aU  that  was  valuable  of  that  gentleman's 
furniture,  then  set  fire  to  the  house,  and  in 
the  clouds  of  the  night  reduced  that  and 
every  out-office  he  had  to  ashes — a  capital 
felony.  It  so  happens,  however,  that  the 
house  and  offices  were,  in  jioint  of  fact,  not 
the  jDroperty  of  ReiUy  at  aU,  but  of  a  most 
respectable  Protestant  gentleman  and  magis- 
trate. Ml-.  Hastings,  with  whose  admii-able 
character  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  all  ac- 
quainted ;  and  aU  that  remains  for  me  to  say 
is,  that  he  is  the  prosecutor  in  this  case. 


166 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORIvS. 


"  And  now,  gentlemen,  we  exjiect  a  calm, 
deliberate,  and  unbiassed  verdict  from  you. 
Look  upon  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  as  an  in- 
nocent man  uutil  you  can,  with  a  clear  con- 
science, iiud  him  s'uilty  of  the  charges  which 
we  are  in  a  condition  to  i)rove  against  him  ; 
but  if  there  be  any  doubt  upon  your  minds, 
I  hojje  j'ou  mil  give  him  the  benefit  of  it." 

Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  in  fact,  had  no  de- 
fence, and  could  procure  no  witnesses  to 
counteract  the  irresistible  body  of  evidence 
that  was  jjroduced  against  him.  Notwith- 
standing aU  this,  his  friends  calculated  upon 
the  prejudices  of  a  Protestant  jury.  His 
leading  counsel  made  as  able  a  si^eech  in  his 
defence  as  could  be  made  imder  the  circum- 
stances. It  consisted,  however,  of  vague 
generahties,  and  dwelt  vigors,  the  state  of  the 
country  and  the  necessity  that  existed  for 
men  of  great  sf)irit  and  Protestant  feeling  to 
come  out  boldly,  and,  by  courage  and  energy, 
carry  the  laws  that  had  passed  for  the  sup- 
pression of  Popery  into  active  and  wholesome 
operation.  "  Those  laws  were  jjassed  by  the 
wisest  and  ablest  assembly  of  legislators  in 
the  world,  and  to  what  j^urpose  could  legis- 
lative enactments  for  the  j^reservation  of 
Protestant  interests  be  passed  if  men  of 
true  faith  and  loyalty  could  not  be  found  to 
carry  them  into  effect.  There  were  the  laws  ; 
the  jirisoner  at  the  bar  did  not  make  those 
laws,  and  if  he  was  invested  with  authority 
to  carry  them  into  oj^eration,  what  did  he  do 
but  discharge  a  wholesome  and  important 
duty  ?  The  country  was  admitted,  on  aU 
sides,  to  be  in  a  disturbed  state  ;  Popery 
was  attempting  for  j-ears  most  insidiously  to 
undermine  the  Protestant  Church,  and  to  sap 
the  foundation  of  all  Protestant  intei-ests  ; 
and  if,  by  a  pardonable  excess  of  zeal,  of  zeal 
in  the  right  direction,  and  unconscious  la^sse 
in  the  discharge  of  what  he  would  call,  those 
noble  Init  fearful  duties  had  occurred,  was  it 
for  those  who  had  a  sense  of  true  hberty,  and 
a  manly  detestation  of  Romish  intrigue  at 
heart,  to  'S'isit  that  upon  the  liead  of  a  true 
and  loyal  man  as  a  crime.  Forbid  it,  the 
spirit  of  the  British  Constitution — forbid  it, 
heaven — forbid  it.  Protestantism.  No,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,"  etc.,  etc. 

We  need  not  go  further,  because  we  have 
condensed  in  the  few  sentences  given  the  gist 
of  all  he  snid. 

When  tlie  case  was  closed,  the  jury  retired 
to  their  room,  and  as  Sir  Robert  \Vhitecraft's 
fate  depends  upon  their  verdict,  we  will  be 
kind  enough  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  ojifn 
acsame  of  oiu'  poor  imagination  to  introduce 
our  readers  invisibly  into  the  jury-room. 

"  Now,"  said  the  foremin,  "what's  to  be 
done  ?  Are  we  to  sacrifice  a  Protestant 
champion  to  Popery  ?  " 


"  To  Popery !  To  the  deuce,"  rejjlied 
another.  "  It's  not  Popery  that  is  prosecuting 
him.  Put  dovm  Poisery  by  argaiment,  by 
fair  argument,  but  don't  murder  those  that 
profess  it,  in  cold  blood.  As  the  Attorney- 
General  said,  let  us  make  it  our  own  case, 
and  if  the  Papishes  treated  us  as  we  have 
treated  them,  what  would  we  say  ?  By  jingo, 
I'll  hang  that  fellow.  He's  a  Protestant  cham- 
pion, they  say  ;  but  I  say  he's  a  Protestant 
bloodliound,  and  a  cowardly  rascal  to  boot." 

"How  is  he  a  cowardly  rascal.  Bob? 
Hasn't  he  j)roved  himself  a  brave  man 
against  the  Papishes  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  A  brave  man  !  deuce  thank  him  for  be- 
ing a  brave  man  against  poor  de\'ils  that  are 
allowed  nothing  stouter  than  a  horse-rod  to 
defend  themselves  with — when  he  has  a  party 
of  well-armed  bloodhounds  at  his  back. 
He's  the  worst  landlord  in  Ii-elaud,  and, 
above  all  things,  he's  a  tyrant  to  his  Protes- 
tant tenants,  this  champion  of  Protestantism. 
Ay,  and  fierce  as  he  is  against  Popery,  there's 
not  a  Papish  tenant  on  his  estate  that  he's 
not  like  a  father  to." 

"And  how  the  deuce  do  you  Icnow  that?" 

"Because  I  was  head  bailiff  to  him  for  ten 
years." 

"  But  doesn't  fdl  the  world  know  that  he 
hates  the  Papists,  and  would  have  them  mas- 
sacred if  he  could  ?  " 

"And  so  he  does — and  so  he  would  ;  but 
it's  all  his  cowardice,  because  he's  afraid  that 
if  he  was  harsh  to  his  Popish  tenants  some 
of  them  might  shoot  him  from  behind  a 
hedge  some  fine  night,  and  give  him  a  lead- 
en bullet  for  his  snipper." 

"I  know  he's  a  coward,"  observed  another, 
"because  he  allowed  himself  to  be  hor.se- 
whipjied  by  Major  Bingham,  and  didn't  call 
him  out  for  it." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  another,  "it  was 
made  uj:)  by  their  friends  ;  but  what's  to  be 
done  ?  AU  the  evidence  is  against  him,  and 
we  ai-e  on  oiu"  oaths  to  find  a  verdict  accord- 
ing to  the  evidence.'' 

"  Evidence  be  hanged,"  said  another  ;  "I'U 
sit  here  tUl  doom's-day  before  I  find  him 
guUty.  Are  we,  that  are  all  loyal  Protes- 
tants, to  bring  out  a  varjuice  to  please  the 
Papishes  ?  Oh,  no,  faith ;  but  here's  the 
thing,  gentlemen ;  mark  me ;  here  now,  I 
take  oft"  my  shoes,  and  I'U  ait  them  before  I 
find  him  guUty ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he  delib- 
erately slipped  of  his  shoes,  and  placed  them 
on  the  table,  ready  for  his  tough  imd  loyal 
rejjast. 

"By  Gog,"  said  another,  "I'U  hang  hhn, 
in  spite  of  your  teeth  ;  and,  afther  aiten  your 
brogues,  you  may  go  barefooted  if  you  like. 
/  have  brogues  to  ait  as  weU  as  you,  and  oua 
of  mine  is  as  big  as  two  of  youi's." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


107 


This  was  followed  by  a  clioras  of  laughter, 
after  which  they  began  to  consider  the  case 
before  them,  Uke  adiaii-able  aud  well-reason- 
ing jurors,  as  they  were.  Two  hours  passed 
in  wrangling  and  talking  and  recriminating, 
when,  at  last,  one  of  them,  striking  the  table, 
exclaimed  with  an  oath  : 

"  All  Eurojje  won't  save  the  villain.  Didn't 
he  seduce  my  sister's  daughter,  and  then 
throw  her  and  her  child  back,  with  shame 
and  disgi-ace,  on  the  famUj',  without  sup- 
port?" 

"  Look  at  that,"  said  the  owner  of  the 
shoe,  holding  it  up  triumphantly  ;  "  that's 
my  snipper  to-night,  and  my  argument  in  his 
defence.  1  say  our  Protesbint  champion 
mustn't  hang,  at  least  imtil  I  starve  first." 

The  other,  who  sat  opposite  to  him,  put 
his  hand  across  the  table,  and  snatching  the 
shoe,  struck  its  owner  between  the  two  eyes 
with  it  and  knocked  him  back  on  the  floor. 
A  scene  of  ujjroar  took  place,  which  lasted 
for  some  minutes,  but  at  length,  by  the  ui- 
fluence  of  the  foreman,  matters  were  brought 
to  a  somewhat  amicable  issue.  In  this  way 
they  spent  the  time  for  a  few  hours  more, 
when  one  of  the  usual  messengers  came  to 
know  if  they  had  agreed  ;  but  he  was  in- 
stantly dismissed  to  a  ver\'  warm  settlement, 

ith  the  assurance  that  they  had  not. 

"Come,"  s.aicl  one  of  them,  pulUng  out  a 
pack  of  cards,  "  let  us  amuse  oiu-selves  at 
any  rate.  WTio's  for  a  hand  at  the  Sj)oil 
Five  ?  " 

The  cards  were  looked  upon  as  a  godsend, 
and  in  a  few  moments  one  hsxlf  the  jui-y 
s-ere  busUy  engaged  at  that  interesting  game. 
The  other  isortiou  of  them  amused  them- 
selves, in  the  meantime,  as  well  as  thej' 
could. 

"Tom,"  said  one  of  them,  "were  you  ever 
on  a  special  jury  in  a  revenue  case  ?  " 

"  No,"  repHed  Tom,  "  never.  Is  there 
much  fun  ?  " 

"The  deal's  own  fun  ;  because  if  we  find 
for  the  defendant,  he's  siu'e  to  give  us  a 
splendid  feed.  But  do  you  know  how  we 
manage  when  we  find  that  we  can't  agi-ee  ?  " 

"No..    How  is  it?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  when  the  case  is  too  clear 
against  him,  and  that  to  find  for  him  would 
be  too  barefaced,  we  get  every  man  to  mai-k  j 
down  on  a  shp  of  paper  the  least  amoimt  of  | 
damages  he  is  disposed  to  give  against  him  ;  | 
when  they're  all  down,  we  tot  them  up,  and  ' 
divide  by  twelve — "* 

"  Silence."  said  another,  "  till  we  hear  John  ' 
Dicksou's  song." 

The  said  John  Dickson  was  "at  the  time 

*By  no  meaos  an  iincomrnon  proceeding  in  rev- 
flnne  cases,  even  at  the  present  day. 


indulging   them  with  a  comic  song,  which 
was  encored  wdth  roars  of  laughter. 

"  Hallo  !  "  shouted  one  of  those  at  the 
cards,  "  here's  Jack  Brereton  has  prigged  the 
ace  of  hearts." 

"  Oh,  gentlemen,"  said  Jack,  who  was  a 
greater  knave  at  the  cards  than  any  in  the 
jjack,  "  upon  my  honor,  gentlemen,  you 
wrong  me." 

"  There — ^he  has  di-opped  it,''  said  another  ; 
"  look  under  the  table." 

The  search  was  made,  and  up  was  lugged 
the  redoubtable  ace  of  hearts  froni  mider  one 
of  Jack's  feet,  who  had  hoped,  bj*  covering 
it,  to  escape  detection.  Detected,  however, 
he  was,  aud,  as  they  all  knew  him  well,  the 
laughter  was  loud  accordingly,  and  none  of 
them  laughed  louder  than  Jack  himseK. 

"  Jack,"  said  another  of  them,  "  let  us  have 
a  touch  of  the  legerdemain." 

"  Gentlemen,  attention,"  said  Jack.  "  Will 
any  of  you  lend  me  a  halfpenny  ?  '' 

This  was  immediately  .supplied  to  him,  and 
the  tii-st  thing  he  did  was  to  stick  it  on  his 
forehead — although  there  had  been  brass 
enough  there  before — to  which  it  a2:)peared 
to  have  been  glued  ;  after  a  space  he  took  it 
otf  and  placed  it  in  the  palm  of  his  right 
hand,  which  he  closed,  and  then,  extending 
both  his  hands,  shut,  asked  those  about  him 
in  which  h;ind  it  was.  Of  course  they  all 
said  in  the  right  ;  but,  upon  Jacks  opening 
the  said  hand,  there  was  no  halfpenny 
there. 

In  this  way  they  discussed  a  case,  of  Ufe  or 
death,  until  another  knock  came,  which 
"  knock  "  received  the  same  answer  as  be- 
fore. 

"Faith,"  said  a  powerful-looking  farmer 
fi'om  near  the  town  of  Boyle — the  very  pic- 
tui-e  of  health,  "  if  thej' don't  soon  let  us  out 
I'll  get  sick.  It's  I  that  always  does  the 
sickness  for  the  jury  when  we're  kept  in  too 
long." 

"Why,  then,  BiUy  Bradley,"  asked  one  of 
them,  "how  could  you,  of  all  men  Hving, 
sham  sickness  on  a  doctor  ?  " 

"Because,"  said  Bdly,  ^vith  a  giin,  "I'm 
beginning  to  feel  a  divarsion  of  blood  to  the 
head,  for  want  of  a  beefsteak  and  a  pot  o' 
porther.  My  father  and  gi-.xndfather  both 
died  of  a  divarsion  of  blood  to  the  head." 

"I  rather  think,"  observed  another,  "that 
they  died  by  taking  their  divarsion  at  the 
beefsteak  and  the  pot  of  porter." 

"No  matther,"  said  Billy,  "  they  died  at 
all  events,  and  so  will  we  all,  pliise  God." 

"  Come,"  said  one  of  them,  "there  is  Jack 
Brereton  and  his  cane — let  us  come  to  busi- 
ness. T^liat  do  you  say,  Jack,  as  to  the 
pi'isoner?" 

Jack  at  the  time  had  the  aforesaid  cone 


163 


WILLIAM  CAItLETON'S  WORKS. 


between  Lis  legs,  over  whicli  he  was  bent  like 
a  bow,  with  the  head  of  it  in  his  mouth. 

"Are  you  all  agreed?"  asked  Jack. 

"  All  for  a  verdict  of  guilty,  with  the  ex- 
ceijtion  of  this  fellow  and  his  shoes." 

Jack  Brereton  was  a  handsome  old  fellow, 
with  a  red  face  and  a  pair  of  waterj-  eyes  ;  he 
was  a  little  lame,  and  hii'pled  as  he  walked, 
in  consequence  of  a  liij)  complaint,  which  he 
got  by  a  fall  from  a  jaunting-car  ;  but  he  was 
now  steady  enough,  except  the  grog. 

"  Jack,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  fore- 
man ;  "  it's  time  to  do  something." 

"  ^VTij*,"  replied  Jack,  •'  the  scoundrel  en- 
gaged me  to  put  down  a  pumj)  for  him,  and  I 
did  it  in  such  a  manner  as  was  a  credit  to 
his  establishment.  To  be  sure,  he  wanted 
the  water  to  come  whenever  it  was  asked  ; 
but  I  told  him  that  that  wasn't  my  system  ; 
that  I  didn't  want  to  make  a  good  thing  too 
cheap  ;  but  that  the  water  would  come  in 
genteel  time — that  is  to  say,  whenever  they 
didn't  want  it ;  and  faith  the  water  bore  me 
out."  And  here  Jack  laughed  heartily. 
"But  no  matter,"  proceeded  Jack,  "he's 
only  a  bujeen  ;  sure  it  was  his  mother  nm-sed 
me.  Where's  that  fellow  that's  going  to  eat 
his  shoes'?  Here,  Ned  AVilson,  you  flaming 
Protestant,  I  have  neither  been  a  grand  juror 
nor  a  petty  jiu-or  of  the  county  of  Sligo  for 
nothing.  Where  are  you  ?  Take  my  cane, 
place  it  between  your  knees  as  you  saw  me 
do,  2)ut  your  mouth  down  to  the  head  of  it, 
suck  up  with  all  your  strength,  and  you'll  find 
that  God  will  give  you  sense  afterwards." 

Wilson,  who  had  taken  such  a  fancy  for 
eating  his  shoes,  in  order  to  show  his  loyalty, 
was  what  is  called  a  hard-f/on;  and  besides  a 
great  friend  of  Jack's.  At  all  events,  he  fol- 
lowed his  advice — put  the  head  of  the  huge 
cane  into  his  mouth,  and  drew  up  according- 
ly. The  cane,  in  fact,  was  hollow  all  through, 
Hnd  contained  about  three  half -pints  of  strong 
whiskey.  Thei'e  was  some  wi-angling  with 
'Jie  man  for  a  httle  time  after  this  ;  but  at 
length  he  apjH'oached  Jack,  and  handing  him 
the  empty  cane,  said  : 

"  WTiat's  3'our  opinion,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Why,  we  must  hang  him,"  rejilied  Jack. 
"  He  defi-auded  me  in  the  pump  ;  and  I  ask 
you  did  you  ever  put  your  nose  to  a  better 
pump  than  that  1 "  * 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Jack,  we're  agreed 
— he  swings ! " 


*  We  have  been  taken  to  task  abotit  this  descrip- 
tion of  tbe  jury-roora  ;  but  we  believe,  and  have 
good  reason  to  believe,  that  everj'  circumstance 
inentione  1  in  it  is  a  fact.  Po  our  readers  remember 
tlie  history  of  Orr's  trial,  where  three-fourths  of  the 
jurors  who  convicted  him  vvpre  dnmk — a  fact  to 
which  they  themselves  confirmed  upon  oath  after- 
wards ? 


At  this  moment  an  officer  came  to  ask  the 
same  c]uestion,  when,  in  reply,  the  twelve 
jurymen  came  out,  and,  amidst  the  most  jn-o- 
foimd  sUence,  the  foreman  handed  down  the 
issue  pa2>er  to  the  Clei-k  of  the  Crown. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  that  otHcer,  after  hav- 
ing cast  his  eye  over  it,  "  have  you  agreed  in 
j^our  verdict  ?  " 
"We  have." 

"Is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  giiiltv,  or  not 
guilty?" 
"  Guilty  ! " 

Let  us  pause  here  a  moment,  and  reflect 
upon  the  precarious  tenure  of  life,  as  it  is 
fi-equently  affected  by  such  scenes  as  the 
above,  in  the  administration  of  justice.  Here 
was  a  criminal  of  the  deepest  dye,  shivering 
in  the  dock  with  the  natural  aiJjJrehension  of 
his  fate,  but  supporJei,  uotwdthsbinduig,  by 
i  the  delay  of  the  jury  in  coming  to  a  verdict. 
t  He  argiied  reasonably  enough,  that  in  con- 
(  sequence  of  that  very  delay  he  must  neees- 
!  sarily  have  fiiends  among  them  who  would 
j  hold  out  to  the  last.  The  state  of  susjsense, 
however,  in  which  he  was  held  must  have 
1  been,  and  was,  dreadful.  His  lips  and  throat 
became  pai-ched  by  excitement,  anci  he  was 
I  obliged  to  diink  three  or  four  glasses  of 
water.  Being  rmable  to  stand,  he  was  ac- 
commodated with  a  chair,  on  which,  while  he 
sat,  the  perspiration  flowed  fi'om  his  pallid 
face.  Yet,  with  the  excejjtion  of  his  o^n-u 
clique,  there  was  se;ti'cely  an  imlividual  jire- 
sent  who  did  not  hojje  that  this  trijil  would 
2)ut  an  end  to  his  career  of  blood.  After  all, 
there  was  somethuig  of  the  retributive  jus- 
tice of  Providence  even  in  the  conduct  and 
feelings  of  the  jury  ;  for,  in  j^oint  of  fact,  it 
was  more  on  account  of  his  j^rivate  crimes 
and  private  infamy  that  they,  however  wrong- 
ly, brought  in  their  verdict.  Here  was  he, 
encircled  by  their  knowledge  of  his  own  in- 
iquities, apart  fi'om  his  jJubhc  acts  ;  and  there, 
standing  in  that  dock,  fi'om  which  he  might 
have  gone  out  fi'ee,  so  ftu*  as  regarded  his 
13ohtical  exploits,  he  found,  although  he  did 
not  know  it,  the  black  weight  of  his  private 
rices  fall  upon  his  head  in  the  shape  of  the 
verdict  just  delivered.  It  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  describe  his  apj^earauce  on  hearing 
it ;  his  head  fell  down  ujion  his  breast  list- 
less, heljiless,  and  with  a  character  of  despair 
that  was  painful  to  contemiilate. 

A\Tien  the  verdict  was  himded  down,  the 
judge  immediately  put  on  the  black-cap  ;  but 
AVliitecraft's  head  was  resting  on  his  breast, 
and  he  did  not  for  some  tune  see  it.  At 
length,  stirred  into  something  like  life  bj"  the 
accents  of  the  judge,  he  raised  his  head  \rith 
an  effort.  The  latter  addressed  him  as  thus  : 
"  Sir  Robert  Whiteeraft,  you  have  been 
convicted  this  day  by  as  enhghtened  a  jury 


LIBRARY 

",:  THE 

JNIVERSilY  OF  (LIINOIS 


WIZLT  REILLY. 


169 


as  ever  sat  in  a  jury-box.  You  must  be  aware 
yourself,  by  the  length  of  time,  and  conse- 
quently the  deep  and  serious  investigation 
which  they  bestowed — and,  it  is  evident, 
jpainfully  bestowed — upon  your  unhapfiy 
case,  that  yovu-  conviction  is  the  deliberate 
result  of  theu-  conscientious  oiaiiliou.  It  is 
ob^'ious,  as  I  said,  from  the  length  of  time 
occupied  in  the  jury-room,  that  the  evidence 
in  your  case  was  sifted  closely,  and  canvassed 
with  the  ability  and  experience  of  able  and 
honest  men.  In  the  verdict  they  have  re- 
turned the  Court  perfectly  concurs  ;  and  it 
now  only  remains  for  me  to  pass  ujjon  you 
that  awful  sentence  of  the  law  which  is  due 
to  yoiu'  cruel  life  ixud  fiagitious  crimes.  Were 
you  a  man  without  education,  nurtui-ed  in 
ignorance,  and  the  slave  of  its  debasing  con- 
nsquences,  some  shade  of  compassion  might 
be  felt  for  you  on  that  account.  But  you 
cannot  plead  this  ;  you  cannot  j^lead  pover- 
ty, or  that  necessity  which  ui-ges  many  a 
political  adventurer  to  come  out  as  a  tyrant 
and  oppressor  ujion  his  fellow-subjects,  un- 
der the  shield  of  the  law,  and  in  the  corrupt 
expectation  of  reward  or  j^romotion.  You 
were  not  only  independeiit  in  your  own  cir- 
cumstances, bvit  you  jlossessed  great  wealth; 
and  why  you  should  shajoe  j'ourself  such  an 
awful  course  of  crime  can  only  be  attributed 
to  a  heart  naturally  fond  of  persecution  and 
blood.  I  cannot,  any  more  than  the  learned 
Attorney-Gener.d,  suffer  the  privileges  of 
rank,  wealth,  or  position  to  sway  me  fi'om 
the  firm  dictates  of  justice.  You  imagined 
that  the  law  would  connive  at  you — and  it  did 
so  too  long,  but,  believe  me,  the  sooner  or 
later  it  will  abandon  the  individual  that  has 
been  jsrovoking  it,  and,  Hke  a  tiger  when 
goaded  beyond  jjatience,  vsdU  turn  and  tear 
its  victixn  to  j^ieces.  It  remains  for  me  now 
to  pronounce  the  awful  sentence  of  the  law 
upon  you  ;  but  before  I  do  so,  let  me  entreat 
you  to  turn  your  heart  to  that  Being  who 
will  never  refuse  mercy  to  a  rejientant  sin- 
ner ;  and  I  press  this  uponj'ou  the  more  be- 
cause you  need  not  entertain  the  slightest 
exjjectation  of  finding  it  in  this  world.  In 
order,  therefore,  that  you  may  collect  and 
compose  j'our  mind  for  the  great  event  that 
is  before  you,  I  will  allow  you  four  days,  in 
order  that  you  may  make  a  Christian  use  of 
your  time,  and  jjrepare  your  S2)irit  for  a 
greater  tribunal  than  this.  The  sentence  of 
the  Court  is  that,  on  the  fifth  day  after  this, 
you  be,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.;  and  may  God  have 
mercy  on  your  soul !  " 

Ai.  first  there  was  a  dead  sHence  in  the 
Court,  and  a  portion  of  the  audience  was 
taken  comjiletely  by  sm-prise  on  hearing  both 
the  verdict  and  the  sentence.  At  length  a 
deep,  condensed  murmur,  which  arose  by  de- 


grees into  a  yeU  of  execration,  burst  forth 
from  his  friends,  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
peal  of  cheers  and  acclamations  rang  so  loud- 
ly through  the  court  that  they  completely 
drowned  the  indignant  vociferations  of  the 
others.  In  the  meantime  silence  was  restor- 
ed, and  it  was  found  that  the  convict  had  been 
removed  during  the  confusion  to  one  of  tho 
condemned  cells.  What  now  were  his  friends 
to  do  ?  Was  it  possible  to  take  any  steps  by 
which  he  might  yet  be  saved  from  such  a  dis- 
graceful death  ?  Pressed  as  they  were  for  time, 
they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  only 
chance  existing  in  his  favor  was  for  a  deputa- 
tion of  as  many  of  the  leading  Pi'otestants  of 
the  county,  as  coidd  be  prevailed  upon  to 
join  in  the  measure,  to  proceed  to  Dublin 
without  delay.  Immediately,  therefore,  after 
the  trial,  a  meeting  of  the  baronets  fi'ieuds 
was  held  in  the  head  inn  of  Sligo,  where  the 
matter  was  earnestlj'  discussed.  AATiitecraft 
had  been  a  man  of  private  and  solitary  enjoy- 
ments— in  social  anel  domestic  hfe,  as  cold, 
selfish,  inhospitable,  and  rei>ulsive  as  he  was 
cruel  and  unscrupulous  in  his  public  career. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  had  few  per- 
sonal friends  of  either  rank  or  influence,  and 
if  the  matter  had  rested  upon  his  o'mi  person- 
al character  and  merits  alone,  he  would  have 
been  left,  without  an  effort,  to  the  fate  which 
had  that  day  been  pronoiuaced  upon  him. 
The  consideration  of  the  matter,  however, 
was  not  confined  to  himself  as  an  indi^ldual, 
but  to  the  Protestant  party  at  large,  and  his 
conviction  was  looked  upon  as  a  Popish  tri- 
vinnjh.  On  this  accoimt  many  persons  of 
rank  and  infiuence,  who  would  not  otherwise 
have  taken  any  interest  in  his  fate,  came  for- 
ward for  the  purjjose,  if  possible,  of  defeating 
the  Poj)ish  part}- — who,  by  the  way,  had  noth- 
ing whatsoever  to  do  in  promoting  his  con- 
viction— and  of  preventing  the  stigma  and 
deep  disgrace  which  his  execution  would  at- 
tach to  their  own.  A  very  resjiectable  depu- 
tation was  consequently  formed,  and  in  the 
coui-se  of  the  next  day  proceeded  to  Dublin, 
to  urge  their  claims  in  liis  favor  with  the  Lord 
Lieutenant.  This  nobleman,  though  appa- 
rently favorable  to  the  Catholic  people,  was 
nevertheless  j)ersoually  and  .secretly  a  bitter 
enemy  to  them.  The  state  i^olicy  which  he 
was  instructed  and  called  upon  to  exercise  in 
their  favor  differed  tolo  each  from  his  own 
impressions.  He  spoke  to  them,  however, 
sweetly  and  softly,  pi'aised  them  for  theu*  for- 
bearance, and  made  large  promises  in  theii' 
favor,  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  he  entertained 
no  intention  of  complying  with  their  request. 
The  deputation,  on  arriring  at  the  castle, 
ascertained,  to  their  mortification,  that  the 
viceroy  would  not  be  at  home  mitil  the  fol- 
lowing day,  having  spent  the  last  week  with 


170 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


J.  nobleman  iu  the  neighborliood  ;  they  were 
consequently  obliged  to  await  his  arrival. 
After  his  return  they  were  admitted  to  an 
audience,  iu  which  they  stated  their  object 
iu  waiting  ujion  him,  and  urged  ^^ith  great 
earnestness  the  necessity  of  ai-resting  the  fate 
of  such  a  distiugiiished  Protestant  as  Sir 
Robert  Whitecraft ;  after  wliicli  they  entered 
into  a  long  statement  of  the  necessity  that 
existed  for  such  active  and  energetic  men  in 
the  then  i)eculiar  aud  dangerous  state  of  the 
country. 

To  all  this,  however,  he  replied  ^^ith  great 
suavity,  assui'ing  them  that  no  man  felt  more 
anxious  to  promote  Protestant  interests  than 
he  did,  aud  added  that  the  relaxation  of  the 
laws  against  the  Catholics  was  not  so  much 
the  result  of  his  own  jjersonal  jjolicy  or  feel- 
ing as  the  consequence  of  the  instructions 
lie  had  received  from  the  Englisli  C.iliiuet. 
He  would  be  very  glad  to  comply  with  the 
wishes  of  the  deputation  if  he  could,  but  at 
present  it  w.is  impossible.  This  man's  con- 
duct was  indefensible  ;  for,  not  content  in 
carrying  out  the  laws  against  the  Catholics 
vnth  imnecessary  rigor,  he  committed  a 
monstrous  outrage  against  a  French  subject 
of  distinction,  in  consequence  of  which  the 
French  Court,  through  their  Ambassador  in 
London,  insisted  upon  his  punishment. 

"Very  well,  my  lord,"  replied  the  spc^^es- 
man  of  the  deputation,  "  I  beg  to  assure 
you,  that  if  a  hiiip  of  this  man's  head  is  in- 
jiu'ed  there  will  be  a  massacre  of  the  Popish 
jjopulatiou  before  two  months ;  and  I  beg 
also  to  let  you  know,  for  the  satisfaction  of 
the  Enghsh  Cabinet,  that  they  may  embroil 
themselves  with  France,  or  get  into  what- 
ever political  embarrassment  they  please, 
but  an  Irish  Protestant  wiR  never  hoist  a 
musket,  or  draw  a  sword,  in  their  defence. 
Gentlemen,  let  us  bid  his  Excellency  a  good- 
morning." 

This  was  startling  language,  as  the  effect 
proved,  for  it  startled  the  viceroy  into  a  com- 
pliance with  their  wishes,  and  they  went 
home  post-haste,  in  order  that  the  pardon 
might  arrive  in  time. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Rumor  of  ConUen  Bainn'n  Trenchcrii — Hoir:  it  np- 
jiearn — Reilly  sttinda  his  Triid—  C'ondusiun. 

Life,  they  say,  is  a  life  of  trials,  and  so 
may  it  be  said  of  this  t;ile — at  least  of  the 
conclusion  of  it ;  for  we  feel  that  it  devolves 
upon  us  once  more  to  solicit  the  presence 
of  our  readers  to  the  same  prison  iu  which 


the  Red  Rapparee  and  Sir-  Robert  TMiitecrafl 
received  their  sentence  of  doom. 

As  it  is  imjjossible  to  close  the  mouth  oi 
to  silence  the  tongue  of  fame,  so  we  may  as- 
sure our  readers,  as  we  have  before,  that  the 
history  of  the  loves  of  those  two  celebrated 
individuals,  to  wit,  Willy  Reilly  and  the  far- 
famed  Covleen  Bawn,  had  given  an  interest 
to  the  coming  trial  such  as  was  never  known 
within  the  memory  of  man,  at  that  peiiod, 
nor  p)erhaps  equalled  since.  The  Red  Rajj- 
paree,  Su-  Robert  "Whitecraft,  and  all  the 
other  celebrated  villains  of  that  time,  have 
nearly  perished  out  of  tradition  itself,  whUst 
those  of  oiu-  hero  and  heroine  ai'e  still  fresh 
in  the  feelings  of  the  Connaught  and  Is'orth- 
eru  peasantry,  at  whose  hearths,  during  the 
winter  evenmgs,  the  rude  bvit  fine  old  ballad 
that  commemorated  that  love  is  still  .sung 
with  sympathy,  and  sometimes,  as  we  can 
testify,  with  tears.  This  is  fame.  One  cu*- 
cumstance,  however,  which  deepened  the  in- 
terest felt  by  the  people,  told  powerfully 
against  the  consistency  of  the  (Joolcen  Bawn, 
which  was,  that  she  had  resolved  \o  come 
forward  that  day  to  bear  evidence  against 
her  lover.  Such  was  the  general  imisression 
received  from  her  fattier,  and  the  attorney 
Doldrum,  who  conducted  the  trial  against 
Reilly,  although  our  i-eaders  are  well  aware 
that  on  this  point  they  spoke  without  au- 
thority. The  governor  of  the  prison,  ou 
going  that  morning  to  conduct  him  to  the 
bar,  said  : 

"I  am  sorrj',  Mr.  Reilly,  to  be  the  bearer 
of  bad  news  ;  but  as  the  knowledge  of  it 
may  be  serviceable  to  you  or  your  lawyers, 
I  tliink  I  ought  to  mention  it  to  you." 

"  Praj%  what  is  it?"  asked  Reilly. 

"Why,  SU-,  it  is  said  to  be  a  fact  that  the 
Cooleen  Bavm.  has  proved  false  .lud  treacher- 
ous, and  is  coming  this  day  to  bear  her  tes- 
timony against  you." 

Reilly  repUed  with  a  smile  of  confidence, 
which  the  darkness  of  the  room  j^i'eveuted 
the  other  from  seeing,  "Well,  Mr.  O'Shaugh- 
nessy,  even  if  she  does,  it  cannot  be  helijed  ; 
have  you  heard  what  the  nature  of  her  evi- 
dence is  hkely  to  be  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  seems  her  father  and  Doldrum 
the  attoi-nej'  asked  her,  and  she  would  not 
tell  them ;  but  she  said  she  had  made  her 
mind  xrp  to  attend  the  trial  and  see  justice 
done.  Don't  be  cast  down,  JMi\  Reilly, 
though,  upon  my  soul,  I  think  she  ought  to 
have  stood  it  out  in  your  favor  to  the  last." 

"  Come,"  said  Reilly,  "  I  am  ready  ;  time 
will  tell,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  and  a  ^hort 
time  too  ;  a  few  hours  now,  and  all  will  know 
the  result." 

"  I  hope  in  God  it  may  be  in  vour  favor, 
Ml-.  ReiUy." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


171 


"  Thank  you,  O'Sliauglmessy  ;  lead  on  ;  I 
am  ready  to  attend  you." 

The  jail  was  crowded  even  to  suffocation  ; 
but  this  was  not  all.  The  street  opposite  the 
jaU  was  nearly  as  much  crowded  as  the  jail 
itself,  a  moving,  a  crushing  mass  of  thou- 
sands having  been  collected  to  abide  and  hear* 
the  issue.  It  was  with  great  difficulty,  and 
not  without  the  aid  of  a  strong  miUtary 
force,  that  a  way  could  be  cleared  for  the 
judge  as  he  approached  the  prison.  The 
crowd  was  silent  and  f)assive,  but  in  conse- 
quence of  the  report  that  the  Cuoleen  Buwn 
was  to  appear  against  Kedly,  a  profound 
melancholy  and  an  ex|jressiou  of  deei>  sorrow 
seemed  to  brood  over  it.  Immediately  after 
the  judge's  ciu-riage  came  that  of  the  squire, 
who  was  accomp.mied  by  his  daughter,  Mrs. 
Brown  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  for  Helen  had  in- 
sisted that  her  father  should  procure  their  at- 
tendance. A  private  room  in  the  prison 
had,  liy  previous  arrangement,  been  jjre- 
pared  for  them,  and  to  this  they  were  con- 
ducted by  a  back  way,  so  as  to  avoid  the 
crushing  of  the  crowd.  It  was  by  this  way 
also  that  the  judge  and  lawyers  entered  the 
tody  of  tHe  court-house,  without  passing 
through  the  congregated  mass. 

At  length  the  judge,  having  robed  himself, 
took  his  seat  on  the  bench,  and,  on  casting 
his  eye  over  the  court-house,  was  astonished 
at  the  dense  multitude  that  stood  before 
him.  On  looking  at  the  galleries,  he  saw 
that  they  were  crowded  with  ladies  of  rank 
and  fashion.  Eveiy  thing  having  been  now 
ready,  the  lawyers,  e.ich  with  his  brief  before 
him,  and  each  with  a  calm,  but  serious  and 
meditative  aspect,  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown 
cried  out,  in  a  voice  which  the  hum  of  the 
crowd  rendered  necessarily  loud  : 

"  Mr.  Jailer,  put  William  Reilly  to  the 
bar." 

At  that  moment  a  stir,  a  murmur,  esjje- 
cially  among  the  ladies  in  the  gallery,  and  a 
turning  of  faces  in  the  direction  of  the  bar, 
took  jalace  as  Reilly  came  forward,  and  stood 
erect  in  fi-out  of  the  judge.  The  very  mo- 
ment he  made  his  appearance  all  eyes  were 
fastened  on  him,  and  whatever  the  prejudices 
may  have  been  against  the  Cuoleen  Bawn  for 
falling  in  love  with  a  Papist,  that  moment  of 
his  ajipearaiice  absolved  her  from  all — fi-om 
every  thing.  A  more  noble  or  majestic  fig- 
ure never  stood  at  that  or  any  other  bar.  In 
the  very  prime  of  manhood,  scartiely  out  of 
youth,  with  a  figure  like  that  of  Antinous, 
tall,  muscular,  yet  elegant,  brown  hair  of  the 
riojiest  shade,  a  lofty  forehead,  features  of 
the  most  manly  cast,  but  exciuisitely  formed, 
and  eyes  which,  but  for  the  meUow  softness 
of  their  expression,  an  eagle  might  have  en- 
vied for  their  transparent  brilliancy.     The 


fame  of  his  love  for  the  Cooleen  Bavm  had 
come  before  him.  The  judge  surveyed  him 
with  deej)  interest ;  so  did  every  eye  that 
could  catch  a  view  of  his  countenance  ;  but, 
above  all,  were  those  in  the  gallery  riveted 
upon  him  with  a  degree  of  interest — and, 
now  that  they  had  seen  liim,  of  symp)athy— - 
winch  we  sliiill  not  attempt  to  describe. 
Some  of  them  were  so  deeply  affected  that 
they  could  not  sujojiress  their  tears,  which, 
by  the  aid  of  their  handkerchiefs,  they  en- 
deavored to  conceal  as  well  as  they  could. 
Government,  in  this  case,  as  it  was  not  one 
of  political  interest,  did  not  prosecute.  A 
fjowerful  bar  was  retained  against  Reilly,  but 
an  equally  powerful  one  was  engaged  for 
him,  the  leading  lawj'er  being,  as  we  have 
stated,  the  celebrated  advocate  Fox,  the  Cur- 
ran  of  his  day. 

The  charge  against  him  consisted  of  only 
two  counts — that  of  robbing  Squire  FoUiard 
of  family  jewels  of  immense  value,  and  that 
of  running  away  with  his  daughter,  a  ward 
of  Chancery,  contrary  to  her  consent  and  in- 
clination, and  to  the  laws  in  that  case  made 
and  provided. 

The  first  witness  jsroduced  was  the  sheriff 
— and,  indeed,  to  state  the  truth,  a  very  re- 
luctant one  was  that  humane  gentleman  on 
the  occasion.  Having  been  sworn,  the  lead- 
ing counsel  proceeded : 

"  You  are  the  sherLft  of  this  county?  " 

"  I  am."  • 

"  Ai'e  you  awai-e  that  jewellery  to  a  large 
amount  was  stolen  recently  from  Mr.  Pol- 
Uard?': 

"I  am  not." 

"You  are  not?  Now,  is  it  not  a  fact,  of 
which  you  were  an  eye-witness,  that  the  jew- 
ellery in  question  was  found  upon  the  person 
of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  in  Mi\  FoUiard's 
house  ?  " 

"  I  must  Confess  that  I  saw  him  about  to 
be  seiirched,  and  that  a  very  valuable  case  of 
jewelleiy  was  found  upon  his  person." 

"  Yes,  found  uj^on  his  person — a  veiy  valu- 
able case  of  jewellery,  the  proj^erty  of  Mr. 
FoUiard,  found  upon  his  jierson  ;  mai'k  that, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  saw 
jewellery  found  upon  him  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
on  my  oath  whether  it  belonged  to  Mr.  Fol- 
Hard  or  not ;  aU  I  can  say  is,  that  Mi-.  Fol- 
Uard  claimed  the  jewels  as  his." 

"As  his— just  so.  Nobody  had  a  better 
right  to  claim  them  than  the  jjerson  to  whom 
they  belonged,  ^\'llat  took  place  on  the 
occasion  ?  " 

"\Miy,  Jlr.  Folliard,  as  I  said,  claimed 
them,  and  Mr.  ReiUy  refused  to  give  thein  uji 
to  him." 

"You  hear   that,   gentlemen —refused    to 


172 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


surrender  liim  the  property  of  which  he  had 
robbed  him,  even  in  his  own  house." 

"  And  when  you  seiu'ched  the  i^risoner  ?" 

"  We  dicbi't  seai-ch  him ;  he  refused  to 
submit  to  a  search." 

"  Kefused  to  submit  to  a  search  !  No  won- 
der, I  think  !  But,  at  the  time  he  refused  to 
submit  to  a  search,  had  he  the  jewellery 
upon  his  person  ?  " 

"  He  had." 

"  He  had?  You  hear  that  gentlemen — at 
the  time  he  refused  to  be  searched  he  had 
the  jewellei-y  upon  his  person." 

The  sheriff  was  then  cross-examined  by 
Fox,  to  the  following  effect : 

"  Mr.  Sheriff,  have  you  been  acquainted,  or 
are  you  acquainted,  with  the  jsrisoner  at  the 
bar?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  known  him  for  about  three 
years — almost  ever  since  he  settled  in  this 
county." 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  him?" 

"My  opinion  of  him  is  very  high." 

"  Yes — yoiu-  oisinion  of  him  is  very  high," 
with  a  significant  glance  at  the  jury — "I 
believe  it  is,  and  I  believe  it  ought  to  be. 
Now,  itpou  your  oath,  do  you  believe  that  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  is  capable  of  the  theft  or 
robbery  imputed  to  him  ?  " 

"I  do  not." 

"  You  do  not  ?  "\^Tiat  did  he  say  when  the 
jewels  were  found  ujDon  him  ?  " 

"  He  refused  to  surrender  them  to  Mr. 
FoUiard  as  having  no  legal  claim  upon  them, 
and  refused,  at  first,  to  place  them  in  any 
hands  but  Miss  FoUiai'd's  own ;  but,  on 
imderstanding  that  she  was  not  in  a  state  to 
receive  them  from  him,  he  placed  them  in 
mine." 

"  Then  he  considered  that  they  were  Miss 
.Folliard's  personal  property,  and  not  her 
:  Father's  ?  " 

"  So  it  seemed  to  nie  fi'om  what  he  said  at 
the  time." 

"That  will  do,  sir;  you  may  go  doi,\Ti." 

"  Alexander  Folliard  !"  and  the  father  then 
made  his  appearance  on  the  table  ;  he  looked 
about  him,  with  a  restless  eye,  and  appeared 
in  a  state  of  great  agitation,  but  it  was  the 
agitation  of  an  enraged  and  revengeful  man. 

He  tmiied  his  eyes  ui^ou  Reilly,  and  ex- 
claimed with  bitterness  :  "  Thei'e  you  are, 
Willy  Reilly,  who  have  stained  the  reputation 
of  my  child,  and  disgraced  her  family." 

"  ill-.  Folliard,"  said  his  lawyer,  "  you  have 
had  in  your  possession  very  valuable  family 
jewels." 

"I  had." 

"  Whose  property  were  they  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  mine,  I  should  think." 

"  Could  you  identiiy  them  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  could." 


"  Are  these  the  jewels  in  question  ?  " 

The  old  man  put  on  his  spectacles,  and 
examined  them  closely. 

"They  are  ;  I  know  every  one  of  them." 

"  They  were  stolen  from  you  ?  " 

"  They  were." 

"On  whose  j^erson,  after  having  been 
stolen,  wei-e  they  found  ?  " 

"  On  the  person  of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar." 

"You  swear  that?" 

"  I  do  :  becavise  I  saw  him  take  them  out 
of  his  pocket  in  my  ovra  house  after  he  had 
been  made  prisoner  and  detected." 

"Then  they  are  your  proijerty  ?" 

"  Certainly — I  consider  them  my  property  ; 
who  else's  j^roperty  could  they  be." 

"  Pray,  is  not  your  daughter  a  minor?" 

"  She  is." 

"  And  a  ward  in  the  Court  of  Chancery?" 

"  Ye.'3." 

"  That  win  do,  sir. " 

The  squire  was  then  about  to  leave  the 
table,  when  Mr.  Fox  addressed  him  : 

"  Not  yet,  Mr.  Folliard,  if  you  please ; 
you  swear  the  jewels  are  yours?" 

"  I  do  ;  to  whom  else  should  they  be- 
long?"  '  '      • 

"  Are  j'ou  of  ojjinion  that  the  j^risoner  at 
the  l:)ar  robbed  you  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  found  them  in  his  jjossession." 

"  And  you  now  identify  them  as  the  same 
jewels  which  you  found  in  his  possession  ?  " 

"  Hang  it,  haven't  I  said  so  before  ?  " 

"  Pray,  Mi'.  FoUiard,  keep  your  temjier,  if 
you  please,  and  ;inswer  me  civilly  and  as  a 
gentleman.  Suffer  me  to  ask  you  are  there 
any  other  family  jewels  in  yoiu-  2'osses- 
sion  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  Folliard  jewels  ?  " 

"  The  FoUiard  jewels  !  And  how  do  thej 
dift'er  in  denomination  from  those  found 
upon  the  prisoner  ?  " 

"  Those  found  iii^on  the  prisoner  are  caUed 
the  Bingham  jewels,  from  the  fact  of  my 
wife,  who  was  a  Bingham,  having  brought 
them  into  our  famUy." 

"  And  pray,  did  not  your  wife  always  con- 
sider those  jewels  as  her  own  private  iiroj)- 
erty  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  believe  she  did." 

"  And  did  she  not,  at  her  death-bed,  be- 
queath those  very  jewels  to  her  daughter, 
the  present  Miss  FoUiard,  on  the  condition 
that  die  too  should  consider  them  as  her 
2)riva(i'.  proi^erty?" 

"  Why,  I  believe  she  did  ;  indeed,  I  am 
sure  of  it,  because  I  was  present  at  the 
time."  • 

"  In  what  pai't  of  the  house  were  those 
jewels  deposited  ?  " 

"  In  a  large  oak  cabinet  that  stands  in  a 
recess  in  my  library." 


WILLY  R LILLY. 


173 


"  Did  jou  keep  wliat  you  call  the  Folliru-d 
jewels  there  ?  ' 

"Yes,  all  eras  jewellery  was  kejjt  there.'' 

"But  there  was  no  portion  of  the  FoUiard 
jewellery  touched?" 

"  No ;  but  the  Bingham  sets  were  all 
taken,  and  all  found  upon  the  prisoner." 

"  ^Miat  was  youi-  opinion  of  the  jwisoner's 
circumstances '? " 

"I  could  form  uo  opinion  about  them." 

"Had  he  not  the  reputation  of  being  an 
indejiendent  man  ?  " 

"  I  believe  such  was  the  impression." 

"  In  what  style  of  life  did  he  Uve  V  " 

'•  Certamly  in  the  style  of  a  gentleman." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  necessity  was 
hkely  to  temjjt  a  man  of  independence  like 
him  to  ste;il  your  daughter's  jewels  ?  " 

"I'd  advise  you.  Sergeant  Fox,  not  to 
put  me  out  of  temjier  ;  I  haven't  much  to 
sj)are  just  now.  What  the  deuce  are  vou 
at  ?  " 

"  Will  you  answer  my  question  '?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  was." 

"  If  the  Bingham  jewellery  had  been  stolen 
by  a  thief,  do  you  think  thnt  tliief  ^voldd  have 
left  the  FoUiard  jewellery  behind  liim?" 

"I'U  take  my  oath  yoa  woiddn't,  if  you 
had  been  in  the  place  of  the  person  that 
took  them.  Yoii'd  have  put  the  Bingham 
jewellery  m  one  pocket,  and  balanced  it  with 
the  Folliard  in  the  other.  But,"  he  added, 
after  a  sUght  j)ause,  "  the  villain  stole  fi'om 
me  a  jewel  more  valuable  and  dearer  to 
her  father's  heart  than  all  the  jewellery  of 
the  universal  world  put  together.  He  stole 
my  child,  my  only  child,"  and  as  he  spoke 
the  tears  ran  slowlj'  do^Ti  his  cheeks. 
The  court  and  spectators  were  touched  by 
this,  and  Fox  felt  that  it  was  a  j)oint  against 
them.  Even  he  him.self  was  touched,  and 
saw  that,  with  respect  to  KeiUy's  safety,  the 
sooner  he  got  rid  of  the  old  man,  for  the 
l^resent  at  least,  the  better. 

"  IVIr.  FoUiard,"  said  he,  "  you  may  ^ith- 
draw  now.  Yoiu-  daughter  loved,  as  what 
woman  has  not  ?  There  stands  the  object  of 
her  affections,  and  I  appeal  to  your  own 
feelings  whether  any  h\-rng  woman  could  be 
blamed  for  loving  such  a  man.  You  may  go 
down,  sir,  for  the  present." 

The  prosecuting  counsel  then  said  :  "  My 
lord,  we  produce  jMiss  FoUiard  herseK  to 
bear  testimony  against  this  man.  Crier,  let 
Helen  FoUiard  be  caUed." 

Now  was  the  moment  of  intense  and  in- 
credible interest.  There  was  the  fai'-famed 
beauty  herself,  to  appear  against  her  manly 
lover.  The  stu'  in  the  court,  the  expectation, 
the  anxiety  to  see  her,  the  stretching  of 
necks,  the  pressui'e  of  one  over  another,  the 
fervor  of  cui'iosity,  was  such  as  the  reader 


may  i^ossibly  conceive,  but  such  certainly  as 
we  cannot  attempt  to  describe.  She  ad- 
vanced fi'om  a  side  door,  deejsly  \'eUed  ;  but 
the  taU  and  majestic  elegance  of  her  figure 
not  only  stnick  aU  hearts  with  admiration, 
but  prepai'ed  them  for  the  inexpressible 
beauty  with  which  the  whole  kingdom  rang. 
She  was  assisted  to  the  table,  and  helped 
into  the  witness's  chaii-  hj  her  father,  who 
seemed  to  triumph  in  her  appeai-ance  there. 
On  taking  her  seat,  the  buzz  and  murmur  of 
the  spectators  became  hushed  mto  a  silence 
like  that  of  death,  and,  untU  she  sjjoke,  a 
feather  might  have  been  heard  falling  in  the 
court. 

"  Miss  Folliard,"  said  the  judge,  in  a  most 
respectful  voice,  "  you  ai-e  deeisly  veUed — but 
perhajJS  you  are  not  awai-e  that,  in  order  to 
give  evidence  in  a  coui-t  of  justice,  your  veil 
should  be  up  ;  wiU  you  have  the  goodness  to 
raise  it  ?  " 

Dehberately  and  slowly  she  raised  it,  as 
the  court  had  desired  her — but,  oil !  what 
an  effulgence  of  beauty,  what  wouderfid  brU- 
Hancy,  what  symmetry,  what  radiance,  what 
tenderness,  what  expression ! 

But  we  feel  that  to  atlemjjt  the  description 
of  that  face,  which  almost  had  di%auity  stamp- 
ed upon  it,  is  beyond  aU  our  j)owers.  The 
whole  court,  every  spectator,  man  and  woman, 
aU  for  a  time  were  mute,  whUst  their  hearts 
drank  in  the  deUeious  draught  of  admmitiou 
which  such  beauty  created.  After  having 
raised  her  veil,  she  looked  around  the  eoui'l- 
with  a  kind  of  wonder,  after  which  her  eyes 
rested  on  EeUly,  and  immediately  her  lids 
di'opped,  for  slie  feared  that  she  had  done 
wi'oug  in  looking  upon  him.  This  made 
many  of  those  hearts  who  were  interested  in 
his  fate  sink,  and  wonder  why  such  treachery 
should  be  associated  with  featiu-es  that 
breathed  only  of  angehc  goodness  and  hu- 
manity'. 

"  iliss  FoUiard,'"  said  the  leading  counsel 
engaged  against  KeUly,  "I  am  happy  to  hear 
that  you  regret  some  past  occunenees  that 
took  jjlace  with  res2)ect  to  you  and  the  jsris- 
oner  at  the  bai'." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  that  was 
melody  itseU',   "  I  do  regi-et  them." 

Fox  kept  his  eye  fixed  ujjon  lier,  aftei 
which  he  whispered  something  to  one  or  two 
of  his  brother  lawyers  ;  they  shook  then' 
heads,  and  immediately  set  themselves  to  hear 
and  note  her  examination. 

"  Miss  FoUiard,  you  are  aware  of  the 
charges  which  have  placed  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  of  justice  and  his  countr}'?  " 

"  Not  exactly  :  I  have  heai'd  Httle  of  it 
beyond  the  fact  of  his  incarceration." 

"  He  stands  there  chai-ged  with  two  very 
heinous  crimes — one  of  them,  tlie  theft  oJ 


£74 


WILLIAM  CARLETOX'S    WORKS. 


robbery  of  a  valuable  packet  of  jewels,  your 
father's  property." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  repUed,  "  they  are  my  own 
exclusive  property — not  my  father's.  They 
were  the  property  of  my  dear  mother,  who, 
on  her  death-bed,  bequeathed  them  to  me, 
in  the  presence  of  my  father  himself  ;  and  I 
always  considered  them  as  mine." 

"  But  they  were  found  uj)on  the  person  of 
the  prisoner  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  that  is  very  easily  explain- 
ed. It  is  no  secret  now%  that,  in  order  to 
avoid  a  marriage  which  my  father  was  forcing 
on  me  with  Sir  Eobert  Whiteeraft,  I  chose 
the  less  evil,  and  committed  myself  to  the 
honor  of  jNIi'.  ReiUy.  If  I  had  not  done  so  I 
should  have  committed  suicide,  I  think,  rather 
than  marry  'Wliitecraft — a  man  so  utterly 
devoid  of  principle  and  dehcacy  that  he  sent 
an  abandoned  female  into  my  father's  house 
in  the  capacity  of  my  maid  and  also  as  a  spy 
"apon  my  conduct." 

This  astounding  fact  created  an  immense 
sensation  throughout  the  court,  and  the 
lawv'er  who  was  examining  her  began  to  feel 
that  her  object  ui  coming  there  was  to  give 
evidence  in  favor  of  Reilly,  and  not  against 
him.  He  determined,  however,  to  tiy  her  a 
little  farther,  and  proceeded  : 

"  But,  Miss  Folliard,  how  do  you  account 
for  the  fact  of  the  Bingham  jewels  being 
found  upon  the  person  of  the  prisoner  ?  " 

"It  is  the  simjilest  tiling  in  the  world," 
she  rephed.  "  I  brought  my  own  jewels  with 
me,  and  finding,  as  we  proceeded,  that  I  was 
Ukely  to  lose  them,  having  no  pocket  suffi- 
cientlj'  safe  in  which  to  carry  them,  I  asked 
EeiUy  to  take  charge  of  them,  which  he  did. 
Oiu'  unexpected  caj^ture,  and  the  consequent 
agitation,  f)i"e'vented  him  fi'om  retiu-ning 
them  to  me,  and  they  were  accordingly  found 
ujion  his  person  ;  but,  as  for  stealing  them, 
he  is  just  as  guilty  as  his  lordship  on  the 
bench." 

"Miss  Folhard,"  proceeded  the  law;5'er, 
"you  have  taken  us  by  surjjrise  to-day. 
How  does  it  happen  that  you  volunteered 
yoiu'  eridence  against  the  prisoner,  and,  now 
that  you  have  come  forward,  every  word  you 
utter  is  in  his  favor  ?  Your  mind  must  have 
recently  changed — a  fact  which  takes  very 
much  away  fi'om  the  force  of  that  evidence." 

"I  pray  you,  sir,  to  understand  me,  and 
not  suffer  youi-self  to  be  misled.  I  never 
stated  that  I  was  about  to  come  here  to  give 
evidence  againsl  Mr.  EeiUy  ;  but  I  said,  when 
strongly  pressed  to  come,  that  I  iconid  come, 
and  see  justice  done.  Had  they  asked  me 
my  meaning,  I  would  have  instantly  told 
them  ;  because,  I  trust,  I  am  incapable  of 
falsehood  ;  and  I  will  say  now,  that  if  my  life 
could  obtain  that  of  AVilham  Reilly,  I  would 


lay  it  willingly  do\vn  for  him,  as  I  am  certain 
he  would  lay  down  his  for  the  preservatiot 
of  mine." 

There  was  a  pause  here,  and  a  murmiir  of 
approbation  ran  through  the  court.  The 
opposing  counsel,  too,  found  that  they  had 
been  led  astray,  and  that  to  examine  her  any 
fui'ther  would  be  only  a  weakening  of  their 
own  cause.  They  attached,  however,  no 
blame  of  insincerity  to  her,  but  ■visited  with 
much  bitterness  the  unexpected  capsize  which 
they  had  got,  on  the  stupid  head  of  Doldinim, 
their  attorney.  They  conseqiiently  deter- 
mined to  ask  her  no  more  questions,  and  she 
was  about  to  withdraw,  when  Fox  rose  up, 
and  said  : 

"]\Iiss  Folliard,  I  am  counsel  for  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar,  and  I  trust  you  wiU 
answer  me  a  few  questions.  I  j^erceive, 
madam,  that  you  are  fatigued  of  this  scene  ; 
but  the  cjuestions  I  shall  put  to  you  ^\■iU  be 
few  and  brief.  An  attachment  has  existed 
for  some  time  between  you  and  the  prisoner 
at  the  bai'?  You  need  not  be  ashamed, 
madam,  to  reply  to  it." 

"I  am  not.  ashamed,"  she  rephed  proudly, 
"and  it  is  true." 

"  Was  your  father  aware  of  that  attachment 
at  any  time  ?  " 

"  He  was,  from  a  very  early  jreriod." 

"Praj',  how  did  he  discover  it?  " 

"I  myself  told  him  of  my  love  for  Reilly.  " 

"Did  your  father  give  his  consent  to  that 
attachment '? " 

"  Conditionally  he  did." 

"And  pray,  Miss  FoUiard,  what  were  the 
conditions  ?  " 

"That  Eerily  shoidd  abjure  his  creed,  and 
then  no  further  obstacles  should  stand  in  the 
way  of  oiu'  miion,  he  said." 

"Was  ever  that  proposal  mentioned  to 
Reilly?" 

"  Yes,  I  mentioned  it  to  him  myself  ;  but, 
weU  as  he  loved  me,  he  would  suffer  to  go 
into  an  early  gTave,  he  said,  sooner  than 
abandon  liis  reUgion  ;  and  I  loved  him  a  thou- 
sand times  better  for  his  noble  adherence  to 
it." 

"  Bid  he  not  save  your  father's  life  ?  " 

"  He  did,  and  the  life  of  a  faithful  and  at- 
tached old  acrcant  at  the  same  time." 

Now,  although  this  fact  was  generally 
known,  j'et  the  statement  of  it  here  occasioned 
a  strong  expression  of  indignation  against 
the  man  who  could  come  forward  and  jjrose- 
cute  the  iudi\'idual,  to  whose  coiu-age  and 
gallantry  he  stood  indebted  for  his  escape 
from  murder.  The  uncertainty  of  FoUiard's 
character,  however,  was  so  well  known,  and 
his  whimsical  changes  of  opinion  such  a 
matter  of  proverb  among  the  people,  that 
many  persons  said  to  each  otlier  : 


WILLY  EEILI.Y. 


175 


"TToe  cracked  old  squii-e  is  in  one  of  his 
tan'  mnis  now  ;  he'll  he  a  proud  niiin  if  he 
can  convict  Eeilly  to-day  ;  and  perhaps  to- 
murrow,  or  in  a  month  heuce,  he'll  be  cursing 
bxmself  for  what  he  did — for  that's  his  way." 

•''Well,  Miss  FoUiard,"  said  Fox,  "we  will 
not  detain  you  any  longer  ;  this  to  you  must 
be  a  painful  scene  ;  you  may  retire,  madam." 

She  did  not  immediately  wthdraw,  but 
taking  a  green  silk  purse  out  of  her  bosom, 
she  opened  it,  and,  after  inserting  her  long, 
■white,  taper  fingers  into  it,  she  brought  out  a 
valuable  emerald  ring,  and  placing  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  crier,  she  said  : 

"  Give  that  ring  to  the  prisoner :  I  know 
not,WUliain,"  she  added, "  whether  I  shall  ever  ' 
see  3'ou  again  or  not.     It  may  so  happen  that ; 
this  is  the  last  time  my  eyes  can  ever  rest 
upoTi  you  vA'Cix  love  and  sorrow.  "     Here  a  few 
brigjit  tears  ran  down  her  lovely  cheeks.   "  If  { 
you  should  lie  sent  to  a  far-off  laud,  wear  this  : 
for  the  sake  of  her  who  appreciated  your  \ii'-  I 
tues,  your  noble  spirit,  and  j'our  jurre  and  | 
disinterested  love  ;  look  upon  it  when,  jser-  j 
haps,  the  Atlantic  may  roll  between  us,  and 
when  you  do,  think  of  yoiu'  Cooleen  Bawn, 
and  the  love  she  bore  you  ;  but  if  a  still  un- 
happier  fate  should  be  jours,  let  it  be  placed 
with  you  in  yoiur  grave,  and  next  that  heart, 
that   noble   heart,  that  refused  to  sacrifice 
your  honor  and  your  reUgion  even  to  your 
love  for  me.     I  will  now  go."  j 

There  is  nothing  so  brave  and  fearless  as 
innocence.     Her  youth,  the  majesty  of  her 
beauty,  and  the  pathos  of  her  expressions, 
absolutely  flooded  the  coiut  \\'ith  tears.    The 
judge  wept,  and  hardened  old  bai'risters,  with 
hearts  like  the  nether  millstone,  were  forced 
to  jDut  their  handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes  ;  but 
as  they  felt  that  it  might  be  detrimental  to  i 
their   professional   characters  to  be  caught  I 
weeping,  they  shaded  off  the  pathos  under 
the  hj'jjocritical  pretence  of  blowing  theii- 
noses.     The  sobs  from  the  ladies  in  the  gal-  \ 
lery  were  loud  and  vehement,  and  Eeilly  him- 
self was  so  deeply  moved  that  he  felt  obliged 
to  j>ut  his  face  upon  his  hands,  as  he  bent 
over  the  bar,  in  order  to  conce;il  his  emotion.  | 
He  received  the  ring  with  moist  eyes,  kissed 
it,  and  placed  it  in  a  small  locket  which  he  ! 
put  in  his  bosom. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Cooleen  Dawn,  "  I  am  ready 
to  go."  1 

She  was  then  conducted  to  the  room  to  i 
which  we  have  alluded,  where  she  met  JVIrs.  ! 
Bro-mi  and  ]\Ii-s.  Hastings,  both  of  whom  she  | 
found  in  tears — for  they  had  Iseen  in  the  gal-  , 
leiy,  and  witnessed  all  that  had  happened. 
They  both  embraced  her  tenderly,  and  at-  , 
tempted  to  console  her  as  well  as  they  could: 
but  a  weight  like  death,  she  said,  pressed 
upon  her  heart,  and  she  begged  them  not  to 


distract  her  by  their  sj-mpathy,  kind  and 
generous  as  she  felt  it  to  be,  but  to  allow  'her 
to  sit,  and  nurture  her  own  thoughts  until 
she  could  hear  the  verdict  of  the  jury.  ^Mrs. 
Hastings  returned  to  the  gallery,  and  arrived 
there  in  time  to  hear  the  touching  and  bril- 
liant speech  of  Fox,  which  we  ai'e  not  pre- 
sumptuous enough  to  imagine,  nnich  less  to 
stultify  ourselves  by  attempting  to  give.  He 
dashed  the  charge  of  Eeilly  s  theft  of  the  jew- 
els to  pieces — not  a  difficult  task,  after  the 
evidence  that  had  been  given  ;  and  then  dwelt 
upon  the  loves  of  this  celebrated  pair  with 
such  force  and  eloquence  and  pathos  that  the 
court  was  once  more  melted  into  tears.  The 
closing  speech  by  the  leading  co\uisel  against 
EeUly  was  bitter ;  but  the  gist  of  it  turned 
upon  the  fact  of  his  ha^•ing  eloped  ^rith  a  ward 
of  Chancer}-,  contrai-y  to  law  ;  and  he  in- 
formed the  jm-y  that  no  affection — no  con- 
sent upon  the  part  of  any  young  lady  under 
age  was  either  a  justification  of,  or  a  pro- 
tection against,  such  an  abduction  as  that  of 
which  Eeilly  had  been  giiUty.  The  state  of 
the  law  at  th(!  jjresent  time,  he  assured  them, 
rendered  it  a  felony  to  man-y  a  CathoUc 
and  a  Pi-otestant  together  ;  and  he  then  left 
the  case  in  the  hands,  he  said,  of  an  honest 
Protestant  jury. 

The  judge's  charge  was  brief.  He  told  the 
jury  that  they  could  not  conrict  the  jDrisoner 
on  the  imputed  felony  of  the  jewels  ;  but 
that  the  proof  of  his  having  taken  away  Miss 
FoUiai'd  from  her  father's  house,  with — as  the 
law  stood — her  felonious  abduction,  for  the 
IJUi-jiose  of  inveigling  her  into  an  unlawful 
marriage  with  himself,  was  the  subject  for 
then-  consideration.  Even  had  he  been  a  Prot- 
estant, the  law  could  afford  him  no  protec- 
tion in  the  eye  of  the  Court  of  Chancery. 

The  jury  retii'ed  ;  but  their  absence  fi-om 
their  box  w-as  very  brief.  Unfortunately, 
their  foreman  was  cursed  -nith  a  dreadful 
hesitation  in  his  sjjeech,  and,  as  he  entered, 
the  Clerk  of  the  CroisTi  said  : 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  have  j'ou  agreed  in  j-our 
verdict  ?  " 

There  was  a  solemn  silence,  during  which 
nothing  was  heard  but  a  convulsive  working 
about  the  chest  and  glottis  of  the  foreman, 
who  at  length  said  : 

"  We — we — we — we  have." 

"  Is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not 
guHty?" 

Here  the  internal  but  obstnicted  machine- 
ry of  the  che.st  and  throat  set  to  work  again, 
and  at  last  the  foreman  was  able  to  get  out 
— "Guilty — " 

]\Irs.  Hastings  had  heard  enough,  and  too 
much  ;  and,  as  the  sentence  was  pronounced, 
she  instantly  withdrew  ;  but  how  to  convey 
the  melancholy  tidings  to  the  Cooleen  Bawn 


176 


WILLIAM   CAR  LET  OX'S  WORKS. 


she  knew  not.  Li  the  meantime  the  foreman, 
who  had  not  fully  delivered  himself  of  the 
verilict,  added,  after  two  or  three  desperate 
hiccups — "  OH  Ow  second  count." 

This,  if  the  foreman  had  not  labored  under 
such  an  extraordiniuy  hesihition,  might  have 
prevented  much  suti'ering,  and  many  years  of 
uuconsfious  calamity  to  one  of  tlie  unhappy 
paxties  of  whom  we  ;u-e  writing,  inasmuch  as 
the  felony  of  the  jewels  would  have  been 
death,  whilst  the  elopement  with  a  wai-d  of 
Chancer}^  was  only  trimsportation. 

When  !Mrs.  Hastings  entered  the  room 
where  the  Coolcen  Bcwn  was  awaiting  the  ver- 
dict with  a  ili'eadful  intensity  of  feeling,  the 
latter  rose  uj),  and,  thro^xing  her  ai-ms  about 
her  neck,  looked  into  her  face,  ydih  an  ex- 
pression of  eagerness  an<l  wildness,  which 
JIi's.  Hastings  thought  might  be  best  allayed 
by  knowing  the  worst,  as  the  heart,  in  such 
cu'cumstauces,  generally  collects  itself,  and 
falls  back  upon  its  own  resources. 

••  Well,  :Mrs.  Hastings,  weU— the  verdict?  " 

"  Collect  yourself,  my  child — be  firm — 
be  a  woman.  Collect  yourseK — for  you  will 
require  it.     The  verdict—  Grn,TY  !  " 

The  Vooh'cn  Bairn  did  not  faint — nor  be- 
come weak — but  she  put  her  fair  Avliite  hand 
to  her  forehead — then  looked  around  the 
room,  then  upon  JVIrs.  Brown,  and  lastly  upon 
Mrs.  Hastings.  They  also  looked  upon  her. 
God  help  botli  her  and  them  !  Yes,  they 
looked  upon  her  countenance — that  lovely 
countenance — ;md  then  into  her  eyes — those 
eyes  !  But,  alas  !  where  was  their  beauty 
now  ?     Wliere  their  expression  ? 

"  Miss  FoUiai-d  !  my  diu-hng  Helen  ! "'  ex- 
claimed JMi-s.  Hastings,  in  tears  — "  great 
God,  what  is  this,  j\Ii-s.  Brown  ?  Come  here 
and  look  at  her." 

Mrs.  Brovrn,  on  looking  at  her,  whispered, 
in  choking  accents,  "  Oh  !  my  God,  the  chUds 
reason  is  overturned  ;  what  is  there  now  in 
those  once  glorious  eyes  but  vacancy  ?  Oh, 
that  I  had  never  lived  to  see  this  aAvful  day ! 
Helen,  the  treasure,  the  dehght  of  all  who 
ever  knew  you,  what  is  %\Toug  ?  Oh,  speak 
to  us — recognize  us — your  ovra  two  best 
fi-iends — Helen — Helen  !  speak  to  us." 

She  looked  upon  them  certfl,inly  ;  but  it 
was  with  a  dead  and  vacant  stare  which 
wi'ung  their  liearts. 

"  Come,"  s-oid  she,  "  teU  me  where  is  Wil- 
liam Eeilly?  Oh.  bring  me  to  William 
ReUly  ;  they  have  taken  me  fi-om  him,  and  I 
know  not  where  to  tind  him." 

The  two  kind-hearted  ladies  looked  at  one 
another,  each  stupetied  by  the  mystery  of 
what  they  witnessed. 

'■  Oh,"  said  j\Ii-s.  Hastings,  "  her  father 
must  be  instantly  sent  for.  Mrs.  Brown,  go 
to  the  lobby — there  is  an  otiicer  there — de- 


sire him  to  go  to  Mr.  FolUard  and  say  that — 
but  we  had  better  not  aliu-m  him  too  much," 
she  added,  "  say  that  ISIiss  FoUiaixl  VN-ishes 
to  see  him  immediately." 

The  judge,  we  may  obsen'e  here,  had  not 
yet  pronomiced  sentence  upon  ReiUy.  The 
old  man,  who,  under  all  possible  circum- 
stances, was  so  affectionately  devoted  and 
attentive  to  his  daughter,  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  the  room,  in  a  state  of  great  tri- 
umj)h  and  exultation  exclaimiiig,  "  Gunyrv, 
Gun^Ty  ;  we  have  noosed  him  at  last."  He 
even  snajiped  his  fingers,  and  danced  about 
for  a  time,  until  rebuked  Dy  Mi-s.  Hastings. 

"Unhappy  and  miserable  old  man,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  tears,  ••  what  have  you  done  ? 
Look  at  the  condition  of  your  only  child, 
W'hom  you  have  miu'dered.  She  is  now  a 
maniac." 

"AVhat,"  he  exclaimed,  rushing  to  her, 
"what,  what  is  this  ?  What  do  you  mean  '? 
Helen,  my  daiiing,  my  child — my  delight — 
what  is  wrong  with  you  V  Recollect  your- 
self, my  dearest  treasure.  Do  you  not  know 
me,  your  own  father  ?  Oh,  Helen,  Helen  ! 
for  the  love  of  God  speak  to  me.  Say  you 
know  me — call  me  father — rouse  youi"seK — ■ 
recollect  me — don't  you  luiow  who  I  am  ?  " 

There,  however,  was  the  frightfully  vacant 
glance,  but  no  reply. 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  calm  voice, 
"  where  is  WOliam  Reilly  '?  They  have  taken 
me  fi'om  him,  and  I  cannot  tind  him  ;  bring 
me  to  William  Eeilly." 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Helen?  don't  you 
know  yovu-  lovuig  father  ?  Oh,  speak  to  me, 
child  of  my  heart !  speak  but  one  word  as  a 
proof  that  you  know  me." 

She  looked  on  him,  but  that  look  filled 
his  heart  with  unutterable  anguish  ;  he 
clasped  her  to  that  heaii,  he  kissed  her  lips, 
he  strove  to  soothe  and  console  her — but  in 
vain.  There  was  the  vac;ml  but  unsettled 
eye,  fi'om  which  the  bright  exjiression  of 
reason  was  gone  ;  but  no  recognition — no 
sj)ai'k  of  reflection  or  conscious  thought — 
nothing  but  the  mehincholv  inquiry  from 
those  beautiful  hps  of — "  "V^Tiere's  William 
Reilly?  They  have  taken  me  from  him — 
and  -will  not  allow  me  to  see  him.  Oh,  bring 
me  to  William  Reilly  !  " 

"  Oh,  wretched  fate  !  "  exclaimed  her  dis- 
ti-acted  father,  '•  I  am — I  am  a  mimlerei-, 
and  faithful  Connor  was  rights— :Mi-s.  Browii 
— ^Ii-s.  Hastings — heai-  me,  both — I  was 
warned  of  this,  but  I  would  not  listen  either 
to  reason  or  remonstrance,  and  now  I  am 
punished,  as  Comior  predicted.  Great  hea- 
ven, what  a  fate  both  for  her  and  me — for 
her  the  innocent,  and  for  me  the  guilty  I  " 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  the  fathers 
misery  imd  distraction  :  but,  from  all  our 


LIBRARY 

•),•  THE 

■JNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


CHILD,    MV    DELIGHT,    \VHAT    18   WRONG    WITH 


^WiUi/  ReULy,  chap,  xxv.— i>.  176. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


17: 


readers  have  learned  of  Lis  extraordinary 
tendei'ness  and  affection  for  that  good  and 
lovely  daughter,  they  may  judge  of  what  he 
suii'ered.  He  immediately  ordered  his  car- 
riage, and  had  barely  time  to  hear  that 
Reilly  had  been  sentenced  to  transi3ortation 
for  seven  years.  His  daughter  was  quite 
meek  and  tractable ;  she  spoke  not,  nor 
could  any  ingenuity  on  their  part  extract 
the  sliglitest  reply  from  her.  Neither  did 
she  shed  a  single  tear,  but  the  vacant  hght 
of  her  eyes  had  stamped  a  fatuitous  expres- 
sion on  her  featiu-es  that  was  melancholy  and 
heartbreaking  beyond  all  power  of  language 
to  describe. 

No  other  person  had  seen  her  since  the 
bereavement  of  her  reason,  except  the  officer 
wha  kept  guard  on  the  lobby,  and  who,  in 
the  hurry  and  distraction  of  the  moment,  had 
bean  disp  itched  by  Mrs.  Browu  for  a  glass 
of  cold  water.  Her  father's  ravings,  how- 
ever, in  the  man's  jsresenee,  added  to  his 
o\va  observation,  and  the  distress  of  her 
female  friends  weve  quite  sufficient  to  satisfy 
him  of  the  nature  of  her  complaint,  and  in 
less  than  half  an  hour  it  w-as  through  the 
whole  court-house,  and  the  town  besides, 
that  the  Gooleen  Jiawn  had  gone  mad  on  hear- 
ing the  sentence  that  was  passed  vqion  her 
lover.  Her  two  friends  accompanied  her 
home,  and  remained  with  her  for  the  night. 

Such  was  the  melancholy  conclusion  of  the 
trial  of  WiUy  Reilly  ;  but  even  taking  it  at 
its  worst,  it  involved  a  very  diifereut  fate  from 
that  of  his  vindictive  rival,  Whitecraft.  It 
appeared  that  that  woi'thy  gentleman  and 
the  Eed  Eapparee  had  been  sentenced  to  die 
on  the  same  day,  and  at  the  same  hovu'.  It 
is  true,  Whitecraft  was  aware  tliat  a  deputa- 
tion had  gone  post-haste  to  Dublin  Castle  to 
solicit  his  pardon,  or  at  least  some  lenient 
commutation  of  punishment.  Still,  it  was 
feared  that,  owing  to  the  dreadful  state  of 
the  roads,  and  the  slow  mode  of  traveUiug  at 
that  period,  there  was  a  f)robability  that  the 
pardon  might  not  arrive  in  time  to  be  avail- 
able ;  and  indeed  there  was  every  reason  to 
apprehend  as  much.  The  day  ajjpointed  for 
the  execution  of  the  Eed  Eapparee  and  him 
arrived — nay,  the  very  hour  had  come  ;  but 
still  there  was  hope  among  his  friends.  The 
sheriff,  a  firm,  but  fair  and  reasonable  man, 
waited  beyond  the  time  named  by  the  judge 
for  his  execution.  At  length  he  felt  the 
necessity  of  discharging  his  duty  ;  for, 
although  more  than  an  hoiu-  beyond  the  ap- 
pointed period  had  now  elapsed,  yet  this  de- 
lay proceeded  fi'om  no  personal  regard  he 
entertained  for  the  felon,  but  fi-om  respect 
for  many  of  those  who  had  interested  them- 
selves in  his  fate. 

After  an   luuisual   delav   the    sheriff  felt 


himself  called  upon  to  order  !  oth  the  Eap- 
pai'ee  and  the  baronet  for  execution.  In 
waiting  so  long  for  a  pardon,  he  felt  that  he 
had  transgressed  his  duty,  and  he  accordingly 
ordered  them  out  for  the  last  ceremony.  Tlie 
hardened  Eapparee  died  sullen  and  silent , 
the  only  regret  he  expressed  being  that  he 
could  not  Uve  to  see  his  old  friend  turned  oti 
before  him. 

"  Troth,"  rejjlied  the  hangman,  "only  that 
the  sheriff  has  ordhered  me  to  hang  you 
first  as  bein'  the  betther  man,  I  would  give 
you  that  same  satisfaction  ;  but  if  you're  not 
in  a  very  great  hurry  to  the  warm  comer 
you're  goin'  to,  and  if  you  will  just  take  your 
time  for  a  few  minutes,  I'll  engage  to  say  you 
will  soon  have  company.  God  speed  you, 
any  way,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  tunaed  liim 
off" ;  "  only  take  your  time,  and  wait  for  your 
neighbors.  Now,  Sii"  Eobert,"  said  he, 
"  tiu'n  about,  they  say,  is  fair  play — it's  your 
turn  now  ;  but  you  look  unbecomin'  upon 
it.  Hould  up  your  head,  man,  and  don't  be 
cast  down.  You'll  have  company  where 
you're  goin' ;  for  the  Eed  Eapparee  tould  me 
to  tell  you  that  he'd  wait  for  you.  Hallo  ! 
— what's  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed  as  he  cast  his 
eye  to  the  distance  and  discovered  a  horse- 
man riding  for  hfe,  with  a  white  hand];er- 
chief,  or  flag  of  some  kmd,  floating  in  the 
breeze.  The  elevated  position  in  which  the 
executioner  was  placed  enabled  him  to  see 
the  signal  before  it  could  be  perceived  by  the 
crowd.  "  Come,  Sir-  Eobert,"  said  he,  "  stand 
where  I'U  place  you — there's  no  use  in  asking 
you  to  hould  up  your  head,  for  you're  not 
able  ;  but  listen.  You  hanged  my  brothei 
that  you  knew  to  be  innocent ;  and  now  \ 
hang  you  that  I  know  to  be  gxiOty.  Yes,  1 
hang  j-ou,  with  the  white  flag  of  the  Lord 
Lieutenant's  pardon  for  you  wa\dn'  in  the 
distance  ;  and  Usten  again,  remember  Willi/ 
Reilly  ;"  and  with  these  words  he  launched 
him  into  eternity.. 

The  uproar  among  his  fiiends  was  im- 
mense, as  was  the  cheering  fi'om  the  general 
crowd,  at  the  just  fate  of  this  bad  man.  The 
fonner  rushed  to  the  gaUows,  in  order  to 
cut  him  do^^'n,  with  a  hope  that  life  might 
still  be  in  him,  a  process  which  the  sheriff, 
after  penising  his  pardon,  jJermitted  them  to 
carry  into  effect.  The  body  was  accordingly 
taken  into  the  prison,  and  a  sui'geon  procured 
to  examine  it ;  but  altogether  ui  vain  ;  his 
hour  had  gone  by,  life  was  extinct,  aud  all 
the  honor  they  could  now  pay  Sir-  Robert 
Whitecraft  was  to  give  him  a  pompous  fun- 
eral, and  decLare  him  a  martyr-  to  Foijcry — 
both  of  which  they  did. 

On  the  day  previous  to  E^eilly's  departui-e 
his  humble  friend  and  namesake,  Fergiis,  at 
the   earnest   solicitation    of    Eeilly  himself, 


178 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETOJV'S    WORKS. 


was  permittcil  to  pay  liim  a  last  melancholy 
visit.  After  his  sentence,  as  well  as  liefore 
it,  every  attention  had  been  paid  to  him  by 
O'Shatighuessy,  the  jailer,  who,  althouf^'h  an 
avowed  Protestant,  and  a  brand  plucked 
from  the  buniing,  was,  nevertheless,  a  lurk- 
ing Catholic  at  lieart,  and  felt  a  correspond- 
ing sympathy  with  his  prisoner.  AVhen  Fer- 
gus entered  his  cell  he  found  him  neither 
fettered  nor  manacled,  but  perfectly  in  the 
enjoyment  at  least  of  bodily  freedom.  It  is 
impossible,  indeed,  to  say  how  far  the  influ- 
ence of  money  may  have  gone  in  seeming 
liim  the  comforts  which  sm-rounded  him, 
and  the  attentions  which  he  received.  On 
entering  his  cell,  Fergus  was  struck  by  the 
calm  and  composed  air  with  wiiich  he  re- 
ceived him.  His  face,  it  is  trae,  was  paler 
than  usual,  but  a  feeling  of  indignant  pride, 
if  not  of  fixed  but  stern  indignation,  might 
be  read  under  the  comj^osure  into  which  he 
forced  himself,  and  which  he  endeavored  to 
suppress.  He  approached  Fergus,  and  ex- 
tending his  hand  with  a  pecuhar  smUe,  very 
difficult  to  be  described,  said  : 

"  FergTis,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  I  hoj^e 
you  are  safe — at  least  I  have  heard  so." 

"I  am  safe,  sir,  and  free,"  replied  Fergus  ; 
"thanks  to  the  Red  Eapparee  and  the  sheriff 
for  it." 

"  Well,"  i^roeeeded  Eeilly,  "  you  have  one 
comfort — the  Eed  Eapparee  will  neither 
tempt  you  nor  trouble  you  again  ;  but  is 
tliere  no  danger  of  his  gang  taking  up  his 
quarrel  and  avenging  him  ?  " 

"  His  gang,  sir  ?  Why,  only  for  me  lie 
would  a'  betrayed  every  man  of  them  to 
Whitecraft  and  the  Government,  and  had 
them  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered — ay, 
and  their  heads  grinning  at  us  in  every  to^vu 
in  the  county." 

"  Well,  Fergus,  let  his  name  and  his  crimes 
perish  with  him  ;  but,  as  for  you,  what  do 
you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

"  Troth,  sir,"  replied  Fergus,  "  it's  more 
than  I  rightly  know.  I  had  my  hoj)es,  like 
others  ;  l3ut,  somehow,  luck  has  left  all  sorts 
of  lovers  of  late — from  Sir  Eobei-t  'White- 
craft  to  yoiu"  humble  servant." 

"  But  you  may  thank  God,"  said  Eeilly, 
with  a  smUe,  "  that  you  had  not  Sir  Eobert 
Whitecraft's  luck." 

"Faith,  sir,"  replied  Fergus  archly, 
"  there's  a  pair  of  us  may  do  so.  You  went 
nearer  his  luck — such  as  it  was — than  I  did." 

"  True  enough,"  replied  the  other,  with  a 
serious  air ;  "  I  had  certainly  a  nai-row  es- 
cape ;  but  I  wish  to  know,  as  I  said,  what 
you  intend  to  do  ?  It  is  your  duty  now,  Fer- 
gus, to  settle  industriously  and  honestly." 

"  Ah,  sir,  hoiKvlli/.  I  didn't  expect  that 
from  3'ou,  ILr.  Etiily." 


"  Excuse  me,  Fergus,"  said  Eeilly,  taking 
him  by  the  hand  ;  "  when  I  Siiid  honestly  I  did 
not  mean  to  intimate  any  thing  whatsoever 
against  your  integiity.  I  know,  unfortunately, 
the  hai'sh  circumstances  which  drove  you  to 
associate  with  that  remorseless  villain  and  his 
gang  ;  but  I  wish  you  to  resume  an  industri- 
ous life,  and,  if  Ellen  Connor  is  disjiosed  to 
unite  her  fate  with  yours,  I  have  jirovided 
the  means — ample  means  for  you  both  to  be 
comfortable  and  hapj)y.  She  who  was  so 
faithful  to  her  mistress  will  not  fail  to  make 
you  a  good  wife." 

"  Ah,"  reiDlied  Fergus,  "  it's  I  that  knows 
tliat  well ;  but,  nnfortimately,  I  have  no  hope 
there." 

"  No  hojDe  ;  how  is  that  ?  I  thought  your 
affection  was  mutual." 

"So  it  is,  sir — or,  rather,  so  it  was  ;  but 
she  lias  affection  for  nobody  now,  barring 
the  Cooleen  Bairn." 

EeUly  paused,  and  npi^eared  deeply  moved 
by  this.  "  ^^^lat,"  said  he,  "will  she  not 
leave  her?  But  I  am  not  surjirised  at  it." 

"  No,  sii',  she  will  not  leave  her,  but  has 
taken  a:n  oath  to  stay  by  her  night  and  day, 
until — better  times  come." 

We  may  say  here  that  Eeilly 's  fiiends  took 
care  that  neither  jailer  nor  tiu-nkey  should 
make  him  acquainted  with  the  unhappy  state 
of  the  Cooleen  Bami ;  he  w'as  consequently 
ignorant  of  it,  and,  fortunately,  remained  so 
until  after  his  return  home. 

"  Fergais,"  said  Eeilly,  "can  you  tell  me 
how  the  Cooleen  Bourn  beai's  the  sentence 
which  sends  me  to  a  far  country  '?  " 

"  How  would  she  bear  it,  sir?  You  needn't 
ask  :  Connor,  at  all  events,  w^Ul  not  part  fi'om 
her — not,  anj-way,  until  you  come  back." 

"  Well,  Fergus,"  jiroceeded  ReUly,  "  I  have, 
as  I  said,  provided  for  you  both  ;  what  that 
l^rovision  is  I  will  not  mention  now.  Mr. 
Hastings  will  inform  you.  But  if  you  have 
a  wish  to  leave  this  unhajipy  and  distracted 
country,  even  without  Connor,  why,  by 
applying  to  him,  you  will  be  enabled  to  do 
so  ;  or,  if  you  wish  to  stay  at  home  and  take 
a  farm,  you  may  do  so." 

"Divil  a  foot  I'U  leave  the  country,"  re- 
plied the  other.  "  Ellen  may  stick  to  the 
Cooleen  Bawn,  but,  be  my  sowl,  I'll  stick  to 
Ellen,  if  I  was  to  wait  these  seven  ye<u's. 
I'll  be  as  stiff  as  she  is  stout ;  but,  at  any 
rate,  she's  worth  waitiu'  for." 

"  You  may  well  say  so,"  replied  ReiUy, 
"  and  I  can  quan-el  neither  with  yoiu"  attach- 
ment nor  your-  patience  ;  but  you  will  not 
forget  to  let  her  know  the  jirovision  which  I 
have  left  for  her  in  the  hancis  of  Mi'.  Hast- 
ings, and  tell  her  it  is  a  shght  reward  for 
her  noble  attachment  to  my  dear  Cooleen 
Baivn.      Fergus,"  he  proceeded,  "have  you 


WILLY  REILLY 


179 


ever  had  a  dream  in  the  middle  of  which 
you  awoke,  then  fell  asleep  and  dreamt  out 
the  dream  ?  " 

"  Troth  had  I,  often,  sir  ;  and,  by  the  way, 
talkin'  of  dreams,  I  dreamt  last  night  that  I 
was  wautin'  EUen  to  many  me,  and  she 
said,  'not  yet,  Fergus,  but  in  due  time.'  " 

"Well,  Fergus,"  proceeded  KeiJly,  "per- 
haps there  is  but  half  my  dream  of  life  gone  ; 
who  knows  when  I  return — if  I  ever  do — 
but  my  dream  may  be  completed  ?  and  hap- 
pilj',  too  ;  I  know  the  truth  and  faith  of  my 
dear  Coolcen  Bairn.  And,  Fergus,  it  is  not 
merelj-  mj'  dear  Cooh'cn  Uaivn  that  I  feel  for, 
but  for  my  imfortmiate  country.  I  am  not, 
however,  wthout  hope  that  the  day  will 
come — although  it  may  be  a  distant  one — 
when  she  will  enjoy  freedom,  peace,  and 
prosperity.  Now,  Fergus,  good-by,  and 
farewell !  Come,  come,  be  a  man,"  he  added, 
with  a  melancholy  smile,  whilst  a  tear  stood 
«ven  in  his  own  eye — "come,  Fergus,  I  will 
oot  have  this  ;  I  won't  say  fai'ewell  for  ever, 
because  I  exiDect  to  return  and  be  happy  j'et 
■ — if  not  in  my  own  countiy,  at  least  in  some 
other,  where  there  is  more  fi'eedom  and  less 
I^ersecution  for  conscience'  sake." 

Poor  Fergiis,  however,  when  the  parting 
moment  arrived,  was  completely  overcome. 
He  caught  EeiUy  in  his  ai-ms — wejjt  over  him 
bitterly — and,  after  a  last  and  sorrowful  em- 
brace, was  prevailed  upon  to  take  his  leave. 
The  histoiy  of  the  Covlren  Baicns  melan- 
choly fate  soon  went  far  and  near,  and  many 
an  eye  that  had  never  rested  on  her  beauty 
gave  its  tribute  of  teai's  to  her  undeserved 
sorrows.  There  existed,  however,  one  indi- 
vidual who  was  the  object  of  ahuost  as  deep 
i  a  compassion  ;  this  was  her  father,  who  was 
I  consumed  by  the  bitterest  and  most  jjro- 
found  remorse.  His  whole  character  became 
'  changed  by  his  terrible  and  unexpected 
shock,  by  wliich  his  beautiful  and  angelic 
daughter  had  been  blasted  before  his  eyes. 
He  was  no  longer  the  boisteroiis  and  convi- 
vial old  squire,  changeful  and  unsettled  in 
aU  liis  opinions,  but  silent,  quiet,  and  ab- 
stracted almost  from  life. 

He  wept  incessantly,  but  his  tears  did 
not  briiig  him  comfort,  for  they  were  tears 
of  anguish  and  desj)air.  Ten  times  a  day 
he  would  proceed  to  her  chamber,  or  foUow 
her  to  the  garden  where  she  loved  to  walk, 
always  in  the  delusive  hoiDe  that  he  might 
catch  some  spark  of  returning  reason  from 
those  calm-looking  but  meaningless  eyes, 
after  which  he  would  weep  Hke  a  child. 
With  respect  to  his  daughter,  every  thing 
was  done  for  her  that  wealth  and  human 
means  could  accomphsh,  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
the  malady  was  too  deeply  seated  to  be  affect- 
ed by  any  knov\Ti  remedy,  whether  moral  or 


jihysical.  From  the  moment  she  was  struck 
into  insanity  she  was  never  knovvTi  to  smUe, 
or  to  speak,  unless  when  she  chanced  to  see 
a  stranger,  upon  which  she  immediately 
approached,  and  asked,  with  clasjsed  hands : 

"Oh!  can  you  tell  me  where  is WiUiam. 
Rcilly  ?  They  have  taken  me  fi-om  him,  and 
I  cannot  find  him.  Oil !  can  i/oii  tell  me 
where  is  Wilham  Keilly  ?  " 

There  was.  however,  another  individual 
upon  whose  heart  the  calamity  of  the  Vuolecn 
Bairn  fell  like  a  blight  that  seemed  to  have 
struck  it  into  such  misery  and  sorrow  as 
threatened  to  end  only  v\-ith  life.  This  was 
the  faithfid  and  attached  EUen  Connor.  On 
the  day  of  EeiUys  trial  she  experienced  the 
alternations  of  hoj^e,  uncertainty,  and  de- 
spair, with  such  a  defith  of  anxious  feeling, 
and  such  feverish  excitement,  that  the  period 
of  time  which  elajised  appeared  to  her  as  if 
it  would  never  come  to  an  end.  She  could 
neitlier  sit,  nor  stand,  nor  work,  nor  read, 
nor  take  her  meals,  nor  scarcely  think  with 
any  consistency  or  clearness  of  thought. 
We  have  mentioned  hope — but  it  was  the 
faintest  and  the  feeblest  element  in  that 
chaos  of  distress  and  confusion  which  filled 
and  distracted  her  mind.  Slie  knew  the 
state  and  condition  of  the  coimtry  too  well 
— she  knew  the  j)owerful  influence  of  Mi'. 
FoUiard  in  his  native  county — she  knew 
what  the  consequences  to  ReiUy  must  be  of 
taking  away  a  Protestant  hfeiress  ;  the  fact 
was  there — plain,  distinct,  and  incontrovert- 
ible, and  she  knew  that  no  chance  of  im- 
punity or  acquittal  remained  for  any  one  of 
his  creed  guilty  of  such  a  violation  of  the 
laws — we  .say,  she  knew  all  this — but  it  was 
not  of  the  fate  of  Reilly  she  thought.  The 
gul  was  an  acute  observer,  and  both  a  close 
and  dear  thinker.  She  had  remarked  in 
the  Cooleen  ]latm,  on  several  occasions, 
small  gushes,  as  it  were,  of  u:ftsettled 
thought,  and  of  temporary  wildness,  almost 
approaching  to  insanity.  She  knew,  besides, 
that  insanity  was  in  the  family  on  her  fa- 
ther's side  ;  *  and,  as  she  had  so  boldly  and 
firmly  stated  to  tliat  father  himself,  she 
dreaded  the  result  which  Reillj-'s  conviction 
might  i^roduce  upon  a  mind  with  such  a 
tendency,  worn  down  and  depi'essed  as  it 
had  been  by  all  she  had  suft'ered,  and  more 
especially  what  she  must  feel  by  the  tumult 
and  agitation  of  that  dreadful  day. 

It  was  about  two  hours  after  dark  when 
she  was  startled  by  the  noise  of  the  caiTiage- 
wheels  as  thej^  came  xq)  the  avenue.     Her 


*  The  reader  must  take  this  as  the  necessary  ma- 
terial for  our  fiction.  Ttiere  never  was  insanity  in 
Helen's  family;  and  we  make  this  note  to  prevent 
them  from  taking  unnecessary  oSeuce. 


180 


TF/ZZAIJ/  OARLETOX'S   WORKS. 


heart  beat  as  if  it  would  burst,  the  blood  rush- 
ed to  her  head,  and  she  became  too  giddy  to 
stand  or  walk ;  then  it  seemed  to  rush  back 
to  her  heart,  and  she  was  seized  with  thick 
breathing  and  feebleness ;  but  at  length, 
strengthened  by  the  very  intensity  of  the  in- 
terest she  felt,  she  made  her  way  to  the 
lower  steps  of  the  hall  door  in  time  to  be 
present  when  the  carriage  arrived  at  it.  She 
determined,  however,  wrought  up  as  she  was 
to  the  highest  state  of  excitement,  to  await, 
to  watch,  to  listen.  She  did  so.  The  car- 
riage stojjped  at  the  usual  jilaee,  the  coach- 
man came  do^vn  and  opened  the  door,  and 
Mr.  FoUiard  came  out.  After  him,  assisted 
by  IVIi-s.  Brown,  came  Helen,  who  was  im- 
mediately conducted  in  between  the  latter 
and  her  father.  In  the  meantime  poor  EUen 
could  only  look  on.  She  was  incapable  of 
asking  a  .single  question,  but  she  followed 
them  \\\}  to  the  drawing-room  where  they 
conducted  her  mistress.  When  she  was 
about  to  enter,  IVIi-s.  Brown  said : 

"Ellen,  you  had  better  not  come  in  ;  yoiu- 
luistress  is  imwell." 

Mrs.  Hastings  then  approached,  and,  with 
a  good  deal  of  judgment  and  consideration, 
said: 

"I  think  it  is  better,  Mrs.  Brown,  that 
Ellen  should  see  her,  or,  rather,  that  she 
;ihould  see  Ellen.  "Who  c;m  tell  how  bene- 
ficial the  effect  may  be  on  her  V  We  all  know 
l;ow  she  was  attsjched  to  EUen." 

In  addition  to  those  fearful  intimations, 
Ellen  heard  inside  the  sobs  and  groans  of  her 
distracted  father,  mingled  with  caresses  and 
such  tender  and  affectionate  langnage  as,  she 
knew  by  the  words,  could  only  be  addressed 
to  a  person  incapable  of  understanding  them. 
Mrs.  Brown  held  the  door  partially  closed, 
l)ut  the  faithful  girl  woidd  not  be  re^iulsed. 
She  pushed  in,  exclaiming  : 

"  Stajid  back,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  must  see 
my  mistress  ! — if  she  is  my  mistress,  or  any- 
body's mistress  now," — and  accordingly  she 
approached  the  settee  on  which  the  '  'ixih'i'n 
llawn  sat.  The  old  squire  was  wringing  his 
hands,  sobbing,  and  gi\'ing  vent  to  the  most 
uncontrollable  sorrow. 

"Oh,  Ellen,"  said  he,  "pity  and  forgive 
me.  Your  mistress  is  gone,  gone ! — she 
knows  nobody !  " 

"  Stand  aside,"  she  replied;  "  stand  aside 
aU  of  you  ;  let  me  to  her." 

She  knelt  beside  the  settee,  looked  dis- 
tractedly, but  keenly,  at  her  for  about  half  a 
minute — but  there  she  sat,  calm,  jsale,  and 
unconscious.  At  length  she  turaed  her  eyes 
upon  Ellen — for  ever  since  the  girl's  entrance 
.she  had  been  gazing  on  vacancy — and  im- 
oiediately  said  : 

"  Oh !  can  you  tell  me  where  is  William 


Ejilly  ?  They  have  taken  me  6;om  him,  and 
I  cannot  find  him.  Oh  !  will  ym  teU  me 
where  is  Willi-nn  ReiUy  ?  " 

EUen  gave  two  or  three  rapid  sobs ;  but, 
by  a  powerful  effort,  she  somewhat  composed 
herself. 

"  JVIiss  FoUiard,"  she  said,  in  a  choking 
voice,  howevei',  "  darling  Miss  FoUiard — my 
beloved  misti'ess — Godeen  Bawn — oh,  do  you 
not  know  me — me,  your  own  faithful  Ellen, 
that  loved  you — and  that  loves  you  so  weU 
— ay,  beyond  father  and  mother,  and  all 
others  Uving  in  this  unhajipy  world  ?  Oh, 
sjieak  to  me,  dear  mistress — speak  to  your 
own  faithfiU  Ellen,  and  only  say  that  you 
know  me,  or  only  look  upon  me  as  if  vou 
did." 

Not  a  glance,  however,  of  recognition  fol- 
lowed those  loving  solicitations  ;  but  there, 
before  them  all,  she  sat,  ■nith  the  jDale  face, 
the  sorrowful  brow,  and  the  vacant  look. 
Ellen  addressed  her  with  ecpial  tenderness 
again  and  again,  but  \\'ith  the  same  melan- 
choly effect.  The  effect  was  beyond  question 
— reason  had  depai'ted  ;  the  fair  temple  was 
there,  Init  the  light  of  the  divinity  that  had 
been  enshi-ined  in  it  was  no  longer  ^isible  ; 
it  seemed  to  have  been  abandoned  probably 
for  ever.  EUen  now  finding  that  every  effort 
to  restore  her  to  rational  consciousness  was 
ineffectual,  rose  up,  and,  looking  about  for  a 
moment,  her  eyes  rested  upon  her  father. 

"  Oh,  EUen  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  spare  me, 
spare  me — you  know  I'm  in  your  power.  I 
neglected  yoiu-  honest  and  friendly  warning, 
and  now  it  is  too  late." 

"  Poor  man  I "'  she  replied,  "  it  is  not  she, 
but  you,  that  is  to  be  pitied.  No  ;  after  tliis 
miserable  sight,  never  shaU  ray  lips  breathe 
one  syUable  of  censure  against  you.  Your 
punishment  is  too  dreadful  for  that.  But 
when  I  look  upon  her — look  upon  her  now — 
oh,  my  God  !  what  is  this  '?  " — 

"  Help  the  gii'l,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  quickly, 
and  with  alarm.  "  Oh,  she  has  faUen — raise 
her  up,  Mr.  FoUiard.  Oh,  my  God,  Sirs. 
Hastings,  what  a  scene  is  this  ! " 

They  immediately  ojsened  her  stays,  and 
conveyed  her  to  another  settee,  where  she 
lay  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  calm 
and  tranquil  iusensibUity.  With  the  aid  of 
the  usual  remedies,  however,  she  was,  but 
with  some  difficulty,  restored,  after  which 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  for  some  time 
bitterly.  At  length  she  recovered  a  certaui 
degree  of  composure,  and,  after  settling  her 
di-ess  and  luxui'iant  brown  hair,  aided  by 
Mi-s.  BrovsTi  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  she  arose, 
and  once  more  approaching  her  lovely,  but 
unconscious,  mistress,  knelt  down,  and, 
clasping  her  hands,  looked  up  to  heaven, 
whilst  she  said  ; 


WILLY  REILLY 


181 


"  Here,  I  take  tlie  Almrghtv  God  to  witness, 
that  from  this  moment  out  I  renounce  father 
and  mother,  brother  and  sister,  friend  and 
relative,  man  and  woman,  and  will  abide 
by  nir  dear  luihappj'  Coolccn  Bawn — that 
blighted  flower  before  us — both  by  day  and 
by  night  ^through  all  seasons — thi-ough  all 
places  wherever  she  may  go,  or  be  bi-ought, 
until  it  may  please  God  to  restore  her  to  rea- 
son, or  until  death  may  close  her  suflferiugs, 
should  I  live  so  long,  and  have  health  and 
strength  to  cany  out  this  solemn  oath  ;  so 
may  God  hear  me,  and  assist  me  in  my  in- 
tention." 

She  then  rose,  and,  putting  lier  arms 
around  the  fair  girl,  kissed  her  lips,  and 
poured  forth  a  copious  flood  of  tears  into  her 
bosom. 

"  I  am  yours  now,"  she  said,  caressing  her 
mournfully:  "I  am  yours  now,  my  ever 
darling  mistress  ;  and  fi'om  this  hour  forth 
notliing  but  death  wDl  ever  se2:)arate  yoiu- 
owai  Connor  from  you." 

Well  and  faithfully  did  she  keejj  that  gen- 
erous and  heroic  oath.  Ever,  for  many  a 
long  and  hojieless  year,  was  she  to  be  found, 
both  night  and  day,  by  the  side  of  that  beau-  I 
tiful  but  melancholy  sufferer.  No  other  hand 
ever  dressed  or  rmdressed  her  ;  no  other  in- 
dividual ever  attended  to  her  wants,  or  com- 
]^)lied  with  those  Uttle  fitful  changes  and  ca- 
prices to  which  persons  of  her  unhappy  class 
are  subject.  The  consequence  of  this  tender 
and  devoted  attachment  was  singular,  but 
not  by  any  means  incompatible,  we  think, 
even  -ndth  her  situation.  If  Connor,  for  in-  ! 
stance,  was  any  short  time  ab-ent,  and 
another  person  suj)pUed  her  place,  the  Cool-  I 
'V'/i  Jiaiim,  in  whose  noble  and  loving  heart 
tlie  strong  instincts  of  affection  could  never 
die,  uniformly  ajjpeared  dissatisfied  and  un- 
easy, and  looked  aroimd  hex-,  as  if  for  some 
object  that  would  afford  her  pleasure.  On 
Ellen's  reappearance  a  faint  but  placid  smile 
would  shed  its  feeble  light  over  her  coinite- 
nauee,  and  she  would  ajipear  calm  and  con-  ' 
tented ;  but,  dui-ing  all  this  time,  word  ' 
uttered  she  none,  with  the  exception  of  those 
to  which  we  have  already  alluded.  j 

These  were  the  only  words  she  was  known 
to  utter,  and  no  stranger  ever  came  in  her 
way  to  whom  she  did  not  repeat  them.  In 
this  way  her  father,  her  maid,  and  lier.seM 
passed  through  a  melancholy  existence  for 
better  than  six  years,  when  a  young  physician 
of  gi'eat  iiromise  happened  to  settle  in  the 
town  of  Hligo,  and  her  father  having  heard  of 
it  had  him  immediately  called  in.  After  look- 
ing at  her,  however,  he  foimd  himself  accosted  | 
in  the  same  terms  we  have  already  given : 

"  Oh  !  can  you  teU  me  where  is  William 
Eeillv  ?  " 


"WiUiam  Reilly  will  soon  be  with  j'ou," 
he  rejihed  ;  "he  will  soon  be  here." 

A  start — barely,  scarcely  perceptible,  was 
noticed  by  the  keen  eye  of  the  physician  ; 
but  it  passed  away,  and  left  nothing  but 
that  fixed  and  beautiful  vacancy  behintl  it. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  i^hysician,  "I  do  not  abso- 
lutely desjiair  of  Miss  FoUiai'd's  recovery : 
the  influence  of  some  deep  excitement,  if  it 
coidd  be  made  accessible,  might  produce  a 
good  effect ;  it  was  by  a  shock  it  came  upon 
her,  and  I  am  of  opinion  that  if  she  ever 
does  recover  it  will  be  by  something  similar 
to  that  which  induced  her  pitiable  malady." 

"  I  wiU  give  a  thousand  p)ounds — five  thou- 
sand— ten  thousand,  to  any  man  who  will 
be  fortunate  enough  to  restore  her  to  reason," 
said  her  father. 

"  One  course,"  proceeded  the  physician,  "I 
would  recommend  you  to  pursue  ;  bring  her 
about  as  much  as  you  can  ;  give  her  variety 
of  scenery  and  variety  of  new  faces  ;  visit 
youi'  fiieuds,  and  bring  her  ^ath  you.  This 
coui'se  may  have  some  effect ;  as  for  medi- 
cine, it  is  of  no  use  here,  f"r  her  health  is 
in  every  other  re.sjiect  good." 

He  then  took  his  leave,  having  first  re- 
ceived a  fee  which  somewhat  astonished  him. 

His  advice,  however,  was  foUpwed  ;  her 
father  and  she,  and  Connor,  during  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn  months,  \'isited  among  their 
acquaintances  and  fi'iends,  by  whom  they 
were  treated  with  the  gi-eatest  and  most  con- 
siderate kindness  ;  but,  so  far  as  jDoor  Helen 
was  concerned,  no  sym23tom  of  any  salutary 
change  became  visible  ;  the  long,  dull  blank 
of  dejsarted  reason  was  still  unbroken. 


Better  than  seven  years  and  a  half  had  now 
ela2ised,  when  she  and  her  father  came  by 
invitation  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  Mr.  Hamilton, 
grandfather  to  the  late  Dacre  Hamilton  of 
Monaghan,  who — the  grandfather  we  mean 
— was  one  of  the  most  notorious  priest-hunt- 
ers of  the  day,  We  need  not  say  that  her 
faithful  Connor  was  still  in  attendance.  Old 
FoUiard  went  riding  out  with  his  fiiend,  for 
he  was  now  so  much  deljijitated  as  to  be 
scarcely  able  to  walk  abroad  for  any  distance, 
when,  about  the  hour  of  two  o'clock,  a  man 
in  the  garb,  and  with  all  the  bearing  of  a 
perfect  gentleman,  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
inquired  of  the  servant  who  opened  it  wheth- 
er Miss  Folliard  were  not  there.  The  ser- 
vant replied  in  the  affirmative,  upon  which 
the  stranger  asked  if  he  could  see  her. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  you  must  l)e  aware,  sir, 
of  ^liss  Folliard's  unfortiuiate  state  of  mind, 
and  that  she  can  see  nobody  ;  sir,  she  knows 
nobody,  and  I  have  strict  orders  to  deny  her 


182 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


to  every  one  unless  some  iiarticnlar  friend  of 
the  family." 

The  stranger  put  a  guinea  into  his  hand, 
and  added,  "  I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowng 
her  before  she  lost  her  reason,  and  as  I  have 
not  seen  her  since,  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
her  now,  or  even  to  look  on  her  for  a  few 
iminutes." 

•■  "Come  11J3,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "and 
enter  the  drawing-room  immediately  after 
me,  or  I  shall  be  ordered  to  deny  her." 

The  g&utleman  followed  him  ;  but  why 
did  his  cheek  become  pale,  and  why  did  his 
heart  palpitate  as  if  it  would  burst  aud 
bound  out  of  his  bosom  V  We  shall  see. 
On  entering  the  drawng-room  he  bowed, 
and  was  about  to  apologize  for  his  intrusion, 
when  the  6'oo/tVH  Bawn,  recognizing  him  as 
a  stranger,  apiwoached  him  aud  said  : 

"  Oh  !  cpji  you  tell  me  where  is  William 
ReiUy '?  They  have  taken  me  fi-om  him,  and 
I  cannot  tind  him.  Oh,  can  yua  tell  me  any 
thing  about  WiUiani  Eeilly  ?  " 

The  stranger  staggered  at  this  miserable 
sight,  but  probably  more  at  the  contempla- 
tion of  that  love  which  not  even  insanity 
could  subdue.  He  felt  himself  obliged  to 
lean  for  suj^port  upon  the  back  of  a  chair, 
during  which  brief  sjpace  he  fixed  his  eyes 
ujjon  her  with  a  look  of  the  most  inexjjressi- 
ble  tenderness  and  sorrow. 

"  Oh  !  "  slie  rejjeated,  "  can  yon  tell  me 
where  is  William  ReiUy  V  " 

"Alas!  Heleu,"  said  he,  "I  am  WilHam 
EeiUy." 

"  ioii !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  no,  the 
wide,  wide  Atlantic  is  between  him  and  me." 

■'  It  wm  between  us,  Helen,  but  it  is  not 
now  ;  I  am  here  in  life  before  you — your 
own  William  Eeilly,  that  WiUiam  Eeillj' 
whom  you  loved  so  well,  but  so  fatally.  I 
am  he  :  do  you  not  know  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  Wilham  Eeilly,"  she  reislied  ; 
"if  you  were,  you  would  have  a  token." 

"  Do  you  forget  that?  "  he  replied,  placing 

in  her  hand  the  emer.dd  ring  she  had  given 

him  at  the  trial.     She  stai-ted  on  looking  at 

it,  and  a  feeble  flash  was  obsei-ved  to  proceed 

■  from  her  eyes. 

"This  might  come  to  you,"  she  said,  "by 
Eeilly 's  death  ;  yes,  this  might  come  to  you 
in  that  way  ;  but  there  is  another  token  which 
is  known  to  none  but  himself  aud  me." 

"  Whisper,"  said  he,  and  as  he  'spoke  he 
apphed  his  mouth  to  her  ear,  and  breathed 
the  token  into  it.  She  stood  back,  her  eyes 
flashed,  her  beautifvil  bosom  heaved  ;  she 
advanced,  looked  once  more,  aud  exclaimed, 
with  a  scream,  "It  is  he  !  it  is  he  !  "  and  the 
next  moment  she  was  inseusible  in  his  arms. 
Long  but  precious  was  that  insensibility, 
aud  precious  were  the  tears  which  his  eyes 


rained  down  upon  that  jjale  but  lovely 
coimtenance.  She  was  soon  placed  ujion  a 
settee,  l)ut  Eeilly  knelt  beside  her,  and  held 
one  of  her  hands  in  his.  After  a  long  trance 
she  ojjened  her  eyes  and  again  started. 
Eeilly  jaressed  her  hand  and  whispered  in 
her  ear,  "  Helen,  I  am  with  you  at  list." 

She  smiled  on  him  and  said,  "  Help  me 
to  sit  up,  until  I  look  about  me,  that  I  may 
be  certain  this  is  not  a  dream." 

She  then  looked  about  her,  and  as  the 
ladies  of  the  family  sjjoke  tenderh-  to  her, 
and  caressed  her,  she  fixed  her  eyes  once 
more  upon  her  lover,  aud  said,  "  It  is  not  a 
dream  then  ;  this  is  a  reality  ;  but,  alas  ! 
EeiUy,  I  tremble  to  thmk  lest  thej'  should 
take  you  from  me  again." 

"You  need  entertain  no  such  apprehen- 
sion, my  dear  Helen,"  said  the  lady  of  the 
mansion.  "  I  have  often  heard  your  father 
say  that  he  would  give  twenty  thousand 
l^ounds  to  have  you  well,  and  Eeilly's  wife. 
In  fact,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  in  that,  or 
any  other  quarter.  But  there's  his  knock  : 
he  and  my  husband  have  returned,  and  I 
must  break  this  blessed  news  to  him  by  de- 
grees, lest  it  might  be  too  much  for  him  if 
communicated  without  due  and  proper  cau- 
tion." 

She  accordingly  went  down  to  the  hall, 
where  they  were  hanging  up  their  great 
coats  and  hats,  and  brought  them  into  her 
husband's  study. 

"Mr.  Folliai-d,"  said  she  with  a  cheerful 
face,  "I  think,  from  some  symptoms  of  im- 
provement noticed  to-day  in  Helen,  that  we 
needn't  be  without  ho^Je." 

"  Alas,  alas !  "  exclaimed  the  jjoor  father, 
"  I  have  no  hope  ;  after  such  a  length  of  timo 
I  am  indeed  without  a  shadow  of  expecta- 
tion. If  unfortunate  Eeilly  were  here,  in- 
deed her  seeing  him,  as  that  Sligo  doctor 
told  me,  might  give  her  a,  chance.  He  saw 
her  about  a  week  before  we  came  down,  and 
those  were  his  vvords.  But  as  for  Eeilly, 
even  if  he  were  in  the  country,  how  could  I 
look  him  in  the  face  ?  \Miat  wouldn't  I 
give  now  that  he  were  here,  that  Helen  was 
well,  and  that  one  word  of  mine  could  make 
them  man  and  wfe  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,"  she  replied,  "  don't  be  cast 
do\vn  ;  perhaj)s  I  could  tell  you  good  news 
if  I  wished." 

"  You're  beating  about  tlie  bush,  ]\Iary,  at 
all  events,"  said  her  husband,  laughing. 

"  Perhajjs,  now,  Mr.  FoUiiU'd,"  she  con- 
tinued, "I  could  introduce  a  young  lady 
who  is  so  fond  of  you,  old  and  ugly  as  you 
are,  that  she  would  not  hesitate  to  ki.--.s  you 
tenderly,  and  cry  with  delight  on  your  l)osom 
you  old  thief." 

They   both   stai'ted   at    her    words   with 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


183 


amazement,  aud  her  husband  said  :  "  Ejrad, 
Alick,  Helen's  malady  seems  catching.  'SA'hat 
the  deuce  do  you  mean,  MoUj- '?  or  must  I, 
too,  send  for  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  introduce  you  to  the  lady, 
though  ? "  she  proceeded,  addressing  the 
father  ;  "  but  remember  that,  if  I  do,  you 
must  be  a  man,  Mr.  FoUiard !  " 

"  In  God's  name  !  do  what  you  like,"  said 
Mr.  Hamilton,  "but  do  it  at  once." 

She  -nent  upstaii's,  and  said,  "As  I  do 
not  wish  to  bring  your  father  uj),  Helen, 
until  he  is  prepared  for  a  meeting  mth  Mr. 
Eeilly,  I  will  bring  you  down  to  him.  The 
sight  of  you  now  will  give  Ihth  uew  life." 

"  Oh,  come,  then,"  said  Helen,  "bring  me 
to  my  father  ;  do  not  lose  a  moment,  not  a 
moment  I — oh,  let  me  see  him  instantly  !  " 

The  poor  old  man  suspected  something. 
"For  a  thousand!"  said  he,  "this  is  some 
good  news  about  Helen  !  " 

"  Make  your  mind  up  for  that,"  reiilied 
his  ii-iend  ;  "  as  sure  as  you  live  it  is  ;  and  if 
it  be,  bear  it  stouth-." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton entered  the  room  with  Helen,  now 
awakened  to  jDerfect  reason,  smiling,  and 
leaning  upon  her  arm.  "  Oh,  dear  jsapa  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  meeting  him,  with  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  resting  her  head  on  his  bosom. 

"  Vv'hat,  my  darhng ! — my  darUug  !  And 
you  know  papa  once  more  I — you  know  him 
again,  my  darling  Helen  !  Oh,  thanks  be 
to  God  for  this  happy  day  !  "  And  he  kissed 
her  hp.s,  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and 
wept  over  her  with  ecstasy  and  deUght.  It 
was  a  tender  and  tearful  embrace. 

"  Oh,  iJapa !  "  said  she,  "  I  fear  I  have 
caused  you  much  pain  and  sorrow  :  some- 
thing has  been  wrong,  but  I  am  weU  now  that 
/iff  is  here.  I  felt  the  tones  of  his  voice  in 
my  heai-t." 

" 'Wlio,  darling,  who?" 

"  Eeilly,  papa." 

"  Hamilton,  bring  him  down  instantly  ; 
but  oh,  Helen,  darUng,  how  wiU  I  see  him  V 
— how  can  I  see  him  ?  but  he  must  come, 
and  we  must  aU  be  happy.  Bring  him 
dowii." 

"  You  know,  papa,  that  Eeillj'  is  generosity 
itself." 

"  He  is,  he  is,  Helen,  and  how  could  I 
blame  you  for  loving  him  ?  " 

Eeilly  soon  entered  ;  but  the  old  man, 
already  overpowered  by  what  had  just  oc- 
cuiTed,  was  not  able  to  speak  to  him  for 
some  time.  He  clasped  and  pressed  his 
han'l,  however,  and  at  length  said  : 

"My  son  !  my  son  !  Now," he  added,  after 
ho  had  recovered  himself,  "  now  thfit  I  have 
both  together.  I  ■nill  not  allow  one  minute 
to  p.iss  until  I  give  you  both  my  blessing  ; 


and  in  due  time,  when  Helen  gets  strong,  and 
when  I  get  a  Uttle  stouter,  you  shall  be  mar- 
ried ;  the  parson  and  the  priest  will  make 
you  both  happy.  EeOly,  can  you  forgive 
ine?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you,  sir,"  re- 
plied Eeilly  ;  "  whatever  you  did  pi'oeeeded 
from  your  excessive  affection  for  your  daugh- 
ter ;  I  am  more  than  overpaid  for  any  thing 
I  may  have  suti'ered  myself  ;  had  it  been  ages 
of  misery,  this  one  moment  would  cancel  the 
memory  of  it  for  ever." 

"I  cannot  give  you  my  estate,  Eeilly," 
said  the  old  man,  "for  that  is  entailed,  and 
goes  to  tlie  next  male  issue  ;  but  I  can  give 
you  fifty  thousand  jjounds  with  my  girl,  and 
that  win  keep  you  both  comfortable  for 
life." 

"  I  thank  you,  su-,"  rejiKed  Eeilly,  "  and 
for  the  sake  of  your  daughter  I  v.ill  not  re- 
ject it ;  but  I  am  myself  in  independent  cir- 
cumstances, and  could,  even  mthout  your 
generosity,  supjjort  Helen  in  a  rank  of  life 
not  unsuitable  to  her  condition." 

It  is  weU  kno^Ti  that,  during  the  period  in 
which  the  incidents  of  oiu-  story  took  place, 
no  man  claiming  the  character  of  a  gentleman 
ever  travelled  without  his  own  servant  to  at- 
tend him.  After  EeUlv's  retui'U  to  his  na- 
tive place,  his  first  iutiuiries,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, were  after  his  dmhen  Bchcii  ;  and  his 
nest,  after  those  who  had  been  in  some  de- 
gree connected  with  those  j)ainful  circum- 
stances in  which  he  had  been  involved  j^re- 
vious  to  his  trial  and  conviction.  He  found 
Mr.  Brown  and  iir.  Hastings  much  in  the 
same  state  in  which  he  left  them.  The  lat- 
I  ter,  who  had  been  entrusted  vdkh  all  his 
!  personal  and  other  jH'ojserty,  under  certain 
'  conditions,  that  dejsended  upon  his  return 
I  after  the  term  of  liis  sentence  should  liave 
i  expired,  now  restored  to  him,  and  again  re- 
\  instated  him  on  the  original  terms  into  all 
his  lauded  and  other  proiDerty,  together  with 
such  sums  as  had  accrued  from  it  during  his 
absence,  so  that  he  now  found  himself  a 
wealthy  man.  Next  to  Cooleen  Bawn,  how- 
ever, one  of  liis  first  inquiries  was  after  Fei-- 
gus  Eeilly,  whom  he  found  domiciled  with  a 
neighboring  middleman  as  a  head  servant, 
or  kind  of  under  stewai'd.  AA'e  need  not 
describe  the  delight  of  Fergus  on  once  more 
meeting  his  beloved  relative  at  jierfeet  Hber- 
ty,  and  fi'ee  from  all  danger  in  his  native 
land. 

"  Fergus,"  said  Eeilly,  "  I  understand  you 
are  still  a  bachelor — how  does  that  come  ?  " 
"  \Miy,  sir,"  rej)lied  Fergus,  "  now  that  you 
know  every  thmg  about  the  imhappy  state 
of  the  (.'(iiilc.cn  ISawn.  surely  you  ami  blame 
poor  Eller  for  not  desartin'  her.  As  for  nic. 
I  eared  nothing  about  any  other  giii,  and 


184 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S    WOIiKS. 


I  never  could  let  either  my  own  dlirame,  or 
what  you  said  was  yoiu's,  out  o'  my  head. 
I  still  had  hope,  and  I  stiU  have,  that  she 
may  recover." 

Keilly  made  no  reply  to  tliis,  for  he  feared 
to  entertain  the  vague  exjjectatiou  to  which 
Fergus  alluded. 

"  Well,  Fergus,"  said  he,  "  although  I  have 
undergone  the  sentence  of  a  convict,  yet 
now,  after  my  return,  I  am  a  rich  man.  For 
the  sake  of  old  times — of  old  dangers  and  old 
difficulties — I  should  wish  you  to  live  with 
me,  and  to  attend  me  as  my  own  jjersonal 
sei-vant  or  man.  I  shaU  get  yon  a  suit  of 
Hvery,  and  the  crest  of  O'Reilly  shall  be  uj^on 
it.  I  wish  you  to  attend  upon  me,  Fergus, 
because  yovi  understand  me,  and  because  I 
never  will  enjoy  a  hapjiy  heart,  or  one  day's 
freedom  from  soitow  again.  AU  hoj^e  of 
that  is  past,  but  you  will  be  useful  to  me — 
and  that  you  know." 

Fergus  was  deeplj'  affected  at  tliese  words, 
although  he  was  gratified  in  the  highest  de- 
gree at  the  proposal.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
days  he  entered  ujion  his  duties,  immediate- 
ly after  wliich  Eeilly  set  out  on  his  joui-ney 
to  Mouaghan,  to  see  once  more  his  beloved, 
but  uuhii])py,  Cooleen  Baum.  On  arriving  at 
that  handsome  and  hosisitable  town,  he  put 
ujD  at  an  excellent  inn,  called  the  "  Westenra 
Aj-ms,"  kept  by  a  man  who  was  the  model  of 
innkeepers,  known  by  the  sobriquet  of  "  hon- 
est Peter  il'Philips."  We  need  not  now  re- 
capitulate that  with  which  the  reader  is  al- 
ready acquainted  ;  but  we  cannot  omit  de- 
scribing a  brief  interview  which  took  j)lace 
in  the  course  of  a  few  daj's  after  the  restora- 
tion of  the  Cooleen  Baivn  to  the  j^erfect  use 
of  her  reason,  between  two  individuals,  who, 
we  think,  have  some  claim  upon  the  good-will 
and  good  wishes  of  our  readers.  We  aUude 
to  Fergus  Keilly  and  the  faltJifiiJ  EUen  Con- 
nor. Seated  in  a  comfortable  room  in  the 
aforesaid  inn — now  a  resi^ectable  and  admir- 
ably kept  hotel — with  the  same  ai'ms  over  the 
door,  were  the  two  individiials  alluded  to. 
Before  them  stood  a  black  bottle  of  a  certain 
fragi-ant  hcpior,  as  clear  and  colorless  as 
water  from  the  purest  sj)ring,  and,  to  judge 
of  it  by  the  eye,  quite  as  harmless  ;  but  there 
was  the  mistake.  Never  was  hypocrisy  bet- 
ter exemplified  than  by  the  contents  of  tliat 
bottle.  Tlie  liquor  in  cpiestiou  came,  Fer- 
gus was  informed,  from  the  green  woods  of 
Truagh,  and  more  esj)ecially  from  a  townland 
named  Derrygola,  famous,  besides,  for  stout 
men  and  pretty  girls. 

"Well,  now,  EUen  darhn',"  said  Fei'gus, 
"  if  ever  any  two  bachelors  *  were  entitled  to 


*"  Bachelor,"  in  IrelanO,  especially  in  the  coun- 
try parts  of  it.  where  English  is  not  .spoken  correot- 
ly,  is  frequently  applied  to  both  the  se.\es. 


drink  their  own  healths,  surely  you  and  I  are. 
Here's  to  us — a  happy  marriage,  soon  and 
sudden.  As  for  myself,  I've  had  the  j)atience 
of  a  Trojan." 

Ellen  pledged  him  beautifully  with  her 
eyes,  but  ven'  moderatelj'  with  the  liquor. 

"  Bedad  !  "  he  proceeded.  "  seven  years — 
ay,  and  a  half — wasn't  a  bad  apin'enticeship, 
at  any  rate  ;  but,  as  I  tould  Mr.  Eeilly  belore 
he  left  the  country — upon  my  sowl,  says  I, 
Mi:  Eeilly,  she's  worth  waitin'  for ;  and  he 
admitted  it." 

"  But,  Fergus,  did  ever  any  thing  turn  otit 
so  happy  for  all  parties  ?  To  me  it's  Kke  a 
dream  ;  I  can  scarcely  believe  it." 

"  Faith,  and  if  it  be  a  dhrame,  I  hope  it's 
one  we'U  never  waken  from.  And  so  the  four 
of  us  are  to  be  married  on  the  same  day,  and 
we're  all  to  live  with  the  squire." 

"  We  are,  Fergus  ;  the  Cooleen  Baum  wiU 
have  it  so  ;  btit,  indeed,  her  father  is  as  anxi- 
ous for  it  ahnost  as  she  is.  Ah,  no,  Fergus, 
she  could  not  part  with  her  faithful  Ellen,  as 
she  calls  me  ;  nor,  after  all,  Fergus,  would 
her  faithful  Ellen  wish  to  part  vs-ith  her  ?  " 

"  And  he's  to  make  me  steward  ;  begad, 
and  if  I  don't  make  a  good  one,  I'U  make  an 
honest  one.  Faith,  at  all  events,  EUen.  we'll 
be  in  a  condition  to  provide  for  the  childre', 
jjlaise  God." 

Ellen  gave  him  a  blushing  look  of  reproach, 
and  desii'ed  him  to  keep  a  proper  tongnie  in 
his  head. 

"  But  what  will  we  do  with  the  five  hun- 
dred, EUen,  that  the  squire  iuid  ]\Ii\  Eeilly 
made  up  between  them  V  " 

"We'U  consult  Mr.  EeiUy  about  it,"  she 
replied,  "  and  no  doubt  but  he'U  enable  us  to 
lay  it  out  to  the  best  advantage.  Now,  Fer- 
gus dear,  I  must  go,"  she  added  ;  "you  know 
she  can't  bear  me  even  now  to  be  any  length 
of  time  away  from  her.  Here's  G'  id  bless  them 
both,  and  continue  them  in  the  hajipiness  they 
now  enjoy." 

"Amen,"  repUed  Fergus,  "  and  here's  God 
bless  ourselves,  and  make  us  more  lovin'  to 
one  another  every  day  we  rise  ;  and  here's  to 
take  a  foretaste  of  it  now,  you  thief." 

Some  slight  resistance,  foUowed  by  certain 
smacking  sounds,  closed  the  internew  ;  for 
EUen,  having  staa-ted  to  her  feet,  threw  on 
her  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  huriied  out  of  the 
room,  giving  back,  however,  a  huighing  look 
at  Fergus  as  she  eseajjed. 

In  a  few  months  afterwards  they  were 
married,  and  hved  with  the  old  man  until  he 
became  a  grandfatlier  to  two  cliildren,  the 
eldest  a  boy,  and  the  second  a  girl.  Upon  the 
same  day  of  their  marriage  their  humble  but 
faithful  friends  were  also  united  ;  so  that 
there  was  a  double  wedding.  The  ceremony, 
in  the  case  of  ReUly  and  his  Cooleen  Bown,  was 


LmAHY 
'"'  THE 

L'NiVTRsrry  of  Illinois 


SBE  STOOD   BAOE,  HEIl  EYES   FLASHED,  BEE  BBAOTimL  BOSOM   HEAVED;    SHE  ADVANCED,  LOOKED   ONCE  MORE, 
AND    EXCLAIMED,    WITH    A    SCHEAM,    "  IT   IS   HE  I     IT    IS  BE  1 "  AND  THE  NEIT    MOMENT    SBE  WAS  INSENSIBLE    IN 

HIS  ASMS.— Wiiiy  Ilaitly,  chap,  ixv.— p.  182. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


1S5 


perfoiTned  by  tlie  Reverend  Mr.  Brown  first, 
and  the  i5:uisli  j)riest  afterwards;  Mi-.  Strong, 
who  had  been  for  sever.il  years  conjoined  to 
Mrs.  8mell2)riest,  having  been  rejected  bj' 
both  i^arties  as  the  officiating  clergyman  up- 
on the  occasion,  although  the  lovely  bride 
was  certainly  his  parishioner.  Age  and  time, 
however,  told  upon  the  old  man  ;  and  at  the 
e.xjMration  of  thi-ee  years  they  laid  him,  with 
many  tears,  in  the  grave  of  his  fathers.  Soon 
ait«r  this  EeiUy  and  his  wife,  accompanied 


by  Fergus  and  EUen — for  the  Coolcen  Baicn 
would  not  be  sejsarated  from  the  latter — re- 
moved to  the  Continent,  where  they  had  a 
numerous  family,  priucijjally  of  sons  ;  and 
we  need  not  tell  our  learned  readers,  at  least, 
that  those  young  men  distinguished  not  only 
ttiemselves,  but  their  name,  by  acts  of  the 
most  brUMant  courage  in  continental  warfare. 
And  so,  gentle  reader,  ends  the  troubled  his- 
tory of  Welly  Eeilly  and  his  own  Cooleen 
Bawn. 


Fardorougha,  the  Miser. 


PAET  I. 

Fardorougha,  the  Miser. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  nights  in  August, 
when  the  moon  and  stars  shine  through  an 
atniosj)here  clear  and  cloudless,  -n-ith  a  mild- 
ness of  lustre  almost  continental,  that  a 
horsem;m,  advancing  at  a  rapid  pace,  turned 
oft'  a  remote  branch  of  road  up  a  narrow 
lane,  and,  dismounting  before  a  neat  white- 
washed cottage,  gave  a  quick  and  impatient 
knock  at  the  door.  Almost  instantly,  out  of 
a  small  window  that  oijened  on  hinges,  was 
jDrotruded  a  broad  female  face,  surrounded, 
by  way  of  nightcajs,  with  several  folds  of 
flannel,  that  had  originally  been  white. 

"  Is  Mary  Moan  at  home  '?  "  said  the  horse- 
man. 

"For  a  miricle — ay  !  "  replied  the  female  ; 
"  who's  down,  in  the  name  o'  goodness  ?  " 

"Why,  thin,  I'm  tliinkin'  you'll  be  smilin' 
whin  you  hear  it,"  replied  the  messenger. 
"  The  soira  one  else  than  Honor  Donovan, 
that's  now  marrid  vqyow  Fardorougha  Dono- 
van to  the  tune  of  thirteen  years.  Bedad, 
time  for  her,  anyhow, — but,  sure  it'll  be  good 
whin  it  comes,  we're  thinkin'." 

'■  Well,  betther  late  than  never — the  Lord 
be  praised  for  all  His  gifts,  anyhow.  Put 
your  horse  dowii  to  the  moimtin'-stone,  and 
I'll  be  wid  you  in  half  a  jitij',  aeuslila." 

She  immediately  drew  in  her  head,  and 
ere  the  messenger  had  well  placed  his  horse 
at  the  aforesaid  stirrup,  or  moimting-stoue, 
which  is  an  indisiaensable  adjunct  to  the 
midwife's  cottage,  she  issued  out,  cloaked 
and  bonneted ;  for,  in  point  of  fact,  her 
practice  was  so  extensive,  and  the  demands 
upon  her  attendance  so  incessant,  that  she 
seldom,  if  ever,  slept  or  went  to  bed,  unless 
partially  dressed.  And  such  was  her  habit 
of  vigilance,  that  she  ultimately  became  an 
illustration  of  the  old  Eoman  proverb,  Non 
i/oriiiio  omnibus;  that  is  to  say,  she  could 
sleep  as  sound  as  a  top  to  every  possible 
noise  except  a  knock  at  the  door,  to  which 
she  might  be  said,  during  the  greater  part  of 
her  jjrofessional  life,  to  have  been  instinc- 
tively awake. 

Having  ascended  the  mountiug-stonc,  and 


placed  herseK  on  the  cmpper,  the  guide  and 
she,  while  passing  down  the  narrow  and  dif- 
ficult lane,  along  which  they  could  proceed 
butc  slowly  and  with  caution,  entered  into  the 
following  dialogue,  she  having  first  turned 
up  the  hood  of  her  cloak  over  her  bonnet, 
and  tied  a  spotted  cotton  kerchief  round  her 
neck. 

"  This,"  said  the  guide,  who  was  Fardo- 
rougha  Donovan's  servant-man,  "is  a  quare 
enough  business,  as  some  o'  the  nabors  do 
be  savin' — marrid  upon  one  another  beyant 
thirteen  year,  an'  ne'er  a  sign  of  a  haporth. 
Why  tlien  begad  it  is  c^uare." 

"  Whisht,  whisht,"  replied  Molly,  with  an 
expression  of  mysterious  and  suj)erior  knowl- 
edge ;  "  don't  be  spakin'  about  what  you 
don't  understand — sure,  nuttin's  impossible 
to  God,  avick — don't  you  know  that  V  " 

"Oh,  bedad,  sure  enough — that  we  must 
allow,  whether  or  not,  still—" 

"  Very  well ;  seein'  that,  what  more  have 
we  to  say,  barriu'  to  hould  our  tongues. 
Children  sent  late  always  come  either  for 
great  good  or  great  sarra  to  their  fiarents — 
an'  God  gi'aut  that  this  may  be  for  good  to 
the  honest  people — for  indeed  honest  people 
they  are,  by  aU  accotmts.  But  what  mj'self 
wonders  at  is,  that  Honor  Donovan  never 
once  opened  her  lij)S  to  me  about  it.  How- 
ever, God's  will  be  done !  The  Lord  send 
her  safe  over  all  her  tlxroubles,  poor  woman  ! 
And,  now  that  we're  out  o'  this  thief  of  a  lane, 
lay  an  for  the  bare  hfe,  and  never  heed  me. 
I'm  as  good  a  horseman  as  yourself  ;  and,  in- 
deed, I've  a  good  right,  for  I'm  an  ould  hand 
at  it." 

"I'm  thinkin',"  she  added,  after  a  short 
silence,  "it's  odd  I  never  was  much  acquaint- 
ed with  the  Donovans.  I'm  tould  they're  a 
hard  jDack,  that  loves  the  money.'' 

"Faix,"  replied  her  companion,  "Let  Far- 
dorougha  alone  for  knowin'  the  value  of  a 
shiUin' ! — they're  not  in  Eui'ope  can  hould  a 
harder  grip  o'  one." 

His  master,  in  fact,  was  a  hard,  fragal 
man,  and  his  mistress  a  woman  of  some- 
what similar  character  ;  Ijoth  were  strictly 
honest,  but,  like  many  persons  to  whom  God 
has  denied  oft'spring,  their  hearts  had  for  a 
considerable  time  before  been  placed  upon 


1S8 


WILLIAM   UARLETON'S   WORKS. 


money  as  tbeii-  idol ;  for,  in  tmth,  tlie  affec- 
tious  must  be  fixed  uijon  something,  and  we 
generally  find  that  where  children  are  de- 
nied, the  woiid  comes  in  and  hardens  by  its 
influence  the  best  and  teuderest  sympathies 
of  humanity. 

After  a  journey  of  two  miles  they  came 
out  on  a  hay-track,  that  skirted  an  extensive 
and  level  sweej)  of  meadow,  along  which 
they  proceeded  with  as  much  speed  as  a 
pilhonless  midwife  was  cajjable  of  bearing. 
At  length,  on  a  gentle  declivity  facing  the 
south,  they  espied  in  the  distance  the  low, 
long,  whitewashed  farm-house  of  Fardor- 
ougha  Donovau.  There  was  little  of  artifi- 
cial ornament  about  the  place,  but  much  of 
the  rough,  heart-stinring  wilduess  of  natiu'e, 
as  it  apjjeiu'ed  in  a  strong,  vigorous  district, 
well  cultivated,  but  without  being  tamed 
down  by  those  finer  and  more  graceful  touch- 
es, which  nowadaj-s  mark  the  skiKul  hand 
of  the  scientific  agriculturist. 

To  the  left  waved  a  beautiful  hazel  glen, 
which  gTadually  softened  away  into  the 
meadows  above  mentioned.  Up  behind  the 
house  stood  an  ancient  plantation  of  white- 
thorn, which,  during  the  month  of  May,  dif- 
fused its  fragrance,  its  beauty,  and  its  melo- 
dy, over  the  whole  farm.  The  plain  garden 
was  hedged  round  by  the  graceful  poplar, 
whilst  here  and  there  were  studded  over  the 
fields  either  single  trees  or  small  groujjs  of 
mountain  ash,  a  tree  still  more  beautiful 
than  the  former.  The  small  dells  about  the 
fiirm  were  closely  covered  with  blackthorn 
and  hoUy,  with  an  occasional  oak  shooting 
up  fi'om  some  little  chli',  and  towering  stur- 
dily over  its  lowly  companions.  Here  grew  a 
thick  interwoven  mass  of  dog-tree,  and  ujion 
a  wild  hedgerow,  leaning  like  a  beautiful 
wife  upon  a  rugged  husband,  might  be  seen, 
supported  by  clumps  of  blackthorn,  that 
most  fragrant  and  exquisite  of  creepers,  the 
delicious  honeysuckle.  Add  to  this  the  neat 
appearance  of  the  farm  itself,  with  its  mead- 
ows and  cornfields  waving  to  the  soft  sunny 
breeze  of  summer,  and  the  reader  may  ad- 
mit, that  without  possessing  any  striking 
features  of  pictorial  effect,  it  would,  nevei'- 
theless,  be  ditficTilt  to  find  an  ujilying  farm 
upon  which  the  eye  could  rest  with  greater 
satisfaction. 

Ei-e  arriving  at  the  house  they  were  met 
by  F;u-dorouglia  himself,  a  small  man,  mth 
dark,  but  well-set  features,  which  lieiug  at 
no  time  very  placid,  appeai'ed  now  to  be  ab- 
solutely gloomy,  yet  marked  by  strong  and 
profound  anxiety. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  exclaimed  on  meeting 
them  ;  "  is  this  Mary  Moim  '?  " 

"  It  is — it  is  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  '  how  are 
all  within  '?—  am  I  in  time  ?  " 


"  Only  poorly,"  he  retiu-ned  ;  "you  are,  1 
hoj)e." 

The  midwife,  when  they  reached  the  door, 
got  herself  dismounted  in  aU  haste,  and  was 
about  entering  the  house,  when  Fardo- 
rougha,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
said  in  a  tone  of  voice  full  of  deeji  feeling — 

"I  need  say  nothing  to  you;  what  you 
can  do,  you  wiU  do — but  one  thing  I  exjsect 
— if  you  see  danger,  call  in  assistance." 

"  It's  all  in  the  hands  o'  God,  Fardorougha, 
acushla  ;  be  as  aisy  in  your  mind  as  you  can  ; 
if  there's  need  for  more  help  you'll  hear  it  ; 
so  keep  the  m;in  an'  horse  both  ready." 

She  then  blessed  herself  and  entered  the 
house,  repeating  a  short  praj^er,  or  charm, 
which  was  su2:)posed  to  jjosseSs  uncommon 
efficacy  in  rehevmg  cases  of  the  nature  she 
was  then  called  upon  to  attend. 

Fardorougha  Donovan  was  a  man  of  great 
good  sense,  and  of  strong,  but  not  obvious  or 
flexible  feeling  ;  this  is  to  say,  on  strong  oc- 
casions he  felt  accordmgly,  but  exhibited  no 
remai-kable  symptoms  of  emotion.  In  matters 
of  a  less  important  character,  he  was  either  de- 
ficient in  sensibihty  altogether,  or  it  affected 
him  so  .slightly  as  not  to  be  jierceptible. 
What  his  disj^ositions  and  feelings  might 
have  been,  had  his  parental  affections  and 
domestic  sympathies  been  cultivated  by  the 
tender  intercourse  which  subsists  between  a 
parent  and  his  children,  it  is  not  easy  to  say. 
On  such  occasions  many  a  new  and  delightful 
sensation — many  a  sweet  trait  of  afiection  jjre- 
viously  unknown — and,  oh  !  many,  many  a 
fresh  imjiulse  of  rapturous  emotion  never  be- 
fore felt  gushes  out  of  the  heart ;  all  of  which, 
were  it  not  for  the  existence  of  ties  so  de- 
lightful, might  have  there  lain  sealed  up 
forever.  "\Miere  is  the  man  who  does  not 
remember  the  strange  imin-ession  of  tumvdt- 
uous  delight  which  he  exjaerienced  on  find- 
ing himself  a  husband?  And  who  does  not 
recollect  that  nameless  charm,  amounting 
almost  to  a  new  sense,  which  j^ervaded  his 
whole  being  with  tenderness  and  transport 
on  kissing  the  rose-bud  lips  of  liis  first-born 
babe  ?  It  is,  indeed,  by  the  ties  of  domestic 
Ufe  that  the  purity  and  afl'ection  and  the 
general  character  of  the  human  heart  are 
best  tided.  Wliat  is  there  more  beautiful 
than  to  see  that  fountain  of  tenderness  mul- 
tiplying its  affections  instead  of  diminishing 
them,  according  as  claim  after  claim  arises  to 
make  fi'esh  demands  upon  its  love  ?  Love, 
and  especially  jJarental  love,  like  jealousy,  in- 
creases by  what  it  feeds  on.  But,  oh  !  from 
what  an  unknoAvu  world  of  exquisite  enjovT 
ment  are  they  shut  out,  to  whom  Providence 
has  not  vouchsafed  those  beloved  beings  on 
whom  the  heart  lavishes  the  whole  fulness  of 
its  rapture  !     No  wonder  that  their  own  af- 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


ISO 


Sections  sliould  wtlier  in  the  cold  gloom  of 
ilisappointed  hope,  or  their  hearts  harden 
into  that  moody  spirit  of  worldly-mindedness 
which  adopts  for  its  ofisi^riug  the  miser's 
idol. 

A^liether  Fardorougha  felt  the  -want  of 
children  acutelj'  or  otherwise,  could  not  be 
inferred  fi'om  any  visible  indication  of  regret 
on  his  part  by  those  who  knew  him.  His  own 
wife,  whose  facilities  of  observation  were  so 
great  and  so  frequent,  was  only  able  to  sus- 
pect in  the  affirmative.  For  himself  he  neither 
murmured  nor  rej)ined  ;  but  she  could  per- 
ceive that,  after  a  few  yeai;s  had  passed,  a 
slight  degree  of  gloom  began  to  settle  on 
him,  and  an  anxiety  about  his  crops,  and  his 
few  cattle,  and  the  produce  of  his  farm.  He 
also  began  to  calculate  the  amount  of  what 
might  be  saved  from  the  fruits  of  their  imited 
industry.  Sometimes,  but  indeed  upon  rare 
occasions,  his  temp)er  appeared  inclining  to 
be  irascible  or  impatient  ;  but  in  general  it 
was  grave,  cold,  and  inflexible,  without  any 
outbreaks  of  passion,  or  the  slightest  dispo- 
sition to  mirth.  His  wife's  mind,  however, 
was  by  no  means  so  firm  as  his,  nor  so  fi-ee 
from  the  traces  of  tliat  secret  regret  which 
preyed  ujaon  it.  She  both  murmui-ed  and 
repined,  and  often  in  terms  W'hich  drew  from 
Fardorougha  a  cool  rebuke  for  her  want  of 
resignation  to  the  wiU  of  God.  As  years  ad- 
vanced, however,  her  disappointment  became 
harassing  even  to  herself,  and  now  that  hojje 
l)egan  to  die  away,  her  heai-t  gi-adually  par- 
took of  the  cool  worldly  spirit  which  had 
seized  upon  the  disposition  of  her  husband. 
Though  cultivating  but  a  small  farm,  which 
they  held  at  a  high  rent,  yet,  by  the  dint  of 
fi'ugality  and  incessant  diligence,  they  were 
able  to  add  a  Uttle  each  year  to  the  small 
stock  of  money  which  they  had  contrived  to 
put  together.  StiU  would  the  imhapjjy  reflec- 
tion that  they  were  childless  steal  p.'iinfully 
and  heavily  over  them  ;  the  wife  would  some- 
times miu-mur,  and  the  husband  reprove  her,  ; 
but  in  a  tone  so  cool  and  indifferent  that  she  ' 
could  not  avoid  concluding  that  his  own  want 
of  resignation,  though  not  expressed,  was  at 
heart  equal  to  her  own.  Each  also  became  i 
somewhat  rehgious,  and  both  remarkable  for 
a  punctual  attendance  upon  the  rites  of  their 
chui'ch,  and  that  in  jwoportion  as  the  love  of 
temporal  things  overcame  them.  In  this 
manner  they  hved  upwai'ds  of  thirteen  years, 
when  Jlrs.  Donovan  declared  herself  to  be  in 
that  situation  which  in  due  time  rendered  the 
senices  of  !Marv  Moan  necessfirv. 

From  the  moment  this  intimation  was 
given,  and  its  truth  confirmed,  a  faint  light, 
not  greater  than  the  dim  and  trembling 
lustre  of  a  single  stiir.  broke  in  ujaon  the 
dai'kened   aft'ections   and   woi-ldly  spirit   of . 


Fardorougha  Donovan.  Had  the  announce- 
ment taken  place  within  a  reasonable  period 
after  his  marriage,  before  he  had  become 
sick  of  disajjjJointment,  or  had  surrender- 
ed his  heart  from  absolute  despair  to  an 
incipient  sjmit  of  avarice,  it  would  no  doubt 
have  been  hailed  with  aU  the  eager  dehght 
of  unbUghted  hope  and  ^^vid  aft'ection  ;  but 
tiow  a  new  and  subtle  habit  had  been  super^ 
induced,  after  the  last  cherished  expectation 
of  the  heart  had  departed  ;  a  spirit  of  fore- 
sight and  severe  calculation  descended  on 
him,  and  had  so  nearly  satiu-ated  his  whole 
being,  that  he  could  not  for  some  time  actu- 
ally determine  whether  the  knowledge  of 
his  wife's  situation  was  more  agreeable  to 
his  aSieetion,  or  repugnant  to  the  parsimo- 
nious disposition  which  had  quickened  his 
heart  into  an  energy  incompatible  'with 
natural  benevolence,  and  the  perception  of 
those  tender  ties  which  spring  iip  fi'om  the 
relations  of  domestic  life.  For  a  consider- 
able time  this  sti'uggle  between  the  two 
principles  went  on  ;  sometimes  a  new  hope 
would  spring  up,  attended  in  the  back- 
ground by  a  thousand  aflfecting  circumstan- 
ces— on  the  other  hand,  some  gloomy  and 
undefiuable  dread  of  exigency,  distress,  and 
ruin,  would  wring  his  heart  and  sink  his 
spirits  down  to  positive  misery.  Notwith- 
standing this  conflict  between  growing  ava- 
rice and  aft'ection,  the  star  of  the  father's 
love  had  risen,  and  though,  as  we  have  al- 
ready said,  its  hght  was  dim  and  unsteady, 
yet  the  moment  a  single  opening  occuiTed 
in  the  clouded  mind,  there  it  was  to  be  seen 
serene  and  piu-e,  a  beautiful  emblem  of 
imd^'ing  and  sohtary  aft'ection  struggling 
vrith  the  cares  and  angry  jaassions  of  life. 
By  degrees,  however,  the  husband's  heai't 
became  touched  h\  the  hopes  of  his  younger 
years,  former  associations  revived,  and  re- 
membrances of  past  tenderness,  though 
blunted  in  a  heart  so  much  changed,  came 
over  him  hke  the  breath  of  fragrance  that  has 
nearly  passed  away.  He  began,  therefore, 
to  contemplate  the  event  witliout  forelioding, 
and  by  the  time  the  looked-for  period  ar- 
rived, if  the  world  and  its  debasing  influen- 
ces w  ere  not  utterly  overcome,  yet  nature 
and  the  quickening  tenderness  of  a  father's 
feehng  had  made  a  considerable  j)rogress 
in  a  heart  fi-om  which  they  had  been  long 
banished.  Far  dift'erent  from  aU  this  was 
the  history  of  his  -^vife  since  her  perception 
of  an  event  so  delightfid.  Li  her  was  no 
bitter  and  obstinate  principle  siibversive  ot 
aft'ection  to  be  overcome.  For  although  she 
had  in  latter  years  sank  into  the  painful 
apathy  of  a  hojjeless  spirit,  and  given  herself 
somewhat  to  the  world,  yet  no  sooner  did 
the  unexpected  hght  dawn  upon  her,  than 


190 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


her  whole  soiil  was  filled  with  exultation  and 
delight.  The  world  and  its  inlluence  passed 
away  hke  a  dream,  and  her  heart  melted 
into  a  habit  of  tenderness  at  once  so  novel 
and  exquisite,  that  she  often  assured  her 
husband  she  had  never  felt  happiness  be- 
fore. , 

Such  are  the  respective  states  of  feehng 
in  which  our  readers  find  Fardorougha  Don-' 
ovan  and  his  wife,  ujson  an  occasion  whose 
consequences  run  too  far  into  futurity  for 
us  to  determine  at  jjresent  whether  they  are 
to  end  in  hajjpmess  or  misery.  i?'or  a  con- 
siderable time  that  evening,  before  the  ar- 
rival of  Mary  Moan,  the  m;iles  of  the  family 
had  taken  uj)  their  residence  in  an  inside 
kiln,  where,  after  having  kindled  a  fire  in 
the  draught-hole,  or  what  the  Scotch  call 
the  "  logie,"  they  sat  and  chatted  in  that 
kind  of  festive  spirit  which  such  an  event 
uniformly  jiroduces  among  the  servants  of  a 
family.  Fiuxlorougha  himself  remained  for 
the  most  part  with  them,  that  is  to  say  ex- 
cept while  ascertaining  from  time  to  time 
the  situation  of  nis  wife.  His  presence, 
however,  was  only  a  restraint  upon  then- 
good-humor,  and  his  niggardly  haliits  raised 
some  rather  uncomplimentary  epithets  dur- 
ing his  short  visits  of  inquiry.  It  is  custom- 
ary upon  such  occasions,  as  soon  as  the 
mistress  of  the  family  is  taken  ill,  to  ask  the 
servants  to  drink  "  an  aisy  bout  to  the 
misthress,  sir,  an'  a  speedy  recover}',  not 
forgettin'  a  safe  landiu'  to  th.e  youngsther, 
and,  hke  a  Chiistmas  compliment,  many  of 
them  to  you  both.  Wiioo  I  death  alive,  but 
that's  fine  stuif.  Oh,  Legorra,  the  mistkress 
can't  but  thrive  wid  that  in  the  house. 
Thank  you,  sir,  an'  wishin'  her  once  more 
safe  over  her  troubles  ! — divil  a  betther  mis- 
thress  ever,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Here,  howevei",  there  was  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Fardorougha's  heart,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, was  against  the  expense,  and  besides, 
its  present  broodings  resembled  the  throes 
of  i)ain  which  break  out  from  the  stupor  that 
presses  so  heavily  upon  the  exhausted  fime- 
tions  of  hfe  in  the  crisis  of  a  severe  fever. 
He  could  not,  in  fact,  rest  nor  remain  for 
any  length  of  time  in  the  same  spot.  With 
a  slow  but  troubled  step  he  walked  backward 
and  forward,  sometimes  uttering  indistinct 
ejaculations  and  broken  sentences,  such  as 
no  one  could  imderstaud.  At  length  he  ap- 
proached his  ovsii  servants,  and  addressed 
the  messenger  whose  name  was  Nogher 
M'C'ormiek. 

"  Nogher,"  said  he,  "I'm  thi'oubled." 

"  Throubled  !  dad,  Fardorougha,  you 
ought  to  be  a  happy  and  a  thankful  man  this 
oight,  that  is,  if  God  sinds  the  misthress  safe 
ijver  it,  as  I  hope  He  will,  plase  gooduQss." 


"I'm  poor,  Nogher,  I'm  poor,  an'  here's  a 
family  comin'." 

"  Faith,  take  care  it's  not  sin  you're  com- 
mittiu'  by  spakin'  as  you're  doin'." 

"  But  you  know  I'm  j)oor,  Nogher." 

"  But  I  know  you're  not,  Fardorougha  ; 
but  I'm  afraid,  if  God  hasn't  said  it,  yoiu* 
heart's  too  much  fix'd  upon  the  world.  Bo 
my  faix,  it's  on  your  knees  you  ought  to  be 
this  s.ame  night,  thankm'  the  Almighty  for 
His  goodness,  and  not  grumblin'  an'  sthreelin' 
about  the  place,  &ym  in  the  face  of  God  for 
sendin'  you  an'  your  wife  ablessin' — for  sure 
I  heai"  the  Scripthur  says  that  all  chQdhres 
a  blessin'  if  they're  resaved  as  sich  ;  an'  wo 
be  to  the  man,  saj-s  Seiijithui-,  dat's  bom  wid 
a  millstone  about  his  neck,  esyiecially  if  he's 
cast  into  the  nai/.  I  know  you  pray  enough, 
but,  be  my  sowl,  it  hasn't  imin-oved  your 
morals,  or  it's  the  misthress'  health  we'd  be 
driukin'  m  a  good  bottle  o'  whiskey  at  the 
present  time.  Faix,  myself  wouldn't  be  much 
suiprised  if  she  had  a  hard  twist  in  conse- 
quence, an'  if  she  does,  the  fault's  your  own 
an'  not  ours,  for  we're  wilhn'  as  the  flowers 
o'  May  to  diink  all  sorts  o'  good  luck  to  her."' 

"Nogher,"  said  the  other,  "it's  truth  a 
great  dale  of  what  you've  sed — maybe  all  of 
it." 

"Faith,  I  know,"  returned  Nogher,  "that 
about  the  whiskey  it's  parfit  gospel." 

"In  one  thing  I'll  be  advised  by  you,  an' 
that  is,  I'll  go  to  mj'  knees  and  pray  to  God 
to  set  my  heart  right  if  it's  wrong.  I  feel 
strixuge — strange,  Nogher — happy,  an'  not 
hajipy." 

"  You  needn't  go  to  your  knees  at  all," 
rejjhed  Nogher,  "  if  you  give  us  the  whiskey  ; 
or  if  you  do  pray,  be  in  earnest,  that  your 
heart  may  be  inchned  to  do  it." 

"  You  desarve  none  for  them  words,"  said 
Fardorougha,  who  felt  that  Nogher's  buf- 
foonery jaiTed  upon  the  better  feelings  that 
were  rising ^sithin  him — "you  desarve  none, 
an'  you'll  get  none — for  the  present  at  laste. 
;m'  I'm  only  a  fool  for  spsiking  to  you." 

He  then  retired  to  the  upper  joart  of  the 
kiln,  where,  in  a  dark  comer,  he  knelt  wth 
a  troiibled  heart,  and  prayed  to  God. 

We  doubt  not  but  such  readers  as  possess 
feehng  wih  j^erceive  that  Fai'dorougha  was 
not  only  an  object  at  this  pai'ticular  period 
of  much  interest,  but  also  entitled  to  sincere 
sympathy.  Few  men  in  his  circumstances 
could  or  probably  would  so  earnestly  stiiig- 
gle  with  a  predominant  jjassion  as  he  did, 
though  witliout  e<lucation,  or  such  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  as  might  enable  him,  by 
any  observation  of  the  human  heai't  in  others, 
to  understand  the  workings  in  his  own.  He 
had  not  been  ten  minutes  at  prayer  when 
the  voice  of  his  female  servant  was  heai'd  in 


FAEDOEOUGJIA,    THE  MISER. 


191 


loud  and  exulting  tones,  calling  out,  ere  she 
approached  the  kihi  itself — 

"  FaTdorougha,  ca  woul  thu? — Where's 
my  footiii',  masther  ?  AVhere's  my  arles  ? — 
Come  in — come  in,  yoii're  a  waitia'  to  kiss 
your  son — the  misthress  is  djiu'till  j'ou  kiss 
our  son." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  as  she  en- 
tered the  kiln. 

"D^in'!"  he  repeated — "the  mistlu-ess 
dyiu' — oh  Susy,  let  a  thousand  childre  go 
before  her — dyiu' !  did  you  say  dyin'  V  " 

"  Ay  did  I,  an'  it's  truth  too  ;  but  it's  wid 
Joy  she's  dyiu'  to  see  you  kiss  one  of  the 
piu'tiest  young  boys  in  all  the  barony  of 
Lisnamoua — myself's  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  wid  him  already." 

He  gave  a  rapid  glance  upwards,  so  much 
so  that  it  was  scarcely  perceptible,  and  im- 
mediately accomjjauied  her  into  the  house. 
The  chUd,  in  the  meantime,  had  been  dressed, 
and  lay  on  its  mother's  arm  in  the  bed  when 
its  father  entered.  He  aijproached  the  bed- 
side and  glanced  at  it — then  at  the  mother 
who  lay  smilmg  beside  it — she  extended  her 
hand  to  him,  whilst  the  soft,  sweet  tears  of 
delight  ran  quietly  down  her  cheeks.  When 
he  seized  her  h;ind  he  stooped  to  kiss  her, 
but  she  put  up  her  other  hand  and  said — 

"  No,  no,  you  must  kiss  Inm  first." 

He  instantly  stooiDed  over  the  babe,  took 
it  in  his  arms,  looked  long  and  earnestly  upon 
it,  put  it  up  near  him,  again  gave  it  a  long, 
intense  gaze,  after  which  he  raised  its  little 
mouth  to  his  own,  and  then  imprinted  the 
father's  first  kiss  upon  the  fragrant  lips  of  his 
beloved  first-born.  Having  gently  deposited 
the  precious  babe  uijon  its  mother's  arm,  he 
caught  her  hand  and  imjDriuted  upon  her 
lips  a  kiss  ; — but  to  those  who  understand  it, 
we  need  not  describe  it — to  those  who  can- 
not, we  could  give  no  adequate  notion  of  that 
T\  hich  we  are  able  in  no  other  way  to  describe 
than  by  saying  that  it  would  seera  as  if  the 
condensed  enjoyment  of  a  whole  life  were 
concentrated  into  that  embrace  of  the  child 
and  mother. 

Vv''hen  this  tender  scene  was  over,  the  mid- 
wife commenced — 

"  Well,  if  ever  a  man  had  raison  to  be 
thank — " 

"  Silence,  woman !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
which  hushed  her  almost  into  terror. 

"  lict  him  alone,"  said  the  wife,  addressing 
her,  "let  him  alone,  I  know  what  he  feels." 

"  No,"  he  rephed,  "  even  you,  Houora, 
don't  know  it — my  heart,  my  heart  went 
fistray,  and  there,  undher  God  and  my  Sav- 
iour, is  the  being  that  will  be  the  salvation 
of  his  father." 

His  wife  understood  him  and  was  touched  ; 
the  teai-s  fell  fast  from  her  eyes,  and,  extend- 


ing her  hand  to  him,  she  said,  as  he  clasi^ed 
it: 

"  Sure,  Fardorougha,  the  world  won't  be 
as  much  iu  your  heart  now,  nor  your  temper 
so  dark  as  it  was." 

He  made  no  reply  ;  but,  placing  his  other 
hand  over  his  eyes,  he  sat  in  that  posture  for 
some  minutes.  On  raismg  his  head  the 
tears  were  running  as  if  involuntarily  down 
his  cheeks. 

"Honora,"  said  he,  "I'll  go  out  for  a  little 
— Aou  can  tell  Mary  Moan  where  anything's 
to  be  had — let  them  all  be  trated  so  as  that 
thej-  don't  take  too  much — and,  Mary  Moan, 
you  won't  be  forgotten." 

He  then  passed  out,  and  did  not  appear 
for  upwards  of  an  hour,  nor  could  any  one 
of  them  tell  where  he  had  been. 

"Well,"  said  Honora,  after  he  had  left  the 
room,  "  we're  now  married  near  fourteen 
years  ;  and  until  this  night  I  never  see  him 
shed  a  tear." 

"  But  sure,  acushla,  if  anj'thing  can  touch 
a  father's  heart,  the  sight  of  his  first  child 
will.  Now  keep  yourself  aisy,  avoiuiieen, 
and  tell  me  where  the  whiskey  an'  anything 
else  that  may  lie  a  wantin'  is,  till  I  give  these 
crathurs  of  sarvints  a  dhrop  of  something  to 
comfort  thim." 

At  this  time,  however,  Mrs.  Donovan's 
mother  and  two  sisters,  who  had  some  hours 
previously  been  sent  for,  just  ai'rived,  a  cir- 
cumstance which  once  more  touched  the 
newly  awakened  chord  of  the  mother's  heart, 
and  gave  her  that  confidence  which  the  pres- 
ence of  "  one's  own  blood,"  as  the  peojjle  ex- 
pressed it,  always  communicates  upon  such 
occasions.  After  having  kissed  and  admired 
the  babe,  and  bedewed  its  face  with  the 
warm  tears  of  afl'eetion,  they  piously  knelt 
down,  as  is  the  custom  among  most  Irish 
famiUes,  and  offered  up  a  short  but  fervent 
prayer  of  gratitude  as  well  for  an  event  so 
happy,  as  for  her  safe  delivery,  and  the  future 
weKare  of  the  mother  and  child.  A^Tien  this 
was  perfoi'med,  they  set  themselves  to  the 
distribution  of  the  blithe  meat  or  groaning 
malt,  a  duty  which  the  midwife  transferred 
to  them  with  much  jileasure,  this  being  a 
matter  which,  except  in  matters  of  necessity, 
she  considered  beneath  the  dignitj'  of  her 
jirofession.  The  servants  were  accordingly 
summoned  in  due  time,  and,  headed  by 
Nogher,  soon  made  their  appearance.  In 
events  of  this  nature,  servants  in  Ireland,  and 
we  believe  everwhere  else,  are  always  allow- 
ed a  considerable  stretch  of  good-humored 
license  ui  those  observations  which  they  are 
in  the  habit  of  making.  Lideed,  this  is  not 
so  much  an  extemjioraneous  indulgence  of 
wit  on  their  part,  as  a  mere  repetition  of  the 
set  phrases  and  traditionary  apothegms  which 


192 


WILLIAII   CABLETOE'S   ^VORKS. 


have  been  long  established  among  the  peas- 
antry, and  as  they  are  generally  expressive  of 
present  satisfaction  and  good  wishes  for  the 
future,  so  would  it  be  looked  ujjou  as  churl- 
ishness, and  in  some  cases,  on  tlie  part  of 
the  servants,  a  sign  of  ill-luck,  to  neglect 
them. 

"  Now,"  said  Honora's  mother  to  the  ser- 
vants of  both  sexes,  "now,  childi'e,  that 
you've  aite  a  trifle,  you  must  taste  something 
in  the  way  of  dhrink.  It  would  be  too  bad 
on  Ikis  night  above  all  nights  we've  seen  yet, 
not  to  have  a  glass  to  the  stranger's  health  at 
aU  events.  Here,  Nogher,  thry  this.  a\ick — 
you  never  got  a  glass  ynA  a  warmer  heart." 

Nogher  took  the  hquor,  his  grave  face 
charged  with  supjiressed  humor,  and  first 
looking  upon  his  J'eUow-servauts  -with  a  coun- 
tenance so  droll  yet  diy,  that  none  but  them- 
selves understood  it,  he  then  du-ected  a  very 
sober  glance  at  the  good  woman. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "be 
gosty,  sure  enough  if  our  hearts  wouldn't 
get  warm  now,  they'd  never  warm.  A  happy 
night  it  is  for  Fai'dorougha  and  the  misthress, 
at  any  rate.  i'U  engage  the  stranger  was 
worth  waitin'  for,  too.  I'U  hould  a  thrifle, 
he's  the  beauty  o'  the  world  this  minnit — an' 
I'll  engage  it's  breeches  we'll  have  to  be 
gettin'  for  him  some  o'  tliese  days,  the  darliu'. 
"Well,  here's  his  health,  anv  way  ;  an'  may 
he " 

"  Husth,  arogorah !  "  exclaimed  the  mid- 
wife ;  "  stop,  I  say — the  tree  afore  the  fruit, 
aU.  the  world  over  ;  don't  you  know,  an'  bad 
win  to  you,  that  if  the  sthrauger  was  to  go 
to-morrow,  as  good  might  come  afflier  him, 
while  the  paarent  stocks  are  to  the  fore.  The 
mother  an'  father  first,  acushla,  an'  thin  the 
sthranger." 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Moan,"  rephed 
Nogher,  "for  set  tin'  me  right — sure  we'U 
know  something  ourselves  whin  it  comes  our 
turn,  plase  goodness.  If  the  misthress  isn't 
asleep,  by  goxty,  I'd  call  in  to  her,  that  I'm 
dhrinkin'  her  health.'' 

"  She's  not  asleep,"  said  her  mother  ;  "  an' 
proud  she'U  be,  poor  thing,  to  hear  you, 
Nogher." 

"  Misthress  !  "  he  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  are 
you  asleep,  ma'am  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  Nogher,"  she  rejohed,  in  a 
good-humored  tone  of  voice. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Nogher,  stOl  in  a  loud 
voice,  and  scratching  his  head,  "here's  your 
health  ;  an'  now  that  the  ice  is  bruk — be 
goxty,  an'  so  it  is  sui-e,"  said  he  in  an  under- 
tone to  the  rest — "Peggy,  behave  yourself," 
he  continued,  to  one  of  the  seivant-maids, 
"  mockin's  catchin ' :  faix,  you  dunua  what's 
afore  yoiu'self  yet — beg  pardon — I'm  forget- 
tin'  myself— ;-an'  now  that  the  ice   is   hruk. 


ma'am,"  he  resumed,  "  you  must  be  dacent 
for  the  futher.  Many  a  bottle,  plase  good- 
ness, we'U  have  this  way  yet.  Your  health, 
maam,  an'  a  sjjeedy  recoveiy  to  you — an'  a 
sudden  U2)rise — not  forgettin'  the  masther — 
long  life  to  him  !  " 

"  \Miat!  "  said  the  midwife,  "are  you  for« 
gettin'  the  sthranger  ?  " 

Nogher  looked  her  fuU  m  the  face,  and 
opened  his  mouth,  without  saying  a  word, 
literaUy  pitched  the  glass  of  spuits  to  the 
very  bottom  of  his  throat. 

"Beggin'  yoiu- jsardon,  ma'am,"  he  repUed, 
"  is  it  three  healths  you'd  have  me  dliiink  wid 
the  one  glassful  ? — not  myself,  indeed  ;  faix, 
I'd  be  long  sorry  to  make  so  little  of  him — 
if  he  was  a  bit  of  a  f/hvha  I'd  not  scruple  to 
give  Mm  a  comer  o'  the  glass,  but,  bein'  a 
young  man  althers  the  case  intirelj' — he 
must  have  a  bumper  for  himself." 

"  A  girsha  !  "  said  Peggy,  his  feUow-ser- 
vant,  feeling  the  indignity  just  ofl'ered  to  her 
sex — "  Why  thin,  bad  manners  to  your  assur- 
ance for  that  same  :  a  girsha's  as  well  intitled 
to  a  fuU  glass  as  a  gorsoon,  any  day." 

"Husth  a- coUeen,"  said  Nogher,  good- 
humoredly,  "  sure,  it's  takin'  pattern  by  sich 
a  fine  example  you  ought  to  be.  This,  Mrs. 
Moan,  is  the  pui-ty  crature  I  was  min- 
tionin'  as  we  came  along,  that  intends  to  get 
spaasheUed  wid  myself  some  o'  these  days — 
that  is,  if  she  can  bring  me  into  good-huuior. 
the  thief." 

"  And  if  it  does  happen,"  said  Peggy, 
"  you'U  have  to  look  sharper  afther  him,  Mrs. 
Moan.  He's  pleasant  enough  now,  but  I'll 
be  bound  no  man  'Ul  know  betther  how  to 
hang  his  fiddle  behind  the  door  when  he 
comes  home  to  us." 

"  WeU,  acushla,  sure  he  may,  if  he  hkes, 
but  if  he  does,  he  knows  what's  afore  him — 
not  sayin'  that  he  ever  wiU,  I  hope,  for  it's  a 
woful  case  whin  it  comes  to  that,  ahagm-." 

"Faix,  it's  a  happy  stoiy  for  half  the  poor 
wives  of  the  parish  that  you're  in  it, "  saiil 
Peggy,  "  sure,  only  fore " 

"He  dlie  hu!<th  Vread,  oycs  glak  sho — 
hould  yom-  tongue,  Peggy,  and  taste  this," 
said  the  mother  of  her  mistress,  handing  her 
a  glass  :  "If  you  intend  to  go  together,  in  the 
name  o'  goodness  feai-  God  more  than  the 
midwife,  if  you  want  to  have  luck  an'  grace." 

"Oh,  is  it  aU  this?"  exclaimed  the  sly 
gu-1 ;  "  faix,  it  'Ul  make  me  liearti/  if  I  dhi'ink 
so  much — bedeed  it  will.  WeU,  misthi-ess, 
your  health,  an'  a  speedy  uprise  to  you — an' 
the  same  to  the  masther,  not  forgettin'  the 
sthranger — long  hfe  am' good  health  to  him." 

Hhe  then  jjut  the  glass  to  her  lips,  and 
after  several  small  sips,  api:)earing  to  be  so 
many  unsuccessful  attempts  at  overcoming 
her  reluctance  to  drink  it,  she  at  length  took 


;,"  THE 
.'NIVERSIfY  OF  ILLINOIS 


'EB     RAISED     ITS   LITTLE     MODTH    TO    HIS    OWN,     AND    THEN    IMPRINTED    THE     FATHER'S 
FIBST   KISS   UPON   THE   FRAGRANT    LIPS  OF   HIS  BELOTED  PIR8T-BOKN." 


For  dot  <-mQha  the  Miner—  &uiv**r  A 
■a.  19L 


FARDOEOUGITA,    THE  MISER. 


193 


courage,  and  bolting  it  down,  immediately 
applied  her  apron  to  her  mouth,  making  at 
the  same  time  two  or  three  ^\Ty  faces,  gasp- 
ing, as  if  to  recover  the  breath  which  it  did 
not  take  from  her. 

The  midwife,  in  the  mean  time,  felt  that 
the  advice  just  given  to  Nogher  and  Peggy 
contained  a  clause  somewhat  more  detri- 
mental to  her  imjjortance  than  was  altogether 
agreeable  to  her  ;  and  to  sit  calmly  imder 
any  imputation  that  involved  a  diminution 
of  her  authority,  was  not  within  the  code  of 
her  practice. 

"If  they  go  together,"  she  observed,  "it's 
right  to  fear  God,  no  doubt ;  but  that's  no 
raison  why  they  shouldn't  jsay  respect  to 
thim  that  can  sarve  thim  or  otherwiae." 

"Nobody  says  aginst  that,  Mrs.  Moan," 
rephed  the  other ;  "  it's  all  fair,  an'  nothin' 
else." 

"  A  midwife's  nuttin'  in  your  ej-es,  we  sup- 
pose," rejoined  Mrs.  Moan  ;  "  but  maybe's 
there's  thim  belongin'  to  you  could  teU  to 
the  contraiy." 

"  Oblaged  to  you,  we  suppose,  for  your 
sorviees — an'  we're  not  deuyin'  that,  aither." 

"For  me  sarvices — maybe  thim  same  sar- 
vices  wasn't  very  sweet  or  treaclesome  to 
some  o'  thim,"  she  rejoined,  with  a  mysteri- 
ous and  somewhat  indignant  toss  of  the 
head. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  other  in  a  friendly 
tone,  "  that  makes  no  maxims  one  way  or  the 
other,  onlj'  dhrink  this — sm-e  we're  not 
goin'  to  quarrel  about  it,  ajiy  how." 

"  God  forbid,  Honora  More !  but  sure  it 
ud  ill  become  me  to  hear  my  own  corree —  j 
no,  no,  avourneen,"  she  exclaimed,  putting  ! 
back  the  glass  ;  "I  can't  take  it  this-a-way  ;  ; 
it  doesn't  agree  wid  me  ;  you  must  put  a 
grain  o'  shugar  an'  a  dhrop  o'  biliu'  wather  ; 
to  it.     It  may  do  very  well  hard  for  the  sar- 
vints,  but  I'm  not  used  to  it." 

"  I  hird  that  myself  afoi-e,"  observed  No- 
gher, "  that  she  never  dluinks  hard  whiskey. 
"Well,  myself  never  tasted  pimch  but  waust, 
an'  be  goxty  its  great  dhrink.     Death  ahve, 
Honora  More,"  he  continued,  in  his  most  in- 
sinuating mannei',  "  make  us  all  a  sup.  Sui'e,  | 
blood   alive,  this  is   not   a   common  night, 
afther  what  God  has  siut  us  :  Fa)  dorougha 
himself  would   allow  j-ou,  if  he    vas  here  ; 
deed,  be  dad,  he  as  good  as  promised  me  he  ! 
would  ;  an'  you  know  we  have  th,^  young  j 
customer's  health  to  drink  yet."  I 

"  Thj-oth,  an'  you  ought,"  said  the  mia-  j 
wife  ;  "the  boy  says  nuttin  but  the  thruth — 
it's  not  a  common  night  ;  an'  if  God  has  | 
given  Fardorougha  substance,  he  shouldn't 
begiidge  a  Httle,  if  it  was  only  to  show  a  | 
grateful  heart."  j 

"  Well,  weU."  said  Honora  More — which 


means  great  Honora,  in  opposition  to  her 
daughter,  Fardorougha's  wife  ;  this  being  an 
epithet  adopted  for  the  purpose  of  contra- 
distinguishing the  members  of  a  family  when 
called  by  the  same  name — "Well,"  said  she^ 
"I  suppose  it's  as  good.  My  own  heart, 
dear  knows,  is  not  in  a  thrifle,  only  I  have 
my  doubts  about  Fardorougha.  However, 
what's  done  csm't  be  imdoue ;  so,  once  we 
mix  it,  he'll  be  too  late  to  spake  if  he  cornea 
in,  any  way." 

The  pimch  was  accordingly  mixed,  and 
they  were  in  the  act  of  sitting  down  to  enjoy 
themselves  with  more  comfort  when  Fardo- 
rougha entered.  As  before,  he  was  silent 
and  disturbed,  neither  calm  nor  stern,  but 
laboring,  one  would  suppose,  under  strong 
feehngs  of  a  decidedly  opposite  chai-acter. 
On  seeing  the  punch  made,  his  brow  gather- 
ed into  something  hke  severity  ;  he  looked 
quickly  at  his  mother-in-law,  and  was  about 
to  sjjeak,  but,  pausing  a  moment,  he  sat 
down,  and  after  a  Uttle  time  said  in  a  kind 
voice — 

"It's  right,  it's  right — for  /«'.s'  sake,  an'  or- 
his  account,  have  it  ;  but.  Udiiuiii  Id  tljuic 
be  no  waste." 

"  Sure  we  had  to  make  it  for  Mrs.  Moan 
whether  or  not,"  said  his  ^  mother-in-law — ■ 
"  she  can't  di-ink  it  hai'd,  poor  woman." 

Mi's.  Moan,  who  had  gone  to  see  her 
patient,  having  heard  his  voice  again,  made 
her  ajjpearance  with  the  child  in  her  arms, 
and  vdih  all  the  importance  which  such  a 
biu-den  usually  bestows  upon  persons  of  her 
calling. 

"Here,"  said  she,  presenting  him  the  in- 
fant, "  take  a  proper  look  at  this  fellow.  That 
I  may  never,  if  a  fiuer  swaddy  ever  crossed 
my  hands.  Throth  if  you  wor  dead  to- 
moiTow  he'd  be  mistaken  for  you — your  born 
image — the  sorra  thing  else — eh  alauna — • 
the  Lord  loves  my  son — faix,  you've  daddy's 
nose  ujjon  you  anyhow — an'  his  chin  to  a 
turn.  Oh,  thin,  Fardorougha,  but  there's 
many  a  couple  rowlin'  in  wealth  that  'ud  be 
proud  to  have  the  Ukes  of  him  ;  an'  that  must 
die  an'  let  it  all  go  to  strangers,  or  to  them 
that  doesn't  care  about  them,  'cei^tin'  to  get 
grabbin'  at  what  they  have,  that  think  every 
day  a  year  that  they're  above  the  sod.  What ! 
manim-an — kiss  your  child,  man  ali\'e.  That 
I  may  never,  but  he  looks  at  the  darlin'  as  il 
it  was  a  sod  of  turf.  Throth  j-ou're  not 
■WP»+hy  of  havin'  such  a  bullj." 

Fai-dorougha,  during  this  dialogue,  held 
the  child  in  his  arms  and  looked  upon  it 
earnestly  as  before,  but  without  betraying  any 
lisible  indication  of  countenance  that  could 
enable  a  spectator  to  estimate  the  nature  of 
what  passed  within  him.  At  length  there 
appeai-ed  Ln  his  eye  a  bai-ely  perceptible  ex- 


194 


WILLI  All  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


pression  of  benignity,  which,  however,  soon 
jjassed  awaj',  and  was  replaced  by  a  shadow 
of  gloom  and  anxiety.  Nevertheless,  in  com- 
phance  with  the  commands  of  the  mid\^ife, 
he  kissed  its  lij^s,  after  which  the  sen'ants 
all  gathered  round  it,  each  Lwshing  upon 
the  little  tu-chiu  those  hyperbolical  expres- 
sions of  flattery,  which,  after  all,  most  parents 
.ve  wUling  to  receive  as  something  ajjproxi- 
mating  to  gospel  trath. 

"  Bedad,"  said  Nogher,  "  that  fellow  'ill  be 
the  flower  o'  the  Donovans,  if  God  !)p:ires 
him — be  goxty,  I'U  engage  he'll  give  the  purty. 
girls  many  a  sore  heart  yet — he'll  play  the 
dickens  wid  'em,  or  I'm  not  here — a  wongh  ! 
do  you  hear  how  the  young  rogue  gives 
tongue  at  that  ?  the  sorra  one  o'  the  shaver 
but  knows  what  I'm  sayin'." 

Nogher  always  had  an  e_ye  to  his  own  com- 
fort, no  matter  under  what  circumstances  he 
might  be  jjlaced.  Having  received  the  full 
glass,  he  grasped  his  master's  hand,  and  in 
the  usual  set  jshrases,  to  which,  however,  was 
added  much  ex  tempore  matter  of  his  own, 
he  drank  the  baby's  health,  congi-atulating 
the  parents,  in  his  own  blunt  way,  iipon  this 
accession  to  their  hapjsiness.  The  other  ser- 
vants continued  to  pour  out  their  praises  in 
terms  of  dehght  and  astonishment  at  his  ac- 
coTnplishments  and  beauty,  each,  in  imitation 
of  Nogher,  concluding  with  a  toast  in  nearly 
the  same  words. 

How  sweet  from  all  other  hj^s  is  the  praise 
of  those  we  love !  Fardorougha,  who,  a 
moment  before,  looked  upon  his  infant's 
face  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  felt  in- 
capable of  withstanding  the  flattery  of  his 
own  servants  when  uttered  in  favor  of  the 
child.  His  eye  became  complacent,  and 
while  Nogher  held  his  hand,  a  shght  pres- 
sure in  retui'U  was  proof  sufticient  that  his 
heart  beat  in  accordance  with  the  hopes 
they  expressed  of  all  that  the  undeveloped 
future  might  bestow  upon  him. 

When  their  Uttle  treat  was  over,  the  ser- 
vants withdrew  for  the  night,  and  Fai-do- 
rougha  himself,  still  laboring  under  an  ex- 
citement so  complicated  and  novel,  retired 
rather  to  shape  his  mind  to  some  definite 
tone  of  feeling  than  to  seek  repose. 

How  strange  is  life,  and  how  mysteriously 
connected  is  the  woe  or  the  weal  of  a  single 
family  with  the  great  mass  of  human  society  ! 
We  beg  the  reader  to  stand  with  us  upon  a 
low,  slojiiug  hill,  a  little  to  the  left  of  Far- 
dorougha's  house,  and,  after  having  solem- 
nized his  heart  by  a  glance  at  the  stany  gos- 
pel of  the  skies,  to  cast  his  eye  upon  the 
long,  white-washed  dwelhng,  as  it  shines 
faintly  in  the  visionary  distance  of  a  moon- 
light niglit.  How  full  of  tranquil  beauty  is 
the  hour-,  and  how  deep  the  silence,  except 


when  it  is  broken  by  the  loud  baying  of  the 
watch-dog,  as  he  barks  in  sullen  fierceness 
at  his  own  echo  !  Or  perhajjs  there  is  noth- 
ing heard  but  the  i<agh  of  the  mountain 
river,  as  vrith  booming  sound  it  rises  and 
falls  in  the  distance,  filling  the  ear  of  mid- 
night with  its  wild  and  continuous  melody. 
Look  around,  and  observe  the  spirit  of  re- 
pose which  sleeps  on  the  face  of  nature ; 
think  upon  the  dream  of  hviman  Ufe,  and  of 
all  the  inexplicable  wonders  which  are  read 
from  day  to  day  in  that  miraculous  page — - 
the  heart  of  man.  Neither  your  eye  nor 
imagination  need  pass  beyond  that  Inunble 
roof  before  you,  in  which  it  is  easy  to  per- 
ceive, by  the  lights  jiassing  at  this  imusual 
hour  across  the  windows,  that  there  is  some- 
thing added  either  to  their  joy  or  to  their 
sorrow.  There  is  the  mother,  in  whose 
heart  was  accumulated  the  imwasted  tender- 
ness of  years,  forgetting  all  the  past  in  the 
fir.st  intoxicating  influence  of  an  unknown 
ecstasy,  and  looking  to  the  future  •v^ith  the 
eager  aspirations  of  affection.  There  is  the 
husband,  too,  for  whose  heart  the  lank  deril 
of  the  avaricious — the  famine-struck  god  of 
the  miser — is  even  now  contending  with  the 
almost  extinguished  love  which  sjnings  up  La 
a  father's  bosom  on  the  sight  of  his  first-bom. 

Reader,  who  can  tell  whether  the  entran- 
cing risions  of  the  happy  mother,  or  the 
gloomy  anticipations  of  her  apprehensive 
husband,  are  most  jjro^shetic  of  the  destiny 
which  is  before  their  child.  Many  indeed 
and  various  are  the  hopes  and  fears  felt 
under  that  roof,  and  deejily  mil  their  hghts 
and  shadows  be  blended  in  the  life  of  the 
being  whose  claims  are  so  strong  ujjon  their 
love.  There,  for  some  time  past  the  Ughts 
in  the  window  have  appeared  less  frequent- 
ly— one  by  one  we  presume  the  inmates 
have  gone  to  repose — no  other  is  now  visible 
— the  last  cancUe  is  extinguished,  and  this 
humble  section  of  the  great  family  of  man  is 
now  at  rest  with  the  veil  of  a  dai'k  and  fear- 
ful future  unlifted  before  them. 

There  is  not  j)erhaiDS  in  the  series  of  human 
passions  any  one  so  difficult  to  be  eradicated 
out  of  the  bosom  as  avarice,  no  matter  with 
what  seeming  moderation  it  puts  itself 
forth,  or  under  what  disguise  it  niaj'  aj^pear. 
And  among  all  its  cold-blooded  character- 
istics there  is  none  so  utterly  unaccountable 
as  that  frightfvd  dread  of  famine  and  ulti- 
mate starvation,  which  is  also  strong  in  pro- 
portion to  the  impossibility  of  its  ever  being 
realized.  Lideed,  when  it  aiTives  to  this  we 
should  not  term  it  a  passion,  but  a  malady, 
and  in  our  opinion  the  narrow-hearted  jsa- 
tient  should  be  prudently  separated  from  so- 
ciety, and  treated  as  one  laboring  under  an 
inciu-able  species  of  monomania. 


lARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


195 


During  tlie  few  days  that  intervened  be- 
tween our  liero's  birth  and  his  christening, 
Fardorougha's  mind  was  engaged  in  forming 
some  fixed  principle  by  which  to  guide  his 
heart  in  the  conflict  that  still  went  on  between 
avarice  and  afiectiou.  In  this  task  he  imag- 
ined that  the  father  predominated  over  the 
miser  almost  without  a  stmggle  ;  whereas, 
the  fact  was,  that  the  subtle  passion,  ever 
more  ingenious  than  the  simple  one,  changed 
its  external  character,  and  came  out  in  the 
shape  of  affectionate  forecast  and  jjrovident 
regard  for  the  wants  and  pros2oects  of  his 
child.  This  gi'oss  decejition  of  his  o^vu  heart  he 
felt  as  a  rehef  ;  for,  though  smitten  with  the 
world,  it  did  not  escape  him  that  the  birth 
of  his  little  one,  aU  its  circumstances  consid- 
ered, ought  to  have  caused  him  to  feel  an 
enjoyment  unalloj'ed  by  the  care  and  regret 
which  checked  his  sympathies  as  a  2:)arent. 
Neither  was  conscience  itself  altogether  si- 
lent, nor  the  blunt  remonstrances  of  his  ser- 
vants wholly  without  effect.  Nay,  so  com- 
pletely was  his  judgment  oven-eaehed  that  he 
himself  attributed  this  anomalous  state  of 
feeUng  to  a  vu'tuous  effort  of  Christian  duty, 
and  looked  upon  the  encroachments  which 
a  desii-e  of  saving  wealth  had  made  on  his 
heart  as  a  manifest  proof  of  much  parental 
attachment.  He  consequently  loved  his 
wealth  through  the  medium  of  his  son,  and 
laid  it  dowii  as  a  fixed  principle  that  eveiy 
act  of  parsimony  on  his  part  was  merely  one 
of  prudence,  and  had  the  love  of  a  father 
and  an  affectionate  consideration  for  his 
child's  future  welfare  to  justify  it. 

The  first  striking  instance  of  this  close 
and  ginping  spuit  apjjeared  upon  an  occa- 
sion which  seldom  fails  to  ojjeu,  in  Irelsmd  at 
least,  al'  the  warm  and  generous  impulses  of 
our  naUire.  When  his  wife  deemed  it  neces- 
sarj"  to  make  those  hospitable  preparations 
for  cheir  child's  christening,  which  are  so 
usual  in  the  country,  he  treated  her  inten- 
tion of  complying  with  this  old  custom  as  a 
direct  proof  of  unjustifiable  folly  and  ex- 
travagance— nay,  his  remonstrance  with  her 
exhibited  such  remarkable  good  sense  and 
piiidence,  that  it  was  a  matter  of  extreme 
difficulty  to  controvert  it,  or  to  perceive  that 
it  originated  fi'om  any  other  motive  than  a 
strong  interest  in  the  true  welfare  of  theu* 
child. 

"  Will  our  wasting  meat  and  money,  an' 
for  that  matthur  health  and  time,  on  his  chris- 
tenin',  aither  give  him  more  health  or  make 
us  love  him  betther  ?  It's  not  the  tii-st  time, 
Honora,  that  I've  heard  yourself  make  Uttie 
of  some  of  our  nabors  for  goin'  beyant  their 
ability  in  gettin'  up  big  christenius.  Don't 
be  fooUsh  now  thin  when  it  comes  to  your 
own  turn." 


The  wife  took  the  babe  up,  and,  after  hav- 
ing gazed  affectionately  on  its  innocent  fea- 
tures, rephed  to  liim,  in  a  voice  of  tenderness 
and  reproof — 

"  God  knows,  Fardorougha,  an'  if  I  do  act 
wid  folly,  as  you  call  it,  in  gettin'  ready  hie 
christenin',  surely,  surely  you  oughtn't  to 
blame  the  mother  for  that.  Little  I  thought, 
acuslila  oge,  that  your  own  father  'ud  be- 
gi-udge  you  as  good  a  cluistenin'  as  is  put 
over  any  other  nabor's  child.  I'm  afraid, 
Fardorougha,  he's  not  as  much  in  your  heart 
as  he  ought  to  be." 

"  It's  a  bad  proof  of  love  for  him,  Honora, 
to  jjut  to  the  bad  what  may  an'  would  be 
sarviceable  to  him  hereafter.  You  onlj-  think 
for  the  i^resent ;  but  I  can't  forget  that  he's 
to  be  settled  in  the  world,  an'  you  know  your- 
self what  poor  means  we  have  o'  doiu'  that, 
an'  that  if  we  begin  to  be  extravagant  an' 
wasteful,  bekase  God  has  sent  him,  we  may 
beg  wid  him  afore  long." 

"  There's  no  danger  of  us  beggin'  wid  him. 
No,"  she  continued,  the  pride  of  the  mother 
ha\ing  been  touched,  "my  boy  will  never 
beg — no,  avourneen — you  never  will — nor 
shame  or  disgrace  wiU  never  come  mson  him 
aither.  Have  you  no  tmst  in  God,  Fardo- 
rougha ?  " 

"  God  never  heljjs  them  that  neglect  them- 
selves, Honora." 

"  But  if  it  was  plasing  to  His  will  to  re- 
move him  from  us,  would  you  ever  forgive 
yourself  not  lettin'  him  have  a  christenin'  like 
another  child '? "  rejoined  the  persevering 
mother. 

"The  priest,"  rephed  the  goodinan,  "will 
do  as  much  for  the  poor  child  as  the  rich  ; 
there's  but  one  sacrament  for  both  ;  am'thing 
else  is  waste,  as  I  said,  an'  I  won't  give  in  to 
it.  You  don't  considher  that  your  way  of  it 
'ud  sjjend  as  much  in  one  day  as  'ud  clothe 
him  two  or  three  years." 

"  May  I  never  sin  this  day,  Fardorougha, 
but  one  'ud  think  you're  tired  of  him  aheady. 
Bj'  not  givin'  in  to  what's  dacent  you  know 
you'll  only  fret  me — a  thing  that  no  man  wid 
half  a  heart  'ud  do  to  any  woman  sui^portin' 
a  babby  as  I  am.  A  fi'etted  niu-se  makes  a 
child  sick,  as  Molly  Moan  toidd  you  before 
she  went  ;  so  that  it's  not  on  mj'  own  account 
I'm  sjjakin',  but  on  his — jjoor,  weeny  pet — 
the  Lord  love  hun  !  Look  at  his  innocent 
purty  httle  face,  an'  how  can  you  have  the 
heart,  Fardorougha  ?  Come,  avourneen,  give 
way  to  me  this  wanst ;  throth,  if  you  do.  you'U 
see  how  I'll  nurse  him,  an'  what  a  darlin'  lump 
o'  sugar  I'll  have  him  for  you  in  no  time  !  " 

He  paused  a  little  at  this  dehcate  and  af- 
fecting appeal  of  the  mother  ;  but,  except  by 
a  quick  glance  that  passed  from  her  to  their 
child,  it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  or 


196 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


not  it  made  any  impressiou  on  his  heart,  or 
iu  the  shghtest  degree  changed  his  resolu- 
tion. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  "let  me  alone  now. 
I'll  think  of  it.  I'll  turn  it  over  an'  see  what's 
.be.st  to  be  done  ;  do  you  the  same,  Houora, 
an'  may  he  yoiu'  own  sinse  will  bring  you  to 
my  side  of  the  question  at  last." 

The  next  day,  his  wife  renewed  the  sub- 
ject \dth  unabated  anxiety ;  but,  instead  of 
expressing  any  change  in  her  favor,  Fardo- 
rougha  declined  even  to  enter  into  it  at  all. 
An  evasive  rejily  was  all  she  could  extract 
from  him,  with  an  assurance  that  he  would 
in  a  day  or  two  commimicate  the  resolution 
to  which  he  had  finally  come.  She  perceived,  at 
once,  that  the  case  was  ho2)eless,  and,  after  one 
last  ineffectual  attemjjt  to  bring  him  round, 
she  felt  herself  forced  to  abandon  it.  The 
chdd,  therefore,  much  to  the  mother's  mor- 
tification, was  baptized  without  a  christen- 
ing, unless  the  mere  presence  of  the  god- 
father and  godmother,  in  addition  to  Fardo- 
rougha's  own  family,  could  be  said  to  con- 
stitute one. 

Om-  readers,  perhaps,  are  not  aware  that  a 
cause  of  deeji  anxiety,  hitherto  unnoticed  by 
us,  operated  with  latent  power  upon  Fardo- 
rougha's  heart.  But  so  strong  in  Ireland  is 
the  beautiful  superstition — if  it  can  with 
truth  be  termed  so — that  children  are  a 
blessing  only  when  received  as  such,  that, 
even  though  supjDorted  by  the  hardest  and 
most  shameless  of  all  vices,  avarice,  Fardo- 
I'ougha  had  not  nerve  to  avow  this  most  lui- 
natural  source  for  his  distress.  The  fact, 
however,  \vas,  that,  to  a  mind  so  constituted, 
the  ai^preheusion  of  a  large  family  was  ia  it- 
self a  consideration,  wliich  he  thought  might, 
at  a  future  period  of  theu-  lives,  reduce  both 
him  and  liis  to  starvation  and  death.  Our 
readers  may  remember  Nogher  M'Cormick's 
rebuke  to  him,  when  he  heard  Fardorougha 
allude  to  this  ;  and  so  accessible  was  he  Own 
to  the  feeling,  that,  on  finding  his  heart  at 
variance  with  it,  he  absolutely  admitted  his 
error,  and  prayed  to  God  that  he  might  be 
enabled  to  overcome  it. 

It  was,  therefore,  on  the  day  after  the 
baptism  of  young  Connor,  for  so  had  the 
child  been  called  after  his  j>atei'ual  grand- 
father, that,  as  a  justification  for  his  own 
conduct  in  the  matter  of  the  christening,  he 
disclosed  to  his  wife,  with  much  reluctance 
and  embarrassment,  tliis  undivulged  source 
of  his  fears  for  the  future,  alleging  it  as  a 
just  argument  for  his  declining  to  be  guided 
by  her  opinion. 

The  indignant  sjTnpathies  of  the  mother 
abashed,  on  this  occasion,  the  miserable  and 
calculating  impiety  of  the  husband  ;  her  re- 
proaches were  open  and  unshrinking,  and 


her  moral  sense  of  his  conduct  just  and 
beautiful. 

"Fardorougha,"  said  she,  "I  thought,  up 
to  this  time,  to  this  daj',  that  there  was 
nothing  in  your  heart  but  too  much  of  the 
world  ;  but  now  I'm  afeard,  if  God  hasn't  sed 
it,  that  the  devil  himself 's  there.  You're 
fi'ettin'  for  'fraid  of  a  family  ;  but  has  God 
sent  us  any  but  this  one  yet?  No — an'  I 
wouldn't  be  sui-prised,  if  the  Almighty  should 
punish  yom-  guilty  heiu't,  by  making  the 
child  he  gave  you,  a  curse,  instead  of  a 
blessin'.  I  think;  as  it  is,  he  has  brought 
httle  pleasui-e  to  you  for  so  far,  and,  if  your 
heart  hardens  as  he  grows  up,  it's  more  un- 
happy you'll  get  every  day  you  live." 

"  That's  verj'  fine  talk,  Honora ;  but  to 
people  in  our  condition,  I  can't  see  any 
very  great  blessin'  in  a  houseful  of  childre. 
If  we're  able  to  provide  for  this  one,  we'll 
have  raison  to  be  thankful  widout  wishin'  for 
more." 

"  It's  my  opinion,  Fardorougha,  you  don't 
love  the  chUd." 

"  Change  that  opinion,  then,  Honora  ;  I  do 
love  the  chUd  ;  but  there's  no  needcessity 
for  blowiu  it  about  to  every  one  I  meet.  If 
I  didn't  love  him,  I  wouldn't  feel  as  I  do 
about  all  the  hardships  that  may  be  befoje 
him.  Think  of  what  a  bad  sason,  or  a  fail- 
lu-e  of  the  craps,  might  bring  us  all  to.  God 
grant  that  we  mayn't  come  to  the  bag  and 
staff  before  he's  settled  in  the  world  at  all. 
poor  thing." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Fardorougha  ;  you  may 
make  yoiu'self  as  unhappy  as  you  like  ; 
for  me,  I'll  i:)ut  my  trust  in  the  Saviour  of 
the  world  for  my  child.  If  you  can  trust 
in  any  one  better  than  God,  do  so." 

"Honora,  there's  no  use  in  this  talk — it'll 
do  nothing  aither  for  him  or  us — besides,  I 
have  no  more  time  to  discoorse  about  it." 

He  then  left  her  ;  but,  as  she  viewed  his 
dark,  inflexible  features  ere  he  went,  an  op- 
pressive sense  of  sometliing  not  far  removed 
from  affliction  weighed  her  down.  The 
chUd  had  been  asleeja  m  her  ai-ms  during 
the  foregoing  dialogue,  and,  after  his  father 
had  departed,  she  placed  him  in  the  cradle, 
and,  throwing  the  corner  of  her  blue  apron 
over  her  shoulder,  she  rocked  him  into  a 
sounder  sleep,  swaj'ing  lierseK  at  the  same 
time  to  and  fro,  with  that  inward  sorrow, 
of  which,  among  the  lower  classes  of  L'ish 
females,  this  motion  is  uniformly  expressive. 

It  is  not  to  be  sui:)posed,  however,  that,  as 
the  early  graces  of  childhood  gradually  ex- 
panded (as  they  did)  into  more  than  ordinarj' 
beauty,  the  avarice  of  the  father  was  not 
occasionally  encountered  in  its  progress  by 
sudden  gushes  of  love  for  his  son.  It  was 
impossible  for  any  parent,   no  matter  how 


FARDOROUGnA,   THE  MISER. 


197 


strongly  the  hideous  idol  of  mammon  mifflit 
ewciy  liis  heart,  to  look  upon  a  creature 
so  fair  and  beautiful,  without  being  fi'e- 
quently  touched  into  something  Uke  affec- 
tion. The  fact  was,  that,  as  the  child  ad- 
vanced towards  youth,  the  two  princiisles 
we  are  describing  nearly  kept  pace  one  with 
the  other.  That  the  bad  and  formidable 
passion  made  raj)id  strides,  must  be  admit- 
ted, but  that  it  engrossed  the  whole  spuit 
of  the  father,  is  not  true.  The  mind  and 
gentle  character  of  the  boy — his  affectionate 
disposition,  and  the  extraordinary  advan- 
tages of  his  person — could  not  fail  some- 
times to  sui^jrise  his  father  into  sudden 
bursts  of  affection.  But  these,  when  they 
occurred,  were  looked  vipDn  by  Fardoroiigha 
as  so  many  proofs  that  he  still  entertained 
for  the  boy  love  sufficient  to  justify  a  more 
intense  desire  of  accumulating  wealth  for 
his  sake.  Indeed,  ere  the  lad  had  num- 
bered thirteen  summers,  Fardoroughas 
character  as  a  miser  had  not  only  gone  far 
abroad  throughout  the  neighborhood,  but 
was  felt,  by  the  members  of  his  own  famdy, 
with  almost  merciless  severity.  From  hab- 
its of  honesty,  and  a  decent  sense  of  inde- 
pendence, he  was  now  degraded  to  rapacity 
and  meanness  ;  what  bad  been  prudence,  by 
degrees  degenerated  into  cunning  ;  and  he 
who,  when  commencing  life,  was  looked 
upon  only  as  a  saving  man,  had  now  become 
notorious  for  extortion  and  usury. 

A  character  such  as  this,  among  a  people 
of  generous  and  Uvely  feeling  Uke  the  Lish, 
is  in  every  state  of  life  the  object  of  intense 
and  undisguised  abhorrence.  It  was  with 
difficulty  he  could  succeed  in  engaging  ser- 
vants, either  for  domestic  or  agricultural 
pui-poses,  and,  jjerhaps,  no  consideration, 
excej^t  the  general  kindness  .which  was  felt 
for  his  wife  and  son,  would  have  induced  any 
person  whatsoever  to  enter  into  his  emfDloy- 
ment.  Honora  and  Connor  did  what  in  them 
lay  to  make  the  dependents  of  the  family  ex- 
perience as  little  of  Fai-dorougha's  griping 
tyranny  as  possible.  Yet,  with  all  their 
kind-hearted  ingenuity  and  secret  bounty, 
they  were  scarcely  able  to  render  theu-  situ- 
ation barely  tolerable. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  language, 
no  matter  what  pien  might  wield  it,  capable 
of  portraying  the  love  which  Honora  Dono- 
van bore  to  her  gentle,  her  beautiful,  and 
her  onhj  sou.  Ah  !  there  in  that  last  epithet, 
lay  the  charm  which  wrapped  her  soul  in 
him,  and  in  all  that  rekted  to  his  welfare. 
The  moment  she  saw  it  was  not  the  wiU  of 
God  to  bless  them  with  other  offspring,  her 
heart  gathered  about  him  with  a  jealous  ten- 
derness which  trembled  into  agony  at  the 
idea  of  his  loss. 


Her  love  for  him,  Ihen,  multipUed  itself 
into  many  hues,  for  he  was  in  truth  the 
prism,  on  wliich,  when  it  fell,  all  the  vaiied 
beauty  of  its  colors  became  visible.  Her 
heart  gave  not  forth  the  music  of  a  single 
instrument,  but  breathed  the  concord  of 
sweet  sounds,  as  heard  from  the  blended 
melody  of  many.  Fearfully  different  from 
this  were  the  feeUngs  of  Fardorougha,  on 
finding  that  he  was  to  be  the  first  and  the 
last  vouchsafed  to  their  union.  A  single 
regret,  however,  scarcely  felt,  touched  even 
him,  when  he  reflected  that  if  Connor  were 
to  be  removed  from  them,  their  hearth  must 
become  desolate.  But  then  came  the  fictitious 
conscience,  with  its  nefarious  calculations,  to 
j)rove  that,  in  their  jsresent  circumstances, 
the  dispensation  which  withheld  others  was 
a  blessing  to  him  that  was  given.  Even  Con- 
nor himself,  ai'gued  the  miser,  will  be  the 
gainer  by  it,  for  what  would  my  five  loaves 
and  three  fishes  be  among  so  many  ?  The 
pleasure,  howevei-,  that  is  derived  from  the 
violation  of  natural  affection  is  never  either 
fuU  or  satisfactory.  The  gratification  felt  by 
Fardorougha,  upon  reflecting  that  no  further 
addition  was  to  be  made  to  their  family,  re- 
sembled that  which  a  hungry  man  feels  who 
dreams  he  is  partaking  of  a  luxurious  ban- 
quet. Avarice,  it  is  true,  Uke  fancy,  was 
gratified,  but  the  enjoyment,  tliough  rich  to 
that  particular  passion,  left  behind  it  a  sense 
of  unconscious  remorse,  which  gnawed  his 
heart  with  a  slow  and  heavy  pain,  that  oper- 
ated like  a  smothered  fire,  wasting  what  it 
preys  ujjon,  in  secrecy  and  darkness.  In 
plainer  terms,  he  was  not  hajjfjy,  but  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  riding  passion — the  pursuit  of 
wealth — that  he  felt  afi'aid  to  analyze  his 
anxiety,  or  to  trace  to  its  true  source  the 
cause  of  his  own  misery. 

In  the  mean  time,  his  boy  gi'cw  up  the 
pride  and  ornament  of  the  parish,  idolized 
by  his  mother,  and  beloved  by  aU  who  knew 
him.  Limited  and  scanty  was  the  education 
which  his  father  could  be  prevaUed  upon  to 
bestow  upon  him  ;  but  there  was  notliing 
that  could  dejM'ive  him  of  his  natural  good 
sense,  nor  of  the  affections  which  his  mo- 
ther's love  had  di'awn  out  and  cultivated. 
One  thing  was  remarkable  in  him,  which  we 
mention  with  reluctance,  as  it  places  his  fa- 
ther's character  in  a  frightful  point  of  view  ; 
it  is  this,  that  his  love  for  that  father  was 
such  as  is  rarely  witnessed,  even  in  the  pu 
rest  and  most  affectionate  circles  of  domestic 
life.  But  let  not  our  readers  infer,  either 
fi'om  what  we  have  T\Titten,  or  from  any 
thing  we  may  write,  that  Fardorouglia  hated 
this  lovely  and  delightful  boy  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, earth  contained  not  an  object,  except 
his  iticncy,  which  he  loved  so  well.      His  af- 


198 


WILLIAM  CARLETOIS^'S   WORKS. 


fection  for  liim,  however,  was  only  such  as 
could  proceed  from  the  dregs  of  a  defiled 
and  perverted  heart.  This  is  not  saj'ing 
much,  but  it  is  saying  all.  What  in  him  was 
parental  attachment,  would  in  another  man, 
to  such  a  son,  be  unfeeling  and  detestable 
indifference.  His  heart  sank  on  contemplat- 
ing the  jDittance  he  allowed  for  Connor's  ed- 
ucation ;  and  no  remonstrance  could  prevail 
on  him  to  clothe  the  boy  with  common  de- 
cency. Pocket-money  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, as  were  all  those  considerate  indulgen- 
ces to  youth,  that  blunt,  when  timelj'  afford- 
ed, the  edge  of  early  anxiety  to  know  those 
amusements  of  life,  which,  if  not  iunocently 
gratified  before  passion  gets  strong,  are  aj)t 
to  produce,  at  a  later  period,  that  giddy  in- 
toxication, which  has  been  the  destruction  of 
thousands.  When  Connor,  however,  grew 
up,  and  began  to  think  for  himself,  he  could 
not  heljD  feeling  that,  from  a  man  so  abso- 
lutely devoted  to  wealth  as  his  father 
was,  to  receive  even  the  slenderest  proof 
of  affection,  was  in  this  case  no  common 
manifestation  of  the  attachment  he  bore  him. 
There  was  still  a  higher  and  nobler  motive. 
He  could  not  close  his  ears  to  the  character 
which  had  gone  abroad  of  his  father,  and 
from  that  priucijjle  of  generosity,  which  in- 
duces a  man,  even  when  ignorant  of  the 
cjuarrel,  to  take  the  weaker  side,  he  fought 
his  battles,  until,  in  the  end,  he  began  to 
believe  them  just.  But  the  most  obvious 
cause  of  the  son's  attachment  we  have  not 
mentioned,  and  it  is  useless  to  travel  in- 
to vain  disquisitions,  for  that  tmth  which 
may  be  found  in  the  instinctive  impulses 
of  nature.  He  was  Connor's  father,  and 
though  penurious  in  everything  that  re- 
garded even  his  son's  common  comfort,  he 
liad  never  uttered  a  harsh  word  to  him  dur- 
ing his  life,  or  denied  him  any  gratification 
which  could  be  had  without  money.  Nay, 
a  kind  word,  or  a  kind  glance,  from  Fardo- 
rougha,  fired  the  son's  resentment  against 
the  world  which  traduced  him  ;  for  how 
could  it  be  otherwise,  when  the  habitual 
defence  made  by  him,  when  arraigned  for 
his  penury,  was  an  anxiety  to  iJro\-ide  for 
the  future  welfare  and  independence  of  his 
son? 

Many  characters  in  life  appear  difficult  to 
be  understood,  but  if  those  who  wish  to 
•analyze  them  onlj'  consulted  human  nature, 
instead  of  rushing  into  far-fetched  theories, 
and  traced  -n-ith  patience  the  effect  which  in- 
terest, or  habit,  or  inclination  is  apt  to  pro- 
duce on  men  of  a  peculiar  temperament, 
when  placed  in  certain  situations,  there 
would  be  much  less  diliicultj'  in  avoiding 
those  prejiosterous  exliibitious  which  run 
into  caricature,  or  outrage  the  wildest  com- 


binations that  can  be  formed  fi-om  the  com-' 
mon  elements  of  humanity. 

Having  said  this  much,  we  will  beg  our 
readers  to  suppose  that  young  Connor  is 
now  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  request 
them,  besides,  to  prepare  for  the  gloom 
which  is  about  to  overshadow  our  story. 

We  have  already  stated  that  Fardorougha 
was  not  only  an  extortioner,  but  a  usurer. 
Now,  as  some  of  our  readers  may  be  sur- 
prised that  a  man'  in  his  station  of  life  could 
practise  usui-y  or  even  extortion  to  any  con- 
siderable extent,  we  feel  it  necessary  to  in- 
form them  that  there  exists  among  Irish 
farmers  a  class  of  men  who  stand,  with  re- 
sjject  to  the  surrounding  poor  and  improv- 
ident, in  a  position  precisely  analogous  to 
that  which  is  occuj^ied  by  a  Jew  or  money- 
lender among  those  in  the  higher  classes 
who  borrow,  and  are  extravagant  upon  a 
liU'ger  scale.  If,  for  instance,  a  struggling 
small  farmer  have  to  do  with  a  needy  land- 
lord or  an  unfeeling  agent,  who  threatens  to 
seize  or  eject,  if  the  rent  be  not  paid  to  the 
day,  i3erhai3S  this  sRiall  farmer  is  forced  to 
borrow  from  one  of  those  rustic  Jews  the 
full  amount  of  the  gale  ;  for  this  he  gives 
him,  at  a  valuation  dictated  by  the  lender's 
avarice  and  his  oyax  distress,  the  oats,  or 
jjotatoes,  or  hay,  which  he  is  not  able  to  dis- 
pose of  in  sufficient  time  to  meet  the  demand 
that  is  ujion  him.  This  property,  .the  miser 
draws  home,  and  stacks  or  houses  it  until 
the  markets  are  high,  when  he  disposes  of 
it  at  a  price  which  often  secures  for  him  a 
profit  amounting  to  one-third,  and  occa- 
sionrdly  one-half,  above  the  sum  lent,  iqion 
which,  in  the  meantime,  interest  is  accumu- 
lating. For  instance,  if  the  accommodation 
be  twenty  jiounds,  property  to  that  amount 
at  a  ruinous  valuation  is  brought  home  by 
the  accommodator.  This  perhajis  sells  for 
thirty,  thirty-five,  or  forty  jjomids,  so  that, 
deducting  the  labor  of  preparing  it  for  mar- 
ket, there  is  a  gain  of  fifty,  seventy-five,  or  a 
hundred  jier  cent.,  besides,  jDrobablv,  ten 
per  cent,  interest,  which  is  altogether  dis- 
;  tinct  from  the  former.  This  class  of  per- 
sons will  also  take  a  joint  bond,  or  joint 
I  promissory  note,  or,  in  fact,  any  collateral 
secui-ity  they  know  to  be  valid,  and  if  the 
contract  be  not  fulfilled,  they  immediately 
■  pounce  upon  the  guarantee.  They  wiU,  in 
I  fact,  as  a  mark  of  their  anxiety  to  assist  a 
I  neighbor  in  distress,  receive  a  pig  from  a 
I  Avidow,  or  a  cow  from  a  strugghng  small 
farmer,  at  thirty  or  forty  per  cent,  beneath 
I  its  viilue,  and  claim  the  merit  of  being  a 
!  friend  into  the  bargam.  Such  men  are  bit- 
I  ter  enemies  to  paper  money,  especially  to 
notes  issued  by  private  bankers,  which  they 
I  never  take  in  payment.     It  is  amusing,  if  a 


FARBOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


198 


person  could  forget  the  distress  which  oc- 
casions the  scene,  to  observe  one  of  these 
men  producing  an  old  stocking,  or  a  long 
black  leathern  jjurse — or  a  calf-skm  pocket- 
book  \vith  the  hair  on,  and  counting  down,  as 
if  he  gave  out  his  heart's  blood  drojJ  by  drop, 
the  specific  sum,  uttering,  at  the  same  time, 
a  most  lugubrious  history  of  his  own  pov- 
erty, and  assuring  the  j)oor  wretch  he  is 
fleecing,  that  if  he  (the  miser)  gives  way  to 
his  good  nature,  he  must  ultimately  become 
the  victim  of  his  own  benevolence.  In  no 
case,  however,  do  they  ever  put  more  in  the 
purse  or  stocking  than  is  just  then  wanted, 
and  sometimes  they  ■will  be  short  a  guinea 
or  ten  shiUings,  which  they  borrow  from  a 
neighbor,  or  remit  to  the  unfortunate  dupe 
in  the  eoui'se  of  the  day.  This  they  do  in 
order  to  enhance  the  obligation,  and  give  a 
distinct  proof  of  their  povert}'.  Let  not, 
therefore,   the  gentlemen  of  the  Minories, 

nor   our   P s   and   our   M s   neai-er 

home,  imagine  for  a  moment  that  they  en- 
gross the  spii'it  of  rajjacity  and  extortion  to 
themselves.  To  the  credit  of  the  class,  how- 
ever, to  which  they  belong,  such  persons  are 
not  so  numerous  as  formerly,  and  to  the  still 
greater  honor  of  the  peasantry  be  it  said, 
the  devil  himself  is  not  hated  with  half  the 
(detestation  which  is  borne  them.  In  order 
■chat  the  reader  may  understand  our  motive 
for  introducing  such  a  description  as  that 
we  have  now  given,  it  will  be  necessary  for 
us  to  request  him  to  accompany  a  stout,  well- 
set  young  man,  named  Bartle  Flanagan,  along 
a  gi-een  ditch,  which,  planted  with  osiers, 
leatls  to  a  small  meadow  belonging  to  Far- 
dorougha  Donovan.  In  this  meadow,  his 
son  Connor  is  now  making  hay,  and  on  see- 
ing Flanagan  approach,  he  rests  upon  the 
top  of  his  rake,  and  exclaims  in  a  solil- 
oquy :— 

"  God  help  yon  and  yours,  Bartle  !  If  it 
was  in  my  power,  I  take  God  to  witness,  I'd 
make  up  wid  a  mllin'  heart  for  all  the  hard- 
ship and  misfortune  my  father  brought  upon 
you  all." 

He  then  resumed  his  labor,  in  order  that 
the  meeting  between  him  and  Bartle  might 
take  jjlace  with  less  embarrassment,  for  he 
•aw  at  once  that  the  former  was  about  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  Isn't  the  weather  too  hot,  Connor,  to 
■work  bareheaded?  I  think  you  ought  to 
keep  on  your  hat." 

"Bartle,  how  ai'e  you? — off  or  on,  it's  the 
same  thing ;  hat  or  no  hat,  it's  broilin' 
weather,  the  Lord  be  j)raised  !  What  news, 
Bartle?" 

"  Not  much,  Connor,  but  what  you  know 
—a  family  that  was  strugglin',  but  honest, 
brought  to  dissolation.     We're  broken  up  ; 


my  father  and  mother's  both  Mvin  in  a  cabin 
the}'  tuck  fi'om  Billy  Nuthy ;  Mary  and 
Aliek's  gone  to  sarvice,  and  myself's  just  on 
my  way  to  hii-e  wid  the  last  man  I  ought  to 
go  to — yoiu-  father,  that  is,  supposin'  we  can 
agree." 

"  As  heaven's  above  me,  Bartle,  there's  not 
a  man  in  the  county  this  day  sorrier  for 
what  has  happened  than  myself !  But  the 
truth  is,  that  when  my  father  heard  of  Tom 
Grelian,  that  was  yoiu-  security,  havin'  gone 
to  America,  he  thought  every  day  a  month 
till  the  note  was  due.  My  mother  an'  I  did 
aU  we  could,  but  you  know  his  temper ; 
'twas  no  use.  God  knows,  as  I  said  before, 
I'm  heart  sorry  for  it." 

"  Every  one  knows,  Connor,  that  if  your 
mother  an'  you  had  your  way  an'  will,  your 
fatlier  wouldn't  be  sich  a  screw  as  he  is." 

"In  the  meantime,  don't  forget  that  he 
is  mj-  father,  Bartle,  an'  above  all  things,  re- 
mimber  that  I"U  allow  no  man  to  sjieai  dis- 
paragingly of  him  in  my  presence." 

"  I  believe  you'U  allow,  Connor,  that  he 
was  a  scourge  an'  a  curse  to  us,  an'  that  none 
of  us  ought  to  like  a  bone  in  his  skin." 

"  It  couldn't  be  expiected  you  would,  Bar- 
tle ;  but  3'ou  must  gi'aut,  after  all,  that  he 
was  only  recoverin'  his  own.  Still,  when  you 
know  what  my  feeUng  is  ui3on  the  business, 
I  don't  think  it's  generous  in  you  to  bring  it 
up  between  us." 

"  I  could  bear  his  harrishin'  us  out  of 
house  an'  home,"  proceeded  the  other,  "  only 
for  one  thought  that  still  Grasses  in  an 
me." 

"What  is  that,  Bartle?— God  knows  I 
can't  helj)  feelin'  for  you,"  he  added,  smote 
with  the  desolation  which  his  father  had 
brought  upon  the  family. 

"  He  lent  us  forty  pounds,"  proceeded  the 
young  man  ;  "and  when  he  found  that  Tom 
Grehan,  oiu"  security,  went  to  America,  he 
came  do\vn  upon  us  the  minute  the  note  was 
due,  canted  aU  we  had  at  half  price,  and 
turned  us  to  starve  upon  the  world  ;  now,  I 
could  bear  that,  but  there's  one  thing " 

"  That's  twice  j'ou  spoke  about  that  one 
thing,"  said  Connor,  somewhat  sharjjly,  for 
he  felt  hurt  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  other,  in 
continuing  a  subject  so  distressing  to  him  ; 
"but,"  he  continued,  in  a  mUder  tone,  "  tell 
me,  Bai'tle,  for  goodness'  sake,  what  it  is, 
an'  let  us  put  an'  end  to  the  diseoorse.  I'm 
sui-e  it  must  be  unj^leasant  to  both  of  us." 

"  It  doesn't  signify,"  rephed  the  yoimg 
man,  in  a  desponding  voice — "  tthes  gone  ; 
it's  all  over  wid  me  there  ;  I'm  a  beggar — 
I'm  a  beggar  ! " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  taking  his  hand, 
"you're  too  much  downhearted;  come  to 
us,  but  first  go  to  my  father  ;  I  know  you'll 


200 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


find  it  liai-cl  to  deal  vdih  bim.  Never  mind 
that  ;  wliatever  he  offers  you,  close  wid  him, 
ail'  take  my  word  for  it  that  my  mother  and 
I  between  us  will  make  you  up  daceut  wages  ; 
an'  sorry  I  am  that  it's  come  to  this  wid  you, 
poor  fellow ! " 

Bartle's  cheek  grew  pale  as  ashes ;  he 
wrung  Connor's  hand  with  all  his  force,  and 
fixed  an  unshrinking  eye  on  him  as  he  re- 
phed — 

"  Thank  you  Connor,  noic — but  I  hope 
rU  live  to  thank  you  better  yeA,  and  if  I  do, 
you  needn't  thank  me  for  any  return  I 
may  make  you  or  youi's.  I  will  close  wid 
youi"  father,  an'  take  whatsomever  he'U  or- 
der me  ;  for,  Connor,"  and  he  ^vrung  his 
hand  again — "  Connor  O'Donovan,  I  haven't 
a  house  or  home  this  day,  nor  a  place  under 
God's  canopy  where  to  lay  my  head,  except 
upon  the  damp  floor  of  my  father's  naked 
cabin.  Think  of  that,  Connor,  an'  think  if  I 
can  forget  it ;  still,"  he  added,  "you'll  see, 
Connor — Connor,  youll  see  hoio  I'll  forgice 
it." 

"It's  a  credit  to  yourself  to  spake  as  you 
do,"  rephed  Connor  ;  "  call  this  way,  an'  let 
me  know  what's  done,  an'  I  hope,  Bartle, 
you  an'  I  will  have  some  pleasant  days  to- 
gether." 

"  Ay,  an'  j)leasant  nights,  too,  I  hojje,"  re- 
plied the  other :  "  to  be  sure  I'U  call ;  but  if 
you  take  my  advice,  you'd  tie  a  handkerchy 
about  your  head  ;  it's  mad  hot,  an'  enough 
to  give  one  a  faver  bareheaded." 

Having  made  this  last  observation,  he 
Isp.ped  across  a  small  drain  that  bounded  the 
m«adow,  and  j)i'oeeeded  up  the  fields  to  Far- 
dorougha's  house. 

Bartle  Flanagan  was  a  young  man,  about 
five  feet  six  in  height,  but  of  a  remai'kably 
compact  and  athletic  form.  His  complexion 
■was  dark,  but  his  countenance  ojjen,  and  his 
features  well  set  and  regvdar.  Indeed  his 
whole  appearance  might  be  termed  bland 
and  prepossessing.  If  he  ever  apjjeared  to 
disadvantage  it  was  whilst  under  the  in- 
fluence of  resentment,  during  which  his  face 
became  pale  as  death,  nay,  almost  livid  ;  and, 
as  his  brows  were  strong  and  black,  the  con- 
trast between  them  and  his  complexion 
changed  the  whole  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance into  that  of  a  person  whose  enmity  a 
prudent  man  would  avoid.  He  was  not  quar- 
relsome, however,  nor  subject  to  any  impetu- 
ous bursts  of  jiassion  ;  his  resentments,  if  he 
retained  any,  were  either  dead  or  silent,  or, 
at  aU  events,  so  well  regulated  that  his  ac- 
quaintances looked  upon  him  as  a  young 
fellow  of  a  good-humored  and  fi-iendly  dis- 
position. It  is  true,  a  hint  liad  gone  abroad 
that  on  one  or  two  occasions  he  was  found 
deficient  in  courage  ;  but,  as  the  circumstan- 


ces referred  to  were  rather  vmimportant,  hia 
conduct  by  many  was  attributed  rather  to 
good  sense  and  a  disinclination  to  quarrel  on 
frivolous  grounds,  than  to  positive  cowardice. 
Such  he  was,  and  such  he  is,  now  that  he 
has  entered  uj)on  the  humble  di'ama  of  our 
story. 

On  arriving  at  Fardorougha's  house,  he 
found  that  worthy  man  at  dinner,  upon  a 
cold  bone  of  bacon  and  potatoes.  He  had 
only  a  few  moments  before  returned  fi-om 
the  residence  of  the  Coimty  Treasurer,  with 
whom  he  went  to  lodge,  among  other  sums, 
that  which  was  so  iniquitously  ^viiing  fi-om 
the  ruin  of  the  Flanagans.  It  would  be  wrong 
to  say  that  he  felt  in  any  degree  embai-rassed 
on  looking  into  the  face  of  one  whom  he  had 
so  ojjpressively  injured.  The  recovery  of  his 
usurious  debts,  no  matter  how  merciless  the 
process,  he  considered  only  as  an  act  of  jus- 
tice to  himself,  for  his  conscience  haring  long 
ago  outgrown  the  perception  of  his  own  in- 
humanity, now  only  felt  compunction  when 
i  death  or  the  occasional  insolvency  of  a  se- 
curity defeated  his  rapacity. 

When  Bartle  entered,  Fardorougha  and  he 
surveyed  each  other  with  perfect  coolness 
for  nearly  half  a  minute,  during  which  time 
neither  uttered  a  word.  The  silence  was 
first  broken  by  Honora,  ^^ho  put  forwai'd  a 
chair,  and  asked  Flanagan  to  sit  do\vn. 

"  Sit  down,  Bartle,"  said  she,  "sit  down, 
boy  ;  an'  how  is  all  the  familj'  ?  " 

"  'Deed,  can't  comjilain,"  rejilied  Bartle, 
"  as  time  goes  ;  an'  how  are  you,  Fardorou- 
gha? although  I  needn't  ax — you're  takiu' 
care  of  number  one,  any  how." 

"I'm  middlin',  Bartle,  middlin';  as  well  as 
a  man  can  be  that  has  his  heart  broke  every 
day  in  the  year  striviu'  to  come  by  his  own, 
an'  can't  do  it ;  but  I'm  a  fool,  an'  ever  was 
— sarvin'  others  an'  laiinin'  myself." 

"Bartle,"  said  Mrs.  Donovan,  "are  you 
unwell,  dear?  you  look  as  j^ale  as  death. 
Let  me  get  you  a  drink  of  fresh  milk." 

"  If  he's  weak,"  said  Fardorougha,  "an' he 
looks  weak,  a  di'ink  of  fi-esh  wather  'ud  be 
betther  for  him  ;  ever  an'  alwaj's  a  drink  of 
wather  for  a  weak  man,  or  a  weak  woman 
aither  ;  it  recovers  them  sooner." 

"  Thank  you,  kindly,  INIrs.  Donovan,  an' 
I'm  obhged  to  you,  Fardorougha,  for  the 
wather  ;  but  I'm  not  a  bit  weak  ;  it's  only  the 
heat  o'  the  day  ads  me — for  sure  enough  it's 
broDin'  weather." 

"  'Deed  it  is,'"  replied  Honora,  "  killin' 
weather  to  them  that  has  to  be  out  umlher 
it." 

"  If  it's  good  for  nothiii'  else,  it's  good  for 
the  hay-makin',"  obsei-ved  Fardorougha. 

"  I'm  tould,  Misther  Donovan,"  said  Bartle, 
"  that  you  want  a  sarvint  man  :  now,  if  you 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


20] 


do,  I  want  a  place,  an'  you  see  I'm  comin'  to 
you  to  look  ioi'  one." 

"  Heaven  above,  Bartle  !  "  exclaimed  Hon- 
ora,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  Is  it  one  of  Dan 
Flanagan's  sons  goin'  to  sarvice  ?  " 

"  Not  one,  but  all  of  them,"  replied  the 
other,  coolly,  "  an'  his  daughters,  too,  Mrs. 
Donovan  ;  but  it's  all  the  way  o'  the  world. 
If  Mr.  Donovan  'U  hire  me  I'U  thank  liim." 

"  Don't  be  Mklherin  me,  Bartle  ;  Mistlier 
them  that  has  means  an'  substance,"  retm-ned 
Donovan. 

"  Oh,  God  forgive  you,  Fardorougha  !  "  ex- 
claimed his  honest  and  humane  wife.  "  God 
forgive  you  !  Bartle,  from  my  heart,  from  the 
core  o'  my  heart,  I  ijity  you,  my  jJoor  boy. 
An'  is  it  to  this,  Fardorougha,  you've  brought 
thein  ? — Oh,  Saviour  o'  the  world  !  " 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  victim  of  her 
husband's  extortion,  and  in  an  instant  they 
were  filled  with  tears. 

"What  did  I  do,"  said  the  latter,  "but 
strive  to  recover  my  own  ?  How  could  I  af- 
ford to  lose  forty  jjounds  ?  An'  I  was  tould 
for  sartin  that  yoiu"  father  knew  Grehan  was 
goin'  to  Ameriky  when  he  got  him  to  go  se- 
curity. "Whisht,  Honora,  you're  as  fooUsh  a 
woman  as  riz  this  day  ;  haven't  you  yoiu-  sins 
to  ciT  for  ■?  " 

"  God  knows  I  have,  Fardorougha,  an'  more 
than  mj'  own  to  cry  for." 

"  I  dare  say  you  did  hear*  as  much."  said 
Bartle,  quietly  replying  io  the  obsei-vation  of 
Fardorougha  respecting  his  father  ;  "  but  30U 
know  it's  a  foUy  to  talk  about  spUt  milk.  If 
30U  want  a  sar^'int  I'LL  hir^  ;  for,  as  I  said  a 
while  ago,  /  want  a  j^lace,  an'  except  wid  you 
I  don't  know  where  to  get  one." 

"If  you  come  to  me,"  obsw\'ed  the  other, 
"you  must  go  to  your  duty,  an'  observe  the 
fast  days,  but  not  the  holj'day.,." 

"  Sanints  isn't  obUged  to  oOsar\-e  them," 
replied  Bai'tle. 

"  But  I  always  put  it  in  the  bargain,"  re- 
turned the  other. 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Bartle,  "  I  don't  much 
mind  it.  Sure  it'U  be  for  the  good  o'  my 
fiovvl,  any  way.  But  what  wages  will  you  be 
gi^in'  ?  " 

"  Thirty  shillings  even'  half  year  ; — that's 
three  pomids — sixty  shUlings  a  yeai-.  A  great 
deal  o'  money.  I'm  sure  I  dunna  where  it's 
to  come  fi'om." 

"  It's  very  httle  for  a  year's  hard  labor," 
replied  Bartle,  "but  little  as  it  is,  Fardo- 
rougha, owiu'  to  what  has  hapjicned  betwixt 
us,  believe  me,  I'm  right  glad  to  take  it." 

"  Well,  but  Bai-tle,  you  know  there's  fif- 
teen sliillius  of  the  ould  account  still  due, 
and  you  must  allow  it  out  o'  j'our  wages  ;  if 
you  don't,  it's  no  bargain." 

Bartle's  face  became   Uvid  :   but  he  was 


perfectly  cool ; — indeed,  so  much  so  i  hat  he 
smiled  at  this  last  condition  of  Fardorou- 
gha. It  was  a  smile,  however,  at  once  so 
ghastly,  dark,  and  fiightfid,  that,  by  any 
person  eaj)nble  of  tracing  the  secret  work- 
ings of  some  deadly  passion  on  the  counte- 
nance, its  purport  could  not  have  been  mis- 
taken. 

"God  knows,  Fardorougha,  you  might 
let  thai  pass — considher  that  you've  been 
hai'd  enough  ujion  us." 

"  God  knows  I  say  the  same,"  obsei-ved 
Honora.  "Is  it  the  last  drop  o'  the  heart's 
blood  you  want  to  squeeze  out,  Fai'do- 
rougha  ?  " 

"  The  last  drop !  "WTiat  is  it  but  my 
right?  Am  I  robbin'  him?  Isn't  it  due? 
Will  he,  or  can  he  deny  Ihat  ?  An'  if  its  due 
isn't  it  but  honest  in  him  to  pay  it  ?  The3're 
not  Hvin'  can  say  I  ever  defrauded  them  of 
a  jjenny.  I  never  broke  a  bargain  ;  an'  yet 
you  oj)en  on  me,  Honora,  as  if  I  was  a 
rogue  !  If  I  hadn't  that  boy  below  to  jJrovide 
for,  an'  settle  in  the  world,  what  'ud  I  care 
about  money  ?  It's  for  h  is  sake  I  look  afther 
my  right." 

"  I'U  allow  the  money, "  said  Bartle. 
"  Fardorougha's  right ;  it's  due,  an'  I'E.  pay 
him — ay  \n\\.  I,  Fardorougha,  settle  wid  you 
to  the  last  farden.  or  beyant  it  if  you  Uke." 

"I  wouldn't  take  a  farden  beyant  it,  in 
the  shape  of  debt.  Them  that's  decent 
enough  to  make  a  present,  may — for  that's 
a  horse  of  another  color." 

"  When  will  I  come  home  ? "  inquu'ed 
Bartle. 

"  You  may  stay  at  home  now  that  you're 
here,"  said  the  other.  "  An'  in  the  mane 
time,  go  an'  help  Connor  put  that  hay  in 
lap-cocks.  Anything  you  want  to  bring  liere 
j'ou  can  bring  afther  your  clay's  work  to- 
night." 

"Did  you  ate  yoiu"  dinner,  Bartle  ?  "  said 
Honora  ;  '•  bekase  if  you  didn't  I'U  get  you 
something." 

"  It's  not  to  this  time  o'  day  he'd  be 
without  his  dinner,  I  suppose,"'  observed  his 
new  master. 

"  You're  very  right,  Fardorougha,"'  re- 
joined Bartle  ;  "I'm  thankful  to  j'ou,  ma'am, 
I  did  ate  my  dinner." 

"  Well,  you'll  get  a  rake  in  the  bam,  Bar^ 
tie,"  said  his  master  ;  "  an'  now  tramp  do^^Ti 
to  Connor,  an'  I'll  see  how  you'U  handle  your- 
selves, both  o'  you,  from  this  tUl  night." 

Bartle  accordingly  pi-ooeeded  towards  the 
meadow,  and  Fardorougha,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom, throwing  his  gTeat  coat  loosely  about 
his  shoulders,  the  arms  dangUng  on  each 
side  of  him,  proceeded  to  another  part  of 
his  fiu'm. 

Flanagan's  step,   on  his  way  to  joiu  Con- 


202 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOEJfS. 


iior,  was  slow  and  meditative.  The  kindness 
of  the  son  and  mother  touched  him  :  for  the 
Une  between  their  disposition  and  Fardo- 
rougha's  was  too  strong  and  clear  to  allow 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  their  p:x)-ticip;ition 
in  the  spirit  which  regnlated  his  hfe.  The 
father,  however,  had  just  declared  that  his 
anxiety  to  accumulate  money  arose  from  a 
wish  to  settle  his  sou  iudeisendently  in  life  ; 
and  Flanagan  was  too  slightly  acquainted 
with  human  character  to  see  through  this 
flimsy  apology  for  extortion.  He  took  it 
for  granted  that  Fardorougha  spoke  tinith, 
and  his  resolution  received  a  bias  from  the 
impression,  which,  however,  his  better  na- 
ture determined  to  subdue.  In  this  uncer- 
tain state  of  mind  he  turned  about  almost 
instinctively,  to  look  in  the  direction  which 
Fardorougha  had  taken,  and  as  he  observed 
his  diminutive  figiu'e  creej)Lag  along  with 
his  great  coat  about  him,  he  felt  that  the 
very  sight  of  the  man  who  had  broken  iip 
their  hearth  and  scattered  them  on  the 
world,  filled  his  heart  with  a  deep  and  dead- 
ly animosity  that  occasioned  him  to  pause  as 
a  person  would  do  who  finds  himself  unex- 
pectedly ujjon  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 

Connor,  on  seeing  him  enter  the  meadow 
with  the  rake,  knew  at  once  that  the  terms 
had  been  concluded  between  them  ;  and  the 
excellent  young  man's  heart  was  deeply 
moved  at  the  destitution  which  forced  Flan- 
agan to  seek  for  service  with  the  very  indi- 
vidual who  had  occasioned  it. 

"  I  see,  Bartle,"  said  he,  "  you  have  agreed." 

"  We  have,"  replied  Bartle.  "  But  if  there 
had  been  any  other  jjlace  to  be  got  in  the 
parish — (an'  indeed  only  for  the  state  I'm  in) 
— ^I  wouldn't  have  hired  mj'self  to  him  for 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  as  I  have  done." 

"  "Why,  what  did  he  promise  ?  " 

"Three  jiounds  a  year,  an'  out  o'  that  I'm 
to  pay  him  fifteen  shillings  that  my  father 
owes  him  stLQ." 

"  Close  enough,  Bartle,  but  don't  be  cast 
down  ;  I'll  undertake  that  my  mother  an'  I 
will  double  it — an'  as  for  the  fifteen  shillings 
I'U  pay  them  out  o'  my  own  i>ocket — when  I 
get  moncA'.  I  needn't  tell  you  that  we're  all 
kept  upon  the  tight  crib,  and  that  httle  cash 
goes  far  with  us  ;  for  all  that,  we'll  do  what  I 
.  promise,  go  as  it  may." 

"  It's  more  than  I  ought  to  expect,  Connor  ; 
but  youi-self  and  your  mother,  all  the  coun- 
thry  would  put  their  hands  uudher  both  your 
feeta." 

"I  would  give  a  great  dale,  Bartle,  that 
my  poor  father  had  a  little  of  the  feelin'  that's 
in  my  mother's  heart ;  but  it's  his  way, 
Bartle,  an'  jou  know  he's  my  father,  an'  has 
been  kinder  to  me  than  to  any  livin'  creature 
on  this  earth.     I  never  got  a  harsh  word  from 


him  yet.  An'  if  he  kept  me  stinted  in  manj 
things  that  I  was  entitled  to  as  well  as  othei 
persons  like  me,  stUl,  Bartle,  he  loves  me,  an' 
I  can't  but  feel  great  affection  for  him,  love 
the  money  as  he  may." 

This  was  spoken  with  much  seriousness  of 
manner  not  unmingled  with  somewhat  of 
regret,  if  not  sorrow.  Bartle  fixed  his  eye 
upou  the  fine  face  of  his  companion,  with  a 
look  in  vi'hich  there  was  a  character  of  com- 
passion. His  countenance,  however,  while 
he  gazed  on  him,  maintained  his  natural 
color — it  was  not  pale. 

"I  am  Sony,  Connor,"  said  he  slowly,  "I 
am  sorry  that  I  hired  with  your  father." 

"An' I'm  glad  of  it,"  rejihed  the  other; 
"why  should  you  be  sorry  ?  " 

Bartle  made  no  answer  for  some  time,  but 
looked  into  the  ground,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  him. 

"  Why  should  you  be  soriy,  Bartle?  " 

Nearly  a  minute  elapsed  before  his  ab 
straction  was  broken.  "What's  that?"  said 
he  at  length.    "  What  were  you  asking  me  ?  " 

"You  said  you  were  sorry." 

"Oh,  ay!"  returned  the  other,  interrapt- 
ing  him  ;  "but  I  didn"  mind  what  I  was  say- 
in'  :  'twas  thmkin'  o'  somethiu'  else  I  was — 
of  home,  Bartle,  an'  what  we're  brought  to  ; 
but  the  best  way's  to  dlu'oi)  all  discoorse  about 
that  forever." 

"You'll  be  my  fiieud  if  you  do,"  said 
Connor. 

"I  will,  then,"  rejilied  Bartle;  "we'll 
change  it.     Connor,  were  jou  ever  in  love ?  " 

O'Donovan  turned  quicklj'  about,  and, 
with  a  keen  glance  at  Bartle,  rephed, 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  ;  I  believe  I  might, 
once  or  so." 

"lam,"  said  Flanagan,  bitterly;  " I  airi^ 
Connor." 

"An'  who's  thehaiJjw  crature,  will  you  tell 
us?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  other  ;  "  but  if  there's 
a  wish  that  I'd  make  against  my  worst  ene- 
my, 'twould  be,  that  he  might  love  a  girl 
above  his  means  ;  or  if  he  was  her  aquil,  or 
even    near    her    aquil,    that   he   might    be 

brought" he   jjaused,    but   immediately 

jjroceeded,  "  Well,  no  matter,  I  am,  indeed, 
Connor." 

"  An'  is  the  girl  fond  o'  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  ;  my  mind  was  made  uj)  to 
tell  her  but  it's  past  that  now  ;  I  know  she's 
wealthy  and  proud  both,  and  so  is  all  her 
family." 

"  How  do  you  know  she's  proud  when  you 
never  jmt  the  subject  to  her  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sayin'  she's  proud,  in  one  sinse  ; 
wid  respect  to  herself,  I  beheve,  she's  humble 
enough ;  I  mane,  she  doesn't  give  herself 
many  au-s,  but  her  people's  as  proud  as  the 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


203 


vnry  saiT.a,  an'  never  match  below  tliem  ;  still, 
if  I'd  opportunities  of  baiu'  often  in  lier 
company,  I'd  not  fear  to  trust  to  a  sweet 
tongue  for  comin'  round  her." 

"Never  despair,  Bartle,"  said  Connor; 
"  you  know  the  ould  jJroverb,  '  a  faintheart ; ' 
however,  settiu'  the  pi-u-ty  cratnre  aside,  who- 
ever she  is,  I  think  if  we  divided  ourselves — 
j'ou  to  that  side,  an'  me  to  this — we'd  get 
this  hay  hqjped  in  half  the  time  ;  or  do  you 
take  which  side  you  plase." 

"It's  a  bargain,"  said  Bartle  ;  "  I  don't  care 
a  trawueen  ;  I'll  stay  where  I  am,  thin,  an' 
do  you  go  bey  ant  ;  let  us  hurry,  too,  ^or,  if 
I'm  not  mistaken,  it's  too  sultry  to  be  long 
without  rain,  the  sky,  too,  is  gettin'  dark." 

"I  observed  as  much  myself,"  said  Con- 
nor ;  "  an'  that  was  what  made  me  spake." 

Both  then  continued  their  labor  with  re- 
doubled energy,  nor  ceased  for  a  moment 
until  the  task  was  executed,  and  the  business 
of  the  daj'  concluded. 

Flanagan's  observation  was  indeed  con-ect, 
as  to  the  change  in  the  day  and  the  ajspear- 
ance  of  the  sky.  From  the  hour  of  five 
o'clock  the  darkness  gradually  deepened,  un- 
til a  dead  black  shadow,  fearfully  stiU  and 
solemn,  wrapi^ed  the  whole  liorizou.  The 
sun  had  altogether  disajjpeared,  and  nothing 
was  visible  in  the  sky  but  one  unbroken 
mass  of  darkness,  unrelieved  even  b3''  a  sin- 
gle pile  of  clouds.  The  animals,  where  they 
could,  had  betaken  themselves  to  shelter  ; 
the  fowls  of  the  air  sought  the  covert  of  the 
hedges,  and  ceased  their  songs  ;  the  larks 
fled  from  the  mid  heaven  ;  and  occasionally 
might  be  seen  a  straggling  bee  hurrying 
homewards,  careless  of  the  flowers  which 
tempted  him  in  his  path,  and  only  anxious 
to  reach  his  hive  before  the  deluge  should 
overtake  him.  The  stillness  indeed  was  aw- 
ful, as  was  the  gloomy  veil  which  darkened 
the  face  of  nature,  and  filled  the  mind  with 
that  ominous  terror  which  presses  upon  the 
heart  like  a  consciousness  of  guilt.  In  such 
a  time,  and  under  the  aspect  of  a  sky  so 
much  resembhng  the  pall  of  death,  there  is 
neither  mirth  nor  laughter,  but  that  indi- 
viduality of  apprehension,  which,  whilst  it 
throws  the  conscience  in  upon  its  own  records, 
and  suspends  conversation,  yet  draws  man  to 
his  fellows,  as  if  mere  contiguity  were  a  safe- 
guard against  danger. 

The  conversation  between  the  two  young 
men  as  they  returned  from  their  labor,  was 
fthort  but  expressive. 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  "  are  you  afeai-d  of 
thundher?  The  rason  I  ax,"  he  added,  "  is, 
bekase  your  face  is  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"  I  have  it  from  mj'  mother,"  rejihed  Flan- 
agan, "  but  at  all  evints  such  an  evenin'  as  this 
is  enough  to  malie  the  heai't  of  any  man  quake. " 


"  I  feel  my  spirits  low,  by  rason  of  the 
darkness,  but  I'm  not  afraid.  It's  well  for 
them  that  have  a  clear  conscience  ;  they  say 
that  a  stormy  sky  is  the  face  of  an  angry 
God " 

"  An'  the  thundher  His  voice,"  added 
Bartle  ;  "  but  why  are  the  brute  bastes  an' 
the  birds  afraid,  that  commit  no  sin  ?  " 

"  That's  tiiie,"  said  his  companion  ;  "  it 
must  be  natural  to  be  afraid,  or  why  would 
thqi  uideed  ? — but  some  people  ai'e  naturally 
more  timersome  than  others." 

"  I  intinded  to  go  home  for  my  other  clo'ea 
an'  linen  this  evenin',"  observed  Bartle,  "but 
I  won't  go  out  to-night." 

"I  must  thin,"  said  Connor;  "an',  with 
the  blessin'  o'  God,  ^\'ill  too  ;  come  what  may." 

"  Why,  what  is  there  to  bring  you  out,  if 
it's  a  fair  question  to  as?"  inquired  the 
other. 

"  A  f)romise,  for  one  thing  ;  an'  my  owii 
inclination — my  own  heart — that's  nearer 
the  thruth — for  another.  It's  the  first  meetiu' 
that  I  an'  her  I'm  goiu'  to  ever  had." 

"  Thif/hum,  T/iighinn,  I  undherstand,"  said 
Flanagan  ;  "  well,  I'll  stay  at  home  ;  but, 
sure  it's  no  harm  to  wish  you  success — an' 
that,  Connor,  is  more  than  I'll  ever  have 
where  I  vnsh  for  it  most." 

This  closed  their  dialogue,  and  both  en- 
tered Fardorougha's  house  in  silence. 

Up  until  twilight,  the  darkness  of  the  dull 
and  heavj'  sky  was  unbroken ;  but  towards 
the  west  there  was  seen  a  streak  whose  color 
could  not  be  deteimined  as  that  of  blood  or 
fire.  By  its  angry  look,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
sky  in  that  quarter  were  about  to  burst  fortli 
in  one  awful  sweep  of  conflagration.  Con- 
nor observed  it,  and  very  correctly  antici- 
pated the  nature  and  consequences  of  its  ap- 
jJearance  ;  but  what  will  not  youthful  love 
dare  and  overcome  ?  With  an  undismayed 
heart  he  set  forward  on  his  journey,  which 
we  leave  him  to  liiirsue,  and  beg  2)ermissiou, 
meanwhile,  to  transport  the  reader  to  a  scene 
distant  about  two  miles  farther  towards  the 
inland  part  of  the  couuti-y. 


PART  n. 

The  dwelling  of  Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien,  to 
which  Connor  is  no\v  directing  his  steps, 
was  a  favorable  speciinen  of  that  better  class 
of  farm-houses  inhabited  by  our  most  exten- 
sive and  wealthy  agi-iculturists.  It  was  a 
large,  whitewashed,  ornamentally  thatched 
building,  that  told  by  its  external  aspect  of 
the  good  living,  extensive  comforts,  and  sub- 
stantial opulence  which  prevailed  within. 
Stretched  before  its  hall-door  wa?  a  small 


ao4 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


lawn,  bounded  on  tlie  left  by  a  wall  that 
separated  it  from  the  farm-yard  into  which 
the  kitchen  door  opened.  Here  were  stacks 
of  hay,  oats,  and  wheat,  all  uijon  an  immense 
scale,  both  as  to  size  and  number  ;  together 
'with  threshing  and  winnowing  machines, 
improved  ploughs,  carts,  cars,  and  all  the 
other  modern  implements  of  an  extensive 
farm.  Very  cheering,  indeed,  was  the  din 
of  industry  that  arose  from  the  clank  of  ma- 
chinery, the  grunting  of  hogs,  the  cackling 
of  geese,  the  quacking  of  ducks,  and  all  the 
Various  other  sounds  which  proceeded  from 
what  at  first  sight  might  have  apjjeared  to 
be  rather  a  scene  of  confusion,  but  which, 
on  closer  inspection,  would  be  found  a  rough 
yet  well-regulated  system,  in  which  every 
person  had  an  allotted  duty  to  perform. 
Here  might  Bodagh  Buie  be  seen,  dressed 
in  a  gray  broad-cloth  coat,  broad  kersejTnere 
breeches,  and  lambs'  wool  stockings,  moving 
from  place  to  jjlace  with  that  calm,  sedate, 
and  contented  air,  which  betokens  an  easy 
mind  and  a  consciousness  of  possessing  a 
more  than  ordinary  share  of  property  and 
influence.  With  hantls  tlurust  into  his  small- 
clothes jjockets,  and  a  bunch  of  gold  seals 
suspended  from  his  fob,  he  issued  his  orders 
in  a  gi'ave  and  quiet  tone,  differing  very  little 
in  dress  from  an  absolute  Squireen,  save  in 
the  fact  of  his  Caroline  hat  being  rather 
scuffed,  and  his  strong  shoes  begrimed  with 
the  soil  of  his  fields  or  farm-j'ard.  Mrs. 
O'Brien  was,  out  of  the  sphere  of  her  own 
family,  a  person  of  much  greater  pretension 
than  the  Bodagh  her  husband  ;  and,  though 
in  a  different  manner,  not  less  so  in  the  dis- 
charge of  her  duty  as  a  wife,  a  mother,  or  a 
mistress.  In  appearance,  she  was  a  large, 
fat,  good-looking  woman,  eternally  in  a  state 
of  motion  and  bustle,  and,  as  her  education 
had  been  extremely  scanty,  her  tone  and 
manner,  though  brimful  of  authority  and 
consequence,  were  strongly  marked  ■with 
that  ludicrous  vulgarity  which  is  produced 
by  the  attempt  of  an  ignorant  person  to  ac- 
complish a  high  style  of  gentUity.  She  was 
a  kind-hearted,  charitable  woman,  however  ; 
but  so  inveterately  conscious  of  her  station 
in  Hfe,  that  it  became,  in  her  opinion,  a  mat- 
ter of  duty  to  exhibit  a  refinement  and  ele- 
yation  of  language  suitable  to  a  matron  who 
could  drive  every  Sunday  to  Mass  on  her 
own  jaunting  car.  When  di-essed  on  these 
occasions  in  her  rich  rvistUiig  silks,  she  had, 
what  is  called  in  Ireland,  a  comfortal^le 
i'aghoola  look,  but  at  the  same  time  a  car- 
riage so  stiff  and  rustic,  as  utterl}'  overcame 
all  her  attempts,  dictated  as  they  were  by 
the  simplest  vanity,  at  enacting  the  aixluous 
and  awful  character  of  a  Sfjuirren'yt  wife. 
Their  family  consisted  of  a  sou  and  daughter ; 


the  former,  a  young  man  of  a  very  amiabla 
disi^osition,  was,  at  the  present  j)eriod  of 
our  story,  a  student  in  Maynooth  College, 
and  the  latter,  now  in  her  nineteenth  year, 
a  promising  pupil  in  a  certain  seminary  for 
young  ladies,  conducted  by  that  notorious 
Master  of  Ai'ts,  Little  Cuj)id.  Oona,  or 
Una,  O'Brien,  was  in  truth  a  most  fascinat- 
ing and  beautiful  brunette ;  tall  in  stature, 
light  and  agUe  in  all  her  motions,  cheerful 
and  sweet  in  temper,  but  ■ndth  just  as  much 
of  that  winning  caprice,  as  was  necessary  to 
give  zest  and  2^iquancy  to  her  whole  charac- 
ter. Though  tall  and  slender,  her  person 
was  by  no  means  thin  ;  on  the  contrary,  her 
limbs  and  figure  were  very  gTacefully  round- 
ed, and  gave  promise  of  that  agi'eeable  ful- 
ness, beneath  or  beyond  which  no  perfect 
model  of  femsde  proportion  can  exist.  If 
our  readers  could  get  one  glance  at  the  hue 
of  her  rich  cheek,  or  tVdl  for  a  moment  imder 
the  power  of  her  black  mellow  eye,  or  -vdi- 
ness  the  beauty  of  her  white  teeth,  while 
her  face  beamed  with  a  proftisiou  of  dim- 
23les,  or  saw  her  wliile  in  the  act  of  shaking 
out  her  inirinrible  lovtti,  ere  she  bound  them 
up  with  her  white  and  deKcate  hands — then, 
indeed,  might  they  imderstand  why  no  war 
of  the  elements  could  prevent  Connor  O'- 
Donovan  from  risking  life  and  limb  sooner 
than  disrtijpomt  her  in  the  promise  of  their 
first  meeting. 

Oh  that  first  meeting  of  jjure  and  youthful 
love  !  With  what  a  glory  is  it  ever  encircled 
in  thememory  of  the  human  heai't !  No  mat- 
ter how  long  or  how  melancholy  the  lapse  of 
time  since  its  past  existence  may  be,  stiU,  still, 
is  it  remembered  by  our  feelings  when  the  rec- 
ollection of  every  tie  but  itself  has  departed. 

The  charm,  however,  that  murmvu-ed  its 
many-toned  music  through  the  soul  of  Una 
O'Brien  was  not,  uj)on  the  evening  in  ques- 
tion, whoUy  fi'ee  from  a  shade  of  melancholy 
for  which  she  coidd  not  account  ;  and  this 
impression  did  not  result  fi-om  any  previous 
examination  of  her  love  for  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan,  though  many  such  she  had.  She  knew 
that  in  this  the  utmost  opposition  from  both 
her  parents  must  be  expected  ;  nor  was  it 
the  consequence  of  a  consciousness  on  her 
jjart,  that  in  promising  him  a  clandestine 
meeting,  she  had  taken  a  atep  which  could 
not  be  justified.  Of  this,  too,  she  had  been 
awai-e  before  ;  but,  until  the  horn-  of  cpiioint- 
ment  drew  near,  the  heaviness  which  jircssed 
her  down  was  such  as  caused  her  to  adiuit 
that  the  sensation,  however  j^ainful  and 
gloomy,  was  new  to  her,  and  bore  a  character 
distinct  fi'om  anything  that  could  iiroceed 
fi'om  the  vnrious  lights  in  which  she  had 
previously  considered  lier  attachment.  This 
was,  moreover,   heightened  by  the   bodLug 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


205 


aspect  of  tlie  Leavens  and  the  dread  repose 
of  the  evening,  so  iinhke  anything  she  had 
ever  witnessed  before.  Notwithstanding  all 
this,  she  was  sustained  by  the  eager  and  im- 
patient buoyancy  of  first  aft'ection  ;  which, 
when  imagination  pictured  the  handsome 
form  of  her  young  and  manly  lover,  pre- 
dominated for  the  time  over  every  reflection 
and  feeling  that  was  ojiposed  to  itseK.  Her 
mind,  indeed,  resembled  a  fair  autumn  laud- 
scape,  over  which  the  cloud-shadows  may  be 
seen  sweeping  for  a  moment,  whilst  again  the 
sun  comes  out  and  turns  all  into  serenity  and 
hght. 

The  place  appointed  for  their  intendew 
was  a  small  paddock  shaded  by  alders,  be- 
hind her  father's  garden,  and  thither,  with 
trembling  hmbs  and  palpitating  heart,  did 
the  young  and  graceful  daughter  of  Bodagh 
Buie  proceed. 

For  a  considerable  time,  that  is  to  say,  for 
three  long  years  before  this  delicious  appoint- 
ment, had  Connor  O'Donovan  and  Una  been 
wrapped  in  the  elysium  of  mutual  love.  At 
mass,  at  fair,  and  at  market,  had  they  often 
and  often  met,  and  as  frequently  did  their 
eyes  search  each  other  out,  and  reveal  in  long 
blushing  glances  the  state  of  their  respective 
hearts.  Many  a  time  did  he  seek  an  oppor- 
tunity to  disclose  what  he  felt,  and  as  often, 
with  confusion,  and  fear,  and  dehglit,  did  she 
afford  liim  what  he  sought.  Thus  did  one  op- 
portunity after  another  j)ass  away,  and  as  of- 
ten did  he  form  the  towering  resolution  to  re- 
veal his  aftectiou  if  he  were  ever  favored  with 
another.  Still  would  some  disheartening  re- 
flection, arising  from  the  uncommon  gentle- 
ness and  extreme  modesty  of  his  cliai'acter, 
throw  a  damp  upon  his  spirit.  He  ques- 
tioned his  own  penetration  ;  perhaps  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  gliucing  as  much  at 
others  as  she  glanced  at  him.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
Bodagh  Buie,  the  wealthiest  man,  and  of  his 
wife,  the  proudest  woman,  within  a  lai'ge 
circle  of  the  country,  would  love  the  son  of 
Fardorougha  Donovan,  whose  name  had, 
alas,  become  so  odious  and  impopidar? 
But  then  the  blushing  face,  and  dark  lucid 
eyes,  and  the  long  earnest  glance,  rose  before 
his  imagination,  and  told  him  that,  let  the 
difference  in  the  character  and  the  station  of 
their  parents  be  what  it  might,  the  fair  dark 
daughter  of  O'Brien  was  not  insensible  to 
him,  nor  to  the  anxieties  he  felt. 

The  circumstance  which  produced  the  first 
conversation  they  ever  had  arose  from  an  in- 
cident of  a  very  striking  and  singular  charac- 
ter. About  a  week  before  the  evening  in 
question,  one  of  Bodagh  Buie's  bee-skeps  hiv- 
ed, and  the  j'oung  colony,  though  closely 
watched  and  pursued,  directed  then-  coui'se 


to  Fardorougha's  house,  and  settled  in  the 
mouth  of  the  chimney.  Connor,  having  got 
a  clean  sheet,  secured  them,  and  was  about 
to  su1)mit  them  to  the  care  of  the  Bodagh's 
sei-vauts,  when  it  was  suggested  tint  the  cbi- 
ty  of  bringing  them  home  devolved  on  him-  ' 
self,  inasmuch  as  he  was  told  thej^  would  not 
remain,  unless  placed  in  a  new  skep  by  the 
hands  of  the  person  on  whose  property  they 
had  settled.  \Miile  on  his  way  to  the  Bo- 
dagh's he  was  accosted  in  the  following  words 
by  one  of  O'Brien's  servants  : 

"  Connor,  there's  good  luck  before  you,  or 
the  bees  wouldn't  pick  ijo\i  out  amongst  all 
the  rest  o'  the  neighbors.  You  ought  to  hould 
up  your  head,  man.  Who  knows  what  m:m- 
in's  in  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  b'Ueve  that  bees  sittin'  wid 
one  is  a  sign  o'  good  luck  ?  " 

"  Surely  I  do.  Doesn't  eveiy  one  know  it 
to  be  thrue  ?  Connor,  you're  a  good-lookin' 
fellow,  an'  I  need  scarcelj'  tell  j-ou  that  we 
have  a  piu-ty  girl  at  home  ;  can  yon  lay  that 
an'  that  together  ?  Arrah,  be  my  sowl, 
the  richest  honey  ever  the  same  bees  'U  make, 
is  nothiu'  but  alloways,  compared  wid  that 
jjurty  mouth  of  her  own  !  A  honey-comb  is 
a  fool  to  it." 

"  Wliy,  did  you  ever  thry,  Mike?  " 

"  Is  it  me  ?  Och,  oeh,  if  I  was  only  high 
enough  in  this  world,  maybe  I  wouldn't  be 
spakin'  sweet  to  her  ;  no,  no,  be  my  word  ! 
thry,  indeed,  for  the  likes  o'  me  !  Faith,  but 
I  know  a  sartin  yoimg  man  that  she  does  be 
often  spakin'  about." 

Connor's  heart  was  in  a  state  of  instant  com- 
motion. 

"  An'  who — who  is  /le — who  is  that  sai-tin 
young  man,  Mike  ?  " 

"  Faith,  the  son  o'  one  that  can  run  a  slul- 
hn'  farther  than  e'er  another  man  in  the  coun- 
try. Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  wid 
one  Connor  O'Donovan,  of  Lisnamona  ?  " 

"  Connor  O'Douc-'an — that's  good,  Mike — 
in  the  maue  time  doL  t  be  goin'  it  on  us.  No, 
no  ; — an'  even  if  she  did,  it  isn't  to  you  she 
spake  about  any  one,  Michael  ahagur  !  " 

"  No,  nor  it  wasn't  to  me — sure  I  didn't  say 
it  was — but  don't  you  know  my  sister's  at  sar- 
^dce  in  the  Bodagh's  family  ?  Divil  the  word 
o'  falsity  I'm  tellin'  you  ;  so,  if  you  haven't 
the  heart  to  si)ake  for  yourself,  I  wouldn't 
give  knots  o'  straws  for  you  ;  and  now,  there's 
no  harm  done  I  hope — moreover,  an'  by  the 
same  token,  you  needn't  go  to  the  trouble  o' 
jjuttin'  uj)  an  advertisement  to  let  the  parish 
know  what  I've  toidd  you." 

"Hut,  tut,  Mike,  it's  all  foUy.  Una  Dhun 
O'Brien  to  think  of  me! — nonsense,  man  ; 
that  cock  would  never  fight." 

"Very  well :  divil  a  morsel  of  us  is  forcin' 
you  to  b'Ueve  it.      I  supjaose  the  mother  o' 


206 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


you  Tias  your  ivooden  spoon  to  the  fore  still. 
I'd  kiss  the  Bravery  you  didn't  come  into  the 
world  wid  a  silver  ladle  in  your  mouth,  anj'- 
how.  In  the  mane  time,  we're  at  the  Bod- 
agh's — an'  have  an  eye  about  you  afther  what 
you've  heard — NahockliA  !  " 

This,  indeed,  was  important  intelligence  to 
Connor,  and  it  is  jjrobable  that,  had  he  not 
heard  it,  another  oi^ijortunity  of  disclosing 
his  passion  might  have  been  lost. 

Independently  of  this,  however,  he  was 
not  proof  against  the  popular  superstition  of 
the  bees,  particularly  as  it  api^eared  to  be  an 
augury  to  which  his  enamored  heart  could 
cling  with  all  the  hope  of  young  and  passion- 
ate enthusiasm. 

Nor  was  it  long  till  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  perceiving  that  she  whose  image  had 
floated  in  light  before  his  fancy,  gave  decided 
manifestations  of  being  struck  by  the  same 
significant  occuiTence.  On  entering  the 
garden,  the  first  person  his  eye  rested  upon 
was  Una  herself,  who,  as  some  of  the  other 
hives  were  expected  to  sv\rarm,  had  been  en- 
gaged watching  them  during  the  day.  His 
appearance  at  any  time  would  have  created  a 
tumult  in  her  bosom,  but,  in  addition  to  this, 
when  she  heard  that  the  bees  which  had 
rested  on  Connor's  house,  had  swarmed  fi-om 
heroimi  hive,  to  use  the  words  of  Burns — 

She  looked — she  reddened  like  the  rose, 
Syue  pale  as  ony  lily , 

and,  with  a  shy  but  expressive  glance  at 
Connor,  said,  in  a  low  hurried  voice,  "These 
belong  lo  me." 

Until  the  moment  we  are  describing,  Connor 
and  she,  notwithstanding  that  they  frequent- 
ly met  in  public  places,  had  never  yet  spo- 
ken ;  nor  could  the  words  now  uttered  by 
Una  be  considered  as  addressed  to  him,  al- 
though from  the  glance  that  accompanied 
them  it  was  sufficiently  evident  that  they 
were  intended  for  him  alone.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  attempted  to  accost  her  ;  his  confu- 
sion, her  pleasure,  his  timidity,  seemed  to 
unite  in  rendering  him  incapable  of  speaking 
at  all.  His  hps  moved  several  times,  but 
the  words,  as  they  ai'ose,  died  away  unspo- 
ken. 

At  this  moment,  Mike,  with  waggish  good- 
humor,  and  in  a  most  laudable  fit  of  indus- 
try, reminded  the  other  servants,  who  had 
been  assisting  to  secure  the  bees,  that  as 
they  (the  bees)  were  now  safe,  no  further  ne- 
cessity existed  for  their  jiresence. 

"  Come,  boys — death-aUve,  the  day's  pas- 
sin' — only  think.  Miss  Una,  that  we  have  all 
the  hay  in  the  Long-shot  meadow  to  get  into 
cocks  yet,  an'  here  we're  idlin'  an'  ghosther- 
in'  away  O'lr  time  like  I  dunna  what.  They're 
aehamin',  Miss  Una — divil  a  thing  else,  an' 


what'U  the  masther  say  if  the  same  meadow's 
not  finished  to-night  ?  " 

"Indeed,  Mike,"  repHed  Una;  "if  the 
meadow  is  to  be  finished  this  night,  there's 
httle  time  to  be  lost." 

"  Come,  boys,"  exclaimed  Mike,  "you  heal 
what  Miss  Una  says — if  it's  to  be  finished 
to-night  there's  but  little  time  to  be  lost — 
turn  out — march.  Miss  Una  can  watch  the 
bees  mdout  our  help.  Good  evenin',  ]Mis- 
ther  Donovan  ;  be  my  word,  but  you're  en- 
titled to  a  taste  o'  honey  any  waj",  for  bring 
ing  back  Miss  Una's  bees  to  her." 

Mike,  after  having  uttered  this  significant 
of)inion  relative  to  his  sense  of  justice,  drove 
his  fellow-servants  out  of  the  garden,  and 
left  the  lovers  together.  There  was  now  a 
dead  silence,  during  the  greater  part  of 
which,  neither  dared  to  look  at  the  other  ;  at 
length  each  hazarded  a  glance  ;  their  eyes 
met,  and  their  embarrassment  deepened  in  a 
tenfold  degree.  Una,  on  withdrawing  her 
gaze,  looked  with  an  ah-  of  perplexity  from 
one  object  to  another,  and  at  length,  with 
downcast  lids,  and  glowing  cheeks,  her  eves 
became  fixed^  on  her  ovni  white  and  dehcate 
finger. 

"  ^Vho  would  think,"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  agitation,  "  that  the  sting  of 
a  bee  could  be  so  painful." 

Connor  advanced  towards  her  with  a  beat- 
ing heart.  "  ^^^lere  have  you  been  stung, 
Miss  O'Brien  ? "  said  he,  in  a  tone  shaken 
out  of  it's  fulness  by  what  he  felt. 

"In  the  finger,"  she  reijlied,  and  she  look- 
ed closely  into  the  spot  as  she  uttered  the 
words. 

"Will  you  let  mc  see  it? "  asked  Connor. 

She  held  her  hand  towards  him  without 
knowing  what  she  did,  nor  was  it  till  after  a 
strong  efi'ort  that  Connor  mastered  himself 
so  far  as  to  ask  her  in  which  finger  she  felt 
the  jDain.  In  fact,  both  saw  at  once  that  their 
minds  were  engaged  upon  far  different 
thoughts,  and  that  their  anxiety  to  jjour  out 
the  full  confession  of  their  love  was  equally 
deep  and  mutual. 

As  Connor  put  the  foregoing  question  to 
her,  he  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"In  what  finger?"  she  replied,  "I  don't 
— indeed — I — I  believe  in  the — the — but 
what; — what  is  this  ? — I  am  verj' — very  weak. " 

"  Let  me  support  you  to  the  summer- 
house,  where  you  can  sit,"  returned  Connor, 
still  clasping  her  soft  delicate  hand  in  his  : 
then,  circhng  her  slender  waist  with  the 
other,  he  helped  her  to  a  seat  under  the 
thick  shade  of  the  osiers. 

Una's  countenance  immediateh'  became 
pale  as  death,  and  her  whole  frame  trembled 
excessively. 

"You  are  too  weak  even  to  sit  without 


FARDOBOUGUA,   THE  MISER. 


207 


support,"  said  Connor,  "your  head  is  droop- 
iu'.  For  God's  sake,  lean  it  over  on  me. 
Oil !  I'd  ^ve  ten  thousand  lives  to  have  it  on 
my  breast  only  for  one  moment !  " 

Her  paleness  still  continued  ;  she  gazed 
on  him,  and,  as  he  gently  squeezed  her  hand, 
a  shght  pressure  was  given  in  return.  He 
then  drew  her  head  over  upon  his  shoulder, 
where  it  rather  fell  than  leaned  ;  a  gush  of 
tears  came  from  her  eyes,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment, with  sobbing  hearts,  they  were  encir- 
cled in  each  other's  arms. 

From  this  lir.st  intoxicating  draught  of 
youthful  love,  they  were  startled  by  the  voice 
of  Mi's.  O'Brien  calling  upon  her  daughter, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  their  utter  dismaj', 
they  observed  the  portly  dame  sailing,  in  her 
usual  state,  down  towards  the  arbor,  with  an 
immense  bunch  of  keys  dangling  from  her  side. 

"  Oonagh,  Miss — Miss  Oonagh — where  are 
you.  Miss,  Ma  Colleen  ? — Here's  a  litther," 
she  proceeded,  when  Una  a2323eared,  "  fi-om 
JIi's.  Fogartj^  your  school-misthi-ess,  to  your 
fiidher — statin'  that  she  wants  you  to  finish 
your  Jiggraj^hy  at  the  dancin ',  wid  a  new 
dancin'-teaeher  from  Uubling.  Why — Eah  ! 
what  ails  you.  Miss,  Ma  Colleen  ?  What  the 
dickens  wor  you  cryin'  for  ?  " 

"  These  nasty  bees  that  stung  me,"  returned 
the  girl.  "  Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  mother 
dear,  don't  come  any  fiu'ther,  except  you  wish 
to  have  a  whole  hive  upon  you  ! " 

"  Why,  sui-e,  they  wouldn't  sting  any  one 
that  won't  meddle  wid  them,"  replied  the 
mother  in  a  kind  of  alarm. 

"The  sorra  pin  they  care,  mother — don't 
come  near  them ;  I'll  be  in,  by  an'  by. 
Wliere's  my  father '? " 

"  He's  in  the  house,  an'  wants  you  to 
answer  Mrs.  Fogarty,  statin'  feder  you'U  take 
a  month's  larnin'  on  iliefiure  or  not." 

"  Well,  I'll  see  her  letter  in  a  minute  or 
two,  but  you  may  teU  my  father  he  needn't 
wait — I  won't  answer  it  to-night  at  all  events." 

"You  must  answer  it  on  the  naO,"  rei^lied 
her  mother,  "  becase  the  messager's  waitin' 
in  the  kitchen  'ithin." 

"  That  alters  the  case  altogether,"  returned 
Una,  "  and  I'll  follow  you  immediately." 

The  good  woman  then  withdrew,  having 
once  more  enjoined  the  daughter  to  avoid 
delay,  and  not  to  detain  the  messenger. 

"  You  must  go  instantly,"  she  said  to  Con- 
nor.    "  Oh,  what  would  happen  me  if  they 

knew  that  I  lov that  I — "  a  short  j^ause 

ensued,  and  she  blushed  deeply. 

"  Say,  what  you  were  goin'  to  say,"  re- 
turned Connor  ;  "  Oh,  say  that  ona  ivord,  and 
all  the  taisfortunes  that  ever  happened  to 
man,  can't  make  me  unhappy  !  Oh,  God  !  an' 
is  it  possible  ?  Say  that  word — Oh  !  say  it — 
say  it !  "       • 


"Well,  then,"  she  continued,  "if  they 
knew  that  /  love  the  son  of  Fardorougha 
Donovan,  what  would  become  of  me  *  Now 
go,  for  fear  my  father  may  come  out." 

"  But  when  will  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"Go,"  said  she  anxiously  ;  "go,  you  can 
easily  see  me." 

"  But  when? — when  ?  say  on  Thursday." 

"  Not  so  soon — not  so  soon,"  and  she  cast 
an  anxious  eye  towards  the  garden  gate. 

"  Wlien  then — say  this  day  week." 

"  Very  well — but  go — maybe  my  father 
has  heard  fi-om  the  servants  that  you  are 
here." 

'•  Dusk  is  the  best  time." 

"  Yes — yes — about  dusk  ;  under  the  alders, 
in  the  little  green  field  behind  the  garden." 

"  Show  me  the  wounded  finger,"  said  he 
with  a  smile,  "  before  I  go."  ' 

"  There,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand  ; 
"but  for  Heaven's  sake  go." 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  to  cure  it,"  said  he,  ten- 
derly ;  "  honey  is  the  medicLue  ;  jiut  that 
sweet  finger  to  your  own  sweeter  l]) — and, 
afterwards,  I'll  carry  home  the  wound." 

"But  not  the  melicine,  noio,"  said  she, 
and,  snatching  her  band  from  his,  with 
light,  fearful  step>s,  she  tied  up  the  gardea 
and  disappeared. 

Such,  gentle  reader,  were  the  circumstan- 
ces which  bi-ought  our  young  and  artless 
lovers  together  in  the  black  twilight  of  the 
singulai'ly  awful  and  ominous  evening  which 
we  have  already  described. 

Connor,  on  reaching  the  appointed  spot, 
sat  down  ;  but  his  impatience  soon  overcame 
him  ;  and,  whUe  hurrying  to  and  fro,  under 
the  alders,  he  asked  himself  in  what  was 
this  wild  but  i-apturous  attachment  to  termi- 
nate? That  the  proud  Bodagh,  and  his 
jirouder  wife,  would  never  suffer  their  beau- 
tiful daughter,  the  heiress  of  all  their  wealth, 
to  marry  the  son  of  Fardorougha,  the  miser, 
was  an  axiom,  the  truth  of  which  jiressed 
upon  his  heai't  with  a  deadly  weight.  On 
the  other  hand,  would  his  father,  or  rather 
could  he,  change  his  nature  so  far  as  to 
establish  him  in  life,  jsrovided  Una  and  he 
were  united  without  the  consent  of  her 
parents  ?  Alas  !  he  knew  his  father's  parsi- 
mony too  weU  ;  and,  on  either  hand,  he  was 
met  by  difficulties  that  appeared  to  him  to 
be  insurmountable.  But  again  came  tha 
delightful  and  ecstatic  consciousness,  that,' 
let  their  parents  act  as  they  might,  Una's 
heart  and  his  were  bound  to  each  other  by 
ties  which,  only  to  think  of,  was  rapture. 
In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  he  heard 
her  light  foot  approach,  but  with  a  step 
moi'e  slow  and  melancholy  than  he  could 
have  expected  from  the  ardor  of  their  love. 

When  she  approached,  the   twUigiit  was 


208 


WILLIAM   CAELETOlSf'S  WORKS. 


just  sufficient  to  euable  him  to  i^erceive  that 
her  face  was  pale,  and  tinged  apjjareutlj' 
with  melancholy,  if  not  with  sorrow.  After 
the  first  salutations  were  over,  he  was 
proceeding  to  inc[uire  into  the  cause  of  her 
depression,  when,  to  his  utter  siu'prise,  she 
placed  her  hands  upon  her  face,  and  burst 
into  a  fit  of  grief. 

Those  who  have  loved  need  not  be  told 
that  the  most  delightful  office  of  that  de- 
lightful passion  is  to  dry  the  tears  of  the 
beloved  one  who  is  de;u'  to  us  beyond  all 
else  that  hfe  contains.  Connor  hterally  p)er- 
formcd  this  office,  and  inquired,  in  a  tone 
so  soothing  and  full  of  symjjathy,  why  she 
wept,  that  her  tears  for  a  while  only  flowed 
the  faster.  At  length  her  giief  abated,  and 
she  was  able  to  rejjly  to  him. 

"  You  ask  me  why  I  am  crxang,"  said  the 
fair  young  creature  ;  "  but,  indeed,  I  cannot 
tell  you.  There  has  been  a  sinking  of  the 
heart  upon  me  dui'iiig  the  greater  part  of 
this  day.  When  I  thought  of  our  meeting 
I  was  delighted  ;  but  again  some  heaviness 
would  come  over  me  +]iat  I  can't  accoiint 
for." 

"  I  know  what  it  is,"  :  leplied  Connor,  "  a 
very  simple  thing ;  merely  the  terrible  calm 
an'  blackness  of  the  evenin'.  I  was  sunk 
myself  a  little." 

"  I  ought  to  cry  for  a  better  reason,"  she 
returned.  "  In  meeting  you  I  have  done — 
an'  am  doing — what  I  ought  to  be  sorry  for 
— that  is,  a  WTOng  action  that  my  conscience 
condemns." 

"  There  is  nobody  perfect,  my  dear  Una," 
said  Connor  ;  "  an' none  without  their  fail- 
ins  ;  they  have  Httle  to  answer  for  that  have 
no  more  than  j'ou." 

"  Don't  flatter  me,"  she  rej)lied  ;  "  if  you 
love  me  as  you  say,  never  flatter  me  while 
you  Hve  ;  /  will  always  speak  what  I  feel,  and 
I  hope  yonll  do  the  same." 

"If  I  could  spake  what  I  feel,"  said  he, 
"  you  would  still  say  I  flattered  you — it's  not 
in  the  power  of  any  words  that  ever  were 
spoken,  to  teU  how  I  love  you — how  much 
my  heart  an'  soul's  fixed  upon  you.  Little 
you  know,  my  own  dear  Una,  how  unha2Ji:)y 
I  am  this  minute,  to  see  you  in  low  spirits. 
Wliat  do  you  think  is  the  occasion  of  it  ? 
Spake  now,  as  you  say  you  wiU  do,  that  is, 
as  3'ou  feel." 

"  Except  it  be  that  raij  heart  brought  me 
to  meet  you  t  aiight  contrary  to  my  consci- 
ence, 1  do  not  know.  Connor,  Connor,  that 
heart  is  so  stn  ugly  in  j'our  favor,  that  if  you 
were  not  to  be  hajjpy  neither  could  its  poor 
owner." 

Connor  for  a  moment  looked  into  the 
future,  but,  Uke  the  face  of  the  sky  above 
him,  all  was  either  dark  or  stormy  ;  his  heart 


sank,  but  the  tenderness  exjjressed  in  Una's 
last  words  fiUed  his  whole  soul  with  a  vehe- 
ment and  burning  passion,  which  he  felt 
must  regulate  liis  destiny  in  hfe,  whether  for 
good  or  evU.  He  f>ulled  her  to  his  breast, 
on  which  he  placed  her  head  ;  she  looked  up 
fondly  to  him,  and,  perceiving  that  he 
wrought  under  some  deeja  and  powerfid 
struggle,  said  in  a  low,  confiding  voice, 
wliUst  the  tears  once  more  ran  quietly  do^Ti 
her  cheeks,  "  Connor,  what  I  said  is  true." 

"  Mj-  heart's  bumin' — my  heart's  bumin' !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "It's  not  love  I  feel  for  you, 
Una — it's  more  than  love  ;  oh,  what  is  it  ? 
Una,  Una,  this  I  know,  that  I  cannot  live  long 
without  you,  or  from  you  ;  if  I  did,  I'd  go 
vsild  or  mad  through  the  world.  For  the 
last  three  years  you  have  never  been  out  of 
my  mind,  I  may  say  awake  or  asleep  ;  for  I 
believe  a  night  never  passed  during  that  time 
that  I  didn't  drame  of  you — of  the  beautiful 
young  crature.  Oh !  God  in  heaven,  can  it 
be  thrue  that  she  loves  me  at  last  ?  Say  them 
blessed  words  again,  Una ;  oh,  say  them 
again  !  But  I'm  too  hapjjy — I  can  hardly 
bear  this  delight." 

"It  is  true  that  Hove  you,  and  if  oui-  par- 
ents could  think  as  we  do,  Connor,  how  easy 
it  would  be  for  them  to  make  us  hapjjy, 
but^" 

"  It's  too  soon,  Una  ;  it's  too  soon  to  spake 
of  that.  Hajjpy  !  don't  we  love  one  another  ? 
Isn't  that  hap23iness  ?  Who  or  what  can 
deprive  us  of  that "?  We  are  hajipy  without 
them  ;  we  can  be  happy  in  spite  of  them  ; 
oh,  my  own  fair  gii'l !  sweet,  sweet  life  of 
my  hfe,  and  heart  of  my  heart !  Heaven — 
heaven  itself  would  be  no  heaven  to  me,  if 
you  weren't  with  me  !  " 

"Don't  say  that,  Connor  dear  ;  it's  wi'ong. 
Let  us  not  forget  what  is  due  to  religion,  if 
we  expect  ovir  love  to  prosjDer.  You  may 
think  this  strange  fi-om  one  that  has  acted 
contrai-y  to  religion  in  coming  to  meet  you 
against  the  will  and  knowledge  of  her  par- 
ents ;  but  beyond  that,  dear  Connor,  I  hojie 
I  never  vnil  go.  But  is  it  true  that  you've 
loved  me  so  long  ?  " 

"It  is,"  said  he  ;  "the  second  Sunday  in 
May  next  Vr'as  three  years,  I  knelt  opjiositc 
you  at  mass.  You  were  on  the  left  hand 
side  of  the  altai',  I  was  on  the  right ;  my 
eyes  were  never  ofl'  you  ;  indeed,  you  may 
remember  it." 

"I  have  a  good  right,"  said  she,  blushing 
and  hiding  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "  1 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it,  an' 
me  so  young  at  tlie  time  ;  little  moi'e  than 
sixteen.  From  that  day  to  this,  my  story 
has  been  just  your  o\\ti.  C'onnor,  can  you  tel] 
me  how  I  found  it  out,  but  I  /cnew  you  loved 
me  ?  " 


FAJiDOROUGIIA,    THE  2[ISEIL 


209 


"  Many  a  thing  was  to  tell  you  that,  Una 
dear.  Sure  my  eves  were  never  off  you, 
■whenever  you  wor  neai*  me  ;  an'  wherever 
you  were,  there  was  I  certain  to  be  too.  I 
never  missed  any  public  place  if  I  thought 
you  would  be  at  it,  an'  that  merely  for  the 
.s  ike  of  seein'  you.  An',  now  will  you  tell 
me  why  it  was  that  I  could  'a  sworn  you  lov'd 
me  ?  " 

"  You  have  answered  for  us  both,"  she  re- 
plied. "  As  for  me,  if  I  only  chance  to  hear 
your  name  mentioned  my  heart  would  beat ; 
if  the  talk  was  about  you  I  could  listen  to 
nothing  else,  and  I  often  felt  the  color  come 
and  go  on  my  cheek." 

"  Una,  I  never  thought  I  could  be  bom  to 
such  happiness.  Now  that  I  know  that  you 
love  me,  I  can  hardly  think  that  it  was  love 
I  felt  for  you  all  along  ;  it's  wonderful — it's 
wonderful !  " 

"  What  is  so  wonderful?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Why,  the  change  that  I  feel  since  know- 
in'  that  you  love  me ;  since  I  had  it  from 
your  own  lips,  it  has  overcome  me — I'm  a 
child — I'm  anything,  anything  you  choose  to 
make  me  ;  it  was  never  love — it's  only  since 
I  found  you  loved  me  that  my  heart's  burnin' 
as  it  is." 

"  I'll  make  you  happy  if  I  can,"  she  re- 
plied, "  and  keep  you  so,  I  hope." 

"  There's  one  thing  that  will  make  me  stiU 
happier  than  I  am,"  said  Connor. 

"  Wlmt  is  it  ?  If  it's  proper  and  right  I'll 
do  it." 

"  Promise  me  that  if  I  live  you'll  never 
marry  any  one  else  than  me." 

"  You  wish  then  to  have  the  promise  aU 
on  one  side,"  she  replied  with  a  smile  and  a 
blush,  each  as  sweet  as  ever  captivated  a  hu- 
man heart. 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  darling  Una,  acushla  c/m 
gal  machree,  no  !  I  will  promise  the  same  to 
you." 

She  paused,  and  a  silence  of  nearly  a  min- 
ute ensued. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  right,  Connor;  I 
have  taken  one  wrong  step  as  it  is,  but,  well 
as  I  love  you,  I  won't  take  another  ;  whair  i 
ever  I  do  I  must  feel  that  it's  proper.     I'm  j 
not  sure  that  this  i?." 

"  Don't  you  say  you  love  me,  Una?  "  [ 

"I  do  ;  you  know  I  do."  [ 

"I  have   only  another   question  to   ask ;  | 
could  you,  or  would  you,  love  me  as  you  do, 
aiid  marry  another  ?  " 

"I  could  not,  Connor,  and  would  not,  and 
will  not.  I  am  ready  to  promise  ;  I  may 
easily  do  it ;  for  God  knows  the  very  thought 
of  marrying  another,  or  being  deprived  of 
you,  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

"  Well,  then."  returned  her  lover,  seizing 
hei-  hand,  "  I  tp.lce  God  to  witness  that,  whilst 


you  are  aUve  an'  faithful  to  me,  I  will  never 
marry  any  woman  but  yourself.  Now,"  he 
continued,  "put  your  right  hand  into  mine, 
and  say  the  same  words." 

She  did  so,  and  was  in  the  act  of  repeating 

the  form,  "  I  take  God  to  witness "  when 

a  vivid  Hash  of  lightning  shot  from  the  dark- 
ness above  them,  and  a  peal  of  thunder  al- 
most immediately  followed,  with  an  explo- 
sion so  loud  as  nearly  to  stun  both.  Una 
started  with  terror,  and  instinctively  with- 
drew her  hand  from  Connor's. 

"  God  pi-eserve  us  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "that's 
awful.  Connor,  I  feel  as  if  the  act  I  am 
goin'  to  do  is  not  right.  Let  us  put  it  off  at 
all  events,  till  another  time." 

"Is  it  because  there  comes  an  accidental 
brattle  of  thunder?"  he  returned.  "Why, 
the  thunder  would  come  if  we  were  never  to 
change  a  jji'omise.  You  have  mine,  now, 
Una  dear,  -an'  I'm  sure  you  woiddn't  wish 
me  to  be  bound  an'  yourself  free.  Don't  be 
afraid,  darling  ;  give  me  your  hand,  an'  don't 
tremble  so  ;  repeat  the  words  at  waust,  an' 
let  it  be  over." 

He  again  took  her  hand,  when  she  repeat- 
ed the  form  in  a  distinct,  though  feeble  voice, 
observing,  when  it  was  concluded, 

"  Now,  Connor,  I  did  this  to  satisfy  you. 
but  I  still  feel  like  one  who  has  done  a  wrong 
action.  I  am  yours  now,  but  I  cannot  helj) 
praying  to  God  that  it  may  end  happily  for 
us  both." 

"It  must,  darhng  Una — it  must  end  hap- 
pily for  us  both.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  's* 
For  my  part,  except  to  see  you  my  wife,  I 
couldn't  be  hajijiier  than  I  am  this  minute  ; 
exceptin'  that,  my  heart  has  all  it  wished 
for.  Is  it  possible — Oh  !  is  it  jjossible  that 
this  is  not  a  dream,  my  heart's  life  ?  But  if 
it  is — if  it  is — I  never  more  wdl  wish  to 
waken." 

Her  yoiing  lover  was  deeply  affected  as 
he  uttered  these  words,  nor  was  Una  proof 
against  the  emotion  they  produced. 

"  I  could  pray  to  God,  this  moment,  vsdth 
a  purer  heart  than  I  ever  had  before,"  he 
proceeded,  "  for  makin'  my  lot  in  life  so 
happy.  I  feel  that  I  am  better  and  freer 
from  sin  than  I  ever  was  yet.  If  we're  faith- 
ful and  true  to  one  another,  what  can  the 
world  do  to  us  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  be  otherwise  than  faithful  to 
you,"  she  replied,  "without  being  unhappy 
myself ;  an'  I  tinist  it's  no  sin  to  love  each 

other  as  we  do.     Now  let  us God  blesa 

me,  what  a  flash  !  and  here's  the  rain  begin- 
ning. That  thunder's  dreadful ;  Heaven 
preserve  us !  It's  an  awfid  ui;?ht !  Connor, 
you  must  see  me  as  far  as  the  corner  of  the 
garden  ;  as  for  you,  I  wish  you  were  safe  at 
home." 


210 


WILLIAM   CAULETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Hasten,  dear,"  said  he,  "  hasten  ;  it's  no 
night  for  you  to  be  out  Lu,  now  that  the  rain's 
coming.  As  for  me,  if  it  was  ten  times  as 
dreadful  I  won't  feel  it.  There's  but  one 
thought — one  thought  in  my  mind,  and  that 
I  wouldn't  part  with  for  the  wealth  of  the 
universe." 

Both  then  proceeded  at  a  quick  pace  until 
tliey  reached  the  corner  of  Bodagh's  garden, 
where,  with  brief  but  earnest  reassurances 
of  unalterable  attiichment,  they  took  a  tender 
and  afl'ectionate  farewell. 

It  is  not  often  that  the  higher  ranks  can 
appreciate  the  moral  beauty  of  love  as  it  is 
experienced  by  those  humbler  classes  to 
whom  they  deny  the  power  of  feeling  in  its 
most  refined  and  exalted  character.  For 
our  parts  we  differ  so  much  from  them  m 
this,  that,  if  we  wanted  to  give  an  illustration 
of  that  passion  in  its  pui'est  and  most  deH- 
cate  state,  we  would  not  seek  for  it  in  the 
saloon  or  the  drawing-room,  but  among  the 
green  fields  and  the  smiling  landscapes  of 
riu'al  life.  The  simphcity  of  humble  hearts 
is  more  accordant  with  the  unity  of  affection 
than  any  mind  can  be  that  is  distracted  by 
the  comi3etition  of  rival  claims  u25on  its 
gratification.  We  do  not  say  that  the  votaries 
of  rimk  and  fashion  are  insensible  to  love  ; 
because,  how  much  soever  they  may  be  con- 
versant with  the  artificial  and  unreal,  still 
they  are  human,  and  must,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, be  influenced  by  a  j^rinciple  that  acts 
wherever  it  can  find  a  heart  on  which  to 
operate.  We  say,  however,  that  their  love, 
when,  contrasted  with  that  which  is  felt  by 
the  humble  peasantry,  is  languid  and  sickly  ; 
neither  so  piu-e,  nor  so  simjjle,  nor  so  intense. 
Its  associations  in  high  life  are  unfavorable 
to  the  growth  of  a  healthy  j)assion  ;  for  what 
is  the  glare  of  a  lamp,  a  twui  through  the 
insipid  maze  of  the  ball-room,  or  the  un- 
natural distoi-tions  of  the  theatre,  when  com- 
pared to  the  rising  of  the  summer  sun,  the 
singing  of  birds,  the  music  of  the  streams, 
the  joyous  aspect  of  the  varied  landscape, 
the  mountain,  the  valley,  the  lake,  and  a 
thousand  other  objects,  each  of  which  trans- 
mits to  the  peasant's  heart  silently  and  im- 
perceptiljly  that  subtle  power  which  at  once 
strengthens  and  purities  the  passion  ?  Tliere 
is  scarcely  such  a  thing  as  solitude  in  the 
ujjper  ranks,  nor  an  opportunity  of  keeping 
the  feelings  unwasted,  and  the  enei'gies  of 
the  heart  unspent  by  the  many  vanities  and 
petty  pleasures  with  which  fashion  forces  a 
compliance,  until  the  mind  falls  from  its 
naturid  dignity,  into  a  habit  of  coldness  and 
aversion  to  everything  but  the  circle  of 
empty  trifles  in  which  it  moves  so  giddily. 
But,  the  enamored  youth  who  can  retire  to 
the  beautiful   solitude  of   the   still   glen  to 


brood  over  the  image  of  her  he  loves,  and 
who,  probably,  sits  under  the  verj'  tree  where 
his  love  was  avowed  and  returned  ;  he,  we 
say,  exalted  with  the  fuhiess  of  his  happiness, 
feels  his  heart  go  abroad  in  gladness  uj^on 
the  dehghted  objects  that  siUTOund  him,  for 
everything  that  he  looks  ujjou  is  as  a  fiiend  ; 
his  happy  heai't  expands  over  the  whole  laud- 
scape  ;  his  eye  glances  to  the  sky  ;  ho  thinks 
of  the  Almighty  Being  above  him,  and 
though  without  any  capacity  to  analyze  his 
own  feelings — love — the  love  of  some  hum- 
ble, jilaiii  but  modest  girl — kindles  by  de- 
grees into  the  sanctity  and  rapture  of  reUg- 
ion. 

Let  not  our  readers  of  rank,  then,  if  any 
such  may  honor  our  jjages  with  a  perusal,  be 
at  all  surprised  at  the  expression  of  Connor 
O'Donovan  when,  under  the  ecstatic  power  of 
a  love  so  pure  and  artless  as  that  which 
bound  his  heai't  and  Una's  together,  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  did,  "  Oh!  I  cord  J  prmj  to 
<Jod  Ihis  momenl  icith  a  2}iirer  heart  than  1  ever 
Itud  Ix'Jhre  !  "  Such  a  state  of  feeling  among 
the  people  is  neither  rai-e  nor  anomalous  ; 
for,  however,  the  great  ones  and  the  wise  ones 
of  the  world  may  be  startled  at  our  assertion, 
we  beg  to  assure  them  that  love  and  religion 
are  more  nearly  related  to  each  other  than 
those,  who  have  never  felt  either  in  its  truth 
and  purity,  can  imagine. 

As  Connor  25erformed  his  journey  home, 
the  thunder  tempest  passed  fearfully  tlu-ough 
the  sky  ;  and,  though  the  dai-kness  was  deep 
and  unbroken  by  anything  but  the  red  flash- 
es of  lightning,  yet,  so  strongly  absorbed  was 
his  heart  by  the  scene  we  have  just  related, 
that  he  arrived  at  his  father's  house  scarcely 
conscious  of  the  roar  of  elements  which  sur- 
I'ounded  him. 

The  family  had  retired  to  bed  when  he  en- 
tered, with  the  excej^tion  of  his  jjarents,  who, 
having  felt  uneasy  at  his  disai523earance,  were 
anxiously  awaiting  his  return,  and  entering 
into  fruitless  conjectures  concerning  the 
cause  of  an  absence  so  unusual. 

"  A\Tiat,"  said  the  alarmed  mother,  "  what 
in  the  wide  world  could  keej)  him  so  long 
out,  and  on  sich  a  tempest  as  is  in  it  ?  God 
protect  my  boy  fi-om  all  harm  an'  danger,  this 
feai'ful  night !  Oh,  Fardorougha,  what  'ud 
become  of  us  if  anything  hajijjened  him  '?  As 
for  me — my  heart's  wrajaijed  up  in  him  ;  wid- 
out  our  darhii'  it  'ud  break,  break,  Fardo- 
rougha." 

"  Hut ;  he's  gone  to  some  neighbor's  an' 
can't  come  out  till  the  storm  is  over  ;  he'll 
soon  be  here  now  that  the  thunder  an'  hght- 
nin's  past." 

"  But  did  you  never  think,  Fardorougha, 
what  'ud  become  of  you,  or  what  you'd  do  or 
how  you'd  live,  if  anything  happened  him  ? 


FAEDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


211 


which  the  Almighty  forbid  this  night  and  for- 
ever !     Could  you  live  widout  him  ?  " 

The  old  man  gazed  upon  her  like  one  who 
felt  displeasure  at  having  a  contingency  so 
painful  forced  upon  his  consideration.  With- 
out making  any  reply,  however,  he  looked 
thoughtfully  into  the  lire  for  some  time,  after 
which  he  rose  up,  and,  with  a  querulous  and 
impatient  voice,  said, 

"  What's  the  use  of  thinkin'  about  sich 
things  ■?  Lose  him  !  why  would  I  lose  him  ? 
I  couldn't  lose  him — I'd  as  soon  lose  my  own 
life — I'd  rather  be  dead  at  wanst  than  lose 
him." 

"  God  knows  your  love  for  him  is  a  quare 
love,  Fiu-dorouglia,"  rejoined  the  wife  ;  "  j'ou 
wouldn't  give  him  a  guinea  if  it  'ud  save  his 
life,  or  allow  him  even  a  few  shilHngs  now 
an'  then,  for  pocket-money,  that  he  might  be 
aquil  to  other  young  boys  like  him." 

'■  No  vise,  no  use  in  that,  excejjt  to  bring 
him  into  drink  an'  other  bad  habits ;  a  bad 
way,  Honora,  of  showin'  one's  love  for  him. 
If  you  had  your  wiU  you'd  spoil  him  ;  I'm 
keepin'  whatsomever  Uttle  shillin's  we've 
scrajjed  togsther  to  settle  him  dacently  in 
life  ;  bvit,  indeed,  that's  time  enough  yet  ; 
he's  too  yoimg  to  marry  for  some  years  to 
come,  barrin'  he  got  a  fortune." 

"  Well,  one  thing,  Fardorougha,  if  ever  two 
people  were  blessed  in  a  good  son,  praise  be 
God  we  are  that !  " 

"  We  are,  Honor,  we  are ;  there's  not  his 
aquil  in  the  parish — achora  machree  that  he 
is.  When  I'm  gone  he'll  know  what  I've 
done  for  him." 

"  Whin  you're  gone  ;  why.  Saver  of  arth, 

sure  you  wouldn't  keep  him  out  of  hi-s 

husth ! here   he   is,    God   be    thanked  ! 

poor  boy  he's  safe.  Oh,  thin,  m-li  no  Hoiah, 
Connor  jewel,  were  you  out  undher  this  ter- 
rible night  ?  " 

"  Connor,  avich  maclrree,"  added  the  father, 
"you're  lost!  My  hand  to  you,  if  he's 
worth  three  hapuns ;  sthrip  an'  throw  my 
Cothamore  about  you,  an'  draw  in  to  the  lire; 
you're  fairly  lost." 

"  I'm  worth  two  lost  people  yet,"  said 
Connor,  smiling ;  "  mother,  did  you  ever 
see  a  pleasanter  night  ?  " 

"  Pleasant,  Connor,  darlin' !  Oh  thin  it's 
you  may  say  so,  I'm  sure !  " 

"  Father,  you're  a  worthy — only  your 
Cothamore's  too  scimpt  for  me.  Faith,  mo- 
ther, although  you  think  I'm  jokin',  the 
divil  a  one  o'  me  is  ;  a  pleasanter  night — a 
happier  night  I  never  silent.  Father,  you 
ought  to  be  proud  o'  me,  an'  stretch  out  a 
bit  with  the  cash  ;  faith,  I'm  nothin'  else 
than  a  fine  handsome  young  fellow." 

"  Be  me  soul  an'  he  ouglit  to  be  proud 
out  of  you,  Connor,  whether  you're  in  amest 


or  not,"  observed  the  mother,  "  an'  to  stretch 
out  wd  the  arrighad  too  if  you  want  it." 

"  Folly  on,  Connor,  follj'  on  !  your  mo- 
ther U  back  you,  I'U  go  baU,  say  what  you 
will ;  but  sure  you  know  all  I  have  must  be 
yours  yet,  acushla." 

Connor  now  sat  down,  and  his  mother 
stirred  up  the  lire,  on  which  she  placed  ad- 
ditional fuel.  After  a  little  time  his  man- 
ner changed,  and  a  shade  of  deep  gloom  lei) 
ujDon  his  manly  and  handsome  features.  '■  1 
don't  know,"  he  at  length  i^roceeded,  "  that, 
as  we  tkree  are  here  together,  I  could  do 
betther  than  ask  your  advice  up)on  what  has 
happened  to  me  to-night." 

"  Wliv,  what  has  happened  you,  Connor  ?  " 
said  the  mother  alarmed  ;  "  plase  God,  no 
harm,  I  hope." 

"Who  else,"  added  the  father,  "would 
you  be  guided  by,  if  not  by  your  mother 
an'  myself  ?  " 

"No  harm,  mother,  dear,"  said  Connor  in 
i-eply  to  her  ;  "  hann  !  Oh  !  mother,  mother, 
if  you  knew  it ;  an'  as  for  what  yoa  say, 
father,  it's  right  ;  what  advice  but  my  mo- 
ther's an'  yours  ought  I  to  ask  ?  " 

"An'  God's  too,"  added  the  mother. 

"  An'  my  heart  was  nevir  more  rix  to  God 
than  it  was',  an'  is  this  night,"  replied  their 
ingenuous  boy. 

"  Well,  but  what  has  happened,  Connor  ?  " 
said  his  father ;  "if  it's  anj-thing  where 
our  advice  can  seiTe  you,  of  coorse  we'U  a<;I- 
vise  you  for  the  best." 

Connor  then,  with  a  glowing  heart,  made 
them  acquainted  with  the  affection  which 
subsisted  between  liimself  and  Una  O'Brien, 
and  ended  bj-  informing  them  of  the  vow  of 
marriage  which  they  had  that  night  solemnly 
pledged  to  each  other. 

"  You  both  know  her  by  sight,"  he  added, 
"  an'  afther  what  I've  sed,  can  you  blame  me 
for  sajdn'  that  I  found  this  a  pleasant  and  a 
happy  night '? " 

The  affectionate  mother's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  pride  and  delight,  on  hearing  that 
her  handsome  son  was  loved  by  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  Bodagh  Buie,  and  she  could  not 
help  exclaiming,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment. 

"  She's  a  purty  girl — the  purtiest  indeed  I 
ever  laid  my  two  livin'  ej'es  upon,  and  by  all 
accounts  as  good  as  she's  purty  ;  but  I  say 
that,  face  to  face,  you're  as  good,  ay,  an'  as 
handsome,  Fai'dorougha,  as  she  is.  God 
bless  her,  any  way,  an'  mark  her  to  grace 
and  happiness,  ma  colleen  dhas  dhun." 

"He's  no  match  for  her,"  said  the  father, 
who  had  listened  with  an  earnest  face,  and 
compressed  lii^s,  to  his  son's  narrative  ;  "  he's 
no  match  for  her — by  four  hundred  guineas." 

Honora,  when  he  uttered  the  jirevious  part 


212 


WILLIAM  CARLETON\S   WORKS. 


of  liis  observation,  looked  upon  bim  witb  a 
flasb  of  indignant  astouisbment ;  but  wbeu  be 
bad  concluded,  ber  countenance  fell  back  into 
its  original  expression.  It  was  evident  tbat, 
wbile  sbe,  witb  tbe  feelings  of  a  woiuau  and 
a  motber,  instituted  a  parallel  between  tbeir 
personal  merits  alone,  tbe  busband  viewed 
their  attacbmeut  tbrougb  tbat  calculating 
epirit  which  bad  regulated  his  whole  Ufe. 

"  You're  tbinkin'  of  ber  money  now,"  sbe 
added  ;  "but  remimber,  Fardorougba,  that 
it  wasn't  born  wid  ber.  An'  I  hope,  Connor, 
it's  not  for  ber  money  that  you  have  any  (jrali, 
for  her  ?  " 

"  You  may  swear  that,  mother  ;  I  love  her 
little  finger  betther  than  all  the  money  in 
tbe  king's  bank." 

"  Connor,  avich,  your  motber  has  made  a 
fool  of  you,  or  you  wouldn't  spake  the  non- 
sense you  spoke  this  minute." 

"  My  word  to  you,  father,  I'll  take  all  the 
money  I'll  get ;  but  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Bo- 
dagb  Buie  an'  bis  wife  will  never  consent  to 
allow  ber  to  marry  me,  I  can  tell  you  ;  an'  if 
she  marries  me  without  tbeir  consent,  you 
both  know  I  have  no  way  of  suiJiJortiu'  her, 
except  you,  father,  assist  me." 

"  That  won't  be  needful,  Connor  ;  you  may 
manage  them ;  they  won't  see  ber  want ; 
she's  an  only  daughter  ;  they,  couldn't  see  Ker 
want." 

"  An'  isn't  he  an  only  son,  Fardorougba?  " 
exclaimed  tbe  wife.  "  An'  my  sowl  to  hajJ- 
piuess  but  I  beheve  you'd  see  him  want." 

"Any  waj',"  replied  ber  busband,  "I'm 
not  for  matches  against  tbe  consint  of  par- 
ents ;  they're  not  lucky  ;  or  can't  you  run 
awaj'  wid  ber,  an'  thin  refuse  marryin'  her 
excej)t  tbey  come  down  wid  the  cash  V  " 

"  Ob,  father  !  "  exclaimed  Connor,  "  father, 
father,  to  become  a  villain  !  " 

"  Connor,"  said  bis  motber,  rising  uj)  in  a 
spirit  of  calm  and  moiu-nful  solemnity, 
"  never  heed  ;  go  to  bed,  acbora,  go  to  bed." 

"Of  coorse  I'll  never  heed,  motber,"  he 
replied  ;  "  but  I  can't  help  savin'  tbat,  happy 
as  I  was  awhile  agoue,  my  father  is  seudui' 
me  to  bed  with  a  heavy  beai't.  When  I 
asked  your  advice,  father,  little  I  thought  it 

would  be  to  do but  no  matter  ;  I'll  never 

be  guilty  of  an  act  tbat  'ud  disgrace  my 
name." 

"No,  avillish,"  said  bis  motber,  "you  never 
will ;  God  knows  it's  as  much  an'  more  than 
you  an'  other  people  can  do,  to  keej)  the  name 
we  have  in  decency." 

"  It's  fine  talk,"  obsen'ed  Fardorougba, 
"  but  what  I  advise  has  been  done  by  hun- 
dreds tbat  wor  married  an'  happy  afterwards  ; 
bow-an-iver  you  needn't  get  into  a  passion, 
either  of  you  ;  I'm  not  preasin'  you,  Connor, 
to  it." 


"Connor,  acliree,"  said  bis  mother,  "go 
to  bed,  an'  instead  of  tbe  advice  you  got,  ax 
God's  ;  go,  avillish  !  " 

Connor,  without  making  any  fmiher  ob- 
servation, sought  his  sleeijing-room,  where, 
having  recommended  himself  to  God,  in 
earnest  prayer,  be  lay  revohdng  all  tbat  bad 
occurred  tbat  night,  until  tbe  gentle  influ- 
ence of  sleejj  at  length  drew  him  into  obli- 
vion. 

"Now,"  said  bis  motber  to  FiU'dorougha, 
when  Connor  bad  gone,  "  you  must  sleep 
by  yourself  ;  for,  as  for  me,  my  side  I'll  not 
stretch  on  the  same  bed  wid  you  to-night." 

"Very  well,  I  can't  helj}  that,"  said  her 
husband  ;  "  all  I  can  say  is  this,  tliat  I'm  not 
able  to  put  sinse  or  prudence  into  j-ou  or 
Connor  ;  so,  since  you  won't  be  guided  by 
me,  take  your  ovra  coorse.  Bodagb  Buie's 
very  well  able  to  25rovide  for  them  ;  an'  if 
be  won't  do  so  before  they  marry,  why  let 
i  Connor  have  nothing  to  say  to  her." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Fardorougba,  God 
wouldn't  be  in  heaven,  or  you'll  get  a  cut 
heart  yet,  either  through  your  son  or  your 
money ;  an'  that  it  may  not  be  through  my 
darbn'  boy,  O,  grant,  sweet  Saver  o'  tbe 
earth,  this  night !  I'm  goin'  to  sleej)  wid 
Biddy  Casey,  an'  you'll  find  a  clane  night- 
cap on  the  rail  o'  tbe  bed  ;  an',  Fardorougba, 
afore  you  put  it  an,  kneel  do\\ii  an'  pray 
to  Go(l  to  change  your  heart — for  it  wants 
it — it  wants  it." 

In  Ireland  the  first  object  of  a  servant  man, 
after  entering  the  employment  of  bis  master, 
is  to  put  himself  iijion  an  amicable  footing 
with  bis  fellow-servants  of  tbe  other  sex. 
Such  a  stej),  besides  being  natural  in  itself, 
is  often  taken  in  consequence  of  the  ei-'prit 
du  (jorjjs  which  prevails  among  persons  of 
that  class.  Bartle  Flanagan,  although  he 
could  not  be  said  to  act  from  any  habit  pre- 
viously acquired  in  service,  went  to  work 
wth  all  tbe  tact  and  adroitness  of  a  veteran. 
Tbe  next  morning,  after  having  left  the 
barn  where  be  slept,  he  contrived  to  throw 
himself  in  the  way  of  Biddj-  Duggan,  a  girl, 
who,  though  vain  and  simjsle,  was  at  the 
same  time  conscientious  and  honest.  On 
passing  from  tbe  barn  to  tbe  kitchen,  he  no- 
ticed her  returning  from  the  well  witb  a 
pitcher  of  water  in  each  band,  and  as  it  is 
considered  an  act  of  civil  attention  for  the 
male  servant,  if  not  otberwse  emijloyed,  to 
assist  the  female  in  small  matters  of  tbe 
kind,  so  did  Flanagan,  in  his  best  manner 
and  kindest  voice,  bid  ber  good-morning 
and  oiler  to  carry  home  the  pitcher. 

"It's  the  least  I  may  do,"  said  he,  "now 
that  I'm  your  fellow-servant ;  but  before  you 
go  fai-tber,  lay  down  yom-  burden,  an'  let 
us  chat  awhile." 


FARDOROOGUA,    THE  MISER. 


213 


"Indeed,"'  replied  Biddy,  "it's  little  we 
expected  evei-  to  see  youi-  father's  sou  goin'  to 
earn  his  bread  undher  another  man's  roof." 

"Pooh  !  Biddy  !  there's  greater  wondhers 
in  the  world  than  that,  woman  aUve  !  But 
tell  nie — pooh — ay,  is  there  a  thousand 
quarer  things — hut  I  say,  Biddj',  how  do 
you  like  to  live  wid  this  family  ?  " 

"Why,  troth  indeed,  only  for  the  ■withered 
ould  lepreehaun  himself,  divil  a  dacenter  peo- 
ple ever  bi'oke  bread." 

"  Yet,  isn't  it  a  wondher  that  the  ould  fel- 
low is  what  he  is,  an'  he  so  full  o'  money  ?  " 

"  Troth,  there's  one  thing  myself  wondhers 
at  more  than  fliat." 

"What,  Biddy?  let  us  hear  it." 

"  W^y,  that  i/ou  could  be  mane  an'  shabby 
enough  to  come  as  a  sai'vint  to  ate  the 
bread  of  the  man  that  ruined  yees  !  " 

"  Biddy,"  rejahed  Fl.magan,  "  I'm  glad 
you've  said  it ;  but  do  you  think  that  I  have  so 
bad  a  heart  as  too  keep  reviuge  in  against 
an  inimy?  How  could  I  go  to  my  knees  at 
night,  if  I — no,  Biddy,  we  must  be  Chris- 
tians. Well !  let  us  drop  that ;  so  you  tell  me 
the  mother  an'  son  are  kind  to  you." 

"As  good-hearted  a  pair  as  ever  hved." 

"  Connor,  of  coiu-se,  can't  but  be  uei-i/ 
kind  to  so  good-looking  a  girl  as  you  are, 
Biddy,"  saidi  Bai'tle,  with  a  knowing  smde. 

"Veiy  kind!  good-looking!  ay,  indeed, 
I'm  sure  o'  that,  I5ai'tle  ;  behave  !  an'  don't 
be  gettin'  an  wid  any  o'  your  palavers.  Wliat 
'ud  make  Connor  be  kind  to  the  Ukes  of  me, 
that  way  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  oughtn't  an'  mightn't 
— you're  as  good  as  him,  if  it  goes  to  that." 

"  Oh,  yis,  indeed  !  " 

"  ^\liy,  you  know  you'r  handsome." 

"Handsome," replied  the  v.iiu  girl,  tight- 
ening her  apron-strings,  and  assuming  a  sh', 
coquettish  look  ;  "  Bartle,  go  'an  mind  your 
business,  and  let  me  bring  home  my  jsitch- 
ers ;  it's  time  the  breakwist  was  dovra.  Sich 
nonsense  ! " 

"  Very  well,  you're  not,  thin  ;  you've  a  bad 
leg,  a  bad  figure,  an'  a  bad  face,  an'  it  would 
be  a  terrible  thing  all  out  for  Connor  O'Don- 
ovau  to  fall  in  consate  wid  you." 

"Well,  about  Connor  I  could  tell  you 
Bomething  ; — me  !  tut !  go  to  the  sarra  ; — ■ 
faix,  you  don't  know  them  that  Connor's  af- 
ther,  nor  the  collogin'  they  all  had  about  it 
no  longer  ago  than  last  night  itself.  I  suppose 
they  thought  I  was  asleep,  but  it  was  hke  the 
bares,  wid  nij'  eyes  open." 

"  An'  it's  a  pity,  Biddy,  ever  the  same  two 
eyes  should  be  shut.  Begad,  myself's  be- 
ginning to  feel  quare  somehow,  when  I  look 
at  them." 

A  glance  of  pretended  incredulity  was 
given  in  return,  after  which  she  proceeded — 


"  Bartle,  don't  be  bringin'  yourself  to  the 
fail-  wid  sich  foUy.  My  eyes  is  jist  as  God 
made  them  ;  but  I  can  tell  you  that  before  a 
month  o'  Sundays  jjasses,  I  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  you  seen  Connor  married  to — j'ou 
wouhln't  guess !  " 

"  Not  I ;  divil  a  hap'orth  I  know  about 
who  he's  courtin'." 

"  No  less  than  our  gi'eat  beauty,  Bodagh 
Buie's  daughter,  Una  O'Brien.  Now,  Bartle, 
for  goodness  sake,  don't  let  this  cross  your 
hps  to  a  livin'  mortal.  Siu'e  I  heard  him 
tellin'  all  to  the  father  and  mother  last  night 
— they're  promised  to  one  another.  Eh  ! 
blessed  saints,  Bartle,  what  ails  you  ?  you're 
as  white  as  a  sheet.  AMiat's  WTong?  and 
what  did  you  start  for  ?  " 

" No thiu', "  replied  Flanagan,  coolly,  "but 
a  stitch  in  my  side.  I'm  subject  to  that — it 
pains  me  very  much  while  it  lasts,  and  laves 
me  face,  as  you  say,  the  color  of  dimity  ;  but 
about  Connor,  iqion  my  throth,  I'm  main 
jnoud  to  heai-  it ;  she's  a  purty  giii,  an'  be- 
sides he'll  have  a  fortune  that'll  make  a  man 
of  him.  I  am,  in  throth,  heart  proud  to  hear 
it.  It's  a  i^ity  Connor's  father  isn't  as  dacent 
as  himself.  An-ah,  Biddy,  where  does  the 
ould  codger  keep  his  money "?  " 

"  Little  of  it  in  the  house  any  way — sure, 
whenever  he  scrapes  a  guinea  together  he's 

away  wid  it  to  the  county county och, 

that  countryman  that  keejss  the  money  for 
the  jjeople." 

"  The  treasurer  ;  well,  much  good  may  his 
thrash  do  him,  Biddy,  that's  the  worst  I  wish 
him.  Come  now  and  I'll  lave  youi-  pitchers 
at  home,  and  remember  you  owe  me  some- 
thing for  this." 

"  Good  win,  I  hope." 

"  Tiiat  for  one  thing,"  he  replied,  as  they 
went  along  ;  "  but  we'll  talk  more  about  it 
when  we  have  time  ;  and  I'U  thm  tell  you  the 
truth  about  what  brought  me  to  liire  wid  Far- 
dorougha  Donovan." 

Having  thus  excited  that  most  active  prin- 
ciple called  female  curiosity,  both  entered 
the  kitchen,  where  they  found  Connor  and 
his  mother  in  close  and  apparently  confi- 
dential conversation — Fardorougha  hiniself 
having  as  usual  been  aliroad  upon  his  farm 
for  ujjwards  of  an  hour  befoi'e  any  of  them 
had  risen. 

The  feelings  with  which  they  met  that 
morning  at  breakfast  may  be  easily  under- 
stood b\'  our  readers  without  much  assi;^t- 
ance  of  ours.  On  the  jiart  of  Fardorougha 
there  was  a  narrow,  scltish  sense  of  exulta- 
tion, if  not  triumph,  at  the  chance  that  lay 
before  his  son  of  being  able  to  settle  himself 
independently  in  life,  withoiit  the  necessity 
of  making  any  demand  upon  the  hundreds 
wliich  lay  so    safely  in  the  keepuig  of  the 


'214 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


County  Treasurer.  His  sordid  soul  was  too 
deeply  imbued  with  the  love  of  money  to 
perceive  that  what  he  had  hitherto  looked 
ujjon  as  a  proof  of  jjarental  afi'eetiou  aud  fore- 
sight, was  nothiug  more  than  a  faUaey  by 
which  he  was  led  day  after  day  farther  iuto 
his  f)revaihng  vice.  In  other  words,  now  that 
love  for  his  son,  aud  the  hope  of  seeing  him 
occupy  a  resjiectable  station  in  society,  ought 
to  have  justified  the  reasoning  by  which  he 
had  suffered  himself  to  be  guided,  it  was  ap- 
parent that  the  prudence  which  he  had  still 
considered  to  be  his  duty  as  a  kind  parent, 
was  nothing  else  than  a  mask  for  his  own 
avarice.  The  idea,  therefore,  of  seeing  Con- 
nor settled  without  any  aid  fi'om  himself,  fill- 
ed his  whole  soul  with  a  wild,  hard  satisfac- 
tion, which  gave  him  as  much  delight  as  per- 
haps he  was  capable  of  enjoying.  The  advice 
offered  to  his  son  on  the  preceding  night  aj)- 
2:)eared  to  him  a  matter  so  reasonable  in  it- 
self, aud  the  oijportunity  ofi'ered  by  Una's  at- 
tachment so  well  adapted  for  making  it  an 
instrument  to  work  upon  the  affections  of 
her  ijarents,  that  he  could  not  for  the  life  of 
him  jjerceive  why  they  should  entertain  any 
rational  objection  against  it. 

The  warm-hearted  mother  participated  so 
largely  in  all  that  affected  the  happiness 
of  her  son,  that,  if  we  allow  for  the  diii'erence 
of  sex  and  position,  we  might  describe  their 
feelings  as  bearing,  in  the  character  of  their 
simple  and  vivid  enjoyment,  a  very  remark- 
able resemblance.  This  amiable  woman's 
affection  for  Connor  was  reflected  upon  Una 
O'Brieu,  whom  she  now  most  tenderly  loved, 
not  because  the  fair  girl  was  beautiful,  but 
because  she  had  iihghted  her  troth  to  that 
son  who  had  been  during  his  whole  Hfe  her 
own  solace  and  delight. 

No  sooner  was  the  morning  meal  con- 
cluded, and  the  sei-vants  engaged  at  their 
respective  employments,  than  Honor,  acting 
probably  under  Connor's  suggestion,  resolved 
at  once  to  ascertain  whether  Iwr  husband 
could  so  far  overcome  his  parsimony  as  to 
estabhsh  their  son  and  Una  in  hfe  ;  that  is, 
in  the  event  of  Una's  jiarents  opposing  their 
marriage,  and  dechning  to  render  them  any 
assistance.  With  this  object  in  view,  she 
told  him,  as  he  was  throwing  his  gi-eat-coat 
over  his  shoulders,  in  order  to  j)roceed  to  the 
fields,  that  she  wished  to  speak  to  him  upon 
a  matter  of  deep  importance. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Fardorougha,  with  a 
hesitating  shrug,  "  what  is  it?  This  is  ever 
an'  always  the  way  when  you  want  money ; 
but  I  tell  you  I  have  no  money.  You  wor 
born  to  waste  aud  extravagance.  Honor,  an' 
there's  no  ciu'in'  you.  What  is  it  j'ou  want  ? 
an'  let  me  go  about  my  business." 

"  Throw  that  ould  threadbare  Cothamore 


off  o'  you,"  replied  Honor,  "  and  beg  of  God 
to  give  you  grace  to  sit  down,  an'  have  com- 
mon fecUng  and  common  sense." 

"If  it's  money  to  get  does  either  for 
yourself  or  Connor,  there's  no  use  in  it.  I 
needn't  sit ;  you  don't  want  a  stitch,  either 
of  you." 

Honor,  without  more  ado,  seized  the  coat, 
and,  flinging  it  aside,  pushed  him  over  to  a 
seat  on  which  she  forced  him  to  sit  down. 

"  As  heaven's  above  me,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  dunna  whafU  come  over  you  at  all,  at  aU. 
Your  money,  your  thrash,  your  dirt  an'  filth, 
ever,  ever,  an'  for  evermore  in  j-our  thought, 
heart  and  sowl.  Oh,  Chierna !  to  think  of 
it,  an'  you  know  there  is  a  God  above  you,  an' 
that  you  must  meet  Him,  an'  that  widval  your 
money  too  ! " 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  money's  what  you  want  to 
come  at ;  but  I'll  not  sit  here  to  be  hecthor'd. 
What  is  it,  I  say  again,  you  wimt  ?  " 

"Fardorougha  ahagur,"  continued  the 
wife,  checking  herself,  and  addressing  him  in 
a  kind  and  afi'ectionate  voice,  "  maybe  I  was 
si3akin'  too  harsh  to  you,  but  sure  it  was  an' 
is  for  your  own  good.  How  an'  ever,  I'll 
thry  kindness,  and  if  you  have  a  heart  at  all, 
you  can't  but  show  it  when  you  hear  what 
I'm  goin'  to  say." 

"  Well,  well,  go  an,"  replied  the  pertina- 
cious husband  ;  "  but — money — ay,  ay,  is 
there.  I  feel,  by  the  way  you're  comin'  about 
me,  that  there  is  money  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

The  wife  raised  her  hands  and  eyes  to 
heaveu,  shook  her  head,  and  after  a  sUght 
pause,  in  which  she  apjDeared  to  consider  her 
appeal  a  hopeless  one,  she  at  length  went  on 
in  au  earnest  but  subdued  and  desponding 
spirit — 

"  Fardorougha,  the  time's  now  come  that 
wiU  show  the  world  whether  you  love  Con- 
nor or  not." 

"  I  don't  care  a  pin  about  the  world  ;  you  an' 
Connor  know  well  enough  that  I  love  him." 

"Love  for  ones  child  docsn  t  come  out 
merely  in  words,  Fai'dorougha  ;  actin'  for 
their  benefit  shows  it  better  than  sjjakin'. 
Don't  you  grant  that  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  may  be  I  do,  and  again  may 
be  I  don't ;  there's  times  when  the  one's  bet- 
ter than  the  other  ;  but  go  an  ;  may  be  I  do 
grant  it." 

"  Now  tell  me  where  in  this  parish,  ay,  or 
in  the  next  five  jiaiishes  to  it,  you'd  find  sich 
a  boy  for  a  father  or  mother  to  be  proud  out 
of,  as  Connor,  your  ovm  darhn'  as  you  often 
call  him  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  one.  Honor  ;  damnho  to  the  o-ne ; 
I  won't  differ  wid  you  in  thai." 

"  You  won't  differ  wid  me  !  the  diril 
tliauk  you  for  that.  You  won't  indeed  !  but 
could  you,  I  say,  if  you  wor  T.'iHin'  ?  " 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


21^ 


"I  tell  you  I  coulJ  not." 

"  Now  there's  siuse  an'  kindness  in  that. 
V^ery  well,  you  say  you're  gatherin'  up  all 
the  money  you  can.  fur  him." 

"  For  him — him"  exclaimed  the  uncon- 
scious miser,  "  why,  what  do  you  mane — for 
— well — ay — yes,  yes,  I  did  say  for  him  ;  it's 
for  him  I'm  keeping  it — it  i%  I  tell  you." 

"  Now,  Fardorougha,  you  know  he's  ould 
enough  to  be  settled  in  life  on  his  oym  ac- 
count, an'  you  heard  last  night  the  girl  he 
can  get,  if  you  stand  to  him,  as  he  ought  to 
expect  from  a  father  that  loves  him." 

"  Why,  last  night,  thin,  didn't  I  give  my — " 

"  Whist,  ahagur !  hould  your  tongue 
awhile,  and  let  me  go  on.  Thi-uth's  best — 
he  dotes  on  that  girl  to  such  a  degree,  that 
if  he  doesn't  get  her,  he'll  never  see  another 
happy  day  while  he's  alive." 

"  All  fm^llialagh.  Honor — that  won't  pass 
wid  me  ;  I  know  otherwise  myself.  Do  you 
think  that  if  I  hadn't  got  you,  I'd  been  un- 
hajjpy  four-an'-twenty  hours,  let  alone  my 
•whole  life?  I  tell  you  that's  fea.-<thalar/h, 
an'  won't  pass.  He  wouldn't  eat  an  ounce 
tlie  less  if  he  was  never  to  get  her.  You 
seen  the  breakfast  he  made  this  mornin'  ;  I 
didn't  begrudge  it  to  Mm,  but  may  I  never 
stir  if  that  Flanagan  wouldn't  ate  a  horse 
behind  the  saddle  ;  he  has  a  stomach  that'd 
require  a  king's  ransom  to  keep  it." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  what  I'm  sjiakin' 
about,"  replied  his  wife.  "I  wasn't  Una 
dha-i  dhun  O'Brien  in  my  best  days  ;  an'  be 
the  vestment,  you  wani't  Connor,  that  has 
more  feelin',  an'  sjairit,  an'  generosity  in  the 
nail  of  his  little  linger  than  ever  you  had  in 
your  whole  carcass.  I  teU  you  if  he  doesn't 
get  married  to  that  girl  he'U  break  his  heai't. 
Now  how  can  he  marry  her  excejjt  you  take 
a  good  farm  for  him,  and  stock  it  daceutly, 
so  that  he  may  have  a  home  sich  as  she  de- 
sarves  to  bring  her  to  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  but  they'll  give  her  a 
fortune  when  they  find  her  bent  on  him  ?  " 

"Why,  it's  not  unpossible,"  said  the  wife, 
immediately  changing  her  tactics,  "  it's  not 
unpossible,  but  I  can  teU  you  it's  very  im- 
likely." 

"■Tfae  best  way,  then,  in  my  opinion,  'ud 
be  to  spake  to  Connor  about  breaking  it  to 
the  family." 

"Wh}',  that's  fair  enough,"  said  the  wife. 
"  I  wondher  myself  I  didn't  think  of  it,  but 
the  time  was  so  short  since  last  night." 

'  It  is  .short,"  reijlied  the  miser,  "  far  an' 
away  too  shoi-t  to  exjiect  any  one  to  make  up 
their  mind  about  it.  Let  them  not  be  rash 
themselves  aither,  for  I  tell  you  that  when 
people  many  in  haste,  they're  apt  to  have 
time  enough  to  repint  at  kiysure." 

"  Well,    but    Fardorougha    acushka,    now 


hear  me,  throth  it's  thruth  and  sinse  what 
you  say ;  but  still,  avourneen,  hsten  ;  now 
set  in  case  that  the  Bodagh  and  his  wife 
don't  consint  to  their  marriage,  or  to  do  any- 
thing for  them,  ^\'on"t  you  take  them  a  farm 
and  stock  it  bravely  ?  Think  of  poor  Connor, 
the  darhn'  tine  fellow  that  he  is.  Oh,  thin, 
Saver  above,  but  it's  he  id  go  to  the  well  o' 
the  woi-ld's  end  to  ase  you,  if  yoiu-  Uttle  fin- 
ger only  ached.  He  would,  or  for  m_^-self, 
and  Yet  his  own  father  to  trate  him  wid 
sich — " 

It  was  in  vain  she  attempted  to  proceed  ; 
the  subject  was  one  in  which  her  heart  felt 
too  deejj  an  interest  to  be  discussed  without 
tears.  A  brief  silence  ensued,  during  which 
Fardorougha  moved  uneasily  on  his  se.at, 
took  the  tongs,  and  mechanically  mended  the 
fire,  and,  peering  at  his  wife  with  a  counte- 
nance twitched  as  if  by  tic  douloureu.r,  stiU'eJ 
round  the  house  with  a  kind  of  stupid  won- 
der, rose  up,  then  sat  instantly  down,  and  in 
fact  exhibited  many  of  those  uniateUigiblo 
and  uncouth  movements,  which,  iu  persona 
of  his  cast,  may  be  properly  termed  the 
hierogh^pliics  of  human  action,  under  feel- 
ings that  cannot  be  deciphered  either  by 
those  on  whom  they  operate,  or  by  those  who 
witness  them. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "  Connor  is  aU  you  say,  an' 
more — an'  more — an' — an' — a  rash  act  is  the 
wor.st  thing  he  could  do.  It's  betther.  Honor, 
to  spake  to  him  as  I  sed,  about  lettin'  thf 
matther  be  known  to  Una's  family  out  of 
hand." 

"  And  thin,  if  they  refuse,  you  can  shov/ 
them  a  ginerous  example,  by  jjuttin'  them 
into  a  dacent  farm.  WiU  you  promise  me 
that,  Fardorougha  ?  If  you  do,  all's  I'ight,  for 
they're  not  hviu'  that  ever  knew  you  to  brealc 
your  word  or  your  promise." 

"I'll  niixke  no  promise.  Honor  ;  I'U  make 
no  promise  ;  but  let  the  other  plan  be  tried 
tir.st.  Now  don't  be  pressiu'  me  ;  he  is  ,". 
noble  boy,  and  would,  as  you  say,  thravel 
round  the  earth  to  keep  my  little  fijiger  fi-om 
pain  ;  but  let  me  alone  about  it  now — let  mo 
alone  about  it." 

This,  though  slight  encouragement,  was 
stiU,  in  Honor's  opinion,  quite  as  much  as. 
if  not  more,  than  she  expected,  "\^'ithout 
pressing  him,  therefore,  too  strongly  at  that 
moment,  she  contented  herself  with  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  their  son,  drawn  with  all 
tlie  skill  of  a  mother  who  knew,  if  her  hus- 
band's heart  could  be  touched  at  aU,  those 
points  at  which  she  stood  the  greatest  chanco 
of  finding  it  accessible. 

For  a  few  days  after  this  the  subject  ol 
Connor's  love  was  permitted  to  lie  undebated, 
in  the  earnest  hope  that  Fardorougha's  heart 
might  have  caught  some  slight  spark  of  natu- 


21v5 


WIZLIAJI  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ral  affection  from  tlie  conversation  which  had 
ftaken  place  between  him  and  Honor.  They 
waited,  consequently,  with  patience  for  some 
manifestation  on  his  part  of  a  better  feelinp^, 
and  flattered  themselves  that  his  silence  i^ro- 
oeeded  from  the  stru<;fgle  which  they  knew  a 
man  of  his  disposition  must  necessarily  feel 
in  working  up  his  mind  to  any  act  requiring 
iiim  to  part  with  that  which  he  loved  better 
than  hfe,  his  money.  The  ardent  tempera- 
ment of  Connor,  however,  could  ill  brook  the 
pulseless  indrft'ej-ence  of  the  old  man  ;  with 
much  difhculty,  therefore,  was  he  induced  to 
wait  a  whole  week  for  the  issue,  though  sus- 
tained by  the  mother's  assurance,  that,  in 
consequence  of  the  imf)ressiou  left  on  her  by 
their  list  conversation,  she  was  certain  the 
father,  if  not  urged  beyond  his  wish,  would 
declare  hirascif  willing  to  pro\'ide  for  them. 
A  week,  however,  elapsed,  and  Fardorougha 
moved  on  in  the  same  hard  and  insensible 
spirit  which  was  usual  to  him,  wholly  en- 
grossed by  money,  and  never,  either  dii-ectly 
or  indirectly,  appearing  to  remember  that 
the  happiiness  and  w^elfare  of  his  son  were  at 
stake,  or  dej^ending  upon  the  determination 
to  which  he  might  come. 

Another  half  week  passed,  during  which 
Connor  had  made  two  imsuet'essful  attempts 
to  see  Una,  in  order  that  some  fixed  jalau  of 
intercourse  might  be  established  between 
them,  at  least  until  his  father's  ultimate  reso- 
lution on  the  subject  jjroposed  to  him  should 
be  known.  He  now  felt  deeply  distressed,  and 
regretted  that  the  ardor  of  his  attachment 
had  so  far  borne  him  away  dui-ing  their  last 
meeting,  that  he  had  forgottento  concert  meas- 
ures with  Una  for  their  future  interviews. 

He  had  often  watched  about  her  father's 
l)remises  from  a  little  before  twilight  until 
the  whole  family  had  gone  to  bed,  yet  with- 
out any  chance  either  of  conversing  with 
her,  or  of  letting  her  know  that  he  was  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  had  gone  to  chapel, 
too,  with  the  hope  of  seeing  her,  or  snatching 
i\  hasty  opportunity  of  exchanging  a  word  or 
two,  if  possible  ;  but  to  his  astonishment  she 
had  not  attended  mass — an  omission  of  duty 
of  which  she  had  not  been  S'uilty  for  the  last 
three  years.  Wliat,  therefore,  was  to  be 
done  ?  For  him  to  be  detected  lurking  about 
the  Bodagh's  house  might  create  susi^icion, 
especially  after  their  interview  in  the  gar- 
den, which  very  probably  had,  through  the 
otficiousness  of  the  servants,  been  communi- 
cated to  her  p.arents.  Li  a  matter  of  such 
difficulty  he  bethought  him  of  a  confidant, 
and  the  person  to  whom  the  necessity  of  the 
case  directed  him  was  Bartle  I'lanagan. 
Bartle,  indeed,  ever  since  he  entered  into  his 
father's  service,  had  gained  rajjidly  upon  Con- 
nor's good  wUl,  and  on  one  or  two  occasions 


well-nigh  succeeded  in  drawing  from  him  a 
history  of  the  mutual  attachment  which  sub- 
sisted between  him  and  Una.  His  good 
humor,  easy  language,  and  apparent  friend- 
ship for  young  O'Donovan,  together  with  his 
natui-al  readiness  of  address,  or,  if  you  will, 
of  manner,  all  marked  him  out  as  admirably 
cpaliiied  to  act  as  a  confidant  in  a  matter 
which  required  the  very  tact  and  talent  he 
piossessed. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  thought  Connor  to  himself, 
"  it  wiU  make  him  feel  more  like  one  of  the 
family  than  a  servant.  If  he  can  think  that 
he's  trated  as  my  friend  and  companion,  he 
may  forget  that  he's  ating  the  bread  of  the 
very  man  that  drove  liim  an'  his  to  destruc- 
tion. Ay,  an'  if  we're  married,  I'm  not  sure 
but  I'U  have  him  to  give  me  away  too." 

This  resolution  of  permitting  Flanngan  to 
share  his  confidence  had  been  come  to  1  )y  Con- 
nor upon  the  day  subsequent  to  that  on  which 
he  had  last  tried  to  see  Una.  After  his  return 
home,  disappointment  on  one  hand,  and  his 
anxiety  concerning  his  father's  liberality  on 
the  other,  together  ■with  the  delight  ai'ising 
from  the  certainty  of  being  beloved,  all  kept 
his  mind  in  a  tumult,  and  permitted  him  to 
sleeji  but  httle.  The  next  clay  he  decided  on 
admittmg  Bartle  to  his  confidence,  and  re- 
posing this  solemn  trust  to  his  integrity. 
He  was  lying  on  his  back  in  the  meadow — 
for  they  had  been  ricking  the  hay  fi-om  the 
lapcocks — when  that  delicious  lang-uor  which 
arises  from  the  three  greatest  jjrovocatives 
to  slumber,  want  of  rest,  fatigue,  and  heat, 
so  utterly  overcame  him,  that,  forgetting  his 
love,  and  all  the  anxiety  arising  from  it,  he 
fell  into  a  dreamless  and  j)rofound  sleep. 

From  this  state  he  was  aroused  after  about 
an  hour  by  the  pressui-e  of  something  sharp 
aud  painful  against  his  side,  near  the  region 
of  the  heart,  and  on  looking  ujj,  he  discovered 
Bartle  Flanagan  standing  over  him  with  a 
l^itchfork  in  his  hand,  one  end  of  which  was 
pressed  against  his  breast,  as  if  he  had  been 
in  the  act  of  driving  it  forward  into  his 
body.  His  face  was  joale,  his  dark  brows 
frightfully  contracted,  and  his  teeth  appar- 
ently set  to;;'ether,  as  if  working  under  some 
feai-ful  determination.  W'lien  Connor  awoke, 
Flanagan  broke  out  into  a  laugh  that  no 
language  could  describe.  The  character  of 
mirth  which  he  wished  to  throw  into  his  face, 
jarred  so  terrifically  with  its  demoniacal  ex- 
pression when  first  seen  by  Connor,  that, 
even  unsuspecting  as  he  was,  he  started  up 
with  alarm,  and  asked  Flanagan  what  was 
the  matter.  Flanagan,  however,  laughed  on 
— peal  after  peal  succeeded — he  tossed  the 
pitchfork  aside,  and,  clrqiping  both  his  hands 
upon  his  face,  continued  the  paroxysms  until 
he  recovered  his  composure. 


FAEDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


'Ill 


"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I'm  sick,  I'm  as  wake  as 
a  child  wid  laughin'  ;  but,  Lord  bless  us, 
after  all,  Couuor,  what  is  a  mau'a  life  worth 
whin  he  has  au  enemy  near  liim '?  There 
was  I,  tickhn'  you  wid  the  pitchfork,  stiivin' 
to  waken  you,  and  one  inch  of  it  would  have 
baked  youi-  bread  for  Hfe.  Didn't  you  feel 
me,  Connor  ?  " 

"Divil  a  bit,  till  the  minute  before  I  ris." 

"  Then  the  divil  a  purtier  jig  you  ever 
danced  in  your  Ufe  ;  wait  till  I  show  you 
how  your  left  toe  wint." 

He  accordingly  lay  dovra  and  illustrated 
the  pretended  action,  after  which  he  burst 
out  into  another  uncontrollable  fit  of  mirth. 

" 'Twas  just  for  all  the  world,"  said  he, 
"  as  if  I  had  tied  a  string  to  youi-  toe,  for  you 
groaned  an'  grunted,  an'  went  on  like  I 
dimna  what ;  but,  Connor,  what  makes  you 
so  sleepy  to-day  as  well  as  on  Monday  last  ?  " 

"  That's  the  very  thing,"  rephed  the  un- 
suspicious and  candid  young  man,  "  that  I 
wanted  to  si^ake  to  you  about." 

"  A\Tiat !  about  sleepin'  in  the  meadows?" 

"  Divil  a  bit  o'  tliat,  Bartle,  not  a  morsel 
of  sleepin'  in  the  meadows  is  consamed  in 
what  I'm  goin'  to  miution  to  you.  Bartle, 
didn't  you  tell  me,  the  day  you  hii'ed  wid  my 
father,  thit  you  wor  in  love  ?  " 

"I  did,  Connor,  I  did." 

"  Well,  so  am  I ;  but  do  jou  know  who 
I'm  iu  love  with  ?  " 

"  How  the  divil,  man,  could  I  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  sweariu',  Biuile  ;  keep  the  com- 
mandments, my  boy.  I'U  tell  you  in  the 
mane  time,  an'  that's  more  than  you  did  me, 
you  close-mouth-is-a-sign-of-a- wise-head  sj)al- 
peen  !  " 

"Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  one  Colleen 
d/ias  dhua,  as  she's  called,  known  by  the 
name  of  Una  or  Ooua  O'Brien,  daughter  to 
one  Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien,  the  richest  man, 
barrin'  a  born  guitleman,  in  the  three  parish- 
es V  " 

"  All  veiT  fail',  Connor,  for  j'ou  or  any  one 
else  to  be  in  love  wid  her — ay,  man  alive,  for 
myself,  if  it  goes  to  that — but,  hat,  Connor, 
avouchal,  are  you  sure  that  iver  you'U  bring 
her  to  be  in  love  wid  you  ?  " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Couuor,  seriously,  and  af- 
ter a  sudden  change  in  his  whole  manner, 
"  in  this  busmess  I'm  goin'  to  trate  you  as  a 
friend,  and  a  brothei-.  She  loves  me,  Bartle, 
and  a  solemn  promise  of  marriage  has  passed 
between  us." 

"  Connor."  said  Bartle,  "  it's  wondherful, 
it's  woulherful !  you  couldn't  believe  what  a 
fool  I  am — fool !  no,  but  a  faiut-hearted,  cow- 
ai-dly  villain." 

"■  Wliat  do  you  mane,  Bartle  ?  what  the 
dickens  are  you  drivin'  at !  " 

"  Driven  at !  whenever  I  happen  to  have 


an  opportunity  of  makin'  a  drive  that  id-  -hut ! 
I'm  talkin'  balderdash.  Do  you  see  here, 
Connor,"  said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
neck,  "do  you  see  here?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  '\i\^ell,  what  about 
there ?  " 

"  Be  my  sowl,  I'm  very  careful  of — hut ! — 
sm-e  1  may  as  well  tell  you  the  whole  truth 
— I  sed  I  was  in  love  ;  well,  man,  that  was 
thi'ue,  an',"  he  added  in  a  low,  pithy  whisper, 
"  I  was  near — no,  Connor,  I  won't  but  go 
an  ;  it's  enough  for  j'ou  to  know  that  I  was 
an'  am  in  love,  an'  that  it'll  go  hard  wid  me 
if  ever  any  one  else  is  married  to  the  giid  I'm 
in  love  wid.  Now  that  my  business  is  past, 
let  me  hear  yours,  poor  fellow,  an'  I'm  devil- 
ish glad  to  know,  Connor,  that — that — why, 
tunder  an'  ouns,  that  you're  not  as  I  am.  Be 
the  crass  that  saved  us,  Connor,  I'm  glad  of 
that ! " 

"  Why,  love  will  set  you  mad,  Bartle,  if 
you  don't  take  care  of  yoiu'self ;  an',  faith,  I 
dunna  but  it  may  do  the  same  with  myself, 
if  I'm  disapijoiuted.  However,  the  truth  is, 
you  must  sai-ve  me  in  this  business.  I  struv 
to  see  her  twiste,  but  couldn't,  an'  I'm  afraid 
of  bein'  seen  spyin'  about  theu-  place." 

"  The  truth  is,  Connor,  you  want  to  make 
me  a  go-between — a  blackfoot ;  veiy  well, 
I'U  do  that  same  on  your  account,  an'  do  it 
well,  too,  I  hoiDe." 

It  was  then  arranged  that  Flanagan,  who 
was  2:)ersonally  known  to  some  of  the  Bodagh's 
servants,  shoidd  avail  himself  of  that  circum- 
stance, and  contrive  to  gain  an  interview  with 
Una,  iu  order  to  convey  her  a  letter  from 
O'Donovan.  He  was  fui-ther  enjoined  by  no 
means  to  commit  it  to  the  hands  of  any 
l^erson  save  those  of  Una  herself,  and,  in  the 
event  of  his  not  being  able  to  see  her,  then 
the  letter  was  to  be  returned  to  Connor.  If 
he  succeeded,  however,  in  dehvering  it,  he 
was  to  await  an  answer,  provided  she  found 
an  opportunity  of  sending  one  ;  if  not,  she 
was  to  inform  Connor,  through  Flanagan,  at 
what  time  smd  i^lace  he  could  see  her.  This 
arrangement  ha\'ing  been  made,  Connor  im- 
mediately wrote  the  letter,  and,  after  having 
despatched  Flanagan  upon  his  errand,  set 
himself  to  perform,  by  his  individual  labor, 
the  task  which  his  father  had  portioned  out 
for  both.  Ere  Bartle's  return,  Fardt>rougha 
came  to  inspect  their  progress  in  the  meadow, 
and,  on  finding  that  the  sei'vant  was  absent, 
he  inqim-ed  sharply  mto  the  cause  of  it. 

"He's  gone  on  a  message  for  me,"  replied 
Connor,  with  the  utmost  fi-ankness. 

"But  that's  a  bad  way  for  him  to  mind  his 
business,"  said  the  father. 

"I'll  have  the  task  that  you  set  both  of 
us  finished,"  replied  the  sou,  "  so  that  you'll 
lose  nothin'  by  his  absence,  at  aH  events." 


218 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"It's  wrong,  Connor,  it's  ■wrong;  where 
did  YOU  sind  him  to '? " 

"To  Bodagh  Buie's  wid  a  letter  to  Una." 

"  It's  a  waste  of  time,  an'  a  loss  of  work  ; 
about  that  business  I  have  something  to  say 
to  yoiu-  mother  au'  you  to-night,  afther  the 
supper,  when  the  rest  goes  to  bed." 

■'I  hope,  father,  you'll  do  the  dacent  thing 
still." 

"  No  ;  but  I  hope,  son,  you'll  do  the  wise 
tiling  still ;  how-au-ever  let  me  alone  now  ; 
if  you  exj)ec't  me  to  do  anything,  you  mustn't 
drive  me  as  your  mother  does.  To-night 
we'U  make  up  a  plan  that'll  outdo  Bodagh 
Buie.  Before  you  come  home,  Connor,  throw 
a  stone  or  two  in  that  gap,  to  prevent  the 
cows  from  gettiu'  into  the  hay  ;  it  won't  cost 
you  much  throuble.  But,  Connor,  did  you 
ever  see  sich  a  gut  as  Bartle  has?  He'U 
brake  me  out  o'  house  an'  home  feediu'  him  ; 
he  has  a  stomach  for  ten-penny-nails  ;  be  my 
word  it  'ud  be  a  cliarity  to  give  liim  a  dose 
.of  oak  bai"k  to  make  hi]u  dacent ;  he's  a  divil 
at  aitin',  an'  little  good  may  it  do  him  !  " 

The  hour  of  sujiper  arrived  without  Bar- 
tie's  returning,  and  Connor's  impatience  be- 
gan to  overcome  him,  when  Fardorouglia, 
for  the  first  time,  introduced  the  subject 
which  lay  nearest  his  son's  heart. 

"  Connor,"  he  began,  "  I've  been  thinkin' 
of  this  afl'air  with  Una  O'Brien  ;  an'  in  ray 
opinion  there's  but  one  way  out  of  it  ;  but 
if  you're  a  fool  an'  stand  in  your  own  Hght, 
it's  not  my  fault." 

"  What  is  the  way,  father  ?  "  inquired  Con- 
nor. 

"  The  very  same  I  tould  your  mother  an' 
you  before — run  away  wid  hei' — I  mane  make 
a  runaway  match  of  it — then  refuse  to  marry 
her  unless  they  come  down  wid  the  money. 
You  know  afther  runnin'  awaj'  wid  you  no- 
body else  ever  would  marry  her ;  so  that 
rather  than  see  their  child  disgraced,  never 
fear  but  they'll  paj'  down  on  the  nail,  or  may- 
be bring  you  both  to  live  wid  'em." 

'.'My  sowl  to  glory,  Fardorouglia,"  said 
the  wife,  "  but  you're  a  bigger  an'  cunuinner 
oukl  rogue  than  I  ever  took  you  for  !  By  the 
scapular  upon  me,  if  I  had  known  how  you'd 
turn  out,  the  sorra  carry  the  ring  ever  you'd 
put  on  nuj  finger !  " 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  "  I  must  be  dis- 
obedient to  you  in  this  at  all  events.  It's 
plain  you'll  do  notliing  for  us  ;  so  there's  no 
use  in  sayin'  anything  more  about  it.  I  have 
no  manes  of  supportin'  her,  an'  I  swear  I'll 
never  bring  her  to  i^overty.  If  I  had  money 
to  carry  me,  I'd  go  to  America  an'  thry  my 
fortune  there  ;  but  I  have  not.  Father,  it's 
too  hard  that  you  sliould  stand  in  my  way 
when  you  could  so  easily  make  me  liappy. 
Who  have  you  sich  a  right  to  assist  as  your 


son — your   only  son,    an'    your    only  child 
too?" 

This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  of  respect  and 
sorrow  at  once  impressive  and  affectionate. 
His  fine  features  were  touched  witli  some- 
thing beyond  sadness  or  regi'et,  and,  as  the 
teai's  stood  in  his  eyes,  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
he  felt  much  more  deeply  for  his  father's 
want  of  principle  than  for  anything  con- 
nected with  his  own  hopes  and  jorospects.  In 
fact,  the  tears  that  rolled  silently  down  his 
cheeks  were  the  tears  of  shame  and  sorrow 
for  a  parent  who  could  thus  school  him  to  an 
act  of  such  unparalleled  baseness.  As  it  was, 
the  genius  of  the  miser  felt  rebuked  by  the 
natural  delicacy  and  honor  of  his  son  ,  the 
old  man  tlierefore  slirunk  back  abaslied,  con- 
fused, and  moved  at  the  words  wliich  he  liad 
heard — simjile  and  inoffensive  thougli  they 
were. 

"Fardorougha,"  said  the  wife,  wiping  her 
eyes,  that  were  kindling  into  indignation, 
"  we're  now  married  goin'  an — " 

"  I  tliink,  mother,"  said  Connor,  "  the  less 
we  say  about  it  now  the  better — with  my  own 
good  will  I'll  never  speak  on  the  subject." 

"You're  right,  avourneen,"  rejilied  the 
mother  ;  "  you're  right ;  I'U  say  nothing — • 
God-  sees  it's  no  use." 

""What  would  you  have  me  do?"  said  the 
old  man,  rising  and  walking  about  in  \m- 
usual  distress  and  agitation;  "you  don't 
know  me — I  can't  do  it — /  can't,  do  it.  You 
say.  Honor,  I  don't  care  about  him — I'd  give 
him  my  blood — I'd  give  him  my  blood  to 
save  a  hair  of  his  head.  My  life  an'  happiness 
depiiids  on  him  ;  but  who  knows  how  he  an' 
his  wife  might  mismanage  that  money  if  they 
got  it — both  young  an'  foolish  ?  It  wasn't 
for  nothing  it  came  into  my  mind  what  I'm 
afeard  will  hnjiiien  to  me  yet." 

"  And  what  was  that,  Fardorougha  ? " 
asked  the  wife. 

_  "  Sich  foreknowledge  doesn't  come  for 
nothing,  Honor.  I've  had  it  an'  felt  it  hangin' 
over  me  this  many  a  long  day,  that  I'd  come 
to  starvation  yit ;  an'  I  see,  that  if  you  force 
me  to  do  as  you  wisli,  that  it  'ill  haiii^en.  I'm 
as  sure  of  it  as  that  I  stand  before  you.  I'm 
an  unfortunate  man  wid  sich  a  fate  before 
me  ;  an'  yet  I'd  shed  my  blood  for  my  boy — 
I  would,  an'  he  ought  to  know  that  I  would  ; 
but  he  wouldn't  ax  me  to  starve  for  )iim- - 
would  you,  Connor,  avick  machree,  woidd 
you  ax  your  father  to  starve  ?  I'm  unhajipy 
— unhappy — an'  my  heart's  breakin' !  " 

The  old  man's  voice  failed  him  as  he  ut- 
tered the  last  words  ;  for  the  conflict  whit^h 
he  felt  evidently  convulsed  his  wliole  frame. 
He  wiped  his  eyes,  and,  again  sitting  down, 
he  wept  bitterly  and  in  silence,  for  many 
minutes. 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


219 


A  look  of  surprise,  compassion,  and  deep 
distress  passed  between  Connor  and  Lis 
mother.  Tlie  latter  also  was  very  much 
affected,  rjid  said, 

"  Fardoroug-ha,  dear,  maybe  I  spake  some- 
times too  cross  to  you  ;  but  if  I  do,  God 
above  knows  it's  not  that  I  bear  you  ill  will, 
but  bekase  I'm  troubled  about  jjoor  Connor. 
But  I  hope  I  won't  spake  angry  to  you 
again  ;  at  all  events,  if  I  do,  remimber  it's 
only  the  mother  pladin'  for  her  son — the 
only  son  an'  child  that  God  was  plazed  to 
sind  her." 

"  Father,"  added  Connor,  also  deeply 
moved,  "  don't  distress  yourself  about  me — 
don't,  father  dear.  Let  things  take  their 
chance  ;  biit  come  or  go  w'hat  will,  any  good 
fortune  that  might  happen  me  wouldn't  be 
sweet  if  it  came  by  givin'  you  a  sore  heart." 

At  this  moment  the  bai-king  of  the  dog 
gave  notice  of  approaching  footsteps  ;  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  careless  whistle  of 
Bartle  Flanagan  was  heard  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  door. 

"  This  is  Bartle,"  said  Connor;  "maybe, 
father,  his  answer  may  throw  some  light 
upon  the  business.  At  any  rate,  there's  no 
secret  in  it ;  we'll  all  hear  what  news  he 
brings  us." 

He  had  scarcely  concluded  w'hen  the  latch 
was  lifted,  but  Bartle  could  not  enter. 

"It's  locked  and  bolted,"  said  Fardo- 
rougha  ;  "as  he  sleeps  in  the  bam  I  for- 
got that  he  was  to  come  in  here  any  more 
to-night — open  it,  Connor." 

"  I'or  the  sake  of  all  the  money  you  keep 
in  the  house,  father,"  said  Connor,  smiling, 
"it's  hardly  worth  your  while  to  be  so  tim- 
orous ;  but  God  heljD  the  coimty  treasurer 
if  he  forgot  to  bar  his  door — Asy,  Bai'tle, 
I'm  openiu'  it." 

Flanagan  immediately  entered,  and,  with 
all  the  importance  of  a  confidant,  took  his 
seat  at  the  fire. 

"  Well,  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  "  what 
news?" 

"Let  the  boy  get  his  sujjper  first,"  said 
Honor  ;  "  Bartle,  you  must  be  starved  wid 
hunger." 

"Faith,  I'm  middlin'  well,  I  thank  you, 
that  same  way,"  rejilied  Bartle  ;  "  divil  a  one 
o'  me  but's  as  rii)e  for  my  supper  as  a  July 
cherry  ;  an'  wid  the  blessiu'  o'  Heaven  upon 
my  eudayvors  I'll  soon  show  you  what  good 
execution  is." 

A  deep  groan  fi'om  Fardorougha  gave 
back  a  fearfid  echo  to  the  trath  of  this  for- 
midable annunciation. 

"Aren't  you  well,  Fardorougha?"  asked 
Bartle. 

"Throth  I'm  not,  Birtle  ;  never  was  more 
uncomfortable  in  my  Hfe." 


Flanagan  immediately  commenced  his  sup- 
per, which  consisted  of  fiummerj'  and  new 
mOk — a  luxury  among  the  lower  ranks 
which  might  create  envj'  in  an  epicure.  As 
he  advanced  in  the  work  of  destruction,  the 
gray  eye  of  Fardorougha,  which  followed 
every  spoonful  that  entered  his  mouth,  scin- 
tillated like  that  of  a  cat  when  rubbed  down 
the  back,  though  fi'om  a  directly  opposite 
feeling.  He  turned  and  twisted  on  the 
chair-,  and  looked  fi'om  his  wife  to  his  son, 
then  turned  up  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to 
feel  as  if  a  dagger  entered  his  heart  with 
every  additional  dig  of  Bai-tle's  spoon  into 
the  flummery.  The  sou  and  wife  smiled  at 
each  other ;  for  they  could  enjoy  those  petty 
sufferings  of  Fai'dorougha  with  a  great  deal 
of  good-humor. 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  "  what's  the  news  ?  " 

"  Divd  a  word  worth  telling  ;  at  laste  that 
I  can  hear." 

"I  mane  fi'om  Bodagh  Buie's." 

Bartle  stared  at  him  ;  "Bodagh  Buie's  ! — ■ 
what  do  I  know  about  Bodagh  Buie?  ai-e 
you  ravin'  ?  " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  smiling,  "  my  fa- 
ther and  mother  knows  all  about  it — an' 
about  your  going  to  Una  with  the  letter.  I 
have  no  secrets  from  them." 

"  Hoot  toot !  That's  a  horse  of  another 
color ;  but  you  wouldn't  have  me,  widout 
knowin'  as  much,  to  go  to  betray  trust.  In 
the  mane  time,  I  may  as  well  finish  my  sup- 
per before  I  begin  to  tell  you  what-som-ever 
I  happen  to  know  about  it." 

Another  deep  gi'oan  from  Fardorougha 
followed  the  last  observation. 

At  length  the  woi-k  of  demolition  ceased, 
and  after  Honor  had  put  j^ast  the  empty 
dish,  Bartle,  having  wdped  his  mouth,  and 
uttered  a  hiccup  or  two,  thus  commenced  to 
dole  out  his  intelUgence  : — 

"Whin  I  wint  to  the  Bodagh's,"  said  Bar- 
tle, "it  was  wid  great  schamin'  an'  throuble 
I  got  a  sight  of  Miss  Una  at  aU,  in  regard  of 
— (hiccup) — in  regard  of  her  not  knowin' 
that  there  was  any  sich  message  for  her — 
(hiccuii).  But  happenin'  to  know  Sally 
Laffan,  I  made  bould  to  go  into  the  kitchen 
to  ax,  you  know,  how  was  her  aunt's  family 
up  in  Skelgv',  when  who  shovild  I  find 
before  me  in  it  but  Sally  an'  Miss  Una — 
(hiccup).  (Saver  of  earth  this  night !  from 
Fardorour/ha.)  Of  coorse  I  shook  hands  wid 
her — wid  Sail}',  I  mane  ;  an',  '  Sally,'  says  I, 
'I  was  sent  iu  wid  a  message  from  the 
masther'  to  j-ou  ;  he's  in  the  haggai'd  an' 
wants  you.'  So,  begad,  on — (hiccup)  out 
she  goes,  an'  the  coast  bein'  clear,  '  Miss 
Una,'  says  I,  '  here's  a  scrap  of  a  letther  from 
Misther  Connor  G'Donovun  ;  read  it,  and  if 
you  can  write  him  an  answer,  do  ;  if  you 


220 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


haven't  time  say  whatever  you  have  to  say 
by  me.'  She  go — (hiccup)  she  got  all  colors 
when  I  handed  it  to  her  ;  an'  ran  away,  say- 
in'  to  me,  '  wait  for  a  while,  an'  don't  go  tiU 
I  see  you.'  In  a  minute  or  two  Sally  comes 
in  agin  as  mad  aa  the  dickens  wid  me,  '  The 
curse  o'  the  crows  an'  you  ! '  says  she,  '  why 
did  you  make  me  run  a  fool's  erran'  for  no 
rason '?  The  masther  wasn't  in  the  haggard, 
an'  didn't  want  me  good  or  bad.'  " 

"  Bartle,"  said  the  imi^atient  lover,  "  pass 
all  that  over  for  the  present,  an'  let  us  know 
the  answer,  if  she  sent  any." 

"  Sent  any  !  be  my  sowl,  she  did  so  !  Af- 
ther  readin'  your  letther,  an'  hndin'  that  she 
could  dejiind  on  me,  she  said  that  for  fear  of 
any  remarks  bein'  made  about  my  waitin',  es- 
pishally  as  I  live  at  present  in  this  family,  it 
would  be  better  she  thought  to  answer  it  by 
word  o'  mouth.  '  Tell  him,'  said  she,  '  that 
I  didn't  think  he  wa — (hiccui))  (Queen  o' 
heaven  !)  was  so  dull  an'  ignorant  o'  the  cus- 
toms of  the  country,  as  not  to  know  that  whin 
young  people  want  to  see  one  another  they 
stay  away  from  mass  wid  an  expectation 
that  ' — begail,  I  disremimber  exactly  her  own 
words  ;  but  it  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  she 
staid  at  home  on  last  Sunday  expectin'  to  see 
you." 

"  Well,  but  Bartle,  what  else  ? — short  an' 
Bweet,  man." 

"Why,  she'll  .meet  you  on  next  Thui'sday 
night,  God  wiUin',  in  the  same  place  ;  an' 
whin  I  axed  her  where,  she  said  you  knew  it 
yourself." 

"  An'  is  that  all  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  not  all ;  she  sed  it  'ud  be  better 
to  mention  the  thing  to  her  father.  Afther 
thiukiii'  it  over  she  says,  '  as  your  father  has 
the  na — (hiccup)  (Saints  above  !)  the  name 
of  being  so  rich,  she  doesn't  know  if  a  friend 
'ud  interfere  but  his  cousint  might  be  got ; ' 
an'  that's  all  I  have  to  say  about  it.  barrin' 
that  she's  a  very  purty  girl,  an' I'd  adt'iseyou 
not  to  be  too  sure  of  her  i/et,  Bartle.  So  now 
I'm  for  the  barn — Good  night,  Far — (hiccup) 
(at  my  cost,  you  do  it !)  Fardorougha." 

He  rose  and  proceeded  to  his  sleeping- 
place  in  the  barn,  whither  Connor,  who  was 
stmck  by  his  manner,  accompanied  him. 

"  Bartle,"  said  O'Douovau,  "  did  you  take 
anything  since  I  saw  you  last  ?  " 

"  Only  a  share  of  two  naggins  wid  my 
brother  Antony  at  Peggy  Finigan's." 

"  I  noticed  it  upon  you,"  observed  Connor  ; 
"  but  I  don't  think  they  did." 

"  An'  if  they  did,  too,  it's  not  high  thrason,  | 
I  hope."  i 

"  No  ;  but,  Bartle,  I'm  obhged  to  you. 
You've  acted  as  a  friend  to  me,  an'  I  won't  for- 
get it  to  you." 

"An'  I'm  so  much  obhged  to  you,  Connor,  ! 


that  I'U  remimber  your  employin'  me  in  thi« 
the  longest  day  I  have  to  hve.  But,  Con 
nor  ?  " 

"  Well,  Bartle." 

"  I'd  take  the  sacrament,  that,  after  all,  a 
ring  you'll  never  put  on  her." 

"  And  what  makes  you  think  so,  Bartle  ?  " 

"I  don't  — I  do — (hiccup)  don't  know  ;  but 
somehow  something  or  another  teUs  it  to  me 
that  you  won't ;  others  is  fond  of  her,  I  sup- 
pose, as  well  as  yov.rjelf ;  and  of  coorse  they'll 
stand  betune  you." 

"  Ay,  but  I'm  sure  of  her." 

"  But  you're  not ;  wait  till  I  see  you  man 
and  wife,  an'  thin  I'U  say  so.  Here's  myself, 
Bartle,  is  in  love,  an'  dliougli  I  don't  expect 
ever  the  ghl  will  or  v/ould  marry  me,  be  the 
crass  of  heaven,  no  other  man  will  have  her. 
Now,  how  do  you  know  but  you  may  have 
some  one  like  me — like  me,  Connor,  to  stand 
against  you  V  " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  laughing,  "  your 
head's  a  little  moidher'd  ;  give  me  your  hand  ; 
whish  !  the  devil  take  j'ou,  man  !  don't  wiing 
my  fingers  off.  Saj'  your  prayers,  Bartle, 
an'  go  to  sleejD.  I  say  agin  I  won't  forget 
your  kindness  to  me  this  night." 

Flanagan  had  now  deposited  himself  upon 
his  straw  bed,  and,  after  having  tugged  the 
bedclothes  about  him,  said,  ha  the  relaxed, 
indolent  voice  of  a  man  about  to  sleep, 

"  Good  night,  Connor  ;  throth  my  head's, 
a  httle  soft  to-night — good  night." 

"  Good  night,  Bai'tle." 

"Connor?" 

"  W^eU  ?  " 

"Didn't  I  stand  to  you  to-night?  Vei-y 
well — goo — (hiccuij)  good  night." 

On  Connor's  return,  a  serious  conclave 
was  held  upon  the  best  mode  of  procedui'e 
in  a^mainier  which  presented  difficulties  that 
appeared  to  be  insunnountable.  The  father, 
seizing  uf)on  the  advice  transmitted  by  Una 
herself,  as  that  which  he  had  already  suggest- 
ed, insisted  that  the  most  judicious  coui'se 
was  to  propose  for  her  oj)euly,  and  without 
ajipearing  to  feel  that  there  was  any  inferior- 
itj'  on  the  j^art  of  Connor. 

"  If  they  talk  about  wealth,  Connor,"  said 
he,  "  say  that  you  are  my  sou,  an'  that — that 
— no — no — I'm  too  poor  for  such  a  boast. 
but  say  that  you  will  be  able  to  take  good 
care  of  anything  j'ou  get." 

At  this  moment  the  door,  which  Coimor 
had  not  bolted,  as  his  father  would  have 
done,  opened,  and  Bartle,  wrapped  in  the 
treble  folds  of  a  vrinnow-cloth,  made  a  distant 
appeiu-ance. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Connor  ;  I  forgot  to  say 
that  Una's  brother,  the  young  priest  out  a 
MajTiooth,  will  be  at  home  from  his  uncle's, 
where  it  appeal's  he  is  at  present ;  an'  jVIist. 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISFR. 


221 


Una  would  wish  that  the  proposal  'ud  be 
made  while  hex  at  his  father's.  She  says 
he'll  stand  her  friend,  come  or  go  what  will. 
I  forgot,  begad,  to  mintion  it  before — so 
beg  pardon,  an'  wishes  you  all  good-night !  " 

This  information  tended  to  confirm  them 
in  the  course  recommended  by  Fardorougha. 
It  was  accordingly  resolved  upon  that  he 
(Fardorougha)  himself  should  wait  upon 
Bodagh  Buie,  and  in  the  name  of  his  sou 
formally  propose  for  the  hand  of  his  daugh- 
ter. 

To  effect  this,  however,  was  a  matter  of  no 
ordinary  difficulty,  as  they  apprehended  that 
the  Bodagh  and  his  wife  would  recoil  with 
indignation  at  the  bare  notion  of  even  con- 
descending to  discuss  a  topic  which,  in  all 
probability,  they  woiild  consider  as  an  insult. 
Not,  after  all,  that  there  existed,  according 
to  the  opinion  of  their  neighbors,  such  a  vast 
disjjarity  in  tlie  wealth  of  each  ;  on  the 
contrary,  many  were  heard  to  assert,  that  of 
the  two  Fardorougha  had  the  heavier  jjurse. 
His  eh.ariicter,  however,  was  held  in  such  ab- 
horrence by  all  who  knew  him,  and  he 
ranked,  in  point  of  personal  respectability 
and  style  of  living,  so  far  beneath  the 
Bodagh,  that  we  question  if  any  ordinary  oc- 
currence could  be  supposed  to  fall  ujiou  the 
poojile  with  greater  amazement  than  a  mar- 
riage, or  the  report  of  a  marriage,  between 
any  member  of  the  two  families.  The  O'Don- 
ovaus  felt,  however,  that  it  was  better  to 
nuke  the  experiment  ah'eady  agreed  on, 
than  longer  to  remain  in  a  state  of  uncer- 
tainty about  it.  Should  it  fail,  the  position 
of  the  lovers,  though  perhaps  rendered  some- 
what less  secure,  would  be  such  as  to  sug- 
gest, so  far  as  they  themselves  were  concern- 
ed, the  necessity  of  a  more  prompt  and 
etfectual  course  of  action.  Fardorougha  ex- 
pressed his  intention  of  opening  the  matter 
on  the  following  day  ;  but  his  wife,  with  a 
better  knowledge  of  female  character,  deemed 
it  more  judicious  to  defer  it  until  after  the 
interview  which  was  to  take  place  between 
Connor  and  Una  on  the  succeeding  Thiu's- 
day.  It  might  be  better,  for  instance,  to 
make  the  proposal  first  to  INIi's.  O'Brien  her- 
self, or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  Bodagh ; 
but  touching  that  and  other  matters  relating 
to  what  was  proposed  to  be  done,  Una's 
opinion  and  advice  might  be  necessary. 

Little  passed,  therefore,  worthy  of  note, 
during  the  intermediate  time,  except  a  short 
conversation  between  Bartle  and  Connor  on 
the  following  day,  as  the}-  returned  to  the 
field  fi'om  dinner. 

"  Bartle,"  said  the  other,  "  you  wor  a  little 
soft  last  night ;  or  rather  a  good  deal  so." 

_  "  Faith,  no  doubt  o'  that — but  when  a 
man  meets  an  old  acquaintance  or  two,  they 


don't  like  to  refuse  a  thrate.  I  fell  in  wid 
three  or  four  boi/.f — all  friends  o'  mine,  an'  we 
had  a  sup  on  account  o'  what's  expected." 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  looked  at 
Connor  with  an  eye  which  seemed  to  say — 
you  are  not  in  a  certain  secret  with  which  I 
am  acquainted. 

"  Why,"  replied  Connor,  "  what  do  you 
mane,  Bartle '?  I  thought  you  were  with 
your  brother — at  laste  you  toidd  me  so." 

Flanagan  started  on  healing  this. 

"Wid  my  brother."  said  he — "  why,  I — I 
— what  else  could  I  tell  you  ?  He  was  along 
wid  the  boys  when  I  met  them." 

"  Took  a  sup  on  account  o'  what's  ex- 
pectedl — an'  what's  the  manin'o'  that,  Bartle  ?" 

"  ^^^ly,  what  would  it  mane — but — but — 
your  marriage  ?  " 

"  An'  thunder  an'  fui-y  ?  "  exclaimed  Con- 
nor, his  ej-es  gleaming  ;  "  did  you  go  to  be- 
tray trust,  an'  mintion  Una's  name  an'  mine, 
afther  what  I  tould  you':'  " 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Connor,"  rejilied  Flajia- 
gan  ;  "  is  it  mad  you'd  have  me  to  be  ?  I 
said  there  was  something  expected  soon, 
that  'ud  surprise  them  ;  and  when  they  axed 
me  what  it  was — honor  bright !  I  gave  them 
a  knowin'  wink,  but  said  nothin'.  Eh  !  was 
that  breakin'  trust  ?  Arrah,  be  me  sowl, 
Connor,  you  don't  trate  me  well  by  the 
words  you  spoke  this  blessed  minute." 

"  An'  how  does  it  come,  Bartle,  my  boy, 
that  vou  had  one  stoiy  last  night,  an'  another 
to-day?" 

"  Faix,  very  aisily,  bekase  I  forget  what  I 
sed  last  night — for  sure  enough  I  was  moi'e 
cut  than  you  thought. — but  didn't  I  keep  it 
well  in  befoi-e  the  ould  couple  ?  " 

"  You  did  fairly  enough;  I  gi-ant  that — 
but  the  moment  you  got  into  the  bam  a 
bUnil  man  could  see  it." 

"  Bekase  I  didn't  care  a  button  wanst  I 
escaped  from  the  eye  of  your  father ;  any- 
how, bad  luck  to  it  for  whiskey  ;  I  have  a 
murdherin'  big  heddick  aU  day  afther  it." 

"  It's  a  bad  weed,  Bartle,  and  the  less  a 
man  has  to  do  with  it,  the  les.s  he'll  be 
throubled  afther  wid  a  sore  head  or  a  sore 
conscience." 

"  Connor,  divil  a  one,  but  you're  the  moral 
of  a  good  boy  ;  I  dunna  a  fault  you  have  but 
one." 

"  Come,  let  us  hear  it." 

'TU  tell  you  some  day,  but  not  now,  not 
now — but  /  will  tell  you — an'  I'll  let  you 
know  the  raison  thin  that  I  don't  mintion  it 
now ;  in  the  mane  time  I'll  sit  down  an' 
take  a  smoke.' 

"  A  smoke !  why,  I  never  knew  you 
smoked." 

-Nor  I,  myself,  tiU  last  night.  This 
tindher-box  I  was  made  a  present  of  to  light 


222 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


my  pipe,  when  not  near  a  coal.  Begad,  now 
that  I  think  of  it,  I  suppose  it  was  sinokin' 
that  knocked  me  up  so  much  last  night,  an' 
m  ,de  my  head  so  sick  to-day." 

"It  helped  it,  I'll  engage  ;  if  you  will  take 
my  advice,  it's  a  custom  you  won't  lam." 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  to  throuble  me,  Con- 
nor ;  you  know  I  have  ;  an'  what  we  are 
brought  down  to  now  ;  I  have  more  nor 
you'd  believe  to  think  of  ;  as  much,  any  way, 
as'll  make  this  box  an'  steel  useful,  I  hope, 
when  I'm  fi'ettin'." 

Flanagan  spoke  truth,  in  assuring  Connor 
that  the  apology  given  for  his  intoxication 
on  the  preceding  night  had  escaped  his 
memory.  It  was  fortunate  for  him,  indeed, 
that  O'Donovan,  like  all  candid  and  ingenu- 
ous persons,  was  utterly  devoid  of  suspicion, 
otherwise  he  might  have  perceived,  by  the 
discrepancy  in  the  two  accounts,  as  well  as 
by  Flanagan's  confusion,  that  he  was  a  per- 
son in  whom  it  might  not  be  prudent  to  en- 
trust much  confidence. 


PAET  in. 

The  tryste  between  Connor  and  Una  was 
held  at  the  same  place  and  hour  as  before,  i 
and  so  rapid  a  progress  had  love  made  in 
each  of  their  hearts,  that  we  question  if  the 
warmth  of  their  interview,  though  tender 
and  innocent,  would  be  apt  to  escajse  the 
censure  of  our  stricter  readers.  Both  were 
depressed  by  the  prospect  that  lay  before  i 
them,  for  Connor  frankly  assured  her  that  he 
feared  no  earthly  circumstances  could  ever 
soften  his  father's  heart  so  far  as  to  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  establish  him  in  life. 

"What  then  can  I  do,  my  darling  Una? 
If  your  father  and  mother  won't  consent — 
as  I  fear  they  won't — am  I  to  bring  you  into 
the  miserable  cabin  of  a  day  laborer  ?  for  to 
this  the  son  of  a  man  so  wealthy  as  my  father 
is,  must  sink.  No,  Una  dear,  I  have  sworn 
never  to  bring  you  to  poverty,  and  I  ■svill 
not." 

"  Connor,"  she  rephed  somewhat  gravely, 
"  I  thought  you  had  formed  a  different  opin- 
ion of  me.  You  know  but  little  of  your  owTi 
Una's  heart,  if  you  think  she  wouldn't  live 
with  you  in  a  cabin  a  thousand  and  a  thou- 
sand times  sooner  than  she  would  live  with 
any  other  in  a  palace.  I  love  you  for  your 
own  sake,  Connor  ;  but  it  appears  you  don't 
think  so." 

Woman  can  never  bear  to  have  her  love 
undervalued,  nor  the  moral  dignity  of  a  pas- 
sion which  can  saciiiice  all  worldly  and  self- 
ish considerations  to  its  ovm  purity  and  at- 
tachment, unappreciated.     When  she  uttered 


the  last  words,  therefore,  tears  of  bitter  sor. 
row,  mingled  with  ofl'euded  pride,  came  to 
her  aid.  She  sobbed  for  some  moments,  and 
agiin  went  on  to  reproach  him  with  forming 
so  unfair  an  estimate  of  her  affection. 

"  I  repeat  that  I  loved  you  for  yourself  on- 
ly, Connor,  and  think  of  what  1  would  feel, 
if  you  refused  to  sjjend  yoiu'  life  in  a  cottage 
with  me.  If  I  thought  you  wished  to  marry 
me,  not  because  I  am  Una  O'Brien,  but  the 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  man,  my  heart  would 
break,  and  if  I  thought  you  were  not  true- 
minded,  and  pure-hearted,  and  honoraljle,  I 
would  rather  be  dead  than  united  to  you  at 
aU." 

"I  love  you  so  well,  and  so  much,  Una, 
that  I  doubt  I'm  not  worthy  of  you — and  it's 
fear  of  seeing  you  brought  down  to  daily 
labor  that's  crushing  and  breaking  my  her.rt." 

"  But,  dear  Connor — what  is  there  done 
by  any  cottager's  wife  that  I  don't  do  every 
day  of  my  life  ?  Do  you  think  my  mother  lets 
me  pass  my  time  in  idleness,  or  that  I  mj- 
self  could  bear  to  be  unemployed  even  if  she 
did  ;  I  can  milk,  make  butter,  spin,  s^v, 
wash,  knit,  and  clean  a  kitchen  ;  why,  you 
have  no  notion,"  she  added,  -with  a  smile, 
"  what  a  clever  cottager's  wife  I'd  make  !  " 

"  Oh,  Una,"  said  Connor,  now  melting  into 
tenderness  greater  than  he  had  ever  before 
felt  ;  "  Una  dear,  it's  iiseless — it's  useless — 
I  can't,  no,  I  couldn't — and  I  will  not  live  with- 
out you,  even  if  we  were  to  beg  together — 
but  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Now,  while  my  brother  John  is  at  home, 
is  the  time  to  propose  it  to  my  father  and 
mother,  who  look  upon  him  with  eyes  of 
such  aftection  and  delight  that  I  am  half- 
inclined  to  think  theii-  consent  may  be 
gained." 

"  Maybe,  darling,  his  consent  will  be  as 
hard  to  gain  as  their  own." 

"Now,"  she  rejalied,  fondly,  "only  you're 
a  hai'd-heai'ted  thing  that's  afraid  to  live 
in  a  cottage  with  me,  I  could  tell  you  some 
good  news — or  rather  you  doubt  me — and 
fear  that  I  wouldn't  live  in  one  with  you." 

A  kiss  was  the  reply,  after  which  he 
said — 

"  With  you,  my  dear  Una,  now  that 
you're  satisfied,  I  would  Uve  and  die  in  a 
prison— with  you,  with  you — in  whatever 
state  of  Ufe  we  maj'  be  placed,  xvilh  you,  but 
without  you — never,  I  could  not — I  could 
not " 

"  Well,  we  are  young,  you  know,  and 
neither  of  us  proud — and  I  am  not  a  lazy 
girl—  indeed,  I  am  not ;  but  you  forget  the 
good  news." 

"  I  forget  that,  and  everything  else  but 
yourself,  darling,  while  I'm  in  your  com- 
pany.    O  heavens !    if  you  were   once   my 


FAR  DO  ROUGH  A,    THE  MISER. 


223 


own,  and  that  we  were  never  to  be  separa- 
ted ! " 

"  Well,  but  the  good  news  !  " 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  I  have  mentioned  our  affection  to  my 
brother,  and  he  has  promised  to  assist  us. 
He  has  heard  of  your  character,  and  of  youi- 
mother's,  and  says  that  it's  unjust  to  visit 
•upon  you •" 

She  paused — "  You  know,  my  dear  Con- 
nor, that  j'ou  must  not  be  oifended  with 
anytliing  I  say." 

"  I  know,  my  sweet  treasure,  what  you're 
going  to  say,"  replied  Connor,  with  a  smile  ; 
"  nobody  need  be  deUcate  in  saying  that  my 
father  loves  the  money,  and  knows  how  to 
put  guinea  to  guinea  ;  that's  no  secret.  I 
wish  he  loved  it  less,  to  be  sure,  but  it  can- 
not be  helijed  ;  in  the  mean  time,  ma  colleen 
dhas  clhun — O,  how  I  love  them  v,-ords!  God 
bless  your  brother !  he  must  have  a  kind 
heart,  Una  de.u',  and  he  must  love  you  very 
miieh  when  he  promises  to  assist  us." 

"  He  has,  and  will ;  but,  Connor,  why  did 
you  send  such  a  disagreeable,  forward,  and 
prying  per.son,  as  your  fatlier's  servant  to 
bring  me  your  message  ?  I  do  not  like  him 
— he  almost  stared  me  out  of  countenance." 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Connor,  "I  feel  a 
good  dale  for  him,  and  I  think  he's  an 
honest,  good-hearted  boy,  and  besides,  he's 
in  love  himself." 

"  I  know  he  was  always  a  stai-er,  and  I 
say  again  /  dont  like  him." 

"  But,  as  the  case  stands,  dear  Una,  I 
have  no  one  else  to  trust  to — at  all  events, 
he's  in  our  secret,  and  the  best  way,  if  he's 
not  honest,  is  to  keej)  him  in  it ;  at  laste,  if 
we  put  him  out  of  it  now,  he  might  be  talk- 
ing to  our  disadvantage." 

"  There's  truth  in  that,  and  we  mu-st  onlj' 
tru.st  him  with  as  little  of  our  real  secrets  as 
po.ssil)le  ;  I  cannot  account  for  the  strong 
jjrejudice  I  feel  against  him,  and  have  felt 
for  the  j)ast  two  years.  He  always  dressed 
above  his  means,  and  once  or  twice  attempt- 
ed to  speak  to  me." 

"  Well,  but  I  know  he's  in  love  ^^ith  some 
one,  for  he  told  me  so  ;  poor  fellow,  I'm 
bound,  my  dear  Una,  to  show  him  any  kind- 
ness in  my  powei'." 

After  some  fiu'ther  conversation,  it  was 
once  more  decided  that  Fardorougha  should, 
on  the  next  day,  see  the  Bodagh  and  his 
wife,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  theu-  eon- 
sent  could  be  obtained  to  the  union  of  our 
young  and  anxious  lovers.  This  step,  as  the 
reailer  knows,  was  eveiy  way  in  accordance 
with  Fardorougha's  inclination.  Connor 
himself  would  have  prefeiTed  his  mother's 
advocacy  to  that  of  a  person  possessing  such 
a  slender  hold  on  theu'  good-will  as  Ids  other 


parent.  But  upon  consulting  with  her,  she 
told  him  that  the  fact  of  the  proposal  coming 
from  FiU'dorougha  might  imisly  a  disposition 
on  his  part  to  provide  for  his  son.  At  all 
events,  she  hoped  that  contradiction,  the 
boast  of  sujierior  wealth,  or  some  fortunate 
collision  of  mind  and  x^rinciple,  might  strike 
a  spark  of  generous  feeling  out  of  her  hus- 
band's heart,  which  nothing,  she  knew,  imder 
strong  excitement,  such  as  might  arise  from 
the  bitter  pride  of  the  O'Brien's,  could  pos- 
sibly do.  Besides,  as  she  had  no  favorable 
expectations  fi'om  the  interview,  she  thought 
it  an  unnecessaiy  and  painfid  task  to  subject 
herself  to  the  insults  which  she  apprehended 
fi-om  the  Bodagh's  wife,  whose  pride  and  im- 
portance towered  far  and  high  over  those  of 
her  consequential  husbanel. 

This  just  and  sensible  \iew  of  the  matter, 
on  the  jJart  of  the  mother,  satisfied  Connor, 
and  reconciled  him  to  the  father's  disincliji- 
ation  to  be  accomiianied  by  her  to  the  scene 
of  conflict  ;  for,  in  truth,  Fardorougha  pro- 
tested against  her  assistance  with  a  bitter- 
ness which  could  not  easily  be  accounted  for. 

"  If  your  mother  goes,  let  her  go  by  her- 
self," said  he  ;  "  for  I'll  not  interfere  iu't  if 
she  does.  I'll  take  the  dirty  Bodagh  and  his 
fat  wife  my  own  way,  which  I  can't  do  if 
Honor  comes  to  be  snibbin'  and  makin'  little 
o'  me  afore  them.  Maylie  I'U  puU  do^\^l 
their  jnide  for  them  better  than  you  think, 
and  in  a  way  they're  not  prepared  for  ;  them 
an'  their  janting  car  !  " 

Neither  Connor  nor  his  mother  could  help 
being  highly  amused  at  the  singularity  of  the 
miserable  pomp  and  jiarsimonious  display 
resorted  to  by  I'ardorougha,  in  preparing  for 
tins  extraordinary  mission.  Out  of  an  old 
stronglj'  locked  chest  he  brought  forth  a 
r/ala  coat,  which  had  been  duly  aired,  but 
not  thrice  worn  within  the  last  twenty  years. 
The  progress  of  time  and  fashion  had  left  it 
so  odd,  outre,  and  ridiculous,  that  Connor, 
though  he  laughed,  could  not  help  feeling 
depressed  on  considering  the  appearance  his 
father  must  make  when  dressed,  or  rather 
disfigured,  m  it.  Next  came  a  pair  of  knee- 
breeches  by  the  same  hand,  and  which,  in 
compliance  with  the  taste  of  the  age  that 
produced  them,  were  made  to  button  so  far 
down  as  the  calf  of  the  leg.  Then  appeared 
a  waistcoat,  whose  long  pointed  flaps  reached 
nearly  to  the  knees.  Last  of  all  was  pro- 
duced a  hat  not  more  than  three  inches  deep  in 
the  crown,  and  brimmed  so  naiTOwly,  that  a 
spectator  would  almost  imagine  the  leaf  had 
been  cut  oft'.  Hning  pr  uiked  liimself  out  in 
these  habiUments,  contrary  to  the  strongest 
expostulations  of  both  wife  and  .son,  he  took 
his  staff  and  set  forth.  But  lest  the  reader 
should  expect  a  more  accurate  description  of 


924 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S   WOIiES. 


his  person  wlion  clressed,  we  shall  endeavor  at 
all  events  to  present  him  with  a  loose  outline. 
la  the  first  place,  his  head  was  surmounted 
with  a  hat  that  resembled  a  tiat  skillet,  want- 
ing the  handle  ;  liis  coat,  from  which  avai-ice 
and  penuiy  had  caused  him  to  shrink  away, 
would  have  fitted  a  man  twice  his  size,  and, 
as  he  had  become  much  stooped,  its  tail, 
which,  at  the  best,  had  been  preposterously 
long,  now  nearly  swept  the  ground.  To  look 
at  liim  behind,  in  fact,  he  appeared  all  body. 
The  flaps  of  his  waistcoat  he  had  pinned  up 
with  his  own  hands,  by  which  piece  of  ex- 
quisite taste,  he  displayed  a  pair-  of  thighs  so 
thin  and  disprojsortioned  to  his  smaU-clothes, 
that  he  resembled  a  boy  who  happens  to 
wear  the  breeches  of  a  fuU-growii  man,  so 
that  to  look  at  him  in  fi-ont  he  appeared  aU 
legs.  A  pair  of  shoes,  polished  with  Inirued 
straw  and  buttermilk,  and  surmounted  by 
two  buckles,  scoured  away  to  skeletons,  com- 
pleted his  costume.  In  this  garb  he  set  out 
with  a  crook-headed  staff,  into  wh.icli  long 
use,  and  the  habit  of  griping  fast  whatever  he 
got  in  his  hand,  had  actually  worn  the  maa'ks 
of  his  forefinger  and  tlnimb. 

Bodagh  Biiie,  his  wife,  and  their  two  chil- 
dren, ■were  very  luckily  assembled  in  the  par- 
lor, when  the  nondescript  figure  of  the 
deputy-wooer  made  his  appearance  on  that 
jiart  of  the  neat  road  which  terminated  at 
the  gate  of  the  little  lawn  that  fronted  the 
haU-door.  Here  there  was  another  gate  to 
the  right  that  opened  into  the  farm  or  kit- 
chen yard,  and  as  Fardorougha  hesitated 
which  to  enter,  the  family  within  had  an  op- 
portunity of  getting  a  cleai-er  ^•iew  of  his 
features  and  jierson. 

"  Who  is  that  quare  figure  standing 
there?"  inquired  the  Bodagh;  "did  you 
ever  see  sich  a ah,  thin,  who  can  he  be  ?  " 

"  Somebody  comin',  to  see  some  of  the 
sarvints,  I  suppose,"  replied  his  wife  ;  "why, 
thin,  it's  not  unlike  little  Dick  CroaUha,  the 
fairyman." 

In  sober  truth,  Fardorougha  was  so  com- 
pletely disguised  by  his  dress,  esj)ecially  bj^ 
liis  hat,  whose  shallowness  and  want  of  brim, 
gave  his  face  and  head  so  wild  and  eccentric 
an  appearance,  that  we  question  if  his  own 
familj',  had  they  not  seen  him  dress,  could 
have  recognized  him  !  At  length  he  turned 
into  the  kitchen-yard,  and,  addressing  a  la- 
boi-er  whom  he  met,  asked — 

"  I  say,  nalior,  which  is  the  right  way  into 
Bodagh  Buie's  hoiise  ?  " 

"  There's  two  right  ways  into  it,  an'  you 
may  take  aither  o'  them — but  if  you  want 
any  favor  from  him,  yo7i  had  better  call  him 
Mi:  O'Brien.  The  Bodagh's  a  name  was 
first  given  to  his  father,  an"  he  bein'  a  da- 
center  man,  doesn't  hke  it.  although  it  sticks 


to  him  ;  so  there's  a  lift  for  you,  my  hip- 
striddled  little  codger."' 

"  But  which  is  the  right  door  o'  the 
house  ■? "  ■ 

"  There  it  is,  the  kitchen — jiegin — that's 
yotir  intranee,  barrin'  you're  a  gintleman  in 
disguise,  an'  if  be,  why  turn  out  agaia  to 
that  other  gate,  strip  off  your  shoes,  and 
pass  uj)  ginteely  on  your  tijiytoes,  and  give 
a  thuuderin'  whack  to  the  gi-een  ring  that's 
hangin'  from  the  door.  But  see,  fi'iend," 
added  the  man,  "  maybe  you'd  do  one  a 
sarvice  ? "' 

"How,"  said  Fardorougha,  looking  earn- 
estly at  him  ;  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  "Why,  to  lave  us  a  lock  o'  your  hair  be- 
fore you  go,"  replied  the  wag,  with  a  grin. 

The  miser  trok  no  notice  whatsoever  of 
this,  but  was  t'lming  quietly  out  of  the  yard, 
to  enter  by  tli3  lawn,  vrhen  the  man  cahed 
out  in  a  commanding  voice — 

"Back  hero,  you  codger! — tundher  an' 
thump! — back  I  say!  Ydit  won't  be  let  in 
that  way — tkiamiJ  back,  you  leprechaun,  into 
the  kitchen — eh  !  you  won't — well,  well,  take 
what  you'll  get — an'  that'll  be  the  waj'  back 
agin." 

'Twas  at  this  moment  that  the  keen  eye 
of  "Una  recognized  the  featiires  of  her  lover's 
father,  and  a  smile,  which  she  felt  it  impos- 
sible to  subdue,  settled  upon  her  face,  Avhieh 
Ijecame  immediately  mantled  with  blushes. 
On  hurrying  out  of  the  room  she  plucked  her 
brother's  sleeve,  who  followed  her  to  the  hall. 

"lean  scarcely  tell  you,  dear  John,"  she 
said,  sj)eaking  rapidly,  "it's  Fardorougha 
O'Donovan,  Connor's  father  ;  as  you  know 
his  business,  John,  stay  in  the  parlor  ;  "  she 
scj[ueezed  his  hand,  and  added  with  a  smile 
on  her  face,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  "  I  feM* 
it's  all  over  vnth  me — I  don't  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry — but  stay,  Johii  d^ar,  an' 
fight  my  battle — Una's  battle." 

She  ran  ujjstaiis,  and  immediately  one  of 
the  most  beggarly,  sordid,  and  pusillanimous 
knocks  that  ever  spoke  of  staiTation  and 
misery  was  lieard  at  the  door. 

"  I  win  answer  it  myself,"  thought  the 
amiable  brother ;  "  for  if  my  father  or  mo- 
ther does,  he  siu-elj-  will  not  be  allowed  in." 

John  coidd  scarcely  prescn'e  a  grave  face, 
when  Fardorougha  presented  himself. 

"Is  J/;W/?(T  O'Brien  widiu?"  inquired  the 
usurer,  shi-ewdl}-  availing  himself  of  the  hint 
he  received  from  the  servant. 

"  My  father  is,"  replied  John  ;  "have  the 
goodness  to  step  in." 

Fardorougha  entered  immediately,  follow- 
ed by  young  O'Brien,  who  said, 

"Father,  this  is  Mr.  O'Donovan,  who.  it 
appears,  has  some  important  business  witL 
the  fajnily." 


FARDOROUGEA,    TEE  MISER. 


225 


"Don't  be  mistherin'  me,"  replied  Fardo- 
rougha,  helping  himself  to  a  seat ;  "  I'm  too 
poor  to  be  misthered." 

"  With  this  family  !  "  exclaimed  the  father 
in  amazement ;"  what  business  can  Fardo- 
rougha  Donovan  have  with  thi^  family, 
John  •?  " 

"About  onr  children,"  replied  the  miser; 
"  about  my  son  and  j'our  daughter." 

"  An'  what  about  them  ?  "  inquired  IMrs. 
O'Brien  ;  "do  you  dar  to  miution  them  in 
the  same  day  together  ?  " 

"  Why  not,"  said  the  miser  ;  "ay,  an'  on 
the  same  night,  too  ?  " 

"  Upon  ]ny  reputaytion,  Mr.  O'Donovan, 
you're  extramely  kind — now  be  a  Uttle  more 
so,  and  let  us  undherstaud  you,"  said  the 
Bodagh. 

"  Poor  Una  !  "  thought  John,  "  all's  lost ; 
he  will  get  himself  kicked  out  to  a  certainty." 

"I  think  it's  time  we  got  them  married," 
replied  Fardorougha  ;  "  the  sooner  it's  done 
the  better,  and  the  safer  for  both  o'  them  ; 
especially  for  the  colleen." 

"  Dar  a  Loiiia,  he's  cracked,"  said  IVIrs. 
O'Brien  ;  "  sorra  one  o'  the  poor  soul  but's 
cracked  about  his  money." 

"  Poor  sowl,  woman  alive  !  wor  you  never 
poor  your.self  ■? " 

"  Yis  I  wor  ;  an'  I'm  not  ashamed  to  own 
it ;  hntJJhieriia,  Frank,"  she  added,  address- 
ing her  husband,  "  there's  no  use  ui  spakin' 
to  him." 

"Fardoi'ougha,"  said  O'Brien,  seriously, 
"  what  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  an'  your  wife  the  state 
that  my  son,  Connor,  and  your  daughter's  in 
about  one  another  ;  an'  to  advise  you  both, 
if  you  have  sinse,  to  get  them  married  afore 
worse  happen.  It's  your  business  more  nor 
■mine." 

"You're  right,"  said  the  Bodagh,  aside  to 
his  wife  ;  "  he's  sartinly  deranged.  Fardo- 
rougha," he  added,  "  have  you  lost  any  money 
lately  ?  " 

"  I'm  losin'  every  day,"  said  the  other  ; 
"  I'm  broke  assiatin'  them  that  won't  thank 
me,  let  alone  j)aying  me  as  they  ought." 

"  Then  you  have  lost  nothing  more  than 
usual  ?  " 

"If  I  didn't,  I  teU  you  there's  a  good 
chance  of  losin'  it  before  me  ; — can  a  man 
caU  any  money  of  his  safe  that's  ia  another 
man's  jiocket  ?  " 

"An'  so  you've  come  to  proj)ose  a  marriage 
between  your  son  and  my  daughter,  yet  you 
lost  no  money,  an'  you're  not  mad  ! " 

"Divil  a  morsel  o'  me  is  mad — but  youiU 
be  so  if  you  refuse  to  let  this  match  go  an." 

"  Out  wid  him — a  shan  roghara"  shouted 
Mrs.  O'Brien,  in  a  state  of  most  dignified  of- 
fence ;  "  Damho  orth,  you  ould  knave  !  is  it 


the  son  of  a  misert  that  has  fleeced  an'  rob- 
bed the  whole  counthi-y  side  that  we  'ud  let 
our  daughther,  that  resaved  the  finish  to  her 
edication  in  a  DubUng  boardin'  schoo],  marry 
vrid '? —  Vic  no,  hoiah  this  day  !  " 

"  You  had  no  sich  scruple  yourself,  ma'am," 
replied  the  bitter  usurer,  "  wlien  you  bounced 
at  the  son  of  the  ould  Bodagh  Buie,  an'  every 
one  knows  what  he  was." 

"  He  !  "  said  the  good  woman  ;  "  an'  is  it 
rannin'  up  comparishments  betuxt  yourself 
an'  him  you  are  afther  ?  Wliy,  S.aiut  Peter 
wouldn't  thrive  on  your  money,  you  nager." 

"  Maybe  Saint  Pethur  thruv  on  worse — ■ 
but  havu't  you  thruv  as  well  on  the  Bodagh 's, 
as  if  it  had  been  honestly  come  by  ?  I  defy 
you  an'  the  world  both — to  say  that  ^ver  I 
tuck  a  penny  fi'om  any  one,  more  than  my 
right.  Lay  that  to  the  mimory  of  the  ould 
Bodagh,  an'  see  if  it'U  fit.  It's  no  light  guinea, 
any  how." 

Had  Fardorougha  been  a  man  of  ordinary 
standing  and  character  in  the  country,  from 
whom  an  insult  could  be  taken,  he  would  no 
doubt  have  been  by  a  very  summary  jjrocess 
expelled  the  parlor.  The  history  of  his  queru- 
lous and  irascible  temper,  however,  was  so 
well  knov?n,  and  his  offensive  eccentricity  of 
manner  a  matter  of  such  established  fact, 
that  the  father  and  son,  on  glancing  at  each 
other,  were  seized  with  the  same  sjjirit,  and 
both  gave  way  to  an  uncontrollable  fit  of 
laughter. 

"  Is  it  a  laugliin'  stock  you're  makin'  of 
it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  O'Brien,  highly  indignant. 

"  Faith,  achora,  it  may  be  no  laughin' 
stock  afther  all,"  replied  the  Bodagh. 

"I  think,  mother,"  observed  John,  "that 
you  and  my  father  had  better  treat  the  mat- 
ter with  more  seriousness.  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan is  a  young  man  not  to  be  despised  by 
any  person  at  all  near  his  own  class  of  life 
who  regards  the  peace  and  welfare  of  a 
daughter.  His  character  stands  very  high  ; 
indeed,  in  every  way  unimpeachable." 

The  bitter  scowl  which  had  sat  upon  the 
small  dark  features  of  Fardorougha,  when 
replying  to  the  last  attack  of  Mrs.  O'Brien, 
passed  away  as  John  spoke.  The  old  man 
turned  hastily  around,  and,  surveying  the 
eulogist  of  his  son,  said, 

"  God  bless  j'ou,  asthore,  for  thim  words  ! 
and  thej''re  thrue — thrue  as  the  gospel, 
arrah  what  are  you  both  so  jjroud  of '?  I 
defy  you  to  get  the  aquil  of  my  son  in  the 
barony  of  Lisnamona,  either  for  face,  figure 
or  temper  !  I  say  he's  fit  to  be  a  husbimd 
for  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  stood  in  your 
daughter's  shoes  ;  an'  from  what  I  hear  of 
her,  she's  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  the  Almighty 
put  breatli  in.  Goil  bless  you,  young  man  ! 
you're  a  credit  yourself  to  any  parents  " 


226 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  An'  we  have  notliiu'  to  say  aginst  your 
son,  nor  aginst  your  wife  aither,"  replied 
the  Bodagh  ;  "  an'  if  yoiu"  own  name  was  as 
clear — if  you  wor  looked  ujDon  as  they  are — 
tut,  I'm  spakin'  nonsense  !  How  do  I  know 
whether  ever  your  son  and  my  daughter 
spoke  a  word  to  one  another  or  not  ?  " 

"  I'll  go  bail  Oona  never  oi^ened  her  lips 
to  him,"  said  her  mother;  "I'll  go  bail  she 
had  more  spirit." 

"  An'  I'll  go  bail  she  can't  live  widout  him, 
an' will  have  him  whether  yo«like  it  or  not," 
Raid  Fardorougha. 

"Mother,"  obsen'ed  John,  "wiUyou  and 
my  father  come  into  the  next  room  for  a 
minute — I  wish  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  each 
of  you  ;  and  will  you,  Fardorougha,  have 
the  goodness  to  sit  here  till  we  retui-n  ?  " 

"JDivil  a  notion,"  rejilied  O'Donovan,  "I 
have  of  stirrin'  my  foot  till  the  thing's  settled 
one  way  or  other." 

"  Now,"  said  young  O'Brien,  when  they  got 
into  the  back  jjarlor,  "  it's  right  that  you 
both  should  know  to  what  length  the  court- 
ship between  Una  and  Connor  O'Donovan 
has  gone." 

"Coortship!  Vich  rto  hoidh !  sure  she 
wouldn't  go  to  coort  wid  the  son  o'  that  ould 
schamer." 

"I'm  beginning  to  fear  that  it's  too  thrue," 
observed  the  Bodagh  ;  "  and  if  she  has — but 
let  us  hear  John." 

"  It's  perfectly  true,  indeed,  mother,  that 
she  /w.s,"  said  the  son.  "  Yes,  and  they  are 
both  this  moment  pledged,  betrothed,  prom- 
ised, solemnhj  promised  to  each  other  ;  and 
in  my  oj)iuion  the  old  man  within  is  acting  a 
more  honorable  part  than  either  of  you  give 
Mm  credit  for." 

"Well,  well,  well,"  exclaimed  the  mother  ; 
"  who  afther  that  would  ever  thrust  a  daugh- 
ter ?  The  girl  that  we  rared  up  as  tindher 
as  a  chicking,  to  go  to  throw  herself  away 
upon  the  son  of  ould  Fai-dorougha  Donovan, 
the  misert !  Confusion  to  the  ring  ever  he'll 
put  an  her  !     I'd  see  her  xlrelcJwd  *  first." 

"  I  agree  with  you  in  that,  Bridget,"  said 
the  husband  ;  "if  it  was  only  to  punish  lier 
thrachery  and  desate,  I'll  take  good  care  a 
ring  will  never  go  on  them  ;  but  how  do  you 
know  all  this,  John  ?  " 

"  From  Una's  own  lips,  father." 

The  Bodagh  paced  to  and  fi-o  in  much  agi- 
tation ;  one  hand  in  his  small-clothes  pock- 
et, and  the  other  twirhng  his  watch-key  as 
i-apidly  as  he  could.  The  mother,  in  the 
meantime,  had  thrown  herself  into  a  chair, 
and  gave  way  to  a  violent  fit  of  grief. 

"  And  you  have  this  from  Una's  own  lips  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  father,  I  have  ;  and  it  is  much  to 

*Dead. 


her  credit  that  she  was  candid  enough  to 
place  such  confidence  in  her  brother." 

"  Pledged  and  promised  to  one  another. 
Bridget,  who  could  believe  this  ?  " 

"  Believe  it !  I  don't  believe  it — it's  only  a 
schame  of  the  hussy  to  get  him.  Oh,  thin. 
Queen  of  Heaven  this  day,  but  it's  black 
news  to  us  !  " 

"John,"  said  the  father,  "  teU  Una  to 
come  do%\ni  to  us." 

"  Father,  I  doubt  that's  rather  a  trying 
task  for  her.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  insist." 

"  Go  off,  sir  ;  she  must  come  down  imme- 
diately, I'll  have  it  from  her  o^vn  hps,  too." 

Without  another  word  of  remonstrance  the 
son  went  to  bring  her  down.  When  the 
brother  and  sister  entered  the  room,  O'Brien 
stiU  paced  the  floor.  He  stood,  and,  turn- 
ing his  eyes  upon  his  daughter  with  severe 
disj^leasiu-e,  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  the  jjower  of  utterance  ; 
and,  after  one  or  two  ineffectual  attempts, 
the  big  tears  fairly  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"  See,  see,"  said  the  mother,  "  see  what 
you  have  brought  us  to.  Is  it  thrue  that 
you're  promised  to  Fardorougha's  son  ?  " 

Una  tottered  over  to  a  chair,  and  the  blood 
left  her  cheeks  ;  her  lips  became  dry,  and 
she  gas23ed  for  breath. 

"  Why,  don't  you  think  it  worth  your  while 
to  answer  me  ?  "  continued  the  mother. 

The  daughter  gave  a  look  of  deep  distress 
and  sui^plication  at  her  brother ;  but  when 
she  perceived  her  father  in  tears,  her  head 
sank  down  upon  her  bosom. 

"  'NATiat !  what !  Una,"  exclaimed  the  Bod- 
agh, Una "     But  ere  he  could  comjalete 

the  question,  the  timid  creature  fell  senseless 
ujjon  the  floor. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  in  that  friendly 
trance,  for  such,  in  tiiith,  it  was  to  a  delicate 
being,  subjected  to  an  ordeal  so  painful  as 
that  she  was  called  upon  to  pass  through. 
We  have,  indeed,  remarked  that  there  is  in 
the  young,  especially  in  those  of  the  softer 
sex,  a  feeling  of  terror,  and  shame,  and  confu- 
sion, when  called  iij^on  by  their  parents  to 
disclose  a  forbidden  jsassion,  that  renders  its 
avowal  perhaps  the  most  formidable  task 
which  the  young  heart  can  undergo.  It  is  a 
fearful  trial  for  the  youthful,  and  one  which 
parents  ought  to  conduct  %\ith  surpassing 
delicacy  and  tenderness,  unless  they  Avish  to 
drive  the  ingenuous  sjjii'it  into  the  first  steps 
of  falsehood  and  deceit. 

"Father,"  said  John,  "I  think  you  may 
rest  satisfied  with  what  you  witness  ;  and  I 
am  sure  it  cannot  make  you  or  mother  hap- 
py to  see  poor  Una  miserable." 

Una,  who  had  been  during  the  greater  part 
of  her  swoon  supported  in  her  weeping  and 
alarmed  mother's  arms,  now  opened  her  eyes, 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MJSER. 


227 


und,  after  casting  an  afEi-ightecl  look  about 
the  room,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  mothers 
bosom,  and  exclaimed,  as  distinctly  as  the 
violence  of  sobbing  gi-ief  would  permit  her  : 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  have  pitj'  on  me  !  bring 
me  up  stall's  and  I  will  teU  you." 

"  I  do,  I  do  pity  you,"  said  the  mother, 
kissing  her  ;  "I  know  you'U  be  a  good  gii-1 
yet,  Oona." 

"  Una,"  said  her  father,  placing  his  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder,  "was  I  ever  harsh  to 
you,  or  tlid  I " 

"Father  dear,"  she  returned,  interru23ting 
him,  "  I  would  have  told  you  and  my  mother, 
but  that  I  was  afraid." 

There  was  something  so  utterly  innocent 
and  artless  in  this  reiJy,  that  each  of  the 
three  persons  present  felt  sensiblj'  affected 
by  its  extreme  and  chUdlike  simplicity. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  Una,"  continued 
the  Bodagh,  "  but  answer  me  tnily,  hke  a 
good  girl,  and  I  swear  iipon  my  reputaytion, 
that  I  won't  be  angi-y.  Do  you  love  the  son 
of  this  Fardorougha  ?  " 

"  Not,  father,  because  he's  Fardorougha's 
son,"  said  Una,  whose  face  was  still  hid  in 
her  mother's  bosom  ;  "  I  would  rather  he 
wasn't." 

"  But  you  do  love  him  ?  " 

"  For  three  years  he  has  scarcely  been  out 
of  my  mind." 

Something  that  might  be  termed  a  smUe 
crossed  the  countenance  of  the  Bodagh  at 
this  intimation. 

"  God  help  you  for  a  foolish  child  !  "  saici 
Le  ;  "  you're  a  poor  counsellor  when  left  to 
defend  your  ot\ti  cause." 

"  She  won't  defend  it  by  a  falsehood,  at  all 
events,"  obser\'ed  her  trustworthy  and  affec- 
tionate brother. 

"  No,  she  wouldn't,"  said  the  mother ;  "  and 
I  did  her  wrong  a  while  ago,  to  say  that  she'd 
schame  anjiihing  about  it." 

"  And  are  you  and  Connor  O'Donovan 
promised  to  aich  other  ?  "  inquired  the  father 
again. 

"  But  it  wasn't  /  that  proposed  the  prom- 
ise," returned  Una. 

"  Oh,  the  desperate  villain,"  exclaimed  her 
father,  "to  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing !  but 
you  took  the  promise  Una — you  did — you  did 
■ — I  needn't  ask." 

"No,"  rephed  Una. 

■"No!"  reechoed  the  father;  "then  you 
did  not  give  the  promise  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  she  rejoiaed,  "  that  you  needn't 
ask." 

"  Oh,  faith,  that  alters  the  case  extremely. 
Now,  Una,  tliis — all  this  promising  that  has 
passed  between  you  and  Connor  O'Donovan 
is  aU  folly.  If  you  jjrove  to  be  the  good 
obedient  girl  that  I  hope  you  are,  you'll  put 


him  out  of  your  head,  and  then  you  can  give 
back  to  one  another  whatever  promises  you 
made." 

Tliis  was  succeeded  by  a  silence  of  more 
than  a  minute.  Una  at  length  arose,  and, 
with  a  composed  energy  of  manner,  that  was 
evident  by  her  sparkling  eye  and  bloodless 
cheek,  she  ajiproached  her  father,  and  calmly 
kneehng  down,  said  slowly  but  tii-mlj- : 

"  Father,  if  nothing  else  can  satisfy  you,  1 
unll  give  back  my  promise  ;  but  then,  father, 
it  win  break  my  heart,  for  I  know — I  feel — 
how  I  love  him,  and  how  I  am  loved  by 
him." 

"  rU  get  you  a  better  husband,"  replied 
her  father — "far  more  wealthy  and  more 
respectable  than  he  is." 

"  I'll  give  back  the  promise,"  said  she  ; 
"but  the  man  is  not  living,  except  Connor 
O'Donovan,  that  will  ever  call  me  wife. 
!  More  wealthy  !  more  respectable  ! — Oh,  it 
t  was  only  himself  I  loved.  Father,  I'm  on 
mj'  knees  before  you,  and  before  my  mother. 
I  have  only  one  request  to  make — Oh,  don't 
break  your  daughter's  heart  !  " 

"  God  direct  us,"  exclaimed  her  mother  ; 
"  it's  hai'd  to  know  how  to  act.  If  it  would 
go  so  hard  upon  her,  sure — " 

"Amen,"  said  her  husband;  "may  God 
dii'ect  us  to  the  best !  I'm  sure  God  knows," 
he  continued,  now  much  affected,  "  that  I 
would  rather  break  my  own  heart  than 
yoiu-s,  Una.  -  Get  up,  dear — rise.  John, 
how  would  you  advise  us  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  any  serious  objection,  after 
all."  rephed  the  son,  "  either  you  or  my 
mother  can  have  to  Connor  O'Donovan.  He 
is  every  way  worthy  of  her,  if  he  is  equal  to 
his  character ;  and  as  for  wealth,  I  have 
often  heard  it  said  that  his  father  was  a 
richer  man  than  yourself." 

"  Afther  all,"  said  the  mother,  "she  might 
be  verj'  well  T\id  liim." 

"  I'll  teU  you  what  I'U  do,  then,"  said  the 
Bodagh — "let  us  see  the  ould  man  himself, 
and  if  he  settles  his  son  dacentfy  in  life,  as 
he  can  do  if  lie  wishes,  why,  I  won't  see  the 
poor,  foolish,  innocent  girl  breaking  her 
heart." 

Una,  who  had  sat  vnth  her  face  stiU  aver- 
ted, now  ran  to  her  father,  and,  thi'owing 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  wept  aloud,  but 
said  nothing. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  latter,  "  it's  very  tine 
now  that  you  have  eveiything  your  o^^ti 
way,  you  girsha  ;  but,  sui-e,  you're  all  the 
daughter  we  have,  achora,  and  it  would  be 
too  bad  not  to  let  you  have  a  Utile  of  your 
own  opinion  in  the  choice  of  a  husband. 
Now  go  up  stairs,  or  where  you  please,  till 
we  see  what  can  be  done  ■ftith  Fardorougha 
himself." 


228 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


With  smiling  face  and  glistening  ej'es 
Una  jsassed  out  of  the  room,  scarcely  sen- 
sible whether  she  walked,  ran,  or  flew,  while 
the  others  went  to  renew  the  discussion 
with  Fardorougha. 

"  Well,"  said  the  miser,  "  you  found  out, 
I  suppose,  that  she  can't  do  widout  him  ?  " 

"  Provided  we  consent  to  the  marriage," 
"asked  the  Bodagh,  "  how  wiU  you  settle  your 
son  in  life  ?  " 

"Who  would  I  settle  in  life  if  I  wouldn't 
settle  my  only  son  ?  "  replied  the  other  ;  "  who 
else  is  there  to  get  all  I  have '? " 
.  "  That's  very  true,"  obsei-ved  the  Bo- 
dagh ;  "  but  state  jjlainly  what  you'U  do  for 
him  on  his  marriage." 

"  Do  you  consint  to  the  marriage  all  of 
yees  ?  " 

"That's  not  the  question,"  said  the  other. 

"Divil  a  word  I'U  answer  till  I  know  whi- 
ther yees  do  or  not,"  said  Fardorougha. 
"  Say  at  once  that  you  consint,  and  then  I'U 
spake — I'll  say  what  I'U  do." 

The  Bodagh  looked  inquiringly  at  his  wife 
and  son.  The  latter  nodded  affirmatively. 
"  We  do  consent,"  he  added. 

"  That  shows  yoiu"  own  sinse,"  said  the 
old  man.  "Now  what  fortune  wiU  you  por- 
tion your  colleen  wid  ?  " 

"  That  depinds  upon  what  you'll  do  for 
yoiu'  son,"  returned  the  Bodagh. 

"  And  that  depinds  upon  what  youll  do 
for  your  daughter,"  repUed  the  sagacious 
old  miser. 

"  At  this  rate  we're  not  lUcely  to  agree." 

"  Nothin's  asier  ;  you  have  only  to  spake 
out ;  besides  it's  your  business,  beiu'  the 
colleen's  father." 

"  Try  him,  and  name  something  fair," 
whispered  John. 

"If  I  give  her  a  farm  of  thirty  acres  of 
good  land,  stocked  and  all,  what  wiU  you  do 
for  Connor  ?  " 

"  More  than  that,  five  times  over  ;  I'U  give 
him  aU  I  have.  Aji  now  when  wiU  we  mar- 
ry them  ?  Throth  it  was  best  to  make 
things  clear,"  added  the  knave,  "  and  un- 
dherstand  one  another  at  wanst.  WTien  wiU 
we  marry  them '?  " 

"  Not  tiU  you  say  out  openly  and  fairly 
the  exact  amoxuit  of  money  you'll  lay  down 
on  the  nail — an'  that  before  even  a  ring 
goes  upon  them." 

"  Give  it  up,  acushla,"  said  the  wife,  "you 
see  there's  no  screwin'  a  promise  out  of  liim, 
let  alone  a  penny." 

"  What 'ud  yees  have  me  do?"  said  the 
old  man,  raising  his  voice.  "  Won't  he  have 
aU  I'm  worth  ?  Wlio  else  is  to  have  it  ?  Am 
I  to  make  a  beggar  of  myself  to  j^lease  you  ? 
Can't  they  hve  on  your  farm  tiU  I  die,  an'  thin 
it'U  aU  come  to  them  ?  " 


"An'  no  thanks  to  you  for  that,  Fai'do« 
rougha,"  said  the  Bodagh.  "  No,  no  ;  I'll 
never  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke.  If  you  won't  act 
generously  by  your  son,  go  home,  in  the 
name  of  goodness,  and  let  us  hear  no  more 
about  it." 

"  Why,  why?"  asked  the  miser,  "  are  yees 
mad  to  miss  what  I  can  leave  him  ?     If  you 

knew  how  much  it  is,   you'd  snap ;  but 

God  help  me  !  what  am  I  sayin'  ?  I'm  poorer 
than  anybody  thinks.  I  am — I  am  ;  an' 
vsiU  starve  among  you  aU,  if  God  hasn't  sed 
it.  Do  you  think  I  don't  love  my  son  as 
weU,  an'  a  thousand  times  better,  than  you 
do  your  daughter  ?  God  alone  sees  how  my 
heart's  in  him — in  my  own  Connor,  that 
never  gave  me  a  sore  heai't — my  brave,  my 
beautiful  boy  ! " 

He  jjaused,  and  the  scalding  tears  here 
ran  down  his  shnmk  and  furrowed  cheeks, 
whilst  he  WTung  his  hands,  started  to  his  feet, 
and  looked  about  him  like  a  man  encompassed 
by  dangers  that  thi-eatened  instant  destruc- 
tion. 

"If  you  love  your  son  so  weU,"  said  John, 
mildly,  "  why  do  you  grudge  to  share  your 
wealth  w  ith  him  ?  It  is  but  natiu-al  and  it  is 
yoiu-  duty." 

"  Natiu-al !  what's  natural  ? — to  give  away 
— is  it  to  love  him  you  mane  ?  It  is,  it's  un- 
natural to  give  it  away.  He's  the  best  son — 
the  best — what  do  you  mane,  I  say  ? — let  me 
alone  ~  let  me  alone — I  could  give  him  my 
blood,  my  blood — to  sich  a  boy  ;  but,  you 
want  to  kill  me — you  want  to  kiU  me,  an' 
thin  you'll  get  aU  ;  but  he'll  cross  you,  never 
feai- — my  boy  wUl  save  me — he's  not  tu-ed  of 
me — he'd  give  up  fifty  giiis  sooner  than  see 
a  hail-  of  his  father's  head  injured — so  do 
your  best,  while  I  have  Connor,  I'm  not 
afraid  of  yees.  Thanks  be  to  God  that  sent 
him  !  "  he  exclaimed,  dropping  suddenly  on 
his  knees — "  oh,  thanks  be  to  God  that  sent 
him  to  comfort  an'  protect  his  father  from 
the  schames  and  viUainy  of  them  that  'ud 
bring  him  to  stai-vation  for  then-  ow  n  ends  !  " 

"Father,"  said  John,  in  a  low  tone,  "this 
straggle  between  avarice  and  natural  affection 
is  awful.  See  how  his  smaU  gray  eyes  glare, 
and  the  froth  rises  white  to  his  thin  shriveUed 
lijis.     What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"Fai'dorougha,"  said  the  Bodagh,  "it's 
over  ;  don't  distress  yoiu'self — keep  your 
money — there  wiU  be  no  match  between  our 
childhre." 

"^\^ly?  why  won't  there?  "he  screamed 
— "why  won't  there,  I  say?  Havn't  you 
enough  for  them  imtU  /  die  ?  Would  you 
see  your  child  breakin'  her  heart  ?  Bodagh, 
you  have  no  uather  in  you — no  bowels  for 
your  colleen  dhas.  But  I'U  spake  for  her — 
I'll  argue  wid  you  tUl  this  time  to-mon'ow. 


FARDOROUGnA,   THE  MISER. 


229 


or  I'll  make  you  show  feelin'  to  her — an"  if 
you  don't — if  you  don't — " 

"  Wid  the  help  o'  God,  the  man's  as  mad 
as  a  March  hare,"  observed  Mi's.  O'Brien, 
"  and  there's  no  use  in  losin'  breath  wid  him. ' 

"If  it's  not  insanity,"  said  John,  "I  know 
not  what  it  is." 

"Young  man,"  proceeded  Fardorougha, 
who  evidently  paid  no  attention  to  what  the 
mother  and  son  said,  being  merely  struck  by 
the  voice  of  the  latter,  "young  man,  you're 
kind,  you  have  sinse  and  feelin' — spake  to 
your  father — don't  let  him  destroy  his  child 
— don't  ax  him  to  starve  me,  that  never  did 
him  harm.  He  loves  you — he  loves  you,  for 
he  can't  but  love  you — sure,  I  know  how  I 
love  my  own  darliu'  boy.  Oh,  spake  to  him 
— here  I  go  (lo\vn  on  my  knees  to  you,  to 
beg,  as  you  hope  to  see  God  in  heaven,  that't 
you'U  make  him  not  break  his  daughter's 
heart !  She's  j'our  own  sister — there's  but 
the  two  of  yees,  an'  oh,  don't  desart  her  in 
this  throuble — this  heavj',  heavy  throuble  !  " 

"  I  won't  interfere  farther  in.  it,"  replied 
the  young  man,  who,  however,  felt  distui-bed 
and  anxious  in  the  extreme. 

"j\Ii's.  O'Brien,"  said  he,  turning  implor- 
ingly, and  with  a  wild,  haggard  look  to  the 
Bodagh's  wife,  "  I'm  turnin'  to  you — you're 
her  mother — Oh  think,  think  " — 

"  I'll  think  no  more  about  it,"  she  repUed. 
"You're  mad,  an'  thank  God,  we  know  it. 
Of  coorse  it'll  run  in  the  family,  for  which 
xesk^ing  my  daughter  'Ul  never  be  joined  to  the 
sou  of  a  madman." 

He  then  turned  as  a  last  resource  to  O'- 
Brien himself.  "  Bodagh,  Bodagh,  I  say," 
here  his  voice  rose  to  a  frightful  pitch,  "  I 
enthrate,  I  order,  I  command  you  to  listen 
to  me  !  Many  them — don't  kUl  your  daiigh- 
ter,  an'  don't,  don't,  dare  to  kiU  my  son.  If 
you  do  I'll  curse  you  tiU  the  marks  of  your 
feet  will  scorch  the  ground  you  tread  on. 
Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  now  sinking, 
and  his  I'eason  awaking  apparently  from  ex- 
haustion, "  what  is  come  over  me  '?  what  am 
I  sayin'  ? — but  it's  all  for  my  son,  my  son." 
He  then  rose,  sat  down,  and  for  more  than 
tweny  minutes  wept  like  an  infant,  and  sob- 
bed and  sighed  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

A  feeling  very  difficult  to  be  described 
hushed  his  amazed  auditory  into  silence  ; 
they  felt  something  like  pity  towards  the 
unfortunate  old  man,  as  well  as  resjsect  for 
that  afl'ection  which  struggled  with  such 
moral  heroism  against  the  frightful  vice  that 
attempted  to  subdue  this  last  siu'viving  vir- 
tue in  the  breast  of  the  miser. 

On  his  getting  calm,  they  spoke  to  him 
kindly,  but  in  firm  and  friendly  terms  com- 
m  unieated  their  ultimate  determination,  that, 
in  consequence  of  his  dechning  to  make  an 


adequate  provision  for  the  son,  the  marriage 
could  by  no  means  take  place.  He  then  got 
his  hat,  and  attempted  to  reach  the  road 
which  led  doviTi  to  the  httle  lawn,  but  so 
complete  was  his  abstraction,  and  so  ex- 
hausted his  faculties,  that  it  was  not  without 
John's  assistance  he  could  reach  the  gato 
which  lay  befoi-e' his  eyes.  He  first  turned 
out  of  the  walk  to  the  right,  then  crossed 
over  to  the  left,  and  felt  surprised  that  a 
wall  opposed  him  in  each  dii-ection. 

"You  are  too  much  disturbed,"  said  John, 
"  to  perceive  the  way,  but  I  will  show  you." 

"  I  suppose  I  thought  it  was  at  home  I 
was,"  he  replied,  "  bekase  at  my  own  house 
one  must  turn  aither  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  as,  indeed,  I'm  in  the  custom  of  doin'." 

Wliilst  Fardorougha  was  engaged  upon 
his  Hi-managed  mission,  his  wife,  who  felt 
that  aU  human  efiforts  at  turning  the  heart 
of  her  husband  fi'om  liis  wealth  must  fail, 
resolved  to  have  recourse  to  a  higher  power. 
With  this  purpose  in  view,  she  put  on  her 
Sunday  dress,  and  informed  Connor  that 
she  was  about  to  go  for  a  short  time  from 
home. 

"  I'U  be  back  if  I  can,"  she  added,  "  before 
your  father  ;  and,  indeed,  it's  as  .good  not  to 
lot  him  know  anything  about  it." 

"  About  what,  mother?  for  I  know  as  little 
about  it  as  he  does." 

"  Why,  my  dear  boy,  I'm  goin'  to  get  a 
couple  o'  masses  sed,  for  God  to  turn  his 
heart  from  that  cursed  airagliid  it's  fixed 
upon.  Sure  it  houlds  sich  a  hai-d  grip  of 
his  jJoor  sowl,  that  it'll  be  the  destruction  of 
him  here  an'  hereafther.  It'll  kill  him  afore 
his  time,  an'  then  I  thrimble  to  think  of  lus 
chance  above." 

"  The  object  is  a  good  one,  sure  enough, 
an'  it  bein'  for  a  spiritual  purjDose  the  priest 
won't  object  to  it." 

"  Wliy  would  he,  dear,  an'  it  for  the  good  of 
his  sowl?  Sure,  when  Pat  Lanigan  was  jealous, 
his  wife  got  thi-ee  masses  sed  for  him  ;  and, 
wid  the  help  o'  God,  he  was  cured  sound  and 
clane." 

Connor  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  ex- 
traordinarj'  cure  for  jealousy,  nor  at  the  sim- 
ple jnetj'  of  a  heai-t,  the  strength  of  whose 
aifection  he  knew  so  well.  After  her  return 
she  mformed  the  sou,  that,  in  addition  to 
the  masses  to  be  said  against  his  father's  av- 
arice, she  had  some  notion  of  getting  another 
said  towards  his  marriage  with  Una. 

"  God  help  you,  mother,"  said  Connor, 
laughing ;  "  for  I  think  you're  one  of  the  in- 
nocentest  women  that  ever  hved  ;  but  whisht !" 
he  added,  "here's  my  father — God  grant  that 
he  may  bring  good  news  !  " 

■\^^len  Fardorougha  entered  he  was  paler 
or  rather  sallower  than  usual ;    and,  on  his 


S30 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


thin,  j)uckered  face,  the  hues  that  marked  it 
were  exiiibited  with  a  distinctness  greater 
than  ordinarj-.  His  eyes  appeared  to  have 
sunk  back  moi'e  deej^ly  into  his  head  ;  his 
cheeks  had  fallen  fai-ther  into  his  jaws  ;  his 
eyes  were  gleamy  and  disturbed  ;  and  his 
"whole  api^earance  besjjoke  trouble  and  care 
and  the  traces  of  a  strong  and  recent  strug- 
gle within  him. 

"  rather,"  said  Connor,  with  a  beating 
heart,  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  what  news — what 
tidings  ?   I  trust  in  God  it's  good." 

"  They  have  no  bowels,  Connor — they  have 
no  bowels,  thim  O'Briens." 

"  Then  you  didn't  succeed." 

"  The  father's  as  great  a  bodagh  as  him  he 
was  called  after — they're  a  bad  pack — an'  you 
mustn't  think  of  any  one  belongin'  to  them." 

"  But  tell  us,  man  dear,"  said  the  wife, 
"what  passed — let  us  know  it  all." 

"  Why,  they  would  do  nothin'  —  they 
wouldn't  hear  of  it.  I  went  on  my  knees  to 
them — ay,  to  every  one  of  them,  barrin'  the 
colleen  herself ;  but  it  was  all  no  use — it's  to 
be  no  match." 

"  And  why,  father,  did  you  go  on  your 
knees  to  anij  of  them,"  said  Connor  ;  "I'm 
sorry  you  did  that." 

"  I  did  it  on  your  account,  Connor,  an'  I'd 
do  it  again  on  your  accomit,  poor  boy." 

"Well,  weU,  it  can't  be  helped." 

'•  But  tell  me,  Fardorougha,"  inquired 
Honor,  "  was  any  of  the  fault  your  own — what 
did  yaa  offer  to  do  for  Connor  ?  " 

"Let  me  alone,"  said  he,  peevishly;  "I 
won't  be  cross-questioned  about  it.  My 
heart's  broke  among  you  all — what  did  / 
offer  to  do  for  Connor '?  The  match  is 
knocked  up,  I  tell  you — and  it  must  be 
knocked  up.  Connor's  young,  an'  it'll  be 
time  enough  for  him  to  marry  this  seven 
years  to  come." 

As  he  said  this,  the  fire  of  avaiice  blazed 
in  his  ej'es,  and  he  looked  angrily  at  Honor, 
then  at  the  son  ;  but,  while  contemplating 
the  latter,  his  countenance  changed  fi-om  an- 
ger to  sorrow,  and  fi'om  sorrow  to  a  mild  and 
serene  expression  of  affection. 

"  Connoi-,  avick,"  said  he,  "  Connor,  sirre 
you'll  not  blame  me  in  this  business  ?  siu'e 
you  won't  blame  youi'  poor,  heart-broken 
father,  let  thim  say  what  they  wiU,  sui-e  you 
won't,  avQish  ?  " 

"  Don't  fret  on  my  account,  father,"  said 
the  son  ;  "why  should  I  blame  you?  God 
knows  you're  xtricin  to  do  what  you  would 
wish  for  me." 

"  No,  Honor,  I  know  he  wouldn't ;  no,"  he 
shouted,  leaping  up,  "  he  wouldn't  make  a 
saicrefize  o'  me  !  Connor,  save  me,  save  me," 
he  shrieked,  tlu'owing  his  arms  about  his 
neck  ;  "  save  me  ;  my  heai't's  breakin' — some- 


thin 's  tearin'  me  different  ways  inside  ;  I  can 
cry,  you  see  ;  I  can  cry,  but  I'm  stiU  as  hard 
as  a  stone  ;  it's  terrible  this  I'm  sufferin' — ■ 
terrible  all  out  for  a  weak  ould  man  Hke  me. 
Oh,  Connor,  avick,  what  'iU  I  do  ?  Honor, 
achora,  what  'ill  become  o'  me — amu't  I  strug- 
glin',  struggUn' against  it,  whatever  it  is;  don't 
yees  pity  me  ?  Don't  ye,  avick  machree,  don't 
ye,  Honor  ?     Oh,  don't  yees  jjity  me '? " 

"  God  pity  you  !  "  said  the  wife,  bursting 
into  tears  ;  "what  will  become  of  you  '?  Pray 
to  God,  Fai-dorougha,  pray  to  Him.  No  one 
alive  can  change  your  heart  but  God.  I  wiut 
to  the  priest  to-day,  to  get  two  masses  said 
to  turn  your  heart  fi'om  that  cursed  money. 
I  didn't  intind  to  teU  you,  but  I  do,  bekase 
it's  your  duty  to  pray  now  above  aU  times,  an' 
to  back  the  priest  as  weU  as  you  can." 

"  It's  the  best  advice,  father,  you  could 
get,"  said  the  son,  as  he  helj)ed  the  trembhng 
old  man  to  his  seat. 

"  An'  who  bid  you  thin  to  go  to  lavish 
money  that  way  ?  "  said  he,  turning  snajipish- 
ly  to  Honor,  and  relai^sing  again  into  the 
peevish  spirit  of  avai'ice  ;  "  Saver  o'  Heaven, 
but  you'll  kill  me,  woman,  afore  you  have 
done  wid  me  !     How  can  I  stand  it,  to  have 

my  hard-earned an'  for  what  ?  to  turn  my 

heiu't  from  monej'  ?  I  don't  want  to  be  turn- 
ed fi-om  it — I  don't  wi.sh  it !  Money  ! — I  have 
no  money — nothin' — nothin' — an'  if  there's 
not  better  decreed  for  me,  I'U  be  starA  ed  yet 
— an'  is  it  any  wondher  ?  to  be  I'obbin'  me 
the  way  you're  doin' !  " 

His  wife  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  up 
towards  heaven  in  silence,  and  Connor,  shak- 
ing his  head  desiiairingly,  jjassed  out  to  join 
Flanagan  at  his  labor,  with  whom  he  had  not 
spoken  that  day.  Briefly,  and  with  a  hea^'y 
heiu't,  he  communicated  to  him  the  unsuc- 
cessful issue  of  his  father's  interference,  and 
asked  his  opinion  as  to  how  he  should  con- 
duct himself  under  circumstances  so  dis- 
astrous to  his  happiness  and  prospects.  Bar- 
tie  advised  him  to  seek  another  interview  with 
Una,  and,  for  that  piu-pose,  offered,  as  before, 
to  ascertain,  in  the  coui-se  of  that  evening,  at 
what  time  and  place  she  would  see  him.  Tliis 
suggestion,  in  itself  so  natural,  was  adopted, 
and  as  Connor  felt,  with  a  jjeculiar  acuteness, 
the  jDain  of  the  situation  in  which  he  was 
l^laced,  he  manifested  httle  tendency  to  con- 
versation, and  the  evening  consequently  pass- 
ed heavily  and  in  silence. 

Dusk,  however,  arrived,  and  Bai-tle  pre- 
pai'ed  himself  to  execute  the  somewhat  difli- 
cult  commission  he  had  so  obMgingly  under- 
taken. He  api^eared,  however,  to  have  caught 
a  portion  of  Connor's  despondency,  for,  when 
about  to  set  out,  he  said  "  that  he  felt  his 
spuits  sunk  and  melancholy  ;  just,"  he  added, 
"as  if  some  misfortune,  Connor,  was  afore 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


231 


aitlier  or  both  of  lis  ;  for  my  jiurt  I'd  stake 
my  life  that  things  will  go  ashanghran  one  way 
or  other,  an'  that  you'U  never  call  Una  O'Brien 
yoiu-  wife." 

"  Bartle,"  rejjlied  the  other,  "  I  only  want 
you  to  do  my  message,  an'  not  be  prophes^in' 
ill — bad  news  comes  to  soon,  without  your 
teUin'  us  of  it  aforehand.  God  knows.  Bar- 
tie  dear,  I'm  distressed  enough  as  it  is,  and 
want  my  spirits  to  be  kept  \rp  rather  than 
put  down." 

"  No,  Connor,  but  you  want  somethin'  to 
divart  your  mind  off  this  business  altogether, 
for  a  while  ;  an'  ujjou  my  saunies  it  'ud 
be  a  charity  for  some  fi-iend  to  give  you  a 
fresh  piece  of  fun  to  tliink  of — so  keep  uj^ 
your  heart,  how  do  you  know  but  I  may  do 
that  much  for  you  myself  ?  But  I  want  j-ou 
to  lend  me  the  loan  of  a  jjair  of  shoes  ;  divil 
a  tatther  of  these  will  be  together  soon, 
barrin'  I  get  them  mended  in  time  ;  you 
can't  begrudge  that,  any  how,  an'  me  wearin' 
them  on  your  qvra  business." 

"  Nonsense,  man — to  be  sure  I  will  ;  stop 
an'  I'n  bring  them  out  to  you  in  half  a 
shake." 

He  accordingly  j^roduced  a  j)air  of  shoes, 
nearly  new,  and  told  Bartle  that  if  he  had  no 
objection  to  accept  of  them  as  a  jiresent,  he 
might  consider  them  as  his  o\\ti. 

This  conversation  took  place  in  Fardorou- 
gha's  barn,  where  Flanagan  always  slept,  and 
kept  his  small  deal  trunk. 

He  paused  a  moment  when  this  good- 
natured  offer  was  made  to  him  ;  but  as  it  wiis 
dark  no  2)articular  expression  could  be  dis- 
covered on  his  countenance, 

"  No  !  "  said  he  vehemently  ;  "  may  I  go  to 
perdition  if  I  ought !  — Connor — Connor  O' 
Donovan — you'd  turn  the  div " 

"  Hut,  Bartle,  don't  be  angiy — whin  I  of- 
fered them,  I  didn't  rnane  to  give  j'ou  the 
slightest  offence  ;  it's  enough  for  you  to  tell 
me  you  won't  have  them  without  gettin'  into 
a  passion." 

"Have  what?  what  are  you  spakin' 
about  ?  "  • 

"  Why — about  the  shoes  ;  what  else  ?  " 

"  Yes,  faith,  sure  enough — well,  ay,  the 
shoes  ! — don't  think  of  it, Connor — I'm  hasty; 
too  much  so,  indeed,  an'  that's  my  fault.  I'm 
like  all  good-natured  peoj^le  in  that  respect ; 
however,  I'U  bony  them  for  a  day  or  two, 
tni  I  get  my  own  patched  up  some  way. 
But,  death  alive,  why  did  you  get  at  this 
season  o'  the  year  three  rows  of  sjiarables  in 
the  soles  o'  them  ?  " 

"  Bekase  they  last  longer,  of  coorse  ;  and 
now,  Bartle,  be  off,  and  don't  let  the  grass 
grow  under  yoiir  feet  till  I  see  you  again." 

Connor's  patience,  or  rather  his  impatience, 
that  night,  was  severely  taxed.     Hour  after 


hour  elapsed,  and  yet  Bartle  did  not  return. 
At  length  he  went  to  his  father's  sleej)iug- 
room,  and  informed  him  of  the  message  he 
had  sent  through  Flanagan  to  Una. 

"  I  will  sleep  in  the  barn  to-night,  father," 
he  added  ;  "  an'  never  fear,  let  us  talk  as  we 
may,  but  we'll  be  up  early  enough  in  the 
morning,  jjlase  God.  I  couldn't  sleep,  or  go 
to  sleep,  till  I  hear  what  news  he  brings  back 
to  us  ;  so  do  30U  rise  and  secure  the  door, 
an'  I'U  make  my  shakedown  wid  Bartle  this 
night." 

The  father  who  never  refused  him  any- 
thing uiijsecuniary  (if  we  may  be  allowed  the 
word),  did  as  the  son  requested  him,  and 
again  went  to  bed,  unconscious  of  the  thun- 
dercloud which  was  so  soon  to  burst  upon 
them  both. 

Bartle,  however,  at  length  returned,  and 
Connor  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  that  his 
faithful  Una  would  meet  him  the  nest  night, 
if  possible,  at  the  hour  of  twelve  o'clock,  in 
her  father's  liaggard.  Her  parents,  it  ap- 
peared, had  laid  nn  injunction  upon  her  never 
to  see  him  again  ;  she  was  watched,  too,  and, 
unless  when  the  household  were  asleej),  she 
found  it  altogether  imj^racticable  to  effect  any 
appointment  whatsoever  with  her  lover.  She 
i  could  not  even  2:)romise  with  certainty  to 
meet  him  on  that  night,  but  she  desired  him 
to  come,  and  if  she  failed  to  be  jKinctual,  not 
to  leave  the  jDlace  of  appointment  for  an 
hour.  After  that,  if  she  apjjeared  not,  then 
he  was  to  wait  no  longer.  Such  was  the 
purport  of  the  message  which  Flanagan  de- 
hvered  him. 

Flanagan  was  the  first  up  the  next  morn- 
ing, for  the  puiijose  of  keeping  an  appoint- 
ment which  he  had  with  Biddy  Neil,  whom 
we  have  already  introduced  to  the  reader. 
On  being  taxed  with  meanness  by  this  weak 
but  honest  creature,  for  having  sought  ser- 
vice with  the  man  who  had  ruined  his  famUy, 
he  promised  to  acquaint  her  with  the  true 
motive  which  had  induced  him  to  enter  into 
Fai'dorougha's  employment.  Their  conver- 
sation on  this  point,  however,  was  merely  a 
love  scene,  in  which  Bartle  satisfied  the 
credulous  girl,  that  to  an  attachment  for  her- 
self of  some  months'  standing,  might  be 
ascribed  his  humiliation  in  becoming  a  ser- 
vant to  the  opjjressor  and  destroyer  of  his 
house.  He  then  passed  from  themselves  and 
their  prospects  to  Connor  and  Una  O'Brien, 
with  whose  attachment  for  each  other,  as  the 
reader  knows,  he  was  first  made  acquainted 
by  his  fellow-seiTant. 

"  It's  teri-ible,  Biddy,"  said  he,  "  to  think 
of  the  black  and  revengeful  heart  that  Con- 
nor bears  to  Bodagh  Buie  and  his  family 
merely  bekase  they  rufuse  to  let  him  maiTy 
Una.    I'm  afeard,  Biddy  darliu',  that  there'll 


232 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


be  dark  work  about  it  on  Connor's  side ;  an' 
if  you  hear  of  auythinp  bad  happenin'  to 
the  Bodagh,  you'll  know  where  it  comes 
from." 

"  I  don't  b'heve  it,  Bartle,  nor  I  won't 
b'lieve  it — not,  any  way,  tOJ  I  hear  that  it 
happens.  •  But  what  is  it  he  intends  to  do  to 
them  ?  " 

"That's  more  than  I  know  myself,"  re- 
plied Bartle  ;  "I  axed  as  much,  an'  he  said 
till  it  was  done  nobody  would  be  the  wiser." 

"That's  quare,"  said  the  girl,  "  for  a  better 
heart  than  Connor  has,  the  Saver  o'  the  world 
never  made." 

"  You  think  so,  agra,  but  wait ;  do  you 
watch,  and  jou'll  find  that  he  don't  come  in 
to-night.  I  know  nothin'  myself  of  what  he's 
about,  for  he's  as  close  as  his  father's  j)ui'se, 
an'  as  deep  as  a  draw-weU  ;  but  this  I  know, 
tliat  he  has  black  business  on  his  hands, 
whatever  it  is.     I  trimble  to  think  of  it !  " 

Flanagan  then  got  tender,  and,  after  press- 
ing his  suit  with  all  the  eloquence  he  was 
master  of,  they  separated,  he  to  his  labor  in 
the  fields,  and  she  to  her  domestic  employ- 
ment, and  the  unusual  task  of  watching  the 
motions  of  her  master's  son. 

Flanagan,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  sug- 
gested to  Connor  the  convenience  of  sleeping 
that  night  also  in  the  barn.  The  time  of 
meeting,  he  said  was  too  late,  and  his  father's 
family,  who  were  early  in  their  hours,  both 
night  and  morning,  would  be  asleep  even 
before  they  set  out.  He  also  added,  that  lest 
any  of  the  O'Briens  or  their  retainers  should 
surprise  him  and  Una,  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  accompany  him,  and  act  as  a  ridette 
during  their  interview. 

Connor  felt  this  devotion  of  Bartle  to  his 
dearest  interests,  as  every  gi-ateful  and  gener- 
ous heart  would. 

"  Bartle,"  said  he,  "  when  we  are  married, 
if  it's  ever  in  my  power  to  make  you  aisy  in 
life,  may  I  never  prosper  if  I  don't  do  it !  At 
all  events,  in  some  way  I'll  reward  you." 

"If  you're  ever  able,  Connor,  I'll  have  no 
objection  to  be  behoulden  to  you  ;  that  is,  if 
you're  ever  able,  as  you  say." 

"And  if  there's  a  just  God  in  heaven, 
Bartle,  who  sees  my  heart,  however  things 
may  go  against  me  for  a  time,  I  say  I  ^i•Ul  be 
able  to  sarve  you,  or  any  other  fiiend  that 
desarves  it.  Bxxt  about  sleeijin'  hi  to-night 
— of  coorse  I  wouldn't  be  knockin'  uj)  my 
father,  and  distui'bin'  my  poor  mother  for  no 
rason  ;  so,  of  coorsfe,  as  I  said,  I'll  sleep  in 
the  barn  ;  it  makes  no  difference  one  way  or 
other." 

"  Connor,"  said  Flanagan,  with  much 
solemnity,  "  if  Bodagh  Buie's  wise,  he'll  marry 
you  and  his  daughter  as  fast  as  he  can." 

"  An'  why,  Bartle  '?  " 


"  Why,  for  rasons  you  know  nothin'  about 
Of  late  he's  got  verj'  much  out  o'  favor,  in 
regard  of  not  comin'  in  to  what  ^:)eo/>fe  wish." 

"  Speak  plainer,  Bartle  ;  I'm  in  the  dark 
now." 

"There's  work  goin'  on  in  the  coimthry, 
that  you  and  every  one  hke  you  ought  to  be 
up  to  ;  but  you  know  nothin ,  as  I  said,  about 
it.  Now  Bodagh  Buie,  as  far  as  I  hear- — for 
I'm  in  the  dark  myself  nearly  as  much  as 
you — Bodagh  Buie  houlds  out  against  them  ; 
an'  not  only  that,  I'm  tordd,  but  gives  them 
hard  words,  an'  sets  them  at  defiance." 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  me 
mariying  his  daughter  ?  " 

"Why,  he  wants  some  one  badly  to  stand 
his  fiiend  ii\id  them  ;  an'  if  you  were  mai'ried 
to  her,  you  should  on  his  accoimt  become 
one  o'  thim ;  begad,  as  it  is,  you  ought,  for 
to  tell  the  trath  there's  talk — strong  talk  too 
— about  pajin'  him  a  nightly  ^isitthat  mayn't 
sarve  him." 

"Then,  Bartle,  you're  consai'ned  in  this 
business." 

"  No,  faith,  not  yet ;  but  I  suppose  I  must, 
if  I  wish  to  be  safe  in  the  counthiT  ;  an'  so 
must  you  too,  for  the  same  rason." 

"And,  if  not  itp,  how  do  jou  know  so 
much  about  it  ?  " 

"  From  one  o'  themselves,  that  viishes  the 
Bodagh  well ;  ay,  an'  let  me  tell  you,  he's  a 
marked  man,  an'  the  night  was  ajDpointed  to 
visit  him  ;  still  it  was  put  back  to  thry  if  he 
could  be  managed,  but  he  couldn't :  an'  all 
I  know  about  it  is  that  the  time  to  remimber 
him  is  settled,  an'  he's  to  get  if,  an',  along  wid 
other  things,  he'U  be  jied  for  tiu-nin'  oft' — 
however,  I  can't  say  any  more  about  that." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  knew  this  ?  " 

"  Not  long — onlj'  since  last  night,  or  you'd 
a  got  it  before  this.  The  best  way,  I  think, 
to  put  him  on  his  gutird  'ud  be  to  send  him 
a  scrape  of  a  line  wid  no  name  to  it." 

"Bartle,"  replied  Connor,  "I'm  as  much 
behoulden  to  you  for  this,  as  if  it  had  been 
myself  or  my  father  that  was  marked.  God 
knows  you  have  a  good  heart,  an'  if  you 
don't  sleep  sound,  I'm  at  a  loss  to  know  who 
ought." 

"  But  it's  hard  to  tell  ivho  has  a  good 
heart,  Connor  :  I'd  never  say  any  one  has  tiU 
I'd  seen  them  well  thried." 

At  lengih  the  hour  for  setting  out  anived, 
and  both,  ai'med  with  good  oaken  cudgels 
proceeded  to  Bodagh  Buie's  haggard,  whitlier 
they  arrived  a  little  before  the  apjjointed 
hour.  An  utter  stiUuess  prevailed  around 
the  place — not  a  dog  barked — not  a  breeze 
blew,  nor  did  a  leaf  move  on  its  stem,  so 
calm  and  warm  was  the  liight.  Neither 
moon  nor  stars  shone  in  the  firmament,  and 
the  darkness   seemed   kindly  to   tkrow  its 


FAEDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


233 


dusky  maiitle  over  this  sweet  and  stolen  in- 
terview of  oiu-  }"ouug  lovers.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, Una  Lad  not  come,  nor  could  Connor, 
on  sun-eying  the  large  massy  fai'm-house  of 
the  Bodagh,  perceive  any  appearance  of 
Ught,  or  hear  a  single  sound,  however  faint, 
to  break  the  stUluess  in  which  it  slept. 
Bartle,  immediately  after  their  arrival  in  the 
haggard,  separated  from  his  companion,  in 
order,  he  said,  to  give  notice  of  interruption, 
should  Una  be  either  watched  or  followed. 

"  Besides,  you  know,"  he  added,  "  sweet- 
hearts like  nobody  to  be  jjresent  but  them- 
selves, when  they  do  be  spakin'  soft  to  one 
another.  So  I'U  just  keep  dodgiu'  about, 
from  place  to  place  ^vid  my  eye  an'  ear  both 
open,  an'  if  any  iutherloper  comes  I'll  give 
yees  the  hard  word." 

Hea\'ily  and  lazily  creej}  those  moments 
duiing  which  an  impatient  lover  awaits  the 
approach  of  his  mistress  ;  and  woe  betide 
the  wooer  of  impetuous  temjDerament  who 
is  doomed,  hke  our  hero,  to  watch  a  whole 
hoiu:  and  a  h;ilf  in  vain.  Many  a  theoiy  did 
his  fancy  body  forth,  and  mauj'  a  conjecture 
did  he  form,  as  to  the  probable  cause  of  her 
absence.  Was  it  jJossible  that  they  watched 
her  even  in  the  dead  hour  of  night  ?  Per- 
haps the  grief  she  felt  at  her  father's  refusal 
to  sanction  the  match  had  brought  on  indis- 
position ;  and — oh,  harrowing  thought ! — 
perhajis  they  had  succeeded  in  prevailbig 
upon  her  to  renounce  him  and  his  hopes 
forever.  But  no  ;  their  affection  was  too 
pure  and  steadfast  to  admit  of  a  supposition 
so  utterly  unreasonable.  \ATiat,  then,  could 
have  prevented  her  from  keeping  an  apiDoiut- 
ment  so  essential  to  theii'  future  prospects, 
and  to  the  operations  necessary  for  them  to 
pursue  ?  Some  jilan  of  intercoui'se — some 
settled  mode  of  communication  must  be  con- 
certed between  them  ;  a  fact  as  well  known 
to  herself  as  to  him. 

"Well,  weU,"  thought  he,  "whatever's  the 
reason  of  her  not  coming,  I'm  sure  the  fault 
is  not  hers  ;  as  it  is,  there's  no  use  in  waitin' 
this  night  any  longer." 

Flanagan,  it  apjaeared,  was  of  the  same 
opinion,  for  in  a  minute  or  two  he  made  his 
appearance,  and  urged  their  rettu'u  home. 
It  was  clear,  he  said,  that  no  iutei-view  vould 
take  place  that  night,  and  the  sooner  they 
reached  the  bam  and  got  to  bed  the  better. 

■'  FoUy  me,"  he  added  ;  "we  can  pass 
through  the  j'ard,  cross  the  road  before  the 
lia,il-door,  and  get  over  the  stile,  by  the  near 
way  tlirough  the  fields  that's  behind  the 
orchard." 

Connor,  wlio  was  by  no  means  so  well 
acquainted  with  the  path  as  his  companion, 
followed  him  in  the  way  pointed  out,  and  in 
«.  few  minutes  they  found  themselves  walk- 


ing at  a  brisk  pace  in  a  direction  that  led 
homewards  by  a  shorter  cut.  Connor's 
mind  was  too  much  depressed  for  conversa- 
tion, and  both  were  proceeding  in  sOenee, 
when  Flanagan  started  in  ^darm,  and  pointed 
out  the  tigui'e  of  some  one  walking  directly 
towards  them.  In  less  than  a  minute  the 
person,  whoever  he  might  be,  had  come 
within  s23eaking  distance,  and,  as  he  shouted 
"Who  comes  there?"  Flanagan  bolted 
across  the  ditch,  along  which  they  had  been 
going,  and  disapjjeared.  "  A  fi'iend,"  re- 
turned Connor,  in  reply  to  the  question. 

The  other  man  advanced,  and,  with  a  look 
of  deep  scrutiny,  peered  into  his  face.  "A 
fi'iend,'"  he  exclaimed;  "faith,  it's  a  quare 
hour-  for  a  fiiend  to  be  out.  WTio  are  you, 
eh  ?     Is  this  Connor  O'Donovau  ?  " 

"It  is ;  but  you  have  the  advantage  of 
me." 

"  If  your  father  was  here  he  would  know 
Phil  Curtis,  any  waj'.' 

"I  ought  to  'a  known  the  voice  myself," 
said  Connor  ;  "  Phii,  how  ai-e  you  '?  an' what's 
bringin'  yourself  out  at  this  hoiu-  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  want  to  buy  a  couple  o'  milk 
cows  in  the  fau-  o'  Ivilturbit,  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
catch  my  horse,  an'  make  ready.  It's  a  stiff 
ride  from  this,  an'  by  the  time  I'm  there  it 
ill  be  late  enough  for  business,  I'm  thinkin'. 
There  was  some  one  wid  you  ;  who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Connor,  good-humor- 
edly,  "  he  was  out  coortiu',  and  doesn't  wish 
to  be  known  ;  and  Phil,  as  you  hud  the  luck 
to  meet  me,  I  beg  you,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
not  to  breathe  that  you  seen  me  near  Bodagh 
Buie's  to-night ;  I  have  various  reasons  for 
it." 

"  It's  no  secret  to  me  as  it  is,"  reisUed  Cur- 
tis ;  "  half  the  jjarish  knows  it ;  so  make 
your  mind  asy  on  that  head.  Good  night, 
Connor  !  I  wish  you  success,  anyhow  ;  you'll 
be  a  happy  man  if  you  get  her  ;  although, 
fi"om  what  I  hear  has  hapi^ened,  you  have  a 
bad  chance,  except  herself  stands  to  you." 

The  truth  was,  that  Fardorouglia's  visit  to 
the  Bodagh,  thanks  to  the  high  tones  of  his 
own  shrill  voice,  had  drawn  female  curiosity, 
already  susjjicious  of  the  circumstances,  to 
the  kej'hole  of  the  i)arlor-door,  where  the  is- 
sue and  object  of  th^  conference  soon  be- 
came known.  In  a  short  time  it  had  gone 
among  the  servants,  and  fi-om  them  was 
transmitted,  in  the  coui'se  of  that  and  the 
following  day,  to  the  tenants  and  day-la- 
borers !  who  contrived  to  multiply  it  with 
such  effect,  that,  as  Curtis  said,  it  was  in- 
deed no  secret  to  the  greater  part  of  the 
ptii-ish. 

Flanagan  soon  rejoined  Connor,  who,  on 
taxing  him  with  his  flight,  was  informed, 
with  an  appeai-ance  of  much  regret,  that  a 


234 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


debt  of  old  standing  due  to  Curtis  had  oc- 
casioned it. 

"  And  upon  my  saunies,  Connor,  I'd  rather 
any  time  go  up  to  my  neck  in  wather  than 
meet  a  man  that  I  owe  money  to,  whin  I 
can't  pay  him.  I  knew  Phil  very  well,  even 
before  he  spoke,  and  that  was  what  made  me 
cut  an'  mn." 

'     "  What !  "  said   Connor,  looking  towards 
the  east,  "  can  it  be  day-hght  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Begad,  it  surely  cannot,"  replied  his 
companion. 

"  Holy  mother  above  us,  what  is  this  ?  " 

Both  involuntarily  stood  to  contemplate 
the  strange  phenomenon  which  presented 
itself  to  their  observation  ;  and,  as  it  was 
certainly  both  novel  and  starthng  in  its  ap- 
pearance, we  shall  pause  a  little  to  describe 
it  more  minutely. 

The  night,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  re- 
markably dark,  and  warm  to  an  unusual 
degree.  To  the  astonishment,  however,  of 
our  two  travellers,  a  gleam  of  light,  extremely 
faint,  and  somewhat  resAnbling  that  which 
precedes  the  rising  of  a  summer  sun,  broke 
upon  their  path,  and  passed  on  in  undulating 
sweeps  for  a  considerable  space  before  them. 
Connor  had  scarcely  time  to  utter  the  ex- 
clamation just  alluded  to,  and  Flanagan  to 
reply  to  him,  when  the  light  around  them 
shot  farther  into  the  distance  and  deepened 
from  its  first  pale  hue  into  a  rich  and  gor- 
geous purple.  Its  efl'ect,  however,  was 
limited  within  a  circle  of  about  a  mile,  for 
they  could  oT)serve  that  it  got  faint  gradually, 
fi'om  the  centre  to  the  extreme  verge,  where 
it  melted  into  utter  darkness. 

"  They  must  mean  something  extraordi- 
nary," said  Connor;  "whatever  it  is,  it  ajD- 
pears  to  be  behind  the  hiU  that  divides  us 
from  Bodagh's  Buie's  house.  Blessed  earth ! 
it  looks  as  if  the  sky  was  on  fire  !  " 

The  sky,  indeed,  presented  a  feai'ful  but 
sublime  spectacle.  One  sjsot  apj^eared  to 
glow  with  the  red-white  heat  of  a  furnace, 
and  to  form  the  centre  of  a  fiery  cupola,  fi'om 
which  the  flame  was  flung  in  redder  and 
grosser  masses,  that  darkened  away  into 
wild  and  dusky  indistinctness,  in  a  manner 
that  corresjioiulcil  ^\ith  the  same  hght,  as  it 
danced  in  red  and  frij^litful  mirth  uiDon  the 
earth.  As  they  looked,  the  cause  of  this 
awful  phenomenon  soon  became  visible. 
From  behind  the  hill  was  seen  a  thick  shower 
of  burning  particles  rushing  up  into  the 
mid  air,  and  presently  the  broad  j)oint  of  a 
huge  pyramid  of  fire,  wavering  in  terrible  and 
capricious  power,  seemed  to  disport  itself 
far  up  in  the  very  dejaths  of  the  glowing  sky. 
On  looking  again  upon  the  earth  they  per- 
ceived that  this  terrible  chcle  was  extending 
itself  over  a  wider  cu-eumference  of  country-, 


marking  eveiy  j^rominent  object  around  them 
with  a  dark  blood-red  tinge,  and  thi-owing 
those  that  were  more  remote  into  a  visionai-y 
but  appalling  relief. 

"  Dliar  67ine.sWi,a,"  exclaimed  Flanagan,  "I 
have  it  ;  thira  I  spoke  about  has  paid  Bodagb 
Buie  the  visit  they  promised  him." 

"  Come  round  the  hijj  o'  the  hill,"  said 
Connor,  "  till  we  see  where  it  really  is  ;  but 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Bartle,  if  you  be  i-jght,  woe 
betide  yovi !  all  the  water  in  Eurojse  wouldn't 
wash  you  fi'ee  in  my  mind,  of  being  connected 
in  this  same  Kibbou  business  that's  sjjreading 
tlu'ough  the  country.  As  sure  as  that  sky — ■ 
that  fearful  sky's  above  u.s,  j'ou  must  prove  to 
me  and  others  how  you  came  to  know  that 
this  heUish  business  was  to  take  jilace.  God 
of  heaven!  let  us  run — surely  it  couldn't  be 
the  dwelling-house ! " 

His  speed  was  so  great  that  Bai'tle  could 
find  neither  breath  nor  leisure  to  make  any 
reply. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  oh,  thank 
God  it's  not  the  house,  and  there  lives  ara 
safe  !  but  blessed  Father,  there's  the  man's 
whole  haggard  in  flames  !  " 

"  Oh,  the  netarnal  vUlains  !  "  was  the  simple 
exclamation  of  Flanagan. 

"Bartle,"  said  his  companion,  "you heard 
what  I  said  this  minute  ?  " 

Their  eyes  met  as  he  spoke,  and  for  the 
first  time  O'Donovan  was  struck  by  the  pallid 
malignity  of  his  featui-es.  The  servant  gazed 
steadily  upon  him,  his  hps  slightly  but  firm- 
ly drawn  back,  and  his  ej'e,  in  which  was 
neither  sj'mpathy  nor  alarm,  charged  ■nith  the 
spirit  of  a  cool  and  devilish  trimnph. 

Connor's  blazed  at  the  bare  idea  of  his  ^il- 
lainj',  and,  in  a  fit  of  manly  and  indignant 
rage,  he  seized  Flanagan  and  Inuled  him 
headlong  to  the  earth  at  his  feet.  '•  You 
have  hell  in  your  face,  you  villain  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  and  if  I  thought  that — it  I  did 
— I'd  drag  you  down  like  a  dog,  an'  pitch 
you  head-foremost  into  the  flames  !  " 

Bartle  rose,  and,  in  a  voice  wonderfully 
calm,  simplj'  observed,  "  God  knows,  Con- 
nor, if  I  know  either  your  heart  or  mine, 
you'll  be  sorry  for  this  treatment  you've  giv- 
en me  for  no  rason.  You  know  yourself 
that,  as  soon  as  I  heard  anything  of  the  iU- 
will  against  the  Bodagh,  I  tould  it  to  you,  in 
ordher — mark  tha1>— in  ordher  that  you 
might  let  him  know  it  the  best  way  you 
thought  i^roi^er  ;  an'  for  that  you've  knocked 
me  down  ! " 

"  Why,  I  believe  you  may  be  right,  Bartle 
— there's  truth  in  that — but  I  can't  forgive 
j'ou  the  JookyoM  gave  me." 

"  That  red  hght  was  in  my  face,  maybe  ; 
I'm  sure  if  that  wasn't  it,  I  can't  teU — I  was 
myself  wouderiu'  at  your   own   looks,    the 


FABDOEOUGHA,   TEE  MISER. 


235 


same  way  ;  but  then  it  was  that  quai'e  light 
that  was  in  your  face." 

"  Well,  well,  maybe  I'm  wrong — I  hope  I 
am.  Do  you  think  we  could  be  of  any  use 
there  ?  " 

"  Of  use  !  an'  how  wovild  we  account  for 
bein' there  at  all,  Connor  ?  how  would  you 
do  it,  at  any  rate,  widout  maybe  briugin'  the 
girl  into  blame  ?  " 

"  You're  right  agin,  Bartle  ;  I'm  not  half 
so  cool  as  you  are  ;  our  best  plan  is  to  go 
home " 

"  And  go  to  bed  ;  it  is  ;  an'  the  sooner 
we're  there  the  better  ;  sowl,  Connor,  you 
gev  me  a  murdherin'  crash." 

"  Think  no  more  of  it — think  no  more  of 
it — I'm  not  often  hasty,  so  vou  must  overlook 
it." 

It  was,  however,  with  an  anxious  and  dis- 
tressed heart  that  Connor  O'Donovan  reached 
his  father's  barn,  where,  in  the  same  bed 
with  Flanagan,  he  enjoyed,  towards  morn- 
ing, a  brief  and  broken  slumber  that  brought 
back  to  his  fancy  images  of  blood  and  fire. 
aU  so  confusedly  mingled  with  Una,  himself, 
and  their  parents,  that  the  voice  of  his  father 
calling  upon  them  to  rise,  came  to  him  as  a 
welcome  and  manifest  relief. 

At  the  time  laid  in  this  story,  neither 
burnings  nor  murders  were  so  famUiar  nor 
patriotic,  as  the  fancied  necessity  of  working 
out  j)olitical  progress  has  recenth'  made 
them.  Such  atrocities,  in  these  bad  and 
unreformed  daj'S,  were  certainly  looked  upon 
as  criminal,  rather  than  meritorious,  how- 
ever «;!25^ti'iotic  it  may  have  been  to  forrn  so 
erroneous  an  estimate  of  human  villainy. 
The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that  the 
destruction  of  Bodagh  Buie's  proj^erty  crea- 
ted a  sensation  in  the  country,  of  which, 
familiarized  as  roe  are  to  such  crimes,  we  can 
entertain  but  a  veiy  faint  notion.  In  three 
days  a  reward  of  five  hundred  jDounds,  ex- 
clusive of  two  hundred  from  government, 
was  offered  for  such  information  as  might 
bring  the  incendiaiy,  or  incendiaries,  to 
justice.  The  Bodagh  and  his  family  were 
stunned  as  much  with  amazement  at  the 
occurrence  of  a  calamity  so  incomprehensible 
to  them,  as  -n-ith  the  loss  they  had  sustained, 
for  that  mdeed  was  hea^-y.  The  man  was 
extremely  popular,  and  by  many  acts  of  i 
kindness  had  won  the  attachment  and  good-  I 
will  of  all  who  knew  him,  either  personally 
or  by  character.  How,  then,  account  for  an 
act  so  wanton  and  vindictive '?  They  coiild 
!3ot  Tindcrstand  it ;  it  was  not  onl_y  a  crime, 
bi  t  a  crime  connected  with  some  mysterious 
XDntive,  beyond  their  power  to  detect. 

B-jt  of  all  who  became  acquainted  with 
tilt  outrage,  not  one  sympathized  more  sin- 
cerely and  deeply  with  O'Brien's  family  than 


did  Connor  O'Donovan  ;  although,  of  course, 
that  sympathy  was  unknown  to  those  for 
whom  it  was  felt.  The  fact  was,  tliat  his 
o\vn  hapjiiness  became,  in  some  degree,  in- 
volved in  their  calamity  ;  and,  as  he  came 
in  to  bi'eakfast  on  the  fom-th  morning  of  its 
occurrence,  he  could  not  help  observing  as 
much  to  his  mother.  His  suspicions  of 
Flanagan,  as  to  possessing  some  clue  to  the 
melancholy  business,  were  by  no  means  re- 
moved. On  the  contrary,  he  felt  that  he 
ought  to  have  him  brought  before  the  bench 
of  magistrates  who  were  conducting  the 
investigation  from  day  to  day,  and,  ■with 
this  determination,  he  himseK  resolved  to 
state  fully  and  candidly  to  the  bench,  all  the 
hints  which  had  transpired  from  Flanagan 
respecting  the  denunciations  said  to  be  held 
out  against  O'Brien  and  the  causes  assigned 
for  them.  Breakfast  was  now  ready,  and 
Fardorougha  himself  entered,  uttering  petu- 
lant charges  of  neglect  and  idleness  against 
his  servant. 

"  He  desarves  no  breakfast,"  said  he ; 
"  not  a  morsel ;  it's  robbin'  me  liy  his  idle- 
ness and  schaming  he  is.  What  is  he  doin', 
Connor  ?  or  what  has  become  of  him  ?  He 'a 
not  in  the  field  nor  about  the  i:)lace." 

Connor  paused. 

"  Why,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  didn't  see 
him  to-day,"  he  replied  ;  "I  thought  that  he 
was  niendin'  the  slap  at  the  Three-Aci-es. 
I'U  thry  if  he's  in  the  bam." 

And  he  went  accordingly  to  find  him. 
"I'm  afraid,  father,"  said  he,  on  his  return, 
"  that  Bartle's  a  bad  boy,  an'  a  dangerous 
one  ;  he's  not  in  the  bai'n,  an'  it  appears, 
from  the  bed,  that  he  didn't  sleep  there  last 
night.  The  trath  is,  he's  gone  ;  at  laste  he 
has  brought  all  his  clothes,  his  box,  an' 
everything  with  him  ;  an'  what's  more,  I 
suspect  the  reason  of  it ;  he  thinks  he  has 
let  out  too  much  to  me  ;  an'  it  'ill  go  hard 
but  I'U  make  him  let  out  more." 

The  servant-maid,  Biddy,  now  entered  and 
informed  them  that  four  men,  evidently 
strangers,  were  approaching  the  house  fi-om 
the  rear,  and  ere  she  could  add  anything 
further  on  the  subject,  two  of  them  walked 
in,  and,  seizing  Connor,  informed  him  that 
he  was  their  larisoner. 

"  Your  prisoner  !  "  exclaimed  his  mother, 
getting  pale  ;  "  why,  what  could  our  poor 
boy  do  to  make  him  your  prisoner  ?  He 
never  did  hurt  or  harm  to  the  child  unbom." 

Fardorougha's  keen  gray  eye  rested  sharjj- 
ly  upon  them  for  a  moment ;  it  then  turned 
to  Honor,  afterwards  to  Connor,  and  again 
gleamed  bitterly  at  the  intruders — "  What  is 
this  ?  "  said  he,  starting  up  ;  "  what  is  this  V 
you  don't  mane  to  rob  us?  " 

"I  think,"  said  the   son,   "you  must  be 


236 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOEKS. 


lindher  a  mistake  ;  you  surely  can  have  no 
business  with  me.  It's  very  likely  j'ou  want 
some  one  else." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  inquired  he  who 
appeared  to  be  the  principal  of  them. 

"  My  name  is  Connor  O'Donovan  ;  an'  I 
know  no  reason  why  I  should  deny  it." 

"  Then  you  are  the  very  man  we  come  for," 
Baid  the  querist,  "  so  you  had  better  jsreiJare 
to  accompany  us  ;  in  the  mean  time  you  must 
excuse  us  if  we  search  youi'  room.  This  is 
unpleasant,  I  grant,  but  we  have  no  discre- 
tion, and  must  perform  our  duty." 

"  Wliat  do  you  want  in  this  room?"  said 
Fardorougha  ;  "  it's  robbery  you're  on  for — 
it's  robbery  you're  on  for — in  oj^en  daylight, 
too  ;  but  you're  late  ;  I  lodged  the  last  penny 
yesterday  ;  that's  one  comfort ;  you're  late — 
you're  late." 

"  ^ATiat  did  my  boy  do  ?  "  exclaimed  the  af- 
frighted mother  ;  "  what  did  he  do  that  you 
come  to  drag  him  away  from  us  ?  " 

This  question  she  put  to  the  other  con- 
stable, the  first  having  entered  her  son's  bed- 
room. 

"I  am  afi-aid,  ma'am,  you'U  know  it  too 
soon,"  repUed  the  man  ;  "  it's  a  heavy  charge 
if  it  proves  to  be  true." 

As  he  spoke  his  companion  re-entered  the 
apartment,  with  Connor's  Sunday  coat  in  his 
hand,  fi-om  the  f)ocket  of  which  he  drew  a 
steel  and  tinder-box. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  this,"  he  observed  ;  "  it  cor- 
roborates what  has  been  sworn  against  you 
by  your  accomplice,  and  here,  I  fear,  comes 
additional  proof." 

At  the  same  moment  the  other  two  made 
their  appearance,  one  of  them  holding  in  his 
hand  the  shoes  which  Connor  had  lent  to 
Flanagan,  and  which  he  wore  on  the  night 
of  the  conflagration. 

On  seeing  this,  and  comparing  the  two  eu-- 
cumstances  together,  a  fearful  light  broke  on 
the  unfortunate  young  man,  who  had  already 
felt  conscious  of  the  snare  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  With  an  air  of  sorrow  and  manly  re- 
signation he  thus  addressed  his  parents  : — 

"  Don't  be  alarmed  ;  I  see  that  there  is  an 
attempt  made  to  swear  away  my  hfe  ;  but, 
whatever  happens,  you  both  know  that  I  am 
innocent  of  doin'  an  injui-y  to  any  one.  If  I 
die,  I  would  rather  die  innocent  than  live  as 
guilty  as  he  will  that  must  have  my  blood  to 
answer  for." 

His  mother,  on  hearing  this,  ran  to  him, 
and  with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  exclaimed, 

"  Die  !  die  !  Connor  darlin' — my  brave  boy 
— my  only  son — why  do  you  talk  about 
death  ?  What  is  it  for  ?  what  is  it  about  ? 
Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  tell  us  what  did  our 
boy  do  ?  " 

"  He  is  chai'ged  by  Bartle  Flanagan,"  re- 


plied one  of  the  constables,  "  with  burning 
Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien's  haggiird,  because  he 
refused  him  his  daughter.  He  nsiust  now 
come  with  us  to  jail." 

"  I  see  the  whole  plot,"  said  Connor,  "and 
a  deep  one  it  is  ;  the  vUlain  will  do  his  worst ; 
stiU  I  can't  but  have  dependence  upon  justice 
and  my  own  innocence.  I  can't  but  have 
dejjendence  upon  God,  who  knows  my  heart." 


PART  IV. 

Faedorougha  stood  amazed  and  confound- 
ed, looking  fi'om  one  to  another  hke  a  man 
who  felt  mcapable  of  comprehendmg  all  that 
had  passed  before  him.  His  forehead,  over 
which  fell  a  few  gray  thin  locks,  assumed  a 
deadly  jsaleness,  and  his  eye  lost  the  piercmg 
expression  which  usually  characteiized  it. 
He  threw  his  Cuthamore  several  times  over 
his  shoidders,  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
domg  when  about  to  proceed  after  breakfast 
to  his  usual  avocations,  and  as  often  laid  it 
aside,  without  being  at  all  conscious  of 
what  he  did.  His  hmbs  apjjeared  to  get 
feeble,  and  his  hands  trembled  as  if  he  la- 
bored under  palsy.  In  this  mood  he  passed 
fi-om  one  to  another,  sometimes  seizing  a 
constable  by  the  arm  with  a  hard,  tremulous 
grij),  and  again  suddenly  letting  go  his  hoid 
of  him  without  speaking.  At  length  a  sin- 
gular transition  fi-om  this  state  of  mind  be- 
came ajiparent ;  a  gleam  of  wild  exultation 
shol  fi'om  his  eye  ;  his  sallow  and  blasted 
features  lirightened  ;  the  Co^/mnKM-e  was  but- 
toned under  his  chin  with  a  rajwd  energy  of 
manner  evidentlj'  arising  fi'om  the  removal 
of  some  secret  apjirehension. 

"Then,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  no  robbery; 
it's  not  robbery  afther  all ;  but  how  could  it  ? 
there's  no  money  here  ;  not  a  penny  ;  an'  I'm 
behed,  at  any  rate  ;  for  there's  not  a  poorer 
man  in  the  bai'ony  —  thank  God,  it's  not 
robbery  !  " 

"  Oh,  Fardorougha,"  said  the  wife,  "  don't 
you  see  they're  goin'  to  take  him  away  from 
us?" 

"  Take  who  away  from  us  ?  " 

"  Connor,  your  own  Connor — our  boy — 
the  hght  of  my  heart — the  hght  of  his  poor 
mother's  heai't  !  Oh,  Connor,  Connor,  what 
is  it  they're  goin'  to  do  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  harm,  mother,  I  trust ;  no  harm — 
don't  be  frightened." 

The  old  man  put  his  open  hands  to  his 
temj)les,  which  he  pressed  bitterly,  and  with 
all  his  force,  for  nearly  half  a  minute.  He 
had,  in  truth,  been  alarmed  into  the  very 
worst  mood  of  his  habitual  vice,  apprelien- 
sion  concernmg   his  money  ;    and  felt  that 


FARDOIWUGHA,   THE  IlISER. 


237 


Dotliing,  except  a  powerful  effort,  could  suc- 
ceed in  drawing  his  attention  to  the  scene 
which  was  passing  before  him. 

"  ^Yhat,"  said  he  ;  "  what  is  it  that's  wrong 
wid  Connor  ?  " 

"He  must  come  to  jail,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  looking  at  him  with  surprise  ;  "  we 
have  already  stated  the  crime  for  which  he 
stands  committed." 

"  To  jail !  Connor  O'Donovan  to  jail !  " 

"It's  too  true,  father;  Bartle  Flanagan 
,has  sworn  that  I  burned  jMi\  O'Brien's  hag- 
gard." 

"  Connor,  Coimor,"  said  the  old  man,  ap- 
proaching him  as  he  spoke,  and  putting  his 
arms  composedly  about  his  neck,  "Connor, 
my  brave  boy,  my  brave  boy,  it  wasn't  you 
did  it;  'twas  I  did  it,"  he  added,  turning  to 
the  constables  ;  "  lave  him,  lave  him  wid  her, 
an'  take  me  in  his  place  !  Who  would  if  I 
would  not — who  ought,  I  say — an'  I'll  do  it 
— take  me  ;  I'U  go  in  his  place." 

Connor  looked  down  upon  the  old  man, 
and  as  he  saw  his  heart  rent,  and  his  reason 
absolutely  tottering,  a  sense  of  the  singular 
and  devoted  affection  which  he  had  ever 
borne  him,  overcame  him,  and  with  a  fuU 
heart  he  dashed  away  a  tear  from  his  eye, 
and  pressed  his  father  to  his  breast. 

"  Mother,"  said  he  ;  "  this  ivill  kill  the  old 
man  ;  it  wUl  kill  him  !  " 

"  Fardorougha,  a  hagvu',"  said  his  wife, 
feeling  it  necessary  to  sustain  him  as  much 
as  possible,  "  don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart, 
it  won't  signifj' — Connor's  innocent,  an'  no 
harm  will  happen  to  him  !  " 

"  But  are  you  lavin'  us,  Connor?  are  they 
— must  they  bring  you  to  jail  ?  " 

"  For  a  while,  father  ;  but  I  won't  be  long 
there  I  hoj)e." 

"It's  an  unpleasant  duty  on  our  part," 
said  the  priucii^al  of  them  ;  "  stUl  it's  one 
we  must  jjerform.  Your  father  should  lose 
no  time  in  taking  the  projser  steps  for  your 
defence." 

"  And  what  are  we  to  do  ?  "  asked  the 
mother  ;  "  God  knows  the  boy's  as  innocent 
as  I  am." 

"Yes,"  said  Fardorougha,  still  dwelling 
upon  the  resolution  he  had  made ;  "  Fll 
stand  for  you,  Connor  ;  you  won't  go  ;  let 
them  bring  me  instead  of  you." 

"  That's  out  of  the  question,"  replied  the 
constable  ;  "  the  law  suffers  nothing  of  the 
kind  to  take  place  ;  but  if  you  will  be  ad- 
vised by  me,  lose  no  time  in  preparing  to  de- 
fend him.  It  would  be  unjust  to  disguise 
tbe  matter  fi'om  you,  or  to  keep  you  ignorant 
of  its  being  a  case  of  life  and  death." 

"  Life  and  death  !  what  do  you  mane  ? " 
asked  Fardorougha,  staring  vacantly  at  the 
last  speaker. 


"  It's  painful  to  distress  you  ;  but  if  he's 
found  guOty,  it's  death." 

"  Death  !  hanged  !  "  shrieked  the  old  man, 
awaking  as  it  were  for  the  first  time  to 
a  full  percejition  of  his  son's  situation ; 
"  hanged  !  my  boy  hanged  !  Connor,  Con- 
nor, don't  go  from  me  !  " 

"  I'll  die  wid  him,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  I'U 
die  wid  you,  Connor.  We  couldn't  live 
widout  him,"  sheadded,  addressing  the  stran- 
gers ;  "  as  God  is  in  heaven  we  couldn't !  Oh 
Connor,  Connor,  avourneen,  what  is  it  that 
has  come  over  us,  and  brought  us  to  this  sor- 
row '? " 

The  mother's  grief  then  flowed  on,  accom- 
jaanied  by  a  burst  of  that  unstudied,  but 
j)athetic  eloquence,  which  in  Ireland  is  fre- 
quently uttered  in  the  tone  of  wail  and 
lamentation  peculiar  to  those  who  mourn  over 
the  dead. 

"  No,"  she  added,  with  her  arms  tenderly 
about  him,  and  her  streaming  eyes  fixed  with 
a  ^vild  and  mournful  look  of  des2:)air  upon 
his  face  ;  "  no,  he  is  in  his  loving  mother's 
arms,  the  boy  that  never  gave  to  his  father 
or  me  a  harsh  word  or  a  sore  heart !  Long 
were  we  lookin'  for  him,  an'  little  did  we 
think  it  was  for  this  hea'v'y  fate  that  the 
goodness  of  God  sent  him  to  us  !  Oh,  many 
a  look  of  lovin'  affection,  many  a  hapi>y  heart 
did  he  give  us  !  Manj'  a  time  Connor,  avilhsh, 
did  I  hang  over  your  cradle,  and  di-aw  out  to 
myself  the  happiness  and  the  good  that  I 
housed  was  before  you.  You  wor  too  good — 
too  good,  I  doubt— to  be  long  in  such  a  world 
as  this,  an',  no  wondher  that  the  heart  of  the 
fair  young  colleen,  the  heart  of  the  colleen 
dhas  dhiin  should  rest  upon  you  and  love 
you  ;  for  who  ever  knew  you  that  didn't  ? 
Isn't  there  enough,  King  of  heaven  !  enough 
of  the  bad  an'  the  wicked  in  this  world  for  the 
law  to  punish,  an'  not  to  take  the  innocent^ — 
not  to  take  awaj'  fi'om  us  the  only  one — the 
only  one — I  can't — I  can't — but  if  they  do  — 
Connor — if  they  do,  your  lovin'  mother  will 
die  wid  you  ! " 

The  stern  ofScers  of  justice  wiped  their 
eyes,  and  were  proceeding  to  afford  such 
consolation  as  they  could,  when  Fardorougha, 
who  had  sat  down  after  having  made  way  for 
Honor  to  recline  on  the  bosom  of  their  son, 
now  rose,  and  seizing  the  breast  of  his  (;oat, 
was  about  to  s23eak,  but  ere  he  could  utter  a 
word  he  tottered,  and  would  have  instantly 
fallen,  had  not  Connor  caught  him  in  his 
arms.  This  ser^'ed  for  a  moment  to  divert 
the  mother's  grief,  and  to  draw  her  attention 
fi'om  the  son  to  the  husband,  who  was  now 
insensible.  He  was  carried  to  the  door  by 
Connor  ;  but  when  they  attempted  to  lay 
him  in  a  recumbent  jJosture.  it  was  found 
almost  impossible  to  unclasp  the  deathlike 


238 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


grip  which  he  held  of  the  coat.  His  hagc^ard 
face  was  shrunk  and  collapsed  ;  the  individual 
features  sharp  and  thin,  but  earnest  and 
stamped  with  traces  of  alarm  ;  his  brows,  too, 
which  were  shghtly  knit,  gave  to  his  whole 
countenance  a  character  of  keen  and  painful 
determination.  But  that  which  struck  those 
who  were  j^resent,  most,  was  the  unyielding 
grasp  with  which  he  clung  even  in  his  insensi- 
bility to  the  person  of  Connfer. 

If  not  an  affecting  sight,  it  was  one  at  least 
strongly  indicative  of  the  intractable  and  in- 
durated attachment  which  put  itself  forth 
with  such  vague  and  illusive  energy  on 
behalf  of  his  son.  At  length  he  recovered, 
and  on  opening  his  eyes  he  fixed  them  with 
a  long  look  of  pain  and  distraction  upon  the 
boy's  countenance. 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  "  don't  be  cast 
down — you  need  not — and  you  ought  not  to 
be  so  much  disheartened — do  you  feel 
better  ?  " 

When  the  father  heard  his  voice  he  smiled  ; 
yes — his  shrunk,  jjale,  withered  face  was  ht 
up  by  a  wUd,  indescribable  ecstasy,  whose 
startling  expression  was  borrowed,  one  would 
think,  as  much  from  the  light  of  insanity  as 
from  that  of  returning  consciousness.  He 
sucked  in  his  thin  cheeks,  smacked  his 
parched,  skinny  hps,  and  with  difficulty 
called  for  drink.  Having  swallowed  a  httle 
water,  he  looked  round  him  with  more  com- 
posure, and  inquired — 

"  What  has  happened  me  '?  am  I  robbed  ? 
are  j'ou  robbers  ?  But  I  teU  you  there's  no 
money  in  the  house.  I  lodged  the  last  jjenny 
yesterday — afore  my  God  I  did — but — oh, 
what  am  I  savin'  ?  what  is  this,  Connor  ?  " 

"  Father  dear,  compose  yourself — we'll 
get  over  this  throuble." 

"  We  wiU,  darlin',"  said  Honor,  wiping  the 
pale  brows  of  her  husband  ;  "  an'  we  won't 
lose  him." 

"  No,  achora,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  no,  we 
won't  lose  him  !     Connor  ?  " 

"  WeU,  father  dear !  " 

"  There's  a  thing  here — here  " — and  he 
placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart — "  something 
it  is  that  makes  me  afeard — a  sinkin' — a 
weight — and  there's  a  strugglin',  too,  Con- 
nor. I  know  I  can't  stand  it  long — an'  it's 
about  you — it's  all  about  you," 

"  You  distress  yourself  too  much,  father  ; 
indeed  you  do.  Why,  I  hoped  that  you 
would  comfort  my  poor  mother  till  I  come 
back  to  her  and  you,  as  I  will,  jilase  God." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  ;   "  yes,  I  wiU,  I  wlU." 

"  You  had  better  prepare,"  said  one  of  the 
officers  ;  "the  sooner  this  is  over  the  better 
-^he's  a  feeble  man  and  not  very  well  able  to 
bear  it." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Connor  ;  "I  won't 


delay  many  minutes  ;  I  have  only  to  change 
my  clothes,  an'  I  am  ready." 

In  a  short  time  he  made  his  appearance 
dressed,  in  his  best  suit  ;  and,  indeed,  it 
would  be  extremely  difficult  to  meet,  in  any 
rank  of  hfe,  a  finer  sj^ecimen  of  ■\'igor,  ac- 
tivity, and  manly  beauty.  His  countenance, 
at  all  times  sedate  and  ojjen,  was  on  this  oc- 
casion shaded  by  an  au'  of  profovmd  melan- 
choly that  gave  a  comjJosed  grace  and 
dignity  to  his  whole  bearing. 

"Now,  father,"  said  he,  "before  I  go,  I» 
think  it  right  to  lave  you  and  my  poor 
mother  all  the  consolation  I  can.  In  the 
presence  of  God,  in  yours,  in  my  dear 
mother's,  and  in  the  presence  of  all  who  hear 
me,  I  am  as  innocent  of  the  crime  that's  laid 
to  my  charge  as  the  babe  unborn.  That's  a 
comfort  for  you  to  know,  and  let  it  prevent 
you  fi-om  frettin' ;  and  now,  good  by ;  God 
be  with  you,  and  strengthen,  and  support 
you  both ! " 

Fardorougha  had  already  seized  his  hand  ; 
but  the  old  man  could  neither  speak  nor 
weep  ;  his  whole  frame  appeared  to  have 
been  suddenly  pei'vad.ed  by  a  dry  agony  that 
suspended  the  beatings  of  his  very  heart. 
The  mother's  grief,  on  the  contrary,  was  loud, 
and  piercing,  and  vehement.  She  threw  her- 
self once  more  upon  his  neck  ;  she  kissed 
his  lips,  she  jwessed  him  to  her  heart,  and 
poured  out  as  before  the  wail  of  a  wUd  and 
hopeless  misery.  At  length,  by  the  aid  of 
some  slight  but  necessary  force,  her  arms 
were  untwined  fi'om  about  his  neck  ;  and 
Connor  then,  stoojiing,  embraced  his  father, 
and,  gently  placing  him  on  a  settle-bed,  bade 
him  farewell !  On  reaching  the  door  he 
paused,  and,  turaLng  about,  sur\eyed  his 
mother  struggling  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
officers  to  get  embracing  him  again,  and  his 
gray-hau'ed  father  sitting  in  speechless 
misery  on  the  settle.  He  stood  a  moment 
to  look  uj)on  them,  and  a  few  bitter  tears 
rolled,  in  the  silence  of  manly  sorrow,  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Fardorougha  !  "  exclaimed  his 
mother,  after  they  had  gone,  "  sure  it  isn't 
merely  for  partin'  wid  him  that  we  feel  so 
heai't-broken.  He  may  never  stand  under 
this  roof  again,  an'  he  all  we  have  and  had 
to  love  ! " 

"  No,"  returned  Fardorougha,  quietly  ;  "  no, 
it's  not,  as  you  say,  for  merely  partin'  wid 
him  — hanged!  God!  God!  him — here — 
Honor — here,  the  thought  of  it — I'll  die — 
it'll  break  !  Oh,  God  support  me  !  my  heart 
— here — my  heart'U  break  !  My  brain,  too, 
and  my  head — oh  !  if  God  'ud  take  me  Iiefore 
I'd  see  it !  But  it  can't  be — it's  not  possible 
that  our  innocent  boy  should  meet  sicL  3 
death  ! " 


FAEDOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


239 


■'  No,  dear,  it  is  not ;  sure  he's  innocent 
— that's  one  comfort ;  but,  Fardorougha,  as 
the  men  said,  you  must  go  to  a  lawyer  and 
see  what  can  he  done  to  defind  him." 

The  old  man  rose  up  and  proceeded  to  his 
sou's  bedroom. 

"  Honor,"  said  he,  " come  here ; "  and  while 
uttering  these  words  he  gazed  ujjon  her  face 
^^•ith  a  look  of  unutterable  and  hopeless  dis- 
tress ;  "  there's  his  bed,  Honor — /us  bed — he 
may  never  sleep  on  it  more — he  may  be  cut 
down  hke  a  flower  in  liis  youth — an'  then 
what  will  become  of  us  ?  " 

"  Forever,  fi'om  this  day  out,"  said  the  dis- 
tracted mother,  "no  hands  will  ever  make 
it  but  my  own  ;  on  no  other  wiU  I  sleep — 
we  will  both  sleep — where  hix  head  lay  there 
wiU  mine  lie  too — avick  machree — machree  ! 
Och,  Faixlorougha,  we  can't  stand  this  ;  let 
us  not  take  it  to  heart,  as  we  do  ;  let  us  trust 
in  God,  an'  hope  for  the  best." 

Honor,  in  fact,  found  it  necessary  to  as- 
sume the  office  of  a  comforter  ;  but  it  was 
clear  that  nothiug  urged  or  suggested  by 
her  could  for  a  moment  win  back  the  old 
man's  heart  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
loss  of  his  son.  He  moped  aboiit  for  a  con- 
siderable time  ;  but,  ever  and  anon,  found 
himself  in  Connor's  bedroom,  looking  upon 
his  clothes  and  such  other  memorials  of  him 
as  it  contained. 

Duiing  the  occurrence  of  these  melancholy 
incidents  at  Fardoi-ougha's,  others  of  a  scarce- 
ly less  distressing  character  were  passing  un- 
der the  roof  of  Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien. 

Our  readers  need  not  be  informed  that  the 
charge  brought  by  Bartle  Flanagan  against 
Connor,  excited  the  utmost  amazement  in  aU 
who  heard  it.  So  much  at  variance  were  his 
untarnished  reputation  and  amisible  manners 
with  a  disposition  so  dark  and  malignant  as 
that  which  must  have  j^rompted  the  perpe- 
tration of  such  a  crime,  that  it  was  treated 
at  first  by  the  public  as  an  idle  rumor.  The 
evidence,  however,  of  Phil.  Curtis,  and  his 
deposition  to  the  conversation  which  occurred 
between  him  and  Connor  at  the  time  and 
place  already  knovra  to  the  reader,  together 
with  the  corroborating  circumstances  arising 
from  the  corresjJondeuce  of  the  footpiints 
about  the  haggard  with  the  shoes  produced 
by  the  constable — all,  when  combined  to- 
gether, left  little  doubt  of  his  guilt.  No  soon- 
er had  this  impression  become  general,  than 
the  spirit  of  the  father  was  immediately  im- 
puted to  the  son,  and  man}'  sagacious  obser- 
vations made,  all  tending  to  show,  that,  as 
they  expressed  it,  "  the  bad  drop  of  the  old 
rogue  would  sooner  or  later  come  out  in  the 
young  one  ; "  "he  wouldn't  be  what  he  was, 
or  the  bitter  heart  of  the  miser  would  ap- 
pear ;  "  with  many  other  apothegms  of  simi- 


lar import.  The  family  of  the  Bodagh,  how- 
ever, were  painfully  and  peculiarly  cu-cum- 
stanced.  With  the  excejjtion  of  Una  herseK, 
none  of  them  entertained  a  doubt  that  Con- 
nor was  the  incendiary.  Flanagan  had  main- 
tained a  good  character,  and  his  direct  im- 
peachment of  Connor,  supported  by  such  ex- 
act circumstantial  evidence,  left  nothing  to 
be  urged  in  the  young  man's  defence.  Aware 
as  they  were  of  the  force  of  Una's  attachment, 
and  ap23i'eheusive  that  the  shock,  arising 
fi'om  the  discovery  of  his  atrocity,  might  be 
dangerous  if  injudiciously  disclosed  to  her, 
they  resolved,  in  accordance  witli  the  sugges- 
tion of  their  son,  to  break  the  matter  to  lier- 
seK  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and  caution. 

"  It  is  better,"  said  John,  "  that  she  should 
hear  of  the  misfortune  from  ourselves  ;  for, 
after  breaking  it  to  her  as  gently  as  possible, 
we  can  at  least  attempt  to  strengthen  and 
console  her  iinder  it." 

"  Heaven  above  sees,"  exclaimed  his 
mother,  "  that  it  was  a  black  and  unlucky 
business  to  her  and  to  all  of  us  ;  but  now 
that  she  knows  what  a  revingeful  villain  he 
is,  I'm  sure  she'U  not  find  it  hard  to  banish 
him  out  of  her  thoughts.  Dnih  Graslfiiax  for 
the  escape  she  had  from  him  at  any  rate  !  " 

"John,  bring  her  in,"  said  the  father; 
"  bring  the  unfortunate  young  crature  in. 
I  can't  but  jjity  her,  Bridget ;  I  can't  but 
pity  ma  colleen  voghth." 

When  Una  entered  with  her  brother  she 
perceived  by  a  glance  at  the  solemn  bearing 
of  her  parents,  that  some  unhapjjy  announce- 
ment was  about  to  be  made  to  her.  She  sat 
down,  therefore,  with  a  beating  heart  and  a 
cheek  already  jsale  with  apprehension. 

"Una,"  said  her  father,  "we  sent  for  you 
to  mention  a  circumstance  that  we  would 
rather  you  should  hear  from  ourselves  than 
from  strangers.  You  wei-e  always  a  good 
girl,  Una — an'  obadient  girl,  and  sensible  be- 
yant  youx  years  ;  and  I  tnist  that  your  good 
sinse  and  the  grace  of  the  Almiglity  will  en- 
able you  to  bear  up  imdher  any  disapf)oint- 
ment  that  may  come  upon  you.  " 

"  Surely,  father,  there  can  be  nothing 
worse  than  I  know  already,"  she  replied. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know,  dear  '?  " 

"  Only  what  you  told  me  the  day  Fardo- 
rougha was  here,  that  nothing  agreeable  to 
my  wishes  could  take  j)lace." 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  that  the  busi- 
ness was  now  as  it  was  even  then,"  responded 
her  father  ;  "  there's  far  worse  to  come,  Una, 
an'  you  must  be  firm,  an'  prepare  to  hear 
what'U  thi-y  you  sorely." 

"I  can't  guess  it,  father;  but  for  God's 
sake  toll  me  at  once." 

"  Who  do  you  think  burned  our  prop- 
erty?" 


240 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  And  I  suppose  if  she  hadn't  been  undher 
the  one  roof  wid  us  that  it's  ourselves  he'd 
bum,"  observed  her  mother. 

"  Father,  tell  me  the  ■worst  at  once — vs^hat- 
ever  it  may  be  ; — how  could  I  jruess  the  vil- 
lain or  villains  who  destroyed  our  proiserty  ?  " 

"Villain,  indeed  !  you  may  well  say  so," 
returned  the  Bodaph.  "That  villain  is  no 
other  than  Connor  O'Donovan  !  " 

Una  felt  as  if  a  weighty  burden  had  been 
removed  from  her  heart  ;  she  breathed  free- 
ly ;  her  depression  and  alarm  vanished,  and 
her  dark  eye  kindled  into  j)roud  confidence 
in  the  integrity  of  her  lover. 

"  And,  father,"  she  asked,  in  a  fuU  and 
firm  voice,  "  is  there  nothing  worse  than 
that  to  come  ?  " 

"  Worse  !  is  the  gM's  brain  tui'ued?" 

"  Dhai-  a  Lhora  Heena,  she's  as  mad  I  be- 
Ueve  as  ould  Fardoroiigha  himself,"  said  the 
mother;  "  worse .' why,  she  has  parted  wid 
all  tlie  reasHJf/  she  ever  had." 

"  Indeed,  mother,  I  hope  I  have  not,  and 
that  my  reason's  as  clear  as  ever  ;  but,  as  to 
Connor  O'Donovan,  he's  innocent  of  that 
charge,  and  of  every  other  that  may  be 
brought  against  liim  ;  I  don't  believe  it,  and 
I  never  will." 

"  It's  proved  against  him  ;  it's  brought 
home  to  him." 

"  Who's  his  accuser  ?  " 

"  His  father's  servant,  Bartle  Flanagan, 
has  turned  king's  evidence." 

"  The  deep-dyed  ^^Uain  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  indignation  ;  "father,  of  that  crime,  so 
sure  as  God's  in  heaven,  so  sure  is  Connor 
O'Donovan  innocent,  and  so  sure  is  Bartle 
Flanagan  guilty — I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it — explain  yourself." 

"  I  mean  I  fed  it — ay,  home  to  the  core  of 
my  heai't — my  unhappy  heart — I  feel  the 
truth  of  what  I  say." 

"  Una,"  observed  her  brother,  "  I'm  afraid 
you  have  been  vilely  deceived  by  him — 
there's  not  the  shghtest  doubt  of  his  guilt." 

"Don't  you  be  deceived,  John  ;  I  say  he's 
innocent — as  I  hope  for  heaven  he's  inno- 
cent ;  and,  father,  I'm  not  a  bit  cast  dovni  or 
disheai'tened  by  auythiug  I  have  yet  heard 
against  him." 

"  You're  a  very  extraordinary  girl,  Una ; 
but  for  my  part  I'm  glad  you  look  upon  it  as 
you  do.  If  his  innocence  ajjpears,  no  man 
aUvewiU  be  better  plazed  at  it  than  myself." 

"  His  innocence  will  ajspear,"  exclaimed 
the  faithful  girl  ;  "it  must  apj)ear  ;  and, 
father,  mark  this — I  say  the  time  will  tell 
yet  who  is  innocent  and  who  is  guilty.  God 
knows,"  she  added,  her  energy  of  manner 
increasing,  while  a  shov;er  of  hot  tears  fell 
down  her  cheeks,  "  God  knows  I  would 
marry  him  to-morrow  with  the  disgrace  of 


that  and  ten  times  as  much  upon  him.  so 
certain  am  I  that  his  heart  and  hand  are 
free  fi-om  thought  or  deed  that's  either 
treacherous  or  dishonorable." 

"  Marrj'  him  !  "  said  her  brother,  losing 
temper  ;  "  nobody  doubts  but  j'ou'd  marry 
him  on  the  gallows,  wid  the  rope  about  his 
neck." 

"I  would  do  it,  and  unite  myself  to  a 
true  heart.  Don't  mistake  me,  and  mother, 
dear,  don't  blame  me,"  she  added,  her  tears 
flowing  stUl  faster  ;  "  he's  in  disgrace — simk 
in  shame  and  sorrow — and  I  won't  conceal 
the  force  of  what  I  feel  for  him  ;  I  won't  de- 
sert him  now  as  the  world  will  do  ;  I  know 
his  heart,  and  on  the  scaffold  to-morrow  I 
would  become  his  wife,  if  it  would  take 
away  one  atom  of  his  misery." 

"  If  he's  innocent,"  said  her  father,  "you 
have  more  piuetration  than  any  girl  in  Eu- 
rope ;  but  if  he's  guilty  of  such  an  act 
against  any  one  connected  with  you,  Una, 
the  guilt  of  all  the  di^ils  in  hell  is  no  match 
for  his.  Well,  you  have  heard  all  we  wanted 
to  say  to  you,  and  you  needn't  stay." 

"As  she  herself  saj-s,"  observed  John, 
"  perhaps  time  will  place  eveiything  in  its 
true  light.  At  present  all  those  who  are 
not  in  love  with  him  have  little  doubt  of  his 
guilt.  However,  even  as  it  is,  in  jarinciple 
Una  is  right  ;  putting  love  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, we  should  prejudge  no  one." 

"  Time  will,"  said  his  sister,  "or  rather 
God  wiU  in  His  own  good  time.  On  God 
I'm  sure  he  depends  ;  on  his  providence  I  also 
rely  for  seeing  his  name  and  character 
cleared  of  all  that  has  been  brought  against 
liim.  John,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  in  my 
own  room  ;  not  that  I  intend  to  mtike  any 
secret  of  it,  but  I  want  to  consult  with  you 
first." 

"  Cheerna  dheelish,"  exclaimed  her  mother  ; 
"  what  a  wife  that  child  woiUd  make  to  anj 
man  that  desaiTed  her  !  " 

"  It's  more  than  I'm  able  to  do,  to  be  an- 
gry with  her,"  returned  the  Bodagh.  "  Did 
you  ever  know  her  to  tell  a  lie,  Bridget  ?  " 

"  A  he  !  no,  nor  the  shadow  of  a  lie  never 
came  out  of  her  lips  ;  the  desate's  not  in 
her  ;  an'  may  God  look  dovvai  on  her  wid 
compunction  this  day ;  for  there's  a  dark 
road  I  doubt  before  her  ! " 

"  Amen,"  resj)onded  her  father  ;  "  amen, 
I  pray  the  Saviour.  At  all  evints,  O'Don- 
ovan's  guilt  or  innocence  will  soon  be 
knovra,"  he  added  ;  "  the  'sizes  begin  this 
day  week,  so  that  the  busmess  will  soon  be 
settled  either  one  waj"  or  other." 

Una,  on  reaching  her  o^vn  room,  thus  ad- 
dressed her  affectionate  brother  : 

"  Now,  John,  you  know  that  my  grand- 
father left  me  two  himdred   gumeas   in   his 


FARDOROUGIJA,    THE  MISER. 


241 


will,  and  you  know,  too,  the  impossibility  of 
ji'ptting  any  money  from  tlie  chitches  of 
Fai'dorougha.  You  must  see  Connor,  and  find 
out  liow  he  intends  to  defend  himself.  If  his 
father  won't  allow  him  sulKcient  means  to  em- 
ploy the  best  lawyers — as  I  doubt  whether  he 
will  or  not — just  tell  him  the  truth, that  whilst 
I  have  a  penny  of  these  two  hundred  guineas, 
he  mustn't  want  money  ;  an'  tell  him,  too, 
that  ail  the  world  won't  persuade  me  that 
he's  guilty  ;  say  I  know  him  to  be  innocent, 
and  that  his  disgrace  has  made  him  dearer 
to  me  than  he  ever  was  before.'' 

"  Surely,  you  can't  suppose  for  a  moment, 
my  dear  Una,  that  I,  your  bi'other,  who,  by 
the  way,  have  never  opened  my  lips  to  him, 
could  deliberately  convey  such  a  message." 

"  It  must  be  conveyed  in  some  manner  ; 
I'm  resolved  on  that." 

"The  best  jslan,"  said  the  other,  "is  to 
find  out  whatsoever  attorney  they  employ, 
and  then  to  discover,  if  j^ossible,  whether  his 
father  has  furnished  sufficient  funds  for  his 
defence.  If  he  has,  your  otifer  is  unnecessary  ; 
and  if  not,  a  private  arrangement  may  be 
made  mth  the  attorney  of  which  nobody  else 
need  know  am-thing  " 

"  God  bless  you,  John  !  God  bless  you  !  " 
she  rei^lied  ;  "  that  is  far  better  ;  you  have 
been  a  good  brother  to  your  poor  Una — to 
your  poor  unhappy  Una  !  " 

She  leaned  her  head  on  a  table,  and  wept 
for  some  time  at  the  tr\'ing  fate,  as  she 
termed  it,  which  hung  over  two  beings  so 
young  and  so  guiltless  of  any  crime.  The 
brother  soothed  her  by  every  argument  in 
his  power,  and,  after  gently  compelling  her 
to  di-y  her  tears,  expressed  his  intention  of 
going  early  the  next  day  to  ascertain  whether 
or  not  any  professional  man  had  been 
engaged  to  conduct  the  defence  of  her  un- 
fortunate lover. 

In  eftectiug  this  object  there  was  little 
time  lost  on  the  j'^n't  of  young  O'Brien. 
Knowing  that  two  resj^ectable  attorneys 
lived  in  tlie  next  market  toVii,  he  deemed  it 
best  to  ascertain  whether  Fardorougha  had 
apphed  to  either  of  them  for  the  purposes 
aforementioned,  or,  if  riot,  to  assure  himself 
wl^ther  the  old  man  had  gone  to  any  of 
thSe  pettifoggers,  who,  rather  than  appear 
without  practice,  will  undertake  a  cause 
almost  on  any  terms,  and  afterwards  institute 
a  lawsuit  for  the  recovery  of  a  much  larger 
bill  of  costs  than  a  man  of  character  and  ex- 
perience would  demand. 

In  pursuance  of  the  plan  concerted  between 
them,  the  next  morning  found  him  rapping, 
about  eleven  o'clock,  at  the  door  of  an  attor- 
ney named  Kennedy,  whom  he  asked  to  see 
on  professional  business.  A  clerk,  on  hearing 
hia  voice  in  the  hall,  came  out  and  requested 


him  to  step  into  a  back  room,  adding  that 
his  master,  who  was  engaged,  would  see  him 
the  moment  he  had  de.spatched  the  per.son 
then  with  him.  Thus  shown,  he  was  &e\Yi- 
ratedfi'om  O'HaUoran's  office  onlj-  by  a  pair  of 
folding  doors,  through  which  every  word 
uttered  in  the  office  could  l)e  distinctly 
heard  ;  a  circumstance  that  enabled  O'Brien 
unintentionally  to  overhear  the  following 
dialogue  between  the  parties  : 

"  Well,  my  good  fiiend,"  said  Kennedy  to 
the  stranger,  who,  it  appeared,  had  arrived 
before  O'Brien  only  a  few  minutes,  "  I  am 
now  disengaged  ;  pray,  let  me  know  your 
business." 

The  stranger  paused  a  moment,  as  if  seek- 
ing the  most  approjDriate  terms  in  which  to 
express  himself. 

"  It's  a  black  business,"  he  replied,  "  and 
the  worst  of  it  is  I'm  a  poor  man." 

"  Yoii  should  not  go  to  law,  then,"  ob- 
served the  attorney.  "I  tell  you  beforehand 
you  will  find  it  is  de%'ilish  expensive." 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  man;  "it's  open 
robbeiy  ;  I  know  what  it  cost  me  to  recover 
the  little  pences  that  wor  sometimes  due  to 
me,  when  I  broke  myself  lending  weeny 
trifles  to  strugglin'  people  that  I  thought 
honest,  and  robbed  me  aftherwards." 

"  In  what  way  can  im'  services  be  of  use  to 
you  at  present '?  for  that  I  supijose  is  the  ob- 
ject of  your  calUng  upon  me,"  said  Kennedy. 

"  Oh  thin,  sir,  if  you  have  the  grace  of 
God,  or  kindness,  or  pity  in  youi-  heart,  you 
can  saiwri  me,  you  can  save  my  heart  from 
breakin' ! " 

"How — how,  man? — come  to  the  point." 

"  My  son,  sir,  Connor,  my  only  son,  was 
taken  away  from  his  mother  an'  me,  an'  put 
into  jail  yesterday  mornin',  an'  he  innocent ; 
he  was  put  in,  sir,  for  bumin'  Bodagh  Buie 
O'Brien's  haggard,  an'  as  God  is  above  me, 
he  as  much  burnt  it  as  you  did." 

"Then  you  are  Fardorougha  Donovan,"' 
said  the  attorney;  "I  have  he;u'd  of  that 
outrage  ;  and,  to  be  plain  with  you,  a  good 
deal  about  yourself.  How,  in  the  name  of 
heaven,  can  you  call  yourself  a  poor  man  ?  " 

"  They  belie  me,  sir,  they're  bitther  ine- 
mies  that  say  I'm  otherwise." 

"  Be  you  rich  or  be  you  poor,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  would  not  stand  in  your  son's 
situation  for  the  wealth  of  the  king's  ex- 
chequer. Sell  youi'  last  cow  ;  your  last  coat ; 
your  last  acre  ;  sell  the  bed  from  under  you, 
without  loss  of  time,  if  you  wish  to  save  his 
life  ;  and  I  tell  you  that  for  this  piu-pose  you 
must  employ  the  best  counsel,  and  jslenty  of 
them.  The  Assizes  commence  on  this  day 
week,  so  that  you  have  not  a  single  moment 
to  lose.  Think  now  whether  you  love  youi 
son  or  vour  money  best." 


242 


WILLIAM.    CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


"  Saver  of  eai-th,  amn't  I  au  unhappy  man  ! 
eveiy  one  sajan'  I  have  money,  au"  me  has 
not !  Where  would  I  get  it  ?  Where  would 
a  man  like  me  get  it?  Instead  o' that,  I'm 
so  poor  that  I  see  plainly  I"U  starve  yet ;  I 
see  it's  before  me  !  God  f)ity  me  this  day ! 
But  agin,  there's  ijiy  boy,  my  boy  ;  oh,  God, 
pity  him  !  Say  what's  the  laste,  the  lowest, 
the  very  lowest  you  could  take,  for  d.fendin' 
iiim  ;  an'  for  pity's  sake,  for  chaiity's  sake, 
for  God's  sake,  don't  giind  a  poor,  helpless, 
ould  man  by  extortion.  If  you  knew  the 
boy — if  you  knew  him — oh,  afore  my  God, 
if  you  knew  him,  you  wouldn't  be  apt  to 
charge  a  penny  ;  you'd  be  proud  to  sarve 
sich  a  boy." 

"  You  wish  everything  possible  to  be  done 
for  him,  of  course." 

t  "Of  coorse,  of  coorse  ;  but  widout  extra- 
vagance ;  as  asy  an'  Ught  on  a  poor  man  as 
you  can.  You  could  shorten  it,  sure,  an' 
lave  out  a  grate  dale  that  'ud  be  of  no  use  ; 
an'  half  the  paper  'ud  do  ;  for  you  might 
make  the  clerks  write  close — why,  very  httle 
'ud  be  wanted  if  you  wor  savin'." 

"  I  can  defend  him  with  one  counsel  if  you 
wsh  ;  but,  if  anxious  to  save  the  boy's  life, 
Tou  ought  to  enable  your  attoi-ney  to  secure 
a  .strong  bar  of  the  most  eminent  lawyers 
he  can  engage." 
I  "  An'  what  'ud  it  cost  to  hire  three  or  foxu" 
I  of  them?" 

"  The  whole  expenses  might  amount  to  be- 
tween thirty  and  forty  guineas." 

A  deep  groan  of  dismay,  astonishment,  and 
anguish,  was  the  only  reply  made  to  this  for 
some  time. 

"  Oh,  heavens  above  ! "  lie  screamed,  "  what 
wiU — what  Kill  become  of  me  !  I'd  rather  be 
dead,  as  I'll  soon  be,  than  hear  this,  or  know 
it  at  all.  How  could  I  get  it  ?  I'm  as  poor 
as  poverty  itself  !  Oh,  couldn't  j'ou  feel  for 
the  boy,  an'  defend  him  on  trust ;  couldn't 
you  feel  for  him  ?  " 

"  It's  your  business  to  do  that,"  returned 
ilie  man  of  law,  coolly. 

"  Feel  for  him  ;  me  !  oh,  little  you  know 
how  my  heart's  in  him  ;  but  any  way,  I'm  an 
unhapi^y  man  ;  everything  in  the  world  wide 
goes  against  me  ;  but — oh,  my  darUn'  boy — 
Connor,  Connor,  my  son,  to  be  tould  that  I 
don't  feel  for  you — well  you  know,  avourneen 
maehree — well  you  know  that  I  feel  for  you, 
and  'ud  kiss  the  track  of  your  feet  upon  the 
ground.  Oh,  it's  cruel  to  tell  it  to  me  ;  to 
siy  sich  a  thing  to  a  man  that  his  heart's 
breakin'  widin  him  for  your  sake  ;  but,  sir, 
you  sed  this  mmute  that  you  could  defend 
liim  wid  one  lawj'er  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  and  \\-ith  a  cheaj)  one,  too,  if 
you  wish  ;  but,  in  that  case,  I  would  rather 
decline  the  thing  altogether." 


"  Wliy  ?  wliy  ?  sure  if  you  can  defind  him 
chapely,  isn"t  it  so  much  saved  ?  isn't  it  the 
same  as  if  you  definded  him  at  a  higher  rate  ? 
Sure,  if  one  lawyer  tells  the  tmth  for  the 
poor  boy,  ten  or  fifteen  can  do  no  more  ;  an' 
thin  maybe  they'd  crass  in  an'  puzzle  one 
another  if  you  hired  too  many  of  them." 

"  How  would  you  feel,  should  your  son  be 
found  guilty  ;  you  know  the  penalty  is  his 
hfe.     He  wDl  be  executed." 

O'Brien  could  hear  the  old  man  clap  his 
hands  in  agony,  and  in  truth  he  walked 
about  wringing  them  as  if  his  heart  would 
burst. 

"  ^Vliat  will  I  do  ?  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "what 
wiU  I  do  ?  I  can't  lose  him,  an'  I  won't  lose 
him  !  Lose  him  !  oh  God,  oh  God,  it  is  to 
lose  the  best  son  and  only  child  that  ever 
man  had  !  Wouldn't  it  be  downnght  murdh- 
er  in  me  to  let  him  be  lost  if  I  could  prevint 
it  ?  Oh,  if  I  was  in  his  j)lace,  what  wouldn't 
he  do  for  me,  for  the  father  that  he  always 
loved !  " 

The  tears  ran  copiously  down  his  furrowed 
cheeks  ;  and  his  -whole  apjjearanee  e-sdnced 
such  distraction  and  anguish  as  could  rai'ely 
be  witnessed. 

"  111  teU  you  what  I'U  do,"  he  added  ;  "  I'll 
give  you  fifty  guineas  ajler  vnj  dealh  if  you'll 
defind  him  properly." 

"Much  obliged,"  repHed  the  other  ;  "but 
in  matters  of  this  kind  Vi'e  make  no  such  bar- 
gains." 

"I'U  make  it  sixtj',  in  case  you  don't  axe 
it  iiow." 

"  Can  you  give  me  security  that  I'll  sirrvive 
you  ?  Wliy,  you  are  tough-looking  enough 
to  outUve  me." 

"Me  tough! — no,  God  help  me,  my  race 
is  nearly  run  ;  I  won't  be  ahve  this  day  twelve 
months — look  at  the  differ  atween  us." 

"This  is  idle  talk,"  said  the  attorney; 
"  determine  on  what  you'll  do ;  reidly  my 
time  is  valuable,  and  I  am  now  wasting  it  to 
no  inirpose." 

"Take  the  offer — depind  on't  itll  Boon 
come  to  you." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  other,  coolly  ;  "  not  at 
all ;  we  might  shut  up  shop  if  we  made  such 
ixmt  obit  bargains  as  that." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Fardorougha  ;  *I'U 
tell  you  what  ; "  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  red- 
dish, bitter  Ught ;  and  he  clasped  his  wither- 
ed hands  together,  until  the  joints  cracked, 
and  the  perspiration  teemed  from  his  p;ile, 
saUow  features  ;  "I'U  tell  you,"  he  added  — 
"  I'U  make  it  seventy  !  " 

"No." 

"AightyL" 

"  No." 

"  Ninety  !  "-  — ii^-ith  a  husky  shriek 

"No,  no." 


FAHDOEOUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


243 


"  A  hmidhre" — a  hmidlire' — a  hundhi-e','' 
he  shouted  ;  "  a  himdhre',  when  I'm  gone — 
when  I'm  gone  !  " 

One  solemn  and  determined  No,  that  pre- 
cluded aU  hojjes  of  any  such  arrangement, 
was  the  only  reijly. 

The  old  man  leaped  up  again,  and  looked 
impatiently  and  wildly  and  fiercely  about 
him. 

"What  are  you?"  he  shouted;  "what 
are  you  ?  You're  a  divil — a  born  divLl.  Will 
nothing  but  my  death  satisfy  you  ?  Do  you 
want  to  rob  me — to  starve  me — to  murdher 
me  ?  Don't  you  see  the  state  I'm  in  by  you  ? 
Look  at  me — look  at  these  thremblin'  limbs 
— look  at  the  sweat  powerin'  dovm  from  my 
lioov  ould  face  !  What  is  it  you  want  ?  There 
— there's  my  gray  hairs  to  you.  You  have 
brought  me  to  that — to  more  than  that — I'm 
djan'  this  minute — I'm  dpn' — oh,  my  boy 
— my  boy,  if  I  had  you  here — ay,  I'm — 
I'm " 

He  staggei-ed  over  on  his  seat,  his  eyes 
gleaming  in  a  fixed  and  intense  glare  at  the 
attorney  ;  his  hands  were  clenched,  his  lips 
parched,  and  his  mummy-like  cheeks  sucked, 
as  before,  into  his  toothless  jaws.  In  addi- 
tion to  all  this,  there  was  a  bitter  white 
smile  of  despair  upon  his  features,  and  his 
thin  gray  locks,  that  were  discomposed  in 
the  paroxysm  by  his  own  hands,  stood  out 
in  disorder  upon  his  head.  We  question, 
indeed,  whether  mere  imagination  could, 
without  having  actually  witnessed  it  in  real 
life,  conceive  any  object  so  frightfullj'  illus- 
trative of  the  ten-ible  dominion  which  the 
passion  of  avarice  is  capable  of  exercising 
over  the  human  heart. 

"I  protest  to  Heaven,"  exclaimed  the  at- 
torney, alarmed,  "  I  believe  the  man  is  djing 
— if  not  dead,  he  is  motionless." 

"  O'Donovan,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

The  old  man's  Ups  gave  a  dry,  hard  smack, 
then  became  desperately  compressed  to- 
.^ether,  and  his  cheeks  were  drawn  still  fur- 
ther into  his  jaws.  At  length  he  sighed 
deeply,  and  changed  his  fixed  and  motion- 
less attitude. 

"  He  is  alive,  at  all  events,"  said  one  of 
his  young  men. 

Fardoi'ougha  tiimed  his  eyes  upon  the 
speaker,  then  upon  his  master,  and  svicces- 
sively  upon  two  other  assistants  who  were  in 
the  office. 

"  What  is  this?  "  said  he,  "  what  is  tliis? 
—  I'm  very  weak — will  you  get  me  a  dhrink 
o'  wather  ?  God  heljj  m(i — God  direct  me  ! 
I'm  an  unhappy  man  ;  get  me  a  dhrink,  for 
Heaven's  sake !  I  can  hardly  spake,  my 
moutli  and  Ups  are  so  dry." 

The  water  having  been  procm-ed,  he  di'ank 
it  eagerly,  and  felt  evidently  relieved. 


"  This  business,"  he  continued,  "  about 
the  money — I  mane  about  my  poor  boy, 
Connor,  how  will  it  be  managed,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  there  is  but 
one  way  of  managing  it,  and  that  is,  as  the 
young  man's  life  is  at  stake,  to  sjjare  no 
cost." 

"And  I  »i//.s;do  that?" 

"  You  ought,  at  least,  remember  that  he's 
an  only  son,  and  that  if  you  lose  him " 

"  Lose  him  ! — I  can't>— I  couldn't — I'd  die 
— die — dead " 

"  And  bj'  so  shameful  a  death,"  proceeded 
Cassidy,  "  you  wiU  not  only  be  childless,  but 
you  will  have  the  bitter  fact  to  reflect  on  that 
he  died  in  disgi-ace.  You  will  blush  to  name 
him  !  ^^Tiat  father  would  not  make  any 
sacrifice  to  j)revent  his  chUd  from  meeting 
such  a  fate  ?  It's  a  trying  thing  and  a  jiiti- 
able  calamity  to  see  a  father  ashamed  to 
name  the  child  that  he  loves." 

The  old  man  arose,  and,  approaching 
Cassidy,  said,  eagerly,  "  How  much  wiU  do  ? 
Ashamed  to  name  you,  alanna,  CJiicrna — 
Cliicriia — ashamed  to  name  you,  Connor  ! 
Oh  !  if  the  world  knew  you,  asthore,  as  well 
as  I  an'  youi-  poor  mother  knows  you,  thej''d 
•say  that  we  ought  to  be  jaroud  to  hear  your 
name  soundin'  in  our  ears.  How  much 
^vill  do  ?  for,  may  God  stringthen  me,  I'U  do 
it." 

"I  think  about  forty  guineas;  it  may  be 
more,  and  it  may  be  less,  but  we  will  say 
forty." 

"  Then  I'U  give  you  an  ordher  for  it  on  a 
man  that's  a  good  mark.  Give  me  jjin  an' 
paper,  fast." 

"  The  paper  was  placed  before  him,  and  he 
held  the  pen  in  his  hand  for  some  timt^  and, 
ere  he  wrote,  turned  a  look  of  deep  distress 
on  Cassidy. 

"God  Almighty  pity  me  !  "  said  he  ;  "you 
see — you  see  that  I'm  a  poor  heart-broken 
creature — a  ruined  man  I'll  be — a  ruined 
man !  " 

"  Think  of  your  son,  and  of  his  situation." 

"It's  before  me — I  know  it  is — to  die  hke 
a  dog  behind  a  ditch  wid  hunger !  " 

"  Think  of  your  son,  I  say,  and.  if  possible, 
save  him  fi-om  a  shameful  death." 

"  What !  Ay — j-is — j-is — surely — surely — 
oh,  my  23oor  boy — my  innocent  boy — I  wUl 
— I  will  do  it." 

He  tlien  sat  down,  and,  with  a  tremulous 
hand,  and  lijis  tightly  drawn  together,  wrote 

an  order  on  P ,  the  county  treasurer,  for 

the  money. 

Cassidy,  on  seeing  it,  looked  alternately 
at  the  paper  and  the  man  for  a  considerable 
time. 

"Is  P your  banker?"  he  asked. 

"  Every  penny  that  I'm  worth  he  has." 


244 


WILLI AU   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Then  you're  a  ruiBed  man,"  he  replied, 

with  cool  emj^hasis.     "  P absconded  the 

day  before  j-esterday,  and  robbed  half  the 
countj'.    Have  you  no  loose  cash  at  borne  ?  "' 

"  Eobbed  !  who  robbed  '?  " 

"Wby,  P has  robbed  every  man  who 

was  fool  enough  to  trast  him  ;  he's  off  to  the 
Isle  of  Man,  with  the  county  funds  ia  ad- 
dition to  the  other  prog." 

"  You  don't  mane  to  say,"  replied  Fardo- 
rougha,  with  a  hideous  calmness  of  voice  and 
manner ;  "  you  dvnl,  j'ou  canl  mane  to  say 
he  has  run  oft'  wid  my  money?  " 

"I  do  ;  you'll  never  see  a  shilling  of  it,  if 
you  live  to  the  age  of  a  Hebrew  patriarch. 
See  what  it  is  to  iix  the  heart  upon  money. 
You  are  now,  what  you  wish  the  world  to 
believe  you  to  be,  a  j)oor  man." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  howled  the  miser,  "  he  dam't, 
he  dam't — wouldn't  God  consume  him  if  he 
robbed  the  j)oor — wouldn't  God  stiffen  him, 
and  pin  him  to  the  aii'th,  if  he  attempted  to 
iini  oft'  \\id  the  hai'd  earnings  of  straggUn' 
honest  men  ?  Where  'ud  God  be,  an'  him  to 
dar  to  do  it !  But  it's  a  falsity,  an'  you're 
thr^tin'  me  to  see  how  I'd  bear  it — it  is,  it  is, 
an'  may  Heaven  forgive  you  !  " 

"It's  as  true  as  the  Gospel,'"  replied  the 
other  ;  "  why,  I'm  surjirised  you  didn't  hear 
it  before  now — every  one  knows  it — it's  over 
the  whole  coiuitry." 

"It's  a  lie — it's  a  lie  !  "  he  howled  again  ; 
"  no  one  dar  to  do  such  an  act.  You  have 
some  schame  in  this — you're  not  a  safe  man  ; 
you're  a  villain,  an'  nothin'  else  ;  but  I'll  soon 
know  ;  which  of  these  is  my  hat  ?  " 

"You  are  mad,  I  think,"  said  Cassidy. 

"  Get  me  my  hat,  I  say  ;  I'll  soon  know  it ; 
but  sure  the  world's  all  in  a  schame  agauist 
me — all,  all,  young  an'  ould — where's  my 
hat,  I  say  ?  " 

"  You  have  put  it  uj^on  your  head  this  mo- 
ment," said  the  other. 

"An'  my  stick'?" 

"  It's  in  your  hand." 

"  The  curse  o'  Heaven  ujjon  you,"  he 
shrieked,  "  whether  it's  thi-ue  ur  false  !  "  and, 
with  a  look  that  might  scorch  him  to  whom 
it  was  directed,  he  shuffled  in  a  v\ild  and 
frantic  mood  out  of  the  house. 

"  The  man  is  mad,"  observed  Cassidy  ; 
"  or,  if  not,  he  will  soon  be  so  ;  I  never  wit- 
nessed such  a  desperate  case  of  avarice.  If 
ever  the  demon  of  money  Im-ked  in  any  man's 
soul,  it's  in  his.  God  bless  me  !  God  bless 
me  !  it's  dreadful !  Richard,  tell  the  gentle- 
man in  the  dining-room  I'm  at  leisure  to  see 
him." 

The  scene  we  have  attempted  to  describe 
spared  O'Brien  the  trouble  of  much  unpleas- 
ant inquiry,  and  enabled  him  to  enter  at 
once  into  the  jjroposed  aiTangemeuts  on  be- 


half of  Connor.  Of  coui-se  he  did  not  pennit 
his  sister's  name  to  transpire,  nor  any  trace 

whatsoever  to  apjjear,  liy  which  her  delicacy 
might  be  compromised,  or  her  character  in- 
volved. His  interference  in  the  matter  he 
judiciously  j)ut  iq^on  the  footing  of  personal 
regard  for  the  young  man,  and  his  reluctance 
to  be  even  the  iudu-ect  means  of  bringing  him 
to  a  violent  and  shameful  death.  Having 
thus  fulfilled  Una's  instinictions,  he  returned 
home,  and  reheved  her  of  a  hea^'y  burthen 
by  a  full  communication  of  all  that  had  been 
done. 

The  straggle  hitherto  endured  by  Fardo- 
rougha  was  in  its  own  nature  sufficiently  se- 
vere to  render  his  sufferings  sharp  and  pun- 
gent ;  stUl  they  resembled  the  influence  of 
local  disease  more  than  that  of   a  malady 
which  prostrates  the  strength  and  grapples 
with  the  powers  of  the  whole  constitution. 
The  sensation  he  immediately  felt,  on  hear- 
ing that  his  banker  had  absconded  v\-ith  the 
gains  of  his  penurious   life,   was  rather   a 
stunning  shock  that  occasioned  for  the  mo- 
ment a  feeling  of  dull,  and  heav^',  and  over- 
whelming dismay.     It  filled,  nay,  it  actually 
distended  his  narrow  soul  with  an  oppressive 
sense  of  exclusive  miserj^  that  banished  all 
consideration  for  every  person  and  thing  ex- 
traneous to  his   individual   selfishness.     In 
trath,  the  tumult  of  his  mind  was  peculiai'ly 
!  wild  and  anomalous.     The  situation  of  his 
!  son,  and  the  di-eadful  fate  that  hung  over 
him,  were  as  comjjletely  forgotten  as  if  they 
did  not  exist.     Yet  there  lay,  underneath  his 
I  own  gloomy  agony,  a  remote  consciousness 
j  of  collateral  affliction,  such  as  is  fi-equently 
exjjerienced  by  those  who  may  be  drawn,  Ijy 
some  temporary  and  ^iresent  jjleasure,  from 
j  the  contemplation  of  their  miserj'.     We  feel, 
!  in  such  cases,  that  the  darkness  is  uj)on  us, 
!  even  while  the  image  of  the  calamity  is  not 
before  the  mind  ;  nay,  it  sometimes  requires 
j  an  eft'ort  to  bring  it  back,  when  anxious  to 
!  account  for   our   depression  ;    but  when  it 
comes,  the  heart  sinks  with  a  shudder,  and 
we  feel,  that,  although  it  ceased  to  engage 
oiu-  thoughts,  we  had  been  sitting  all  the 
,  time  beneath  its  shadow.     For  this  reason, 
although  Fai-dorougha's  own  loss  absorbed, 
1  in  one  sense,  aU  his  powers  of  sufteriug,  still 
;  he  knew  that  sumeUdug  else  pressed  v^ith  ad- 
I  ditional  weight  upon  his  heiu't.     Of  its  dis- 
;  tinet  character,  however,   he  was  ignorant, 
'  and  only  felt  that  a  dead  and  heavy  load  of 
multiplied  aftlictiou  bent  him  in  burning  an- 
guish to  the  eai'th. 
!      There  is  something  more  or  less  eccentiic 
I  m  the  gait  and  dress  of  every  miser.      Fai- 
}  dorougha's  pace  was  naturally  slow,  and  the 
habit  for  which,  in  the  latter  point,  he  had 
all   his   life   been   remarkable,   was  that   of 


.;  THE 
JNIVERSny  OF  ILLINOIS 


BK  KAITLED,  4^D  TBUMPED,  AND  SCREAMED,  AS  IF  P BIMSEI-F  i 

NO  PDKPOSE.— FardoroujAo  «ie  Miser,  Page  215. 


ACinAtLY  BUSN  WITHIM  HEAMNQ,  BDT  BTII.L  TO 


FAEDOIiOUbmA,   THE  MISER. 


24a 


wearing  a  great-coat  thrown  loosel.y  about  his 
shoulders.  In  summer  it  saved  an  inside  one, 
and,  as  he  said,  kept  him  cool  and  comfort- 
able. That  he  seldom  or  never  put  his 
arms  into  it  arose  from  the  fact  that  he  laiew 
it  would  last  a  much  longer  jjeriod  of 
time  than  if  he  wore  it  in  the  usual  man- 
ner. 

On  leaving  the  attorney's  office,  he  might 
be  seen  creeping  along  towards  the  County 
Treasurer's,  at  a  pace  quite  unusual  to  him  ; 
his  hollow,  gleaming  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
earth  ;  his  C.'o//(«iho(y^  about  his  shoulders  ;  his 
staff  held  with  a  tight  desperate  grip,  and  his 
whole  appearance  that  of  a  man  frightfully 
distracted  by  the  inteUigence  of  some  sudden 
calamity. 

He  had  not  proceeded  far  on  this  hopeless 
errand,  when  many  bitter  confirmations  of 
the  melaucholj'  truth,  by  jJersons  whom  he 

met  on  then-  return  from  P 's  residence, 

were  afforded  him.  Even  these,  however, 
were  insufficient  to  satisfy  liim  ;  he  heard 
them  with  a  vehement  imj)atience,  that  could 
not  brook  the  bare  j>ossibility  of  the  report 
being  true.  His  soul  clung  with  the  tena- 
city of  a  death-grip  to  the  hope,  that  however 
others  might  have  suffered,  some  chance 
might,  notwithstanding,  stiU  remain  in  hu 
particular  favor.  In  the  meantime,  he  jioui-ed 
out  curses  of  unexampled  malignity  ag-ainst 
the  guilty  defaulter,  on  whose  head  he  in- 
voked the  Almighty's  vengeance  -tt-ith  a  ven- 
omous fervor  which  appalled  all  who  heard 
him.  Having  reached  the  treasurer's  house, 
a  scene  presented  itseK  that  was  by  no 
means  calculated  to  afford  him  consolation. 
Persons  of  everj'  condition,  from  the  squii'een 
and  gentleman  farmer,  to  the  humble  widi 
ow  and  inexperienced  orphan,  stood  in  mel- 
ancholy groups  about  the  deserted  mansion, 
interchanging  details  of  their  losses,  their 
blasted  prospects,  and  their  immediate  ruin. 
The  cries  of  the  widow,  who  mourned  for 
the  desolation  bro'ught  upon  her  and  her 
now  destitute  orphans,  rose  in  a  piteous 
wail  to  heaven,  and  the  industrious  fathers 
of  many  strugghng  families,  with  pale  faces 
and  bre.aking  hearts,  looked  in  silent  misery 
upon  the  closed  shutters  and  smokeless 
chimnej-s  of  their  oppressor's  house,  bitterly 
conscious  that  the  la.ws  of  the  boasted  con- 
stitution under  whicli  they  lived,  permitted 
the  destroyer  of  hundreds  to  enjoy,  in  lux- 
ury and  security,  the  many  thousands  of 
which,  at  one  fell  and  rapacious  swoop,  he 
had  deprived  them. 

With  white,  quivei-ing  lips  and  panting 
Ijreath,  Fardorougha  approached  and  joined 
them. 

"  What,  what,"  said  he,  in  a  broken  sen- 
tence, "  is  this  ti'ue — can  it,  can  it  be  true  ? 


Is  the  thievm'  villain  of  heU  gone  ?  Has  he 
robbed  us,  ruined  us,  destroyed  us  ?  " 

"All,  too  thrue  it  is,"  rejiUed  a  farmer ; 
"  the  dam'  rip  is  off  to  that  nest  of  robbers, 
the  Isle  of  Man  ;  ay,  he's  gone !  an'  may  all 
our  bad  luck  past,  present,  and  to  come,  go 
with  him,  an'  all  he  tuck  !  " 

Fardorougha  looked  at  his  informant  as  if 

he  had  been  P himseK  ;    he  then  glared 

from  one  to  another,  whilst  the  white  foam 
wrought  up  to  his  hps  by  the  proiligimis 
force  of  his  excitement.  He  clasped  his 
hands,  then  attempted  to  speak,  but  language 
had  abandoned  him. 

"  If  one  is  to  judge  from  your  appearance, 
you  have  suft'ered  heavily,"  observed  the 
fai'mer. 

The  other  stared  at  him  with  a  kind  oi 
angry  amazement  for  doubting  it,  or,  it 
might  be,  for  speaking  so  coolly  of  his  loss. 

"  Suffered  !  "  said  he,  "  ay,  ay,  but  did  yees 
thry  the  house  '?  we'U  see — suffered  ! — suf- 
fered ! — we'll  see." 

He  immediately  shuffled  over  to  the  hall 
door,  which  he  assaulted  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  desjiairing  soul  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
throwing  into  each  knock  such  a  character  of 
impatience  and  apprehension,  as  one  might 
suppose  the  aforesaid  soi'l  to  feel  from  a  cer- 
tain knowledge  that  the  devil's  clutches  were 
sj)read  immediately  behind,  to  seize  and  car- 
ry him  to  perdition.  His  impetuosity,  how- 
ever, was  all  in  vain  ;  not  even  an  echo  re- 
verberated through  the  cold  and  empty  walls, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  evei-y  peal  was  followed 
by  a  most  unromantic  and  ominous  silence. 

"That  man  appears  beside  himself,"  ob- 
served another  of  the  sufferers  ;  "  surely,  il 
he  wasn't  half-mad,  he'd  not  expect  to  find 
any  one  in  an  empty  house  !  " 

"  T)e\\\  a  much  it  signifies  whether  he'i. 
mad  or  otherwise,"  responded  a  neighbor. 
"  I  kno^^'  him  well  ;  his  name's  Fardorougha 
Donovan,  the  miser  of  Lisnamona,  the  big- 
gest shkew  that  ever  skinned  a  flint.  If  P 

did  nothin'  worse  than  fleece  him,  it  would 
never  stand  between  him  an'  the  blessin'  o' 
Heaven." 

Fardorougha,  in  the  mean  time,  finding 
that  no  response  was  given  from  the  front, 
passed  hurriedly  by  an  archway  into  the 
back  court,  where  he  made  similar  efl'orts  to 
get  in  by  attempting  to  force  the  kitchen 
door.  Every  entrance,  however,  had  been 
strongly  secured  ;  he  rattled,  and  thumped. 
and  screamed,  as  if  P himself  had  ac- 
tually been  within  hearing,  but  still  to  no 
purpose  ;  he  might  as  well  have  expected 
to  extort  a  reply  from  the  grave. 

Wlien  he  retvu-ned  to  the  group  that 
stood  on  the  lawn,  the  deadly  conviction 
t.b.-ii  ".n  wo_-,  Inst  afl'ected  every  joint  of  his 


246 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


body  with  a  nervous  trepidation,  tliat  miglit 
have  been  mistaken  for  delirium  tremens. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  terror,  mingled  ^\ith 
the  impotent  fury  of  hatred  and  revenge  ; 
whilst  over  all  now  predominated  for  the 
iirst  time  such  au  expression  of  horror  and 
despau-,  as  made  the  spectators  shudder  to 
look  upon  him. 

"  Where  was  God,"  said  he,  addressing 
them,  and  his  voice,  naturally  thin  and  wiry, 
now  became  husky  and  hollow,  "  where  was 
God,  to  suffer  this  ?  to  suffer  the  poor  to  be 
i-uined,  and  the  rich  to  be  made  p)oor  ?  Was  it 
right  for  the  Almighty  to  Icok  on  an'  let  the 
villain  do  it  ?     No — no — no  ;  I  say  no  !  " 

The  group  around  Mm  shuddered  at  the 
daring  blasjihemy  to  which  his  monstrous 
passion  had  driven  him.  Many  females, 
who  were  in  tears,  lamenting  audibly,  started, 
and  felt  their  grief  susijended  for  a  mo- 
ment by  this  revoltmg  charge  against  the 
justice  of  Providence. 

"  What  do  you  all  stand  for  here,"  he 
proceeded,  "lik«  stocks  sua'  stones?  WTi.y 
don't  yees  kneel  with  me,  an'  let  us  join  in 
one  curse  ;  one,  no,  but  let  us  shower  them 
down  upon  him  in  thousands — in  millions  ; 
an'  when  we  can  no  longer  spake  them,  let  us 
Ihink  them.  To  the  last  hour  of  my  life  my 
heai't  'iU  never  be  widout  a  curse  for  him  ; 
an'  the  last  word  afore  I  go  into  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  'U  be  a  black,  hea\'y  blessin'  fi-om 
hell  against  him  an'  his,  sowl  an'  body, 
while  a  droj)  o'  theu'  bad  blood's  upon  the 
earth." 

"  Don't  be  blasphamin',  honest  man,"  said 
a  bystander  ;  "if  you've  lost  money,  that's 
no  rason  why  you  should  fly  in  the  face  o' 

God  for   P 's  roguery.      Devil  a  one  o' 

myself  cares  if  I  join  j'ou  in  a  volley  against 
the  robbin'  scoundril,  but  I'd  not  take  all 
the  money  the  rip  of  hell  ran  away  wid,  an' 
spake  of  God  as  you  do." 

"  Oh,  Saver  !  "  exclaimed  Fardorougha, 
who  probably  heard  not  a  word  he  said  ; 
"  I  knew — I  knew — I  always  felt  it  was  be- 
fore me — a  dog's  death  behind  a  ditch — my 
tongue  out  wid  starvation  and  hunger,  and 
it  was  he  brought  me  to  it !  " 

He  had  iUready  knelt,  and  was  uncovered, 
his  whitish  hair  tossed  by  the  breeze  in 
confusion  about  a  face  on  which  was  painted 
the  fearful  workings  of  that  giant  spirit, 
under  whose  ti-emendous  grasp  he  writhed 
and  sufl'ered  lilce  a  serpent  in  the  talons  of  a 
vulture.  In  this  position,  with  uplifted  and 
trembling  arms,  his  face  raised  towards 
heaven,  and  his  whole  figure  shrunk  firmly 
together  by  the  intense  malignity  with 
which  he  was  about  to  hiss  out  his  venom- 
ous imprecations  against  the  defaulter,  he 
presented  at  least  one  instance  in  which  the 


low,    soi-did   vice  of  avarice  rose   to  some> 
thing  like  wild  grandeur,  if  not  sublimity. 

Having  remained  in  this  posture  for  some 
time,  he  clasped  his  withered  hands  together 
and  wrung  them  until  the  bones  cracked  ; 
then  rising  up  and  striking  his  stick  bitterly 
upon  the  earth — 

"I  can't,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  can't  get  out 
the  curses  against  him  ;  but  my  heart's  full 
of  them — thej-'re  in  it — they're  in  it  I — it's 
black  an'  hot  wid  them  ;  I  feel  them  here — 
here — mocin  as  if  ikeij  wor  alice,  an'  they'll  be 
out." 

Such  was  the  strength  and  impetuosity  of 
his  hatred,  and  such  his  eagerness  to  dis- 
charge the  whole  quiver  of  his  maledictions 
against  the  great  jjubhc  delinquent,  that,  as 
often  hajjpens  in  cases  of  overwhelming  agi- 
tation, his  faculties  were  pandyzed  l)y  the 
storm  of  jJassion  which  raged  within  him. 

Having  risen  to  his  feet,  he  left  the  group, 
muttering  his  wordless  mahgnity  as  he  went 
along,  and  occasionally  pausing  to  look  back 
with  the  fiery  glare  of  a  hyena  at  the  house 
in  which  the  robbery  of  liis  soul's  treasru'e 
had  been  planned  and  accomjjhshed. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  arrange- 
ments entered  into  with  Cassidy,  by  John 
O'Brien,  were  j)i'omptly  and  ably  carried 
into  effect.  A  rajjid  ride  soon  brought  the 
man  of  briefs  and  depositions  to  the  j)risou, 
where  the  unhapfty  Connor  lay.  The  young 
man's  story,  though  simjsle,  was  improbable, 
and  his  version  of  the  biu-ning  such  as  in- 
duced Cassidy,  who  knew  little  of  impres- 
sions and  feelings  in  the  absence  of  facts,  to 
believe  that  no  other  head  than  liis  ever 
concocted  the  crime.  Still,  from  the  manly' 
sincerity  with  which  his  young  cUent  spoke, 
he  felt  inclined  to  impute  the  act  to  a  freak 
of  boyish  malice  and  disappointment,  rather 
than  to  a  spirit  of  vindictive  rancor.  He 
entertained  no  expectation  whatsoever  of 
Connor's  acquittiil,  and  hinted  to  him  that 
it  was  his  hal)it  Lu  sucli  cases  to  recom- 
mend his  chents  to  be  jsrepared  for  the 
worst,  without,  at  the  same  time,  altogether 
abohshiug  hojie.  There  was,  indeed,  nothing 
to  break  the  chain  of  cu'cumstantial  evidence 
in  which  Flanagan  had  entangled  him  ;  he 
had  been  at  the  haggard  shortly  before  the 
conflagration  broke  out ;  he  had  met  Phil. 
Ciu'tis,  and  begged  that  man  to  conceal  the 
fact  of  his  having  seen  him,  and  he  had  not 
slept  in  his  own  bed  either  on  that  or  the 
preceding  night.  It  was  to  no  purpose  he 
aiiirmed  that  FLuiagan  himself  had  borroweil 
from  him,  and  worn,  on  the  night  in  ques- 
tion, the  shoes  whose  prints  were  so  strongly 
against  him,  or  that  the  steel  and  tinder-box, 
which  were  foimd  m  his  pocket,  actually 
belonged  to  his  accuser,  who  must  have  put- 


FAEDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


2i7 


fhem  there  ^\•itllout  his  knowledge.  His 
case,  in  fact,  was  a  bad  one,  and  he  felt  that 
the  interview  ■with  his  attorney  left  him 
more  seriously  impressed  with  the  danger 
of  his  situation,  than  he  had  been  up  tiU 
that  period. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  when  the  instnic- 
tions  were  completed,  "you  have  seen  my 
fathsr  •?  ■' 

"Ever^-thing  is  fully  and  HberaUy  ar- 
ranged," rejihed  the  other,  with  reservation  ; 
"  your  father  has  been  with  me  to-day  ;  in 
fact,  I  jiarted  vidth  him  only  a  few  minutes 
before  I  left  home.  So  far  let  j-our  mind  be 
easy.  Tlie  government  jjrosecutes,  which  is 
something  in  yoiu-  favor  ;  and  now,  good-by 
to  you  ;  for  my  part,  I  neither  advise  you  to 
hojje  or  desi^aii-.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the 
■worst,  you  must  bear  it  hke  a  man  ;  and  if 
we  get  an  acquittal,  it  will  prove  the  more 
agreeable  for  its  not  being  expected." 

The  unfortunate  youth  felt,  after  Cas- 
sidy's  departure,  the  full  force  of  that  dark 
and  fearful  presentiment  which  arises  from 
the  ai^proach  of  the  mightiest  calamity 
that  can  befall  an  innocent  man — a  public 
and  ignominious  death,  while  in  the  very 
pride  of  youth,  strength,  and  those  natui-al 
hojjes  of  happiness  which  existence  had 
otherwise  promised.  In  him  this  awful  ap- 
prehension proceeded  neither  from  the  terror 
of  judgment  nor  of  hell,  but  from  that  di-ead 
of  being  withdrawn  fi-om  life,  and  of  passing 
down  from  the  light,  the  enjovnnents  and 
busy  intercourse  of  a  breathing  and  con-  I 
scions  world,  into  the  silence  and  corruption  ! 
of  the  unkuov\'n  gi'ave.  When  this  ghastly  j 
picture  was  brought  near  him  by  the  force  ' 
of  his  imagination,  he  felt  for  a  moment  as 
if  his  heart  had  died  away  in  him,  and  his 
blood  became  congealed  into  ice.  Should 
this  continue,  he  knew  that  human  nature 
could  not  sustain  it  long,  and  he  had  already 
resolved  to  bear  his  fate  with  firmness, 
whatever  tliat  fate  might  be.  He  then  re- 
flected that  he  was  innocent,  and,  remember- 
ing the  practice  of  his  simple  and  less  jjoliti- 
Cid  forefathers,  he  knelt  down  and  fervently 
besought  the  protection  of  that  Being  in  i 
■whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  life  and  death.  ' 

On  rising  from  this  act  of  heartfelt  devo-  ■ 
tion,  he  exj^erienced  that  support  which  he  j 
required  so  much.     The  fear  of  death  ceased  j 
to  alarm  him,  and  his  natural  fortitude  re-  i 
turned  \\ith  more  than  its  usual  power  to 
his  support.     In  this  state  of  mind  he  was 
pacing    his    narrow    room,   when    the    door 
opened,  and  his  father,  with  a  tottering  step,  ! 
entered  and  approached  liim.     Tlie  son  was  ' 
startled,  if  not  terrified,  at  tlie  change  which 
so  short  a  time  had  ^^Tought  in  the  old  mp.n's 
Hppe;u-iuice. 


"  Good  God,  fatlier  dear  !  "  lie  exclaimed, 
as  the  latter  threw  his  arms  with  a  tight  and 
clinging  grasp  about  him  ;  "  good  heavens ! 
what  has  hapjiened  to  change  you  so  much 
for  the  worse  ?  Why,  if  you  fret  this  way 
about  me,  you'll  soon  break  your  heart. 
Why  will  you  fret,  father,  when  you  know  I 
am  innocent  ?  Surely,  at  the  worst,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  die  innocent  than  to  live  guilty." 

"  Connor,"  said  the  old  man,  still  clinging 
tenaciously  to  him,  and  looking  ^^■ildly  into 
his  face,  "  Connor,  it's  broken— my  heart's 
broke  at  last.  Oh,  Connor,  won't  you  pitj' 
me  when  you  hear  it — won't  you,  Connor — 
oh,  when  you  hear  it,  Connor,  won't  you 
pity  me  ?  It's  gone,  it's  gone,  it's  gone — 
he's  off,  off — to  that  nest  of  robbers,  the  Isle 
of  Man,  and  has  robbed  me  and   half  the 

county.     P has  ;   I'm  a  ruined  man,   a 

beggar,  an'  wUl  die  a  dog's  death." 

Connor  looked  down  keenly  into  his 
father's  face,  and  began  to  entertain  a  sur- 
mise so  terrible  that  tlie  beatings  of  his  hexri 
were  in  a  moment  audible  to  his  own  ear. 

"Father,"  he  inquired,  "in  the  name  of 
God  what  is  ^^Tong  with  you  ?     ^^^lat  is  it 

j'ou   sj)ake  of  ?     Has   P gone   off'  with 

your  money  ?  Sit  down,  and  don't  look  so 
terrified." 

"  He  has,  Connor^robbed  me  an'  half  the 
county — he  disappeared  the  eveuin'  of  the 
very  day  I  left  my  last  lodgment  ^\id  him  ; 
he's  in  that  nest  of  robbers,  the  Isle  of  Man, 
an'  I'm  ruined — rained  !  Oh  God  !  Connor, 
how  can  I  stand  it  ?  all  my  earnin's  an'  my 
sa\dn's  an'  the  fruits  of  my  industry  in  lii.t 
pocket,  an'  upon  /k'.s  back,  an'  ujioii  /o'.s  bones  1 
My  brain  is  reelin" — I  dunna  what  I'm  doin". 
nor  what  I'll  do.  To  what  hand  now  can  I 
tiu-n  myself  ?  WTio'll  assist  me  !  I  dunn  i 
what  I'm  doin',  nor  scarcely  what  I'm  sayin". 
My  head's  all  in  confusion.  Gone  !  gone  ! 
gone  !  Oh  see  the  luck  that  has  come  down 
upon  me  !  Above  all  men,  why  was  I  singled 
out  to  be  made  a  world's  wondher  of — why 
was  I?  Wliat  did  I  do  "?  I  robbed  no  one  ; 
yet  it's  gone — an'  see  the  death  that's  afore 
me  !  oh  God  !  oh  God  !  " 

"  WeU,  father,  let  it  go — you  have  still 
your  health  ;  you  have  stQl  my  poor  mother 
to  console  you  ;  and  I  hojie  you'll  soon  have 
myself,  tQO  ;  between  us  we'll  keep  you  com- 
fortable, and,  if  you'll  allow  us  to  take  our 
own  way,  more  so  than  ever  you  did " 

Fardorougha  started,  as  if  struck  by  some 
faint  but  sudden  recollection.  All  at  once 
he  looked  with  amazement  around  the  room, 
and  afterwards  with  a  pause  of  inquiry,  at 
his  son.  At  length,  a  light  of  some  forgotten 
memory  apj^eared  to  flash  at  once  across  his 
brain  ;  his  countenance  changed  fi'om  the 
wild  iind  unsettled  expression  which  it  bore, 


248 


WILLIAM  CARLETOjS'S   WORKS. 


to  one  more  stamped  with  the  earnest  hu- 
manity of  our  better  natiu'e. 

"  Oh,  Coimor  !  "  he  at  last  exclaimed,  put- 
ting his  two  hands  into  those  of  his  son  : 
'"can  you  j'ity  me,  an'  forgive  me?  You 
Bee,  my  jsoor  boy,  how  I'm  sufiierin',  an'  you 
Ree  that  I  can't — I  won't — be  able  to  bear  up 
ttgainst  this  long." 

The  tears  here  ran  down  his  worn  and 
hollow  cheeks. 

"  Oh,"  he  proceeded,  "  how  could  I  forget 
you,  my  darlin'  boy  ?  But  I  hardly  think  my 
head's  right.  If  I  had  you  with  me,  an' 
before  my  eyes,  you'd  keep  my  heart  right, 
an'  give  me  strength,  which  I  stand  sorely 
in  need  of.  Saints  in  glory !  how  could  I 
forget  you,  acushla,  an'  what  now  can  I  do 
for  you '?  Not  a  penny  have  I  to  pay  lawyei', 
or  attorney,  or  any  one,  to  deliud  you  at 
your  tiial,  and  it  so  near  !  " 

"  Why,  haven't  you  settled  all  that  with 
Mr.  Cassidy,  the  attorney?" 

"  Not  a  bit,  aehora  machree,  not  a  bit ;  I 
was  wid  him  this  day,  an'  had  agreed,  but 

whin  I  wiut  to  give  him  an  ordlier  on  P , 

he — oh  saints  above  !  he  whistled  at  me  an' 

it — an'  tould  me  that  P was  gone  to  that 

nest  o'  robbers,  the  Isle  of  Man." 

Connor  turned  his  eyes,  during  a  long 
pause,  on  the  floor,  and  it  was  evident  by  his 
features  that  he  labored  under  some  power- 
ful and  profound  emotion.  He  rose  up  and 
took  a  sudden  turn  or  two  across  the  room, 
then,  resuming  his  seat,  he  wiped  away  a  few 
bitter  teai-s  that  no  firmness  on  his  part  could 
repress. 

"  Noble  girl — my  dai'ling,  darling  life  !  I 
see  it  all,"  lie  exclaimed.  "Father,  I  never 
felt  how  bitter  an'  dark  my  fate  is  till  now. 
Death,  death  would  be  little  to  me,  only  for 
her  ;  but  to  leave  her — to  leave  her."  He 
suddenly  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  ;  but, 
by  an  instant  effort  once  more  rose  up  and 
added — "  Well,  I'll  die  worthy  of  her,  if  I 
can't  live  so.  Like  a  man  I'll  die,  if  it  must 
be — she  knows  I'm  innocent,  father  ;  an' 
when  others — when  the  world — will  be  talk- 
ing of  me  as  a  villain,  there  will  be,  out  of  my 
own  family  at  all  events,  one  heart  and  one 
tongue,  that  will  defend  my  unhappy  name. 
If  I  am  to  come  to  a  shameful  death,  I'U  care 
but  little  about  what  the  world  may  think, 
but  that  Kh'  knows  me  to  be  innocent,  wiU 
make  me  die  proudly — j^roudly." 

Whilst  he  thus  sjioke  and  thought,  the 
father's  eyes,  with  a  fixed  gaze,  steadily  fol- 
lowed his  motions  ;  the  old  man's  counte- 
nance altered  ;  it  first  became  pale  as  the 
ghastly  visage  of  a  skeleton,  anon  darkened 
with  horror,  which  eventually  shifted  its  hue 
into  the  workings  of  some  passion  or  feehng 
that  was  new  to  him. 


"Connor,"  said  he,  feebly,  "I  am  luwvell 
— unwell — come  and  sit  down  by  me." 

"  You  are  too  much  distressed  every  way, 
father,"  said  his  son,  taking  his  jjlace  upon  his 
iron  bedstead  beside  him. 

"  I  am,"  said  Fai'dorougha,  calmly  ;  "I  am 
too  much  distressed — sit  nearer  me,  Connor. 
I  wish  your  mother  was  here,  but  she  wasn't 
able  to  come,  she's  unwell  too ;  a  good 
mother  she  was,  Connor,  and  a  good  wife." 

The  son  was  strack,  and  somewhat  alarm- 
ed, by  this  sudden  and  extraordinary  calm- 
ness of  the  old  man. 

"Father  dear-,"  said  he,  "don't  be  too 
much  disheai'tened — all  will  be  well  yet,  I 
hope — my  tiiist  in  God  is  strong." 

"  I  hope  all  will  be  well."  replied  the  old 
man,  "  sit  nearer  me,  an'  Connor,  let  me  lay 
my  head  over  ujjon  your  breast.  I'm  think- 
in'  a  gTeat  dale.  Don't  the  world  saj',  Con- 
nor, that  I  am  a  bad  man  ?  " 

"  I  don't  cai'e  what  the  world  says  ;  no 
one  in  it  ever  dru'st  saj'  as  much  to  me, 
father  dear." 

The  old  man  looked  ujj  affectionately,  but 
shook  his  head  api^ai-ently  in  calm  but 
rooted  sorrow. 

"  Put  your  arms  about  me,  Connor,  and 
keep  my  head  a  Uttle  more  up  ;  I'm  weak  an' 
tired,  an',  someway,  s^jakiu's  a  thi'ouble  to 
me  ;  let  me  think  for  a  while." 

"Do  so,  father,"  said  the  son,  with  deej) 
compassion  ;  "  God  knows  but  you're  suffer- 
in'  enough  to  wear  you  out." 

"  It  is,"  said  Fardorougha,  "  it  is." 

A  sUence  of  some  minutes  ensued,  during 
which,  Connor  perceived  that  the  old  man, 
overcome  with  care  and  misery,  had  actually 
fallen  asleeiD  with  his  head  upon  his  bosom. 
This  circumstance,  though  by  no  means  ex- 
traordinary, afl'ected  him  very  much.  On 
surveying  the  palhd  face  of  his  father,  and 
the  worn,  thread-hke  veins  that  ran  alojig 
his  temples,  and  calling  to  mind  the  love  of 
the  old  man  for  himself,  which  even  avarice, 
in  its  deadhest  power,  failed  to  utterly  over- 
come, he  felt  all  the  sjirings  of  his  affection 
loosened,  and  his  soul  vibrated  ^^•ith  a  ten- 
derness towards  him,  such  as  no  situation  in 
their  past  lives  had  ever  before  created. 

"If  my  fate  chances  to  be  an  untimely 
one,  father  deal',"  he  slowlj-  murmured, 
"we'll  soon  meet  in  another  jjlaee  ;  for  I 
know  that  you  will  not  lo)ig  live  after  me." 

He  then  thought  with  bitterness  of  his 
mother  and  Una,  and  wondered  at  the  mys- 
tery of  the  trial  to  which  he  was  exposed. 

The  old  man's  slumber,  however,  was  not 
dreamless,  nor  so  refreshing  as  the  exhaus- 
tion of  a  fi-ame  shattered  by  the  havoc  of 
contending  principles  required.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  disturbed  by  hea^-y  groans, 


FARDOROUGRA,   THE  IflSER. 


249 


qiiick  startinft's,  and  those  twitcliings  of  the 
limbs  wliicli  betoken  a  restless  mood  of 
mind,  and  a  nervous  system  liiglily  excited. 
In  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  the  symjotoms 
of  his  inward  commotion  became  more  ajj- 
piu-ent.  From  being,  as  at  first,  merely 
physical,  they  assumed  a  mental  chai-aeter, 
and  passed  from  ejaculations  and  single 
words,  to  short  sentences,  and  ultimately  to 
those  of  considerable  length. 

"  Gone  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  gone !  O  God  ! 
my  curse — starved — dog — wid  my  tongue 
out ! " 

This  dread  of  starvation,  which  haunted 
him  through  life,  apjjeared  in  his  dream  still 
to  follow  him  like  a  demon. 

"I'm  dyiu',"  he  said,  "I'm  dyin'  wid  hun- 
ger— will  no  one  give  me  a  morsel?  I  was 
robbed  an'  have  no  money — don't  j-ou  see 
me  stai'viu'?  I'm  cuttiu'  wid  hunger — five 
days  without  mate — bring  me  mate,  for 
God's  sake — mate,  mate,  mate  ! — I'm  gaspin 
— my  tongue's  out ;  look  at  me,  hke  a  dog, 
behind  this  ditch,  an'  my  tongTie  out !  " 

The  son  at  this  jseriod  would  have  awoke 
him,  but  he  became  more  composed,  for  a 
time,  and  enjoyed  ajjjoarently  a  refi-eshing 
sleejj.  Still,  it  soon  was  evident  that  he 
dreamt,  and  as  clear  that  a  change  had  come 
o'er  the  spirit  of  his  dream. 

"  Who'll  prevent  me ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Isn't  he  my  son — our  only  child '?  Let  me 
alone — I  must,  I  must — what's  my  life  '? — 
take  it,  an'  let  him  live." 

The  tears  started  in  Connor's  eyes,  and  he 
pressed  his  father  to  his  heart. 

"  Don't  hould  me,"  he  proceeded.  "  O 
God !  here,  I'll  give  all  I'm  worth,  an'  save 
hiia  !  O,  let  me,  thin — let  me  but  kiss  him 
once  before  he  dies  ;  it  was  I,  it  was  myself 
that  murdhered  him — all  might  'a  been  well ; 
ay,  it  was  I  that  murdhered  you,  Connor,  mj' 
brave  boy,  an'  have  I  you  in  my  arms  ?  O, 
avick  agus  asthore  machree,  it  was  I  that 
murdhered  you.  by  my — but  they're  takiu' 
him — they're  bearin'  him  away  to " 

He  started,  and  awoke  ;  but  so  terrific  had 
been  his  dream,  that  on  opening  his  eyes  he 
clasped  Connor  in  his  arms,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  No  no,  I'll  hould  liim  tiU  you  cut  my 
grip;  Connor,  avick  machree,  hould  to  me  ! " 

"  Father,  father,  for  God's  sake,  think  a 
minute,  you  wor  only  dreaming." 

"  Eh — what — where  am  I  V  Oh,  Connor, 
darling,  if  you  knew  the  dlirames  I  had — I 
thought  you  wor  on  the  scafiie  ;  but  thanks 
be  to  the  Saver,  it  vmn  only  a  dhrame  !  " 

"  Nothing  more,  father,  nothing  more  ;  but 
for  God's  sake,  keep  your  mind  aisy.  Tnist 
in  God,  father,  everything's  in  //i.s  hands ;  if 
it's  His  will  to  make  us  suffer,  we  ought  to 
submit ;  and  if  it's  not  His  will,  He  sui-ely 


can  bring  us  out  of  all  our  throubles.  That's 
the  greatest  comfort  I  have." 

Fardorougha  once  more  became  calm,  but 
still  there  was  on  his  countenance,  which  was 
mournful  and  full  of  something  else  than 
simple  sorrow,  some  deeply  tixed  determina- 
tion, such  as  it  was  difficult  to  develop. 

"  Connor,  achora,"  said  he,  "  I  must  lave 
you,  for  there's  little  time  to  be  lost.  What 
attorney  woiald  you  wish  me  to  employ  ?  I'U 
go  home  and  sell  oats  and  a  cow  or  two.  I've 
done  you  hai-m  enough — more  than  you  know 
— but  now  I'll  spuXre  no  cost  to  get  you  out 
of  this  business.  Connor,  the  teai's  that  I  saw 
awhile  agone  run  down  youi-  cheeks  cut  me 
to  the  heart." 

The  son  then  informed  him  that  a  fi'iend 
had  taken  projjer  measui-es  for  his  defence, 
and  that  any  further  interference  on  his  jjart 
would  only  create  confusion  and  delay.  He 
also  entreated  his  father  to  make  no  allusion 
whatsoever  to  this  cii-cumstauce,  and  added, 
"  that  he  himself  actually  knew  not  the  name 
of  the  fi'iend  in  question,  but  that,  as  the 
matter  stood,  he  considered  even  a  surmise 
to  be  a  breach  of  confidence  that  might  be 
indelicate  and  offensive.  After  the  trial,  you 
can  and  ought  to  jjaj'  the  expenses,  and  not 
be  under  an  obUgation  to  any  one  of  so  sol- 
emn a  kind  as  that."  He  then  sent  his  af- 
fectionate love  and  duty  to  his  mother,  at 
whose  name  his  eyes  were  again  filled  with 
tears,  and  begged  the  old  man  to  comfort  and 
sujjport  her  with  the  utmost  care  and  tender- 
ness. As  she  was  unwell,  he  requested  liim 
to  dissuade  her  against  visiting  him  tiU  after 
the  tritd,  lest  an  interview  might  increase  her 
illness,  and  render  her  less  cajjable  of  bear- 
ing up)  under  an  unfavorable  sentence,  should 
such  be  the  issue  of  the  prosecution.  Having 
then  bade  farewell  to,  and  embraced  the  old 
man,  the  latter  departed  with  more  calmness 
and  fortitude  than  he  had  ujj  to  that  jieriod 
displayed. 

When  Time  approaches  the  miserable  with 
calamity  in  his  train,  his  opinion  is  swifter 
than  that  of  the  eagle  ;  but,  alas  !  when  carry- 
ing them  towards  happiness,  his  pace  is  slow- 
er than  is  that  of  the  tortoise.  The  only  three 
jjersons  on  earth,  whose  hapjiiness  was  in- 
volved in  that  of  O'Donovan,  found  them- 
selves, on  the  eve  of  the  assizes,  overshadow- 
ed by  a  dreariness  of  heart,  that  was  strong 
in  projiortiou  to  the  love  they  bore  him.  The 
dead  calm  which  had  fallen  on  Fardorougha 
was  absolutely  more  painful  to  his  wife  than 
would  have  been  the  jiaroxysms  that  rcs\ilted 
from  his  lust  of  wealth.  Since  his  last  inter- 
view with  Connor,  he  never  once  alluded  to 
the  loss  of  his  money,  unless  abruptly  in  his 
dreams,  taut  there  was  stamped  upon  his 
whole  manner  a  gloomy  and  mysterious  com. 


250 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


posure,  wliicli,  of  itself,  wofully  sank  lier  spii-- 
its,  iaidepeudeutly  of  the  fate  which  impend- 
ed over  their  son.  The  ehann;e,  visible  ou 
both,  and  the  breaking  dowai  of  their  strength 
were  indeed  pitiable. 

As  for  Una,  it  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
her  struggle  between  confidence  in  his  inno- 
cence, and  aiDpreheusion  of  the  law,  which 
she  knew  had  often  punished  the  guiltless 
instead  of  the  criminal.  'Tis  true  she  at- 
tempted to  assume,  in  the  eyes  of  others,  a 
fortitude  which  belied  her  fears,  and  even 
affected  to  smile  at  the  possibility  of  her 
lover's  honor  and  ch;u'acter  suffering  any 
tarnish  fi'om  the  ordeal  to  wliich  they  were 
about  to  be  submitted.  Her  smile,  however, 
on  such  occasions,  was  a  melancholy  one,  and 
the  secret  tears  she  shed  might  prove,  as  they 
did  to  her  brother,  who  was  alone  privy  to 
her  grief,  the  extent  of  those  terrors  which, 
notwithstanding  her  disavowal  of  them, 
wrang  her  soul  so  bitterly.  Day  after  day 
her  spirits  became  more  and  more  depressed, 
till,  as  the  crisis  of  Connor's  fate  arrived,  the 
roses  had  iiltogether  Hown  from  her  cheeks. 

Indeed,  now  that  the  trial  was  at  hand, 
public  sympathy  tui-ned  rapidly  and  strongly 
in  his  favor  ;  his  father  had  lost  that  wealth, 
the  acquisition  of  which  earned  him  so  heavy 
a  portion  of  infamy  ;  and,  as  he  had  been 
sufficiently  punished  in  liis  own  pemon,  they 
did  not  think  it  just  to  transfer  any  jjortion 
of  the  resentment  borne  against  liim  to  a  son 
who  had  never  participated  in  his  system  of 
oppression.  They  felt  for  Connor  now  on 
his  own  account,  and  remembered  only  his 
amiable  and  excellent  character.  In  addition 
to  this,  the  liistory  of  the  mutual  attachment 
between  him  and  Una  having  become  the 
topic  of  general  conversation,  the  rash  act  for 
which  he  stood  committed  was  good-humor- 
edly  resolved  into  a  foolish  freak  of  love  ;  for 
,  which  it  would  be  a  thousand  murders  to 
take  away  his  life.  In  such  mood  were  the 
public  and  the  j)'irties  most  interested  in  the 
event  of  our  story,  when  the  morning  dawned 
of  that  awfid  day  which  was  to  restore  Con- 
nor O'Donovan  to  the  hearts  that  loved  him 
so  well,  or  to  doom  him,  a  convicted  felon,  to 
a  shameful  and  ignominious  death. 

At  length  the  trial  came  on,  and  our  un- 
happy prisoner,  at  the  hour  of  eleven  o'clock, 
was  placed  at  the  bar  of  his  countrj'  to  stand 
the  biiint  of  a  government  jjrosecution.  Com- 
mon report  had  already  carried  abroad  the 
story  of  Una's  love  and  his,  many  interesting 
accounts  of  which  had  got  into  the  jjapei  s  of 
the  day.  When  he  stood  forward,  thei-e- 
fore,  all  eyes  were  eagerly  riveted  iipon  him  ; 
the  jvidge  glanced  at  him  with  calm,  dis- 
passionate scrutiny,  and  the  members  of  the 
bar,    especially  the   juniors,   turned   round, 


surveyed  him  through  their  glasses  with  a 
gaze  in  which  might  be  read  something  more 
than  that  hard  indifference  which  familiarity 
with  human  crime  and  affliction  ultimately  ' 
produces  even  in  dispositions  most  humane 
and  amiable.  No  sooner  had  the  curiosity 
of  the  multitude  been  gratified,  than  a  mur^ 
mur  of  pity,  blended  slightly  with  sui-prise 
and  approbation,  ran  lowly  through  the 
court-house.  One  of  the  judges  whispered 
a  few  words  to  his  brother,  and  the  latter 
again  sunreyed  Connor  with  a  countenance 
in  which  were  dejjicted  admiration  and 
regret.  The  counsel  also  chatted  to  each 
other  in  a  low  tone,  occasionally  turning 
round  and  mai-king  his  deportment  and  ap- 
pearance with  increasing  interest. 

Seldom,  jii'obably  never,  had  a  more  strik- 
ing, perhaps  a  more  noble  figure,  stood  at 
the  bar  of  that  court.  His  locks  were  rich 
and  brown  ;  his  forehead  expansive,  and  his 
manly  features  remarkable  for  their  symme- 
try ;  his  teeth  were  regular  and  white,  and 
his  dark  eye  full  of  a  youthful  lustre  which 
the  di-ead  of  no  calamity  cou  d  repress. 
In  either  was  his  tigure,  which  was  of  the  tall- 
est, inferior  in  a  single  jioint  to  so  tine  a 
coimtenance.  As  he  stood,  at  his  full  height 
of  six  feet,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  deep- 
ly influenced  in  his  favor,  especially  after 
having  witnessed  the  moui-nful  but  dignified 
comjiosure  of  his  manner,  ecjually  remote 
fi'om  indifFerence  or  dejection.  He  appeared, 
indeed,  to  view  in  its  jsroper  light  the  danger 
of  the  position  in  which  he  stood,  but  he 
viewed  it  with  the  calm,  unshrinking  energy 
of  a  brave  man  who  is  always  pre23ared  for 
the  worst.  Indeed,  there  might  be  observed 
ujion  his  broad,  ojjen  brow  a  loftiness  of 
bearing  such  as  is  not  unfi-equently  produced 
by  a  consciousness  of  innocence,  and  the 
natural  elevation  of  mind  which  results  from 
a  sense  of  danger ;  to  which  we  may  add 
that  inward  scorn  which  is  ever  felt  for  base- 
ness, by  those  who  are  degraded  to  the 
necessity  of  defending  themtelves  agiiiust  the 
villany  of  the  malignant  and  proHigate. 

"When  called  iTpon  to  plead  to  the  indict- 
ment, he  uttered  the  words  "  not  guilty  "  in 
a  full,  firm  and  mellow  voice,  that  drew  the 
eyes  of  the  s23ectr.tors  once  more  upon  him, 
and  occasioned  another  slight  hum  of  sym- 
pathy and  admiration.  No  change  of  color 
was  observable  on  his  countenance,  or  any 
other  expression,  save  the  lofty  comjjosure 
to  which  we  have  just  alluded. 

The  trial  at  length  proceeded;  and,  after  a 
long  and  able  statement  from  the  Attorney- 
General,  Bartle  Flanagan  was  called  up  on 
the  table.  The  prisoner,  whose  inotions 
were  keenly  observed,  betrayed,  ou  seeing 
him,  neither  embarrassment  nor  agitation; 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


251 


nil  that  could  be  perceived  was  a  more  earn- 
est and  intense  light  in  his  eyes,  as  they  set- 
tled upon  his  accuser.  Flanagan  detailed, 
■with  siuguliU"  minuteness  and  accuracy,  the 
whole  progress  of  the  crime  from  its  first 
conce23tion  to  its  perpetration.  Indeed,  had 
he  himself  been  in  the  dock,  and  his  evidence 
against  Connor  a  confession  of  his  own  guilt, 
it  would,  with  some  excejjtions,  have  been 
literally  true.  He  was  ably  cross-examined, 
but  no  tact,  or  experience,  or  talent,  on  the 
part  of  the  prisoner's  counsel,  could,  in  any 
important  degree,  shike  his  testimony.  The 
ingenuity  with  which  he  laid  and  conducted 
the  plot  was  astonishing,  as  was  his  fore- 
sight, and  the  f>recaution  he  adopted  against 
detection.  Cassidy,  Connor's  attorney,  had 
ferreted  out  the  very  man  fi'om  whom  he 
purchased  the  tinder-bos,  with  a  hoj)e  of 
proving  that  it  was  not  the  prisoner's  projj- 
erty  but  his  own  ;  yet  this  person,  who  re- 
membered the  transaction  verj*  well,  assured 
him  that  Flanagan  said  he  jjrocured  it  by  the 
desire  of  Fardorougha  Donovan's  son. 

During  his  whole  evidence,  he  never  once 
raised  his  ej-e  to  look  upon  the  j)risoner's 
face,  until  he  was  -desired  to  identify  him. 
He  then  turned  round,  and,  standing  ■nith 
the  rod  in  his  hand,  looked  for  some  mo- 
ments upon  his  victim.  His  dark  brows  got 
black  as  night,  whilst  his  cheeks  were 
blanched  to  the  hue  of  ashes — the  white 
smile  as  before  sat  upon  his  lips,  and  his 
eyes,  in  which  there  blazed  the  unsteady  fire 
of  a  treacherous  and  cowardlj'  heart,  spark- 
led with  the  red  turbid  glare  of  triumph  and 
vengeance.  He  laid  the  rod  upon  Connor's 
head,  and  they  gazed  at  each  other  face  to 
face,  exhibiting  as  striking  a  contrast  as 
could  be  witnessed.  The  latter  stood  erect 
and  unshaken — his  eye  calmly  bent  upon 
that  of  his  foe,  but  with  a  spirit  in  it  that 
seemed  to  him  alone  by  whom  it  was  best 
understood,  to  strike  dismay  into  the  very 
soul  of  falsehood  within  him.  The  villain's 
eyes  could  not  withstand  the  glance  of  Con- 
nor's— they  fell,  and  his  whole  countenance 
assumed  such  a  blank  and  guilty  stamp, 
that  an  old  experienced  barrister,  who 
watched  them  both,  could  not  avoid  saying, 
that  if  he  had  his  wUl  they  should  exchange 
situations. 

"  I  would  not  hang  a  dog,"  he  whispered, 
"  on  that  fellow's  evidence — he  has  guilt  in 
his  face." 

When  asked  why  he  ran  away  on  meeting 
Phil.  Curtis,  near  O'Brien's  house,  on  their 
return  tl)at  night,  while  Connor  held  his 
gi'ouud,  lie  rejihed  that  it  was  vei-y  natural 
he  should  run  away,  and  not  wish  to  be  seen 
after  having  assisted  at  such  a  crime.  In 
reply  to  another  question,  he  said  it  was  as 


I  natiu-al  that  Connor  should  have  nin  awiy 

also,  and  that  he  could  not  account  for  it, 

except  by  the  fact  that  God  always  occasions 

the   guUty  to   commit  some   overi^ight,    by 

which  they  may  be  brought  to  punishment. 

j  These  replies,    aj)parently   so   rationid   and 

satisfactory,    convinced     Connor's     counsel 

I  that  his  case  was  hopeless,  and  that  no  skill 

!  oi-  ingenuity  on  their  part  could  succeed  in 

breaking  dovni  Flanagan's  evidence. 

The  next  witness  called  was  Phil.  Curtis, 
whose  testimony  corroborated  Bartle's  in 
ever}'  particular-,  and  gave  to  the  whole  trial 
a  chai'acter  of  gloom  and  despau-.  The  con- 
stables who  ajjphed  his  shoes  to  the  foot- 
marks were  then  produced,  and  swore  in  the 
clearest  manner  as  to  their  corresponding. 
They  then  dejsosed  to  finding  the  tinder-bos 
in  his  pocket,  according  to  the  information 
received  from  Flanagan,  eveiy  tittle  of  which 
they  found  to  be  remarkably  correct. 

There  was  only  one  other  witness  now 
necessary  to  complete  the  chain  against  him, 
and  he  was  only  produced  be<':ause  Biddy 
Nulty,  the  servant-maid,  ijosifively  stated, 
and  actually  swore,  when  preriously  exam- 
ined, that  she  was  ignorant  whether  Connor 
slept  in  his  father's  house  on  the  night  in 
question  or  not.  There  was  no  alternative, 
therefore,  but  to  produce  the  father ;  and 
Fardorougha  Donovan  was  consequently 
forced  to  become  an  evidence  against  his 
own  son. 

The  old  man's  appearance  upon  the  table 
excited  deep  commiseration  for  both,  and 
the  more  so  when  the  spectators  contem- 
plated the  rooted  sorrow  which  lay  ujjon  the 
wOd  and  wasted  features  of  the  woe-woni 
father.  Still  the  old  man  was  composed  and 
calm  ;  but  his  calmness  was  in  an  extra- 
ordinary  degree  mournful  and  touching. 
"When  he  sat  down,  after  having  been  sworn, 
and  feebly  wi25ed  the  dew  from  his  thin 
temples,  many  eyes  were  already  filled  with 
tears.  When  the  question  was  put  to  him  if 
he  remembered  the  night  laid  in  the  indict- 
ment, he  rephed  that  he  did. 

"  Did  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  sleep  at 
home  on  that  night  ?  " 

The  old  man  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
counsel  with  such  an  eye  of  deprecating 
entreaty,  as  shook  the  voice  in  which  the 
question  was  repeated.  He  then  turned 
about,  and,  taking  a  long  gaze  at  his  son, 
rose  iqi,  and,  extending  his  hands  to  the 
judges,  exclaimed  : 

"  Jly  lords,  ray  lords  !  he  is  my  only  son 
— my  only  child  !  " 

These  words  were  followed  by  a  pause  in 
the  business  of  the  court,  and  a  de;id  silence 
of  more  than  a  minute. 

"If  justice,"  said  the  judge,  "  could  on  any 


252 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S   WORKS. 


occasion  waive  her  claim  to  a  subordinate  link 
m  the  testimony  she  requires,  it  would  cer- 
tainly be  in  a  case  so  jjaiuful  and  afl'ecting  as 
this.  Still,  we  cannot  permit  personal  feel- 
ing, however  amiable,  or  domestic  attach- 
ment, however  strong,  to  impede  her  x^i'og- 
ress  when  redressing  public  wi'ong.  Al- 
though the  duty  be  painful,  and  we  admit 
that  such  a  duty  is  one  of  uuesamijled  agony, 
J  et  it  must  be  complied  with  ;  and  you  con- 
sequently will  answer  the  question  which  the 
counsel  has  put  to  you.  The  interests  of  so- 
ciety requu'e  such  sacrifices,  and  they  must 
be  inade." 

The  old  man  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
judge  while  he  spoke,  but  when  he  had  ceased 
lie  again  fixed  them  on  his  son. 

"  My  lord,"  he  exclaimed  again,  with 
clasped  hands,  "  I  can't,  I  can't !  " 

"There  is  nothing  criminal,  or  improper, 
or  siufidinit,"  replied  the  judge;  ''on  the 
contrary,  it  is  your  duty,  both  as  a  Christian 
and  a  man.  Remember,  j'ou  have  this 
moment  sworn  to  tell  the  truth,  and  the 
iKhole  truth  ;  you  consequently  must  keep 
your  oath." 

"  What  you  say,  sir,  may  be  right,  an'  of 
coorse  is  ;  but  oh,  my  lord,  I'm  not  able ;  I 
can't  get  out  the  words  to  hang  my  only  boy. 
If  I  said  anything  to  hurt  him,  my  heart  'ud 
break  before  your  eyes.  May  be  you  don't 
know  the  love  of  a  father  for  an  only  son  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  my  lords,"  observed  the  at- 
torney-general, "it  would  be  desirable  to 
send  for  a  clergyman  of  his  own  religion, 
(\ho  might  suceeed  in  prevailing  on  him 
to " 

"  No,"  interruijted  Fardorougha  ;  "  my 
mind's  made  up  ;  a  word  against  him  will 
never  come  from  my  lips,  not  for  priest  or 
friar.  "  I'd  die  widout  the  saykerment 
sooner." 

"  This  is  trifling  with  the  court,"  said  the 
judge,  assuming  an  air  of  severity,  which, 
however,  he  did  not  feel.  "  We  shall  be 
forced  to  commit  you  to  prison  unless  you 
give  evidence." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Fardorougha,  meekly,  but 
firmly,  "  I  am  williu'  to  go  to  prison — I  am 
wmin'  to  die  with  him,  if  he  is  to  die,  but  I 
neither  can  nor  will  open  my  lij)s  against 
him.  If  I  thought  him  guilty  I  might ;  biit 
I  know  he  is  innocent — my  heart  knows  it ; 
an'  am  I  to  back  the  villain  that's  stri\-in'  to 
swear  his  life  away  ?  No,  Connor  avourneen, 
whatever  they  do  to  you,  youi"  father  wiU 
have  no  hand  in  it." 

The  com't,  in  fact,  were  perplexed  in  the 
extreme.  The  old  man.  was  not  only  firm, 
from  motives  of  strong  attachment,  but  in- 
tractable fi'om  an  habitual  narro\\niess  of 
thought,  which  prevented  hun  fi-om  fcdcuig 


that  comprehensive  view  of  justice  and  judi. 
cial  authority  which  might  overcome  the  re- 
pugnance of  men. less  obstinate  from  igno- 
rance of  legal  usages. 

"  I  ask  you  for  the  last  time,"  said  the 
judge,  "will  you  give  your  evidence?  be- 
cause, if  you  refuse,  the  court  will  feel  bound 
to  send  you  to  prison." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  lord !  that's  a  relief 
to  my  heart.  Anything,  anything,  but  to 
say  a  word  against  a  boy  that,  since  the  day 
he  was  born,  never  vexed  either  his  mother 
or  myself.  If  he  gets  over  this,  I  have  much 
to  make  vip  to  him  ;  for,  indeed,  I  wasn't 
the  father  to  him  that  I  ought.  Avick 
maehrce,  now  I  feel  it,  may  be  whin  it's  too 
.late." 

These  words  aft'ected  aU  who  heard  them, 
many  even  to  tears. 

"  I  have  no  remedy,"  ob.served  the  judge. 
"  Tipstaff,  tiike  away  the  witness  to  prison. 
It  is  painful  to  me,"  he  added,  in  a  broken 
voice,  "  to  feel  compelled  thus  to  jjunish  you 
for  an  act  which,  however  I  may  resjseet  the 
motives  that  dictate  it,  I  cannot  overlook. 
The  ends  of  justice  cannot  be  frustrated." 

"My lord,"  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  "don't 
I^unish  the  old  man  for  refusing  to  speak 
against  me.  His  love  for  me  is  so  strong 
that  I  know  he  couldn't  do  it.  I  will  state 
the  truth  myself,  but  spare  him.  I  did  not 
sleep  in  my  o^"n  bed  on  the  night  Mr.  O'- 
Brien's haggard  was  burned,  nor  on  the  night 
before  it.  I  slept  in  my  father's  barn,  with 
Flanagan  ;  both  times  at  his  own  rec|uest ; 
but  I  did  not  then  suspect  his  design  in  ask- 
ing me." 

"This  admission,  though  creditable  to 
your  aiTection  and  fihal  duty,  was  indiscreet," 
observed  the  judge.  "  Whatever  you  tlmik 
might  be  serviceable,  suggest  to  your  attor- 
ney, who  can  communicate  it  to  your  coim- 
sel." 

"My  lord,"  said  Connoi',  "I  could  not  see 
my  father  punished  for  loving  me  as  he  does  ; 
an'  besides  I  have  no  wish  to  conceal  any- 
thing. If  the  whole  trath  could  be  known, 
I  would  stand  but  a  short  timfe  where  I  am, 
nor  would  Flanagan  be  long  out  of  it." 

There  is  an  earnest  and  impressive  tone  in 
tnith,  especially  when  spoken  imder  cu'cum- 
stances  of  great  difiicuhy,  wliere  it  is  rather 
disadvantageous  to  him  who  utters  it,  that 
in  many  instances  produces  conviction  by  an 
inherent  candor  which  all  feel,  without  any 
process  of  reasoning  or  argument.  There 
was  in  those  few  words  a  warmtli  of  afl'ection 
towards  his  father,  and  a  manly  simplicity  of 
heart,  each  of  which  was  duly  appreciated  1  ly 
the  assembly  about  him,  who  felt,  wiihout 
knowing  why,  \\\^  indignant  scorn  of  fp.lse' 
hood  that  so  emphatically  pervaded  his  ex- 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


253 


pressions.  It  was  indeed  impossible  to  liear 
them,  aud  look  upon  his  noble  countemiuce 
and  figure,  without  forgetting  the  humble- 
ness of  his  rank  in  life,  and  feeling  for  him  a 
marked  deference  aud  respect. 

The  trial  then  proceeded  ;  but,  alas  !  the 
hopes  of  Connor's  friends  abandoned  them  at 
its  conclusion  ;  for  although  the  judge's  charge 
was  as  favorable  as  the  nature  of  the  evidence 
permitted,  yet  it  was  quite  cleai'  that  the 
jury  had  only  one  course  to  pursue,  and  that 
was  to  Tiring  in  a  conviction.  After  the 
lapse  of  about  ten  minutes,  they  returned  to 
the  jury-box,  and,  as  the  foreman  handed 
down  their  verdict,  a  feather  might  have 
been  heard  falUng  in  the  court.  The  faces 
of  the  s23ectators  got  pale,  and  the  hearts  of 
strong  men  beat  as  if  the  verdict  about  to  be' 
announced  were  to  fall  upon  themselves,  and 
not  upon  the  prisoner.  It  is  at  all  times  an 
awful  and  trying  ceremony  to  witness,  but 
on  this  occasion  it  was  a  much  more  affect- 
ing one  than  had  occurred  in  that  court  for 
many  years.  As  the  foreman  handed  down 
the  verdict,  Connors  ej'e  followed  the  paper 
■with  the  same  ciilm  resolution  whioh  he  dis- 
played during  the  trial.  On  himself  there 
was  no  change  visible,  imless  the  appearance 
of  two  round  spots,  one  on  each  cheek,  of  a 
somewhat  deeper  red  than  the  rest.  At 
length,  in  the  midst  of  the  dead  silence,  pro- 
nounced in  a  voice  that  reached  to  the  re- 
niote.st  extremity  of  the  court,  was  heard  the 
fatal  sentence — "  Guilty  ; "  and  afterwards, 
in  a  less  distinct  manner — ''with  oiu-  strong- 
est and  most  earnest  recommendation  for 
mei'cy,  in  consequence  of  his  youth  and  pre- 
vious good  character."  The  wad  aud  loud 
sobbings  of  the  female  part  of  the  crowd, 
and  the  stronger  but  more  silent  grief  of  the 
men,  could  not,  for  many  minutes,  be  re- 
pressed by  any  efforts  of  the  court  or  its  of- 
ficers. In  the  midst  of  this,  a  little  to  the 
left  of  the  dock,  was  an  old  man,  whom  those 
around  him  were  conveying  in  a  state  of  in- 
sensibility out  of  the  court ;  and  it  was  ob- 
vious that,  from  motives  of  humane  consid- 
eration for  the  prisoner,  they  endeavored  to 
prevent  him  from  ascertaining  that  it  was  his 
father.  In  tliis,  however,  they  failed  ;  the 
son's  eye  caught  a  ghmpse  of  his  gi'ey  locks, 
aud  it  was  observed  that  his  cheek  paled  for 
the  first  time,  indicating,  by  a  momentary 
change,  that  the  only  evidence  of  agitation 
lie  betrayed  was  occasioned  by  sympathy  in 
Che  old  man's  sorrows,  rather  than  by  the 
contemplation  of  his  own  fate. 

The  tragic  spirit  of  the  day,  however,  was 
s+iU  to  deepen,  and  a  more  stunnmg  blow, 
tliougli  less  acute  in  its  agony,  was  to  fall 
upon  the  prisoner.  The  stir  of  the  calm  and 
solemn  jurors,  as   they  issued  out  of  their 


room  ;  the  hushed  bi'eaths  of  the  spectators, 
the  deadly  silence  that  prevails,  and  the  ap- 
palling announcement  of  the  word  "  Guilty," 
are  circumstances  that  test  human  fortitude, 
more  even  than  the  passing  of  the  fearful 
sentence  itself.  In  the  latter  case,  hope  is 
banished,  and  the  worst  that  can  hajipeu 
known  ;  the  mind  is,  therefore,  thrown  back 
upon  its  last  energies,  which  give  it  strength 
in  the  same  way  in  which  the  death-struggle 
frequently  arouses  the  muscular  action  of  the 
body — an  unconscious  power  or  resistance 
that  forces  the  culprit's  heart  to  take  refuge 
in  the  first  and  strongest  instincts  of  its 
nature,  the  undying  princii)le  of  self-preser- 
vation. No  sooner  was  the  verdict  returned 
aud  sUence  obtained,  than  the  judge,  now 
deeply  affected,  put  on  the  black  cap,  at 
which  a  low  wild  murmur  of  stifled  grief 
and  pity  rang  through  the  coru-t-house  ;  but 
no  sooner  was  his  eye  bent  on  the  jjrisoner 
than  their  anxiety  to  hear  the  sentence 
hushed  them  once  more  into  the  stillness  of 
the  grave.  Tlie  prisoner  looked  upon  him 
with  an  open  but  melancholy  gaze,  which, 
from  the  candid  and  manly  character  of  his 
countenance,  was  touching  in  the  extreme. 

"  Connor  O'Donovan,"  said  the  judge, 
"  have  you  anything  to  say  why  sentence  of 
death  should  not  be  passed  upon  you  ?  " 

"  My  lord,"  he  rejilied,  "  I  can  say  nothing 
to  ijreveat  it.  I  am  prepared  for  it.  I  know 
I  must  bear  it,  and  I  hope  I  will  be.xr  it  a;5  a 
man  ought,  that  feels  his  heart  free  from 
even  a  thought  of  the  crime  he  is  to  die  for. 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"You  have  tliis  day  been  found  guilty," 
proceeded  the  judge,  "  and,  in  the  oj^inion  of 
the  court,  u23on  clear   and  satisfactory  e^d- 
dence,  of  a  crime  marked  by  a  character  of 
revenge,  which  I  am  bound  to  say  must  have 
proceeded  from  a  very  mahgnant  spirit.      It 
was  a  wanton  act,    for  the   perpetration  of 
which  your  motives  were  so  inadequate,  that 
one   must  feel   at   a   loss   to   ascertain    the 
exact  jjrinciple  on  wliich  you  committed  it. 
It  w.as  also  not  only  a  wicked  act,  biit  one  so 
mean,  that  a  young  man  bearmg  the  charac- 
ter of  spirit  and  generosity  which  you  have 
j  hitherto  borne,  as  apj)ears  fi-om  the  testimony 
of  those   resf)ectable   persons  who  this  day 
I  have  spoken  in  yoiu-  favor,    ought   to  have 
scorned  to  contemplate  it  even  for  a  moment. 
j  Had   the   passion   you   entertained   for  the 
I  daughter  of  the  man  you  so  basely  injured, 
!  possessed   one   atom    of    the    dignity,    dis- 
i  intercstedness,  or   purity  of  true  affection, 
'  you  never  coidd  have   stooped   to   any   act 
I  offensive  to  the  object  of  your  love,  or  to 
those  even  in  the  remotest  degree  related  to 
her.     The  example,  consequently,  which  you 
have  held  out  to  society,  is  equally  vile  and 


254 


WILLI  Ail  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


dangerous.  A  parent  dischai-ges  the  most 
solemn  and  important  of  all  duties,  when 
disposing  of  his  children  in  mari-iage,  because 
by  that  act  he  se  ils  their  hajjpiness  or  misery 
in  this  life,  and  most  probably  in  that  which 
is  to  come.  By  what  tie,  by  what  duty,  by 
what  consideration,  is  not  a  jiarent  bound  to 
consult  the  best  interests  of  those  beloved 
beings  whom  he  has  brought  into  the  world, 
and  who,  in  a  great  measure,  depend  upon 
him  as  then*  deai-est  relative,  their  guardian 
by  the  voice  of  nature,  for  the  fulfilment  of 
those  exjiectations  upon  which  depend  the 
principal  comforts  and  enjoyments  of  life  ? 
Reason,  religion,  justice,  instinct,  the  whole 
economy  of  nature,  both  in  man  and  the 
inferior  animals,  all  teach  him  to  secure  for 
them,  as  far  as  in  him  lies,  the  greatest  sum 
of  human  happiness  ;  but  if  there  be  one 
duty  more  sacred  and  tender  than  another,  it 
is  that  which  a  parent  is  called  ujiou  to 
exercise  on  behalf  of  a  daughter.  The  son, 
impressed  by  that  original  impulse  which 
moves  him  to  assume  a  loftier  place  in  the 
conduct  of  life,  and  gifted  also  with  a  stronger 
mind,  and  cleai-er  judgmeut,  to  guide  him  in 
its  varied  transactions,  goes  abroad  into 
society,  and  claims  for  himself  a  bolder  right 
of  thought  and  a  wider  range  of  action,  whUe 
determining  an  event  which  is  to  exercise,  as 
marriage  does,  such  an  important  influence 
upon  his  o.\n  futxire  condition,  and  all  (he 
relations  that  may  arise  out  of  it.  From  this 
privilege  the  beautifid  and  dehcate  fi-ame- 
work  of  woman's  moral  nature  debars  her, 
and  she  is  consequentl3'  forced,  by  the  gi-aces 
of  her  own  modesty — by  the  finer  texture  of 
her  mind — by  her  greater  purify  and  gentle- 
ness— in  short,  by  all  her  virtues,  into  a 
tenderer  and  more  affecting  dependence  upon 
the  judgment  and  love  of  her  natural  guard- 
ians, whose  pleasure  is  made,  by  a  wise 
decree  of  God,  commensurate  with  their 
diity  in  providing  for  her  wants  and  enjoy- 
ments. There  is  no  jjoint  of  view  in  whicli 
the  parental  character  shines  forth  with 
greater  beauty  than  that  in  which  it  apperu's 
while  working  for  and  pi-omotmg  the  liappi- 
ness  of  a  daiighter.  But  you,  it  would  seem, 
did  not  think  so.  You  jiunished  the  father 
by  a  dastardly  and  unmanly  act,  for  guarding 
the  future  peace  and  welfare  of  a  child  so 
young,  and  so  dear  to  him.  Wliat  would 
become  of  society  if  this  exercise  of  a  parent's 
right  on  behalf  of  his  daughter  were  to  be 
visited  upon  liim  as  a  crime,  by  every  raidic- 
tive  and  disajipointed  man,  whose  affection 
for  them  he  might,  upon  proper  grounds, 
decline  to  sanction  ?  Yet  it  is  singular,  and, 
I  confess,  almost  inexplicable  to  me  at  least, 
why  you  should  have  rushed  into  the  com- 
mission of  such  an  act.     The  bi'ief  period  of 


your  existence  has  been  stained  by  no 
other  crime.  On  the  contrary,  you  have 
maintained  a  character  fiU-  above  your  situa- 
tion in  life — a  character  equally  remarkable 
for  gentleness,  spirit,  tiaith,  and  affection — 
all  of  which  your  aj^peiirance  and  bearing 
have  tliis  day  exhibited.  Your  countenance 
presents  no  feature  expressive  of  ferocity,  or 
of  those  headlong  propensities  which  leafl  to 
outr;ige  ;  and  I  must  confess,  that  on  no 
other  occasion  in  my  judicial  life  have  I  ever 
felt  my  judgment  and  my  feelings  so  much 
at  issue.  I  cannot  doubt  your  guilt,  but  I 
shed  those  tears  that  it  ever  existed,  and  thpt 
a  youth  of  so  much  promise  should  be  cut 
down  prematurely  by  the  strong  arm  of 
necessary  justice,  leaving  his  bereaved  parents 
bowed  down  with  despair  that  can  never  be 
comforted.  Had  they  another  sou — or 
another  child,  to  whom  their  afl'ections  could 
turn " 

Here  the  judge  felt  it  necessary  to  pause, 
in  consequence  of  his  emotions.  Strong 
feehngs  had,  indeed,  spread  through  the 
whole  court,  in  which,  while  he  ceased,  could 
be  heard  low  meanings,  and  other  symptoms 
of  acute  sorrow. 

"It  is  now  j'our  duty  to  forget  every 
earthly  object  on  which  your  heai't  may 
have  been  fixed,  and  to  seek  that  source  of 
consolation  and  mercy  v.hich  can  best  sus- 
tain and  comfort  you.  Go  with  a  penitent 
heart  to  the  throne  of  your  Ecdeemer,  who, 
if  your  rei^entauce  be  sincere,  will  in  no  wise 
cast  you  out.  UuhapjDy  youth,  prepare 
j-ourself,  let  me  implore  you,  for  an  iutiuitely 
greater  and  more  awful  tribunal  than  this. 
There,  should  the  judgment  be  in  your 
favor,  you  will  learn  that  the  fate,  which  has 
cut  you  off  in  the  bloom  of  early  life,  wlU 
bring  an  accession  of  hapjiiness  to  your  be- 
ing for  which  no  earthly  enjoyment  here, 
however  prolonged  or  exalted,  coiild  com- 
jiensate  you.  The  recommendation  of  the 
jury  to  the  mercy  of  the  crown,  in  considera- 
tion of  your  youth  and  jirevious  good  con- 
duct, ^^'ill  not  be  overlooked  ;  but  in  the 
mean  time  the  court  is  bound  to  jironoinice 
ujion  you  the  sentence  of  the  law,  which  is, 
that  you  be  taken  from  the  prison  from 
which  you  came,  on  the  eighth  of  next 
month,  at  the  hour  of  ten  o'clock  in  the 
forenoon,  to  the  front  droji  of  the  jail,  and 
there  hanged  by  the  neck,  until  you  be  dead  ; 
and  may  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul ! " 

"  JNIy  lord,"  said  the  i^risoner,  unmoved 
in  voice  or  in  manner,  unless  it  might  be 
that  both  expressed  more  decision  and  en- 
erg}'  than  he  had  shown  during  any  other 
jsart  of  the  trial ;  "  my  lord,  I  am  uoav  a  con- 
demned man,  but  if  I  stood  with  the  ropo 
about  my  neck,  ready  to  die,  I  would  not 


FARDOliOUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


exchange  situations  with  tlie  man  that  has 
been  my  accuser.  ]My  lord,  I  can  forgive 
him,  and  I  ought,  for  I  know  he  has .  yet  to 
die,  and  must  meet  his  God.  As  for  mj-- 
self,  I  am  thankful  that  I  have  not  such  a 
conscience  as  his  to  bring  before  my  Judge  ; 
and  for  this  reason  I  am  not  afraid  to  die." 

He  was  then  removed  amidst  a  murmur 
of  gi'ief,  as  deep  and  sincere  as  was  ever  ex- 
pressed for  a  human  being  imder  circum- 
stauces/jf  a  similar  cliaracter.  After  having 
entered  the  prison,  he  was  about  to  turn 
along  a  passnge  which  led  to  the  apartment 
hitherto  allotted  to  him. 

"  This  way,"  said  the  turnkey,  "this  way  ; 
God  knows  I  would  be  glad  to  let  you  stop 
in  the  room  you  had,  but  I  haven't  the  power. 
We  must  put  you  into  one  of  the  condemned 

cells  ;  but  by ,  it'll  go  hai-d  if  I  don't 

stretch  a  little  to  make  you  as  comfortable 
as  possible." 

"Take  no  trouble,"  said  Connor,  "take 
no  trouble.  I  care  now  but  little  about  my 
own  comfort ;  but  if  you  wish  to  oblige  me, 
bring  me  my  father.  Oh,  my  mother,  my 
mother ! — you,  I  doubt,  are  struck  down 
already ! " 

"  She  was  too  ill  to  attend  the  trial  to- 
day." replied  the  turnkey. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Connor  ;  "  but  as  she's 
not  here,  bring  me  my  father.  Send  out  a 
messenger  for  him,  and  be  quick,  for  I  wont 
rest  till  I  see  him — he  wants  comfort — the 
old  man's  heart  will  bre.ak." 

"I  heard  tliem  say,"  replied  the  turnkey, 
after  they  had  entered  the  cell  allotted  to 
him,  "  that  he  was  in  a  faint  at  Mat  Corri- 
gan's  public  house,  but  that  he  had  recov- 
ered.   I'll  go  myself  and  bring  him  in  to  you." 

"  Do,"  said  Connor,  "  an'  leave  us  the 
moment  you  bring  him." 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  the  man 
returned,  holdmg  Fardorougha  by  the  arm, 
and,  after  having  left  him  in  the  cell,  he  in- 
stantly locked  it  outside,  and  withdrew  as  he 
had  been  desired.  Connor  ran  to  support 
liis  tottering  steps  ;  and  wofuUy  indeed  did 
that  unfortunate  parent  stand  in  need  of  his 
assistance.  In  the  jjicture  presented  by 
Fardorougha  the  unhai^py  .young  man  forgot 
in  a  moment  his  own  miserable  and  gloomy 
fate.  There  blazed  in  his  father's  eyes  an  ex- 
citement at  once  dead  and  wild — a  vague  fire 
■uithout  character,  yet  stirred  by  an  incom- 
prehensible energy  wholly  beyond  the  usual 
manifestations  of  thought  or  suffering.  The 
son  on  beholding  him  shuddered,  and  not 
foV  the  first  time,  for  he  had  on  one  or  two 
occasions  before  become  apprehensive  that 
his  ftither's  mind  might,  if  strongly  pressed, 
be  worn  down.  In-  the  singular  conflict  of 
which  it  was  the  scene,  to  that  most  frightful 


of  all  maladies — insanit}'.  As  the  old  man, 
however,  folded  him  in  his  feeble  arms,  and 
attempted  to  express  what  he  felt,  the  un- 
happy boy  groaned  aloud,  and  felt  even  in 
the  depth  of  his  cell,  a  blush  of  momentary 
shame  suffuse  his  cheek  and  brow.  His 
father,  not\\'ithstanding  the  sentence  that  had 
been  so  shortlj'  before  passed  upon  his  son 
— that  father,  he  jaerceived  to  be  absolutely 
intoxicated,  or,  to  use  a  more  apj^rojiriate 
'ixpressiou,  decidedly  drunk.  There  was  less 
blame,  however,  to  be  attached  to  Fardo- 
rougha on  this  occasion,  than  Connor  imag- 
ined. When  the  old  man  swooned  in  the 
court-house,  he  was  taken  by  his  neighbors 
to  a  pubhc-house,  where  he  lay  for  some 
minutes  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  On  his 
recovery  he  was  plied  with  bvmit  whiskey,  as 
well  to  restore  his  strength  and  prevent  a 
relapse,  as  upon  the  principle  that  it  would 
enable  liim  to  sustain  with  more  firmness  the 
dreadful  and  shocking  destiny  which  awaited 
his  son.  Actuated  by  motives  of  mistaken 
kindness,  they  jjoured  between  two  and  three 
glasses  of  this  tiei-y  cordial  down  his  throat, 
which,  as  he  had  not  taken  so  much  during 
the  lapse  of  thirty  years  before,  soon  reduced 
the  feeble  old  man  to  the  contlition  in  which 
',.e  have  described  him  when  enteruig  the 
gloomy  cell  of  the  prisoner. 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  "  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  above,  who  or  what  has  jsut  you  into 
this  di-eadful  state,  e.speciaily  when  we  con- 
sider the  hard,  hard  fate  that  is  over  us,  and 
upon  lis '? " 

"  Connor,"  returned  Fardorougha,  not 
perceiving  the  drift  of  his  question,  "  Con- 
nor, my  son,  I'll  hang — hang  him,  that's  one 
comfort." 

"  Who  are  you  si^aking  about?  " 

"  The  -^dllain  sentence  was  passed  on  to — 
to-day.     He'll  swing — swing  for  the  robbery  ; 

P e  will.     We  got  liim  back  out  of  t)".at 

nest  of  robbers,  the  Isle  o'  Man — o'  Man  they 
call  it — that  he  made  off  to,  the  villain  !  " 

"  Father  deai-,  I'm  sorry  to  see  j'ou  in  this 
state  on  sich  a  day — sich  a  black  day  to  iis. 
For  your  siike  I  am.  What  ■mh  the  world 
s.ay  of  it  ?  " 

"  Connor,  I'm  in  gi-eat  spirits  all  out,  ex- 
ceptin'  for  something  that  I  forget,  that — 
that — U — lies  heavy  upon  me.  That  I 
mayn't  sin,  but  I  am — I  am,  indeed — for  now 
that  we've  coteh  him,  we'U  hang  the  villain 
up.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  it's  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
sich  a  fellow  danglin'  from  a  rope  !  " 

"  Father,  sit  down  here,  sit  dov.-n  here  up- 
on this  bad  and  comfortless  bed,  and  keep 
yourself  quiet  for  a  little.  JIaybe  you'll  bt: 
better  soon.  Oh,  why  did  you  drink,  and  us 
in  such  trouble  ?  " 

"I'll  not  sit  dov.ii  ;  I'm  ver\'  well  able  to 


■256 


WILLIAM  CARLETON-S   WORKS. 


stand,"  said  he,  tottcnDg  across  the  room. 
"  The  villaiu  thought  to  starve  me,  Connor, 
but  you  heard  the  sentence  that  was  passed 
on  him  to-day.  Where's  Honor,  from  me  ? 
she'll  be  glad  whin — whin  she  hears  it,  and 
my  son,  Connor,  will  too — but  he's,  he's — 
where  is  Connor  ? — bring  me,  bring  me  to 
Connor.  All,  avourneen,  Honor's  heart's 
breaking  for  him — 't  any  rate,  the  mother's 
heart — the  mother's  heart — she's  laid  low 
wid  an  achin',  sorrowful  head  for  her  boy." 

"  Father,  for  God's  sake,  will  you  try  and 
rest  a  Uttle  ?  If  you  could  sleep,  father  deal-, 
if  you  could  sleep." 

"  I'll  hang  P e — I'll  hang  him — but  if 

he  gives  me  back  my  money,  I'U  not  touch 
him.     Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Father  dear,  I'm  Connor,  your  own  son, 
Connor." 

"  I'U  marry  you  and  Una,  then.  I'll  settle 
all  the  villain  robbed  me  of  on  you,  and 
you'll  have  every  penny  of  it  aflcr  my  death. 
Don't  be  keejjin'  me  up,  I  can  walk  very  well; 
ay,  an'  I'm  in  right  good  spirits.  Sure,  the 
money's  got,  Connor — got  back  every  skil- 
leeu  of  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  God  be  praised  !  God 
be  praised  !  We've  a  right  to  be  thankful — 
the  world  isn't  so  bad  afther  all." 

"  Father,  wiU  you  try  and  rest  ?  " 

"It's  not  bad,  afther  aU — I  won't  staiTe,  as 
I  thought  I  would,  now  that  the  arrighad  is 
got  back  from  the  viUaiu.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  it's 
great,  Connor,  ahagur  !  " 

"  WTiat  is  it,  father  dear." 

"  Connor,  siugme  a  song — my  heart's  up — 
it's  light — arn't  j'ou  glad  'i — .sing  me  a  song." 

"  If  you'll  sleep  first,  father  dear," 

"  The  Clif/one,  Connor,  or  Shuilagra,  or  the 
Trougha — for,  avourneen,  avourneen,  there 
must  be  sorrow  in  it,  for  my  heart's  low,  and 
your  mother's  heart's  in  sorrow,  an'  she's  ly- 
iii'  far  from  us,  an'  her  boy's  not  near  her, 
,an'  her  heart's  sore,  sore,  and  her  head  achin', 
bekase  her  boy's  far  from  her,  and  she  can't 
come  to  him  !  " 

The  boy,  whose  noble  fortitude  was  im- 
shaken  during  the  formidable  trial  it  had  en- 
countered in  the  course  of  that  day,  now  felt 
overcome  by  this  simple  allusion  to  his  moth- 
er's love.  He  threw  his  arms  about  his 
father's  neck,  and,  placing  his  head  upon  liis 
bosom,  wept  aloud  for  many,  many  minutes. 

"  Husth,  Connor,  husth,  asthore — what 
makes  gou  erj'?  Sure,  all  'ill  be  right  now 
that  we've  got  back  the  money.  Eh '?  Ha, 
ha,  ha,  it's  gi-eat  luck,  Connor,  isn't  it  great  ? 
An'  you'U  have  it,  you  an'  Una,  afther  mij 
death — for  I  won't  starve  for  e'er  a  one  o' 
yees." 

"Father,  father,  I  wish  you  would  rest." 

"  Well,  I  will,  a\ick,  I  ^^ill  -  bring  me  to 
bed — you'll  sleep  in  your  own  bed  to-niglit. 


Your  poor  mother's  head  hasn't  been  off  o' 
the  place  where  your  own  lay,  Connor.  No, 
indeed ;  her  heart's  low — its  breakin' — it's 
breakin' — but  she  won't  let  anybody  make 
your  bed  but  herself.  Oh,  the  mother's  love, 
Connor — that  mother's  love,  tlial  mother's 
love — but,  Connor-^  " 

"Well,  father,  dear." 

"  Isn't  there  something  wrong,  a^iek  ? 
isn't  there  something  not  right,  somehow '? " 

This  question  occasioned  the  sou  to  feel 
as  if  his  heart  would  literally  burst  to  pieces, 
especially  when  he  considered  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  old  man  put  it. 
Indeed,  there  was  something  so  transcen- 
dently  appalling  in  his  intoxication,  and  in 
the  wild  but  att'ecting  tone  of  his  conversa- 
tion, that,  when  joined  to  his  i)allid  and 
spectral  appearance,  it  gave  a  character,  for 
the  time  being,  of  a  mood  that  struck  the 
heart  with  an  image  more  frightful  than  that 
of  madness  itself. 

"  Wrong,  father ! "  he  replied,  "  all's 
WTong,  and  I  can't  understand  it.  It's  well 
for  you  that  you  don't  know  the  doom  that's 
upon  us  now,  for  I  feel  how  it  would  bring 
you  down,  and  how;  it  will,  too.  It  will  kill 
you,  my  father — it  will  kUl  you." 

"  Connor,  come  home,  avick,  come  home 
■ — I'm  tired  at  any  rate — come  home  to  your 
mother — come,  tor  her  sake — I  know  I'm 
not  at  home,  an'  she'U  not  rest  till  I  bring 
you  safe  back  to  her.  Come  now,  I'll  have 
no  put  ofi's — you  must  come,  I  say — I 
ordher  you — I  can't  and  won't  meet  her  wid- 
out  you.  Come,  avick,  an'  you  can  sing  me 
the  song  goin'  home — come  wid  your  o\ra 
poor  ould  father,  that  can't  live  w idout  you — 
come,  a  sullinh  machree,  I  don't  feel  right 
here — we  won't  be  propierly  hajDjsy  till  we  go 
to  your  lovin'  mother." 

"Father,  father,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  making  me  suffer  !  What  heart,  bless- 
ed Heaven,  can  bear — " 

The  door  of  his  cell  here  opened,  and  tlie 
turnkey  stated  that  some  five  or  six  of  his 
friends  were  anxious  to  see  him,  and,  above 
all  things,  to  take  charge  of  his  father  to 
his  own  home.  This  was  a  manifest  rehef 
to  the  yoimg  man,  who  then  felt  more  deep- 
ly on  his  unhajJ^jy  father's  account  than  on 
his  own. 

"  Some  foolish  friends,"  said  he,  "  have 
given  my  father  liquor,  an'  it  has  got  into 
his  head — indeed,  it  o^•ercame  him  the  more, 
as  I  never  remember  him  to  taste  a  drojj  of 
spirits  during  his  life  before.  I  can  see  no- 
body now  an'  him  in  this  state  ;  but  if  they 
wish  me  well,  let  them  take  care  of  him,  and 
leave  him  safe  at  his  own  house,  and  tell 
them  I'U  be  glad  if  I  can  see  them  to- 
morrow, or  any  other  time  " 


FARDOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


257 


With  considerable  cliificiilty  Fardorouglia 
was  removed  from  Connor,  whom  he  clung 
to  with  all  his  strength,  attempting-  also  to 
drag  him  away.  He  then  wejDt  bitterly, 
because  he  declined  to  accomjjauy  him 
home,  that  he  might  comfort  his  mother, 
and    enjoy   the    imagined    recovery   of  his 

money    from   P e,    and    the   cou\ietion 

which  he  believed  they  had  just  succeeded 
in  getting  against  that  notorious  defaulter. 

After  they  had  departed,  Connor  sat  Aovra 
\i\>o\\  his  hard  j)allet,  and,  sujiijorting  his 
head  with  his  hand,  saw,  for  the  first  time, 
in  all  its  magnitude  and  horror,  the  death 
to  which  he  found  himself  now  doomed. 
The  excitement  occasioned  by  his  trial,  and 
his  increasing  firmness,  as  it  darkened  on 
through  all  its  stages  to  the  final  sentence, 
now  had  in  a  considerable  degree  aban- 
doned him,  and  left  his  heart,  at  jjresent, 
more  accessible  to  natural  weakness  than  it 
it  had  been  to  the  power  of  his  own  affec- 
tions. The  image  of  his  e;u-ly-loved  Una 
had  seldom  since  his  arrest  been  out  of  his 
imagination.  Her  yovith,  her  beauty,  her 
wild  but  natural  grace,  and  the  flashing 
glances  of  her  dark  enthusiastic  eye,  when 
joined  to  her  tenderness  and  boundless  affec- 
tion for  himself — all  caused  his  heart  to 
(juiver  with  deadly  anguish  through  every 
libi'e.  This  produced  a  transition  to  Flanagan 
—the  contemplation  of  whose  perfidious  ven- 
geance made  him  sirring  from  his  seat  in  a 
paroxysm  of  indignant  but  intense  hatred, 
so  utterly  furious  that  the  swelling  tempest 
which  it  sent  through  his  veins  caused  him 
to  reel  with  absolute  giddiness. 

"Great  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are 
just,  and  mil  this  be  suffered  ?  " 

He  then  thought  of  his  jiarents,  and  the 
fiery  mood  of  his  mind  changed  to  one  of 
melancholy  and  sorrow.  He  looked  back  up- 
on his  aged  father's  enduring  struggle — upon 
the  battle  of  the  old  man's  heart  against  the 
accursed  vice  which  had  swayed  its  imijulses 
so  long — on  the  isrotracted  conflict  between 
the  two  energies,  which,  like  contending 
armies  in  the  field,  had  now  left  little  but 
ruin  and  desolation  behind  them.  His  heart, 
when  he  brought  all  these  things  near  him, 
■  expanded,  and  like  a  bird,  foliled  its  wings 
about  the  gray-liaired  martjT  to  the  love  he 
wore  him.  But  his  mother — the  caressing, 
the  23roud,  the  affectionate,  whose  heart,  in 
the  vivid  tenderness  of  hope  for  her  beloved 
boy,  had  shaped  out  his  path  in  life,  as  that 
on  which  she  could  brood  with  the  fondness 
of  a  loving  and  delighted  spirit — that 
mother's  image,  and  the  idea  of  her  sorrows 
prostrated  his  whole  strength,  hke  that  of  a 
stricken  infant,  to  the  earth. 

■'  Mother,  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "  when 


I  think  of  what  you  reared  me  for,  and  ^vh£lt 
I  am  this  night,  how  can  my  heart  do  other- 
wise than  break,  as  well  on  your  ac--'OUiit  as 
on  my  own,  and  for  all  that  love  us  !  Oh  ! 
what  wOl  become  of  you,  my  blessed  mother  ? 
Hard  does  it  go  with  you  that  you're  not 
about  your  pride,  as  you  used  to  call  me,  now 
that  I'm  in  this  trouble,  in  this  fate  that  is 
soon  to  cut  me  down  from  yourlo^dng  arms! 
The  thought  of  you  is  dear  to  my  heart,  dear, 
deai'er,  dearer  than  that  of  any — than  my 
ovra  Una.  What  will  become  oilier,  too,  and 
the  old  man  ?  Oh,  why,  why  is  it  that  the 
death  I  am  to  suffer  is  to  fall  so  heavily  on 
them  that  love  me  best  ?  " 

He  then  returned  to  his  bed,  but  the  cold 
and  dreary  images  of  death  and  ruin  haunted 
his  imagination,  until  the  night  was  far 
spent,  when  at  length  he  fell  into  a  deep  and 
dreamless  sleep. 

By  the  sympathy  exjaressed  at  his  trial,  our 
readei's  may  easily  conceive  the  pi'ofound* 
sorrow  which  was  felt  for  him,  in  the  dis- 
trict where  he  was  known,  from  the  moment 
the  knowledge  of  his  sentence  had  gone 
abroad  among  the  fieoisle.  This  was  much 
strengthened  by  that  which,  whether  in  man 
or  woman,  never  fails  to  create  an  amiable 
prejudice  in  its  favor — I  mean  youth  and 
j)ersonal  beauty.  His  whole  previous  char- 
acter was  now  canvassed  with  a  mournful 
lenity  that  brought  out  his  vu'tues  into 
beautiful  relief  ;  and  the  fate  of  theaft'eetion- 
ate  son  was  deplored  no  less  than  that  of  the 
youthful,  but  rash  and  inconsiderate  lover. 
Neither  was  the  father  without  his  share  of 
compassion,  for  they  could  not  forget  that, 
despite  of  all  his  j^enury  and  extortion,  the 
old  man's  heart  had  been  fixed,  with  a  strong 
but  uncouth  affection,  upon  his  amiable  and 
only  boy.  It  was,  however,  when  they  thought 
of  hie  mother,  in  wliose  heart  of  hearts  he 
had  been  enshrined  as  the  idol  of  her  whole 
affection,  that  their  spirits  became  truly 
touched.  Many  a  mother  assumed  in  her 
own  person,  by  the  force  of  imagination,  the 
sinking  woman's  misery,  and  poured  forth, 
in  unavailing  tears,  tlie  undeniable  proofs  of 
the  sincerity  with  which  she  participated  in 
Honor's  bereavement.  As  for  Flanagan,  a 
deadly  weight  of  odium,  such  as  is  peculiar 
to  the  Iiifiirmer  in  Ireland,  fell  upon  both 
him  and  his.  Nor  .was  this  all.  Aided  by 
that  sagacity  which  is  so  conspicuous  in 
Irishmen,  when  a  vindictive  or  hostile  feeling 
is  excited  among  them,  they  depicted  Flana- 
gan's character  with  an  accuracy  anul  truth 
astonishingly  correct  and  intuitive.  Nu- 
merous were  the  instances  of  cowardice, 
treachery,  and  revenge  remembered  against 
him,  by  those  who  had  been  his  close  and 
early  companions,  not  one  of  which  would 


25S 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOJtICS. 


h.iTe  ever  occurred  to  tliem,  were  it  not  that 
thivir  minds  ]iad  been  thrown  back  vipon  the 
scrutiny  by  the  melancholy  fate  Lu  which  he 
Ixstd  involved  the  unhappy  Connor  O'Donovan. 
Hid  he  been  a  mere  ordinary  witness  in  the 
m.itter,  he  would  have  experienced  Httle  of 
this  boiling  indignation  at  their  hands  ;  but 
first  to  particij)ate  in  the  guilt,  and  after- 
wards, for  the  sake  of  the  reward,  or  from  a 
worse  and  more  flagitious  motive,  to  turn 
upon  him,  and  become  his  accuser,  even  to 
tlie  taking  away  of  the  young  man's  life — to  xtag 
against  liis  comjjanion  and  accomplice — this 
was  looked  upon  as  a  crime  ten  thousand 
times  more  black  and  damnable  than  that 
for  which  the  unliappy  culprit  had  been  con- 
signed to  so  shameful  a  death. 

But,  alas,  of  what  avail  was  all  this  sym- 
patliy  and  indignation  to  the  unfortunate 
youth  himself  or  to  those  most  deejsly  inter- 
rested  in  his  fate  ?  Would  not  the  vei-y 
•love  and  soitow  felt  towards  her  sou  fall 
upon  his  mother's  heart  vdth  a  heavier 
weight  of  bitterness  and  agony  ?  Would 
not  his  Una's  soul  be  wounded  on  that  ac- 
count with  a  sharper  and  more  deadly  pang 
of  desjjair  and  miser}'  ?  It  would,  indeed, 
be  difficult  to  say  whether  the  house  of  Bo- 
dagh  Buie  or  that  of  Fardorougha  was  then 
in  the  deej^er  sorrow.  On  the  morning  of 
Connor's  trial,  Una  arose  at  an  earher  hour 
than  usual,  and  it  was  observed  when  she 
sat  at  breakfeast,  that  her  cheek  was  at  one 
moment  pale  as  death,  and  again  flushed  and 
feverish.  These  symptoms  were  first  per- 
ceived by  her  affectionate  brother,  who,  on 
witnessing  the  mistakes  she  made  in  pouring 
out  the  tea,  exchanged  a  glance  with  his 
parents,  and  afterwai'ds  asked  her  to  allow 
him  to  take  her  place.  She  laid  do^^Ti  the 
tea-pot,  and,  looking  hjiu  mournfullj'  in  the 
face,  attempted  to  smile  at  a  recjuest  so  un- 
usual. 

"  Una,  dear,"  said  he,  ''you  must  allow 
me.  There  is  no  necessity  for  attempting 
to  conceal  what  you  feel — we  all  know  it — 
and  if  we  did  not,  the  fact  of  your  having 
filled  the  sugar-bowl  instead  of  the  tea-cup 
would  soon  discover  it." 

She  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him  again, 
as  if  she  scarcely  comprehended  what  he 
said.  A  glance,  however,  at  the  sugar-liowl 
con\'inced  her  that  she  was  incaj)able  of  j)er- 
forming  the  usual  duties  of  the  breakfast 
table.  Hitherto  she  had  not  raised  her  eyes 
to  lier  father  or  mother's  face,  nor  spoken 
to  them  as  had  been  her  wont,  when  meeting 
at  that  strictly  domestic  meal.  The  imre- 
strained  sobbings  of  the  mother  now  aroused 
her  for  the  first  time,  and  on  looking  uji, 
she  saw  her  father  wiping  away  the  big 
tears  fi'om  his  eyes. 


"  Una,  avourneen,"  said  the  worthy  man, 
"  let  John  make  tay  for  us — for,  God  help 
you,  you  can't  do  it.  Don't  fi'et,  achora  ma- 
chree,  don't,  don't,  Una ;  as  God  is  over  me, 
I'd  give  all  I'm  worth  to  save  him,  for  your 
sake." 

She  looked  at  her  father  and  smiled 
again  ;  but   that  smile  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

"  I  will  make  the  tea  myself,  father,"  she  re- 
plied, "  and  I  ivon't  commit  any  more  mis- 
takes ;"  and  as  she  spoke  she  unconsciously 
poured  the  tea  iuto  the  slop-bowl. 

"Avourneen,"  said  her  mother,  "let  John 
do  it  ;  acushla  machree,  let  him  do  it," 

She  then  rose,  and  without  uttering  a 
word,  piassively  and  silently  placed  herself 
on  her  brother's  chair — he  having,  at  the 
same  time,  taken  that  on  which  she  sat. 

"  Una,"  said  her  father,  taking  her  hand, 
"you  must  be  a  good  girl,  and  you  must 
have  courage  ;  and  whatever  happens,  my 
darlmg,  you'll  i^luck  up  strength,  I  hope, 
and  bear  it." 

"  I  hope  so,  father,"  said  she,  "I hope  so." 

"  But,  avourneen  machree,"  said  her 
mother,  "  I  would  rather  see  you  ci-jin'  fifty 
times  over,  than  smihn'  the  way  you  do." 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "my  heart  is  sore — 
my  heai't  is  sore." 

"  It  is,  ahagTir  machree  ;  and  your  hand  is 
tremblin'  so  much  that  you  can't  bring  the 
tay-cuj>  to  your  mouth ;  but,  then,  don't 
smile  so  sorrowfully,  anein  machrcr." 

"Wliy  shoidd  I  cry,  mother'!'"  she  re- 
pUed  ;  "  I  know  that  Connor  is  innocent 
If  I  knew  him  to  be  guilty,  I  would  weep, 
and  I  ought  to  weep." 

"  At  all  events,  Una,"  said  her  father,  "  you 
know  it's  the  government,  and  not  us,  that's 
jsrosecuting  him." 

To  this  Una  made  no  reply,  but,  thrusting 
away  her  cup,  she  looked  with  the  same 
moui-nful  smile  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  httle  circle  about  her.  At  length  she 
spoke. 

"Father,  I  have  a  request  to  ask  of  you." 

"  If  it's  within  my  jiower,  Una  darling,  I'U 
grant  it  ;  and  if  it's  not,  it'll  go  hard  with 
me  but  I'll  bring  it  within  my  jjower.  What 
is  it,  asthore  machree  ?  " 

"In  case  he's  found  guilty,  to  let  John  put 
off  his  journey  to  Maynooth,  and  stay  with 
me  for  some  time — it  won't  be  long  I'U  keep 
him." 

"If  it  pleases  you,  darling,  he'll  never  j^ut 
his  foot  into  MajTiooth  again." 

"No,"  said  the  mother,  " dhamnho  to  the 
step,  if  you  don't  wish  him." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Una,  "it's  only  for  a 
while." 

"  Unless  she  desires  it,  I  wOl  nrcrr  go," 
replied  the  lo\'ing  brother  ;  "nor  will  I  ever 


FARDOIiODGIIA,   TUE  MISER. 


259 


ieave  you  in  j-our  sorrow,  my  beloved  aud 
only  sister — never — never — so  long  as  a  word 
fi'om  my  lips  can  give  you  consolation." 

The  warm  tears  coursed  each  other  down 
his  cheeks  as  he  sj)oke,  and  both  his  parents, 
on  looking  at  the  almost  bhghted  flower  be- 
fore tliem,  wept  as  if  the  hand  of  death  had 
already  been  upon  her. 

"  Your  father,  and  John  are  going  to  his 
trial,"  she  observed ;  "  for  me  I  Uke  to  be 
alone  ; — alone  ;  but  when  you  return  to-night, 
let  John  break  it  to  me.  I'U  go  now  to  the 
garden.  I'll  walk  about  to-day — only  before 
you  go,  John,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Calmly  and  without  a  tear,  she  then  left 
the  parlor,  and  proceeded  to  the  garden, 
where  she  began  to  dress  and  ornament  the 
hive  which  contained  the  swarm  that  Connor 
had  brought  to  her  on  the  day  their  mu- 
tual attachment  was  first  disclosed  to  each 
other. 

"Father,"  said  John,  when  she  had  gone, 
"I'm  afi-aid  that  Una's  heart  is  broken,  or  if 
not  broken,  that  she  won't  survive  his  con- 
viction long— it's  breaking  fast — for  my  part, 
in  her  present  state,  I  neither  will  nor  can 
leave  her." 

The  affectionate  fatlier  made  no  reply, 
but,  putting  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes, 
wept,  as  did  her  mother,  in  silent  but  bitter 
gi-ief. 

"I  cannot  spake  about  it,  nor  think  of  it, 
John,"  said  he,  after  sometime,  "but  we 
must  do  what  we  can  for  her." 

"If  am'thing  hap23ens  her,"  said  the  mo- 
ther, "  I'd  never  get  over  it.  Oh  marciful 
Haxdor  !  how  could  we  live  wdout  her  ?  " 

"I  would  rather  see  her  in  tears,"  said 
John — "  I  would  rather  see  her  in  outrageous 
grief  a  thousand  times  than  in  the  calm  but 
ghastly  resolution  with  which  she  is  bearing 
herself  up  against  the  trial  of  this  day.  If  he's 
condemned  to  death,  I'm  afraid  that  either 
her  health  or  reason  wiU  sink  under  it,  and, 
in  that  case,  God  pity  her  and  us,  for  how, 
as  you  say,  mother,  could  we  afford  to  lose 
her  V  Still  let  us  hope  for  the  best.  Father, 
it's  time  to  prejiare  ;  get  the  car  ready.  I 
am  gomg  to  the  garden,  to  hear  what  the 
250or  thing  has  to  say  to  me,  but  I  will  be 
with  you  soon." 

Her  brother  found  her,  as  we  have  said, 
engaged  calmly,  and  with  a  melancholy 
pleasure,  in  adorning  the  hive  which,  on 
Connor's  account,  had  become  her  favorite. 
He  was  not  at  all  sorry  that  she  had  proposed 
this  short  interview,  for,  as  liis  hoj)es  of 
Connor's  acquittal  were  but  feeble,  if,  indeed, 
he  could  truly  be  said  to  entertain  any,  he 
resolved,  by  delicately  communicating  his 
apprehensions,  to  gradually  prepare  her 
mind  for  the  worst  that  might  happen. 


PART   V. 

On  hearing  his  step  she  raised  her  head, 
and  advancing  towards  the  middle  of  the 
garden,  took  his  arm,  and  led  him  towards 
the  summer-house  in  which  Connor  and  she 
had  lirst  acknowledged  their  love.  She 
gazed  wistfuUy  upon  it  after  they  entered, 
and  wrung  her  hands,  but  still  shed  no  tears. 

"  Una,"  said  her  brother,  "  you  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  me  ;  what  is  it,  darling  ?  " 

She  glanced  timitUy  at  him,  and  blushed. 

"You  won't  be  angry  with  me,  John,"  she 
replied  ;  "  would  it  be  projjer  for  me  to — to 
go  " 

"  What !  to  be  present  at  the  trial  ?  Dear 
Una,  you  cannot  think  of  it.  It  would 
neither  be  proper  nor  prudent,  and  you 
surely  woiild  not  be  considered  indelicate  ? 
Besides,  even  were  it  not  so,  your  strength 
is  unequal  to  it.  No,  no,  Una  dear  ;  dismiss 
it  from  j^our  thoughts." 

"  I  fear  I  could  not  stand  it,  indeed,  John, 
even  if  it  were  proper  ;  but  I  know  not 
what  to  do  ;  there  is  a  weight  like  death 
upon  my  heart.  If  I  could  shed  a  tear  it 
would  relieve  me  ;  but  I  cannot." 

"It  is  probably  better  you  should  feel  so, 
Una,  than  to  entertain  hopes  upon  the  mat- 
ter that  may  be  disaiDpointed.  It  is  always 
wisest  to  prepare  for  the  wor.st,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  shock  that  may  come  vipou  us, 
and  which  always  falls  heaviest  when  it 
comes  contrary  to  our  expectations." 

"I  do  not  at  all  feel  well,"  she  replied, 
"  and  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  best  way 
to  break  this  day's  tidings  to  me,  when  you 
come  home.  If  he's  cleared,  say,  good-hu- 
moredly,  '  Una,  all's  lost ; '  and  if — if  not, 
oh,  desii-e  me — say  to  me,  '  Una,  you  had 
better  go  to  bed,  and  let  yoiu-  mother  go 
with  you  ; '  thai  wiU  be  enough  ;  I  will  go  to 
bed,  and  if  ever  I  rise  from  it  again,  it  will 
not  be  fi-om  a  love  of  Ufe." 

The  brother,  seeing  that  conversation  on 
the  subject  of  her  grief  only  caused  her  to 
feel  more  deeiily,  deemed  it  better  to  ter- 
minate than  to  continue  a  dialogue  which 
only  aggravated  her  sufferings. 

"I  trust  and  hojDe,  dear  Una,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  will  observe  my  fatlier's  advice, 
and  make  at  least  a  worthy  etl'ort  to  support 
yourself,  under  what  certainly  is  a  heavy 
affliction  to  you,  in  a  manner  becoming 
your  own  character.  For  his  sake — for  my 
mother's,  and  for  mine,  too,  endeavor  to 
have  courage  ;  be  tirm — and,  Una,  if  you 
take  my  advice,  you'U  jway  to  God  to 
strengthen  you  ;  for,  after  all,  there  is  no 
support  in  tlie  moment  of  distress  and  sor- 
row, like  His." 

"  I  win  take  your  advice,"   she  rej)Ued ; 


260 


WILLI  AM    GARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  but  is  it  not  strange,  John,  that  such  hea^•y 
luisfortuues  should  fall  upon  two  persons  so 
young,  and  who  deserve  it  so  little  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  a  trial  sent  for  your  advantage 
and  his  ;  who  can  say  but  it  may  yet  end  for 
the  good  of  you  both  ?  At  present,  indeed, 
there  is  no  jirobability  of  its  ending  favor- 
ably, and,  even  should  it  not,  we  are  bound 
to  bear  with  patience  such  dispensations 
as  the  Great  Being,  to  whom  we  owe  our 
existence,  and  of  whose  ways  we  know  so 
little,  may  think  right  to  lay  upon  us.  Now, 
God  bless  you,  and  supjsort  you,  dear,  till  I 
see  you  again.  I  nuist  go  ;  don't  you  hear 
the  jaunting-car  driving  up  to  the  gate  ;  be 
firm — dear  Una — be  firm,  and  good-by  !  " 

Never  was  a  day  spent  imder  the  influence 
of  a  more  terrible  susjsense  than  that  which 
drank  up  the  strength  of  this  sinking  girl 
during  the  trial  of  her  lover.  Actuated  by 
a  burning  and  restless  sense  of  distraction, 
she  passed  from  jjlace  to  place  with  that 
mechanical  step  which  marks  those  who 
seek  for  comfort  in  vain.  She  retired  to 
her  apartment  and  strove  to  pray  ;  but  the 
eftbrt  was  fruitless ;  the  confusion  of  her 
mind  rendered  connection  and  continuity  of 
thought  and  language  impossible.  At  one 
moment  she  repaired  to  the  scenes  where 
they  had  met,  and  again  with  a  hot  and  ach- 
ing brain,  left  them  with  a  shudder  that 
arose  from  a  witliering  conception  of  the 
loss  of  him  whose  image,  by  their  association, 
was  at  once  rendered  more  distinct  and 
more  beloved.  Her  poor  mother  frequently 
endeavored  to  console  her,  but  became  too 
much  affected  herself  to  jsroceed.  Nor  were 
the  servants  less  anxious  to  remove  the 
heavy  load  of  soitow  which  weighed  down 
her  young  sj)irit  to  the  earth.  Her  brief, 
but  att'ecting  rejily  was  the  same  to  each. 

"Nothing  can  comfort  .me  ;  my  heart  is 
breaking ;  oh,  leave  me — ^leave  me  to  the 
sorrow  that's  upon  me." 

Deep,  indeed,  was  the  distress  felt  on  her 
account,  even  by  the  females  of  her  father's 
house,  who,  that  day,  shed  many  bitter  tears 
on  witnessing  the  mute  but  feverish  agony 
of  her  sufferings.  As  evening  ajiproached 
she  became  evidently  more  distracted  and 
depressed  ;  her  head,  she  said,  felt  hot,  and 
her  temples  occasionally  thi-obbed  with  con- 
siderable violence.  The  alternations  of  color 
on  her  cheek  were  more  frequent  than  be- 
fore, and  their  pallid  and  carmine  hues  were 
more  alarmingly  contrasted.  Her  weeping 
mother  took  the  stricken  one  to  her  bosom, 
and,  after  kissing  her  burning  and  passive 
lips,  pressed  her  temples  with  a  hope  that 
this  might  give  her  rehef. 

"  \Vliy  don't  you  cry,  anien  machree? 
(daughter   of   my   heart).     Thry   and   shed 


tears  ;  it 'ill  take  away  this  burning  pain  that's 
in  your  poor  head  ;  oh,  thry  and  let  down 
the  tears,  and  you'll  see  how  it'ill  reheve 
you." 

"  Mother,  I  can't,"  she  rejjlied  ;  "I  can 
shed  no  tears ;  I  wish  they  were  home,  for 
the  worst  couldn't  be  worse  than  this." 

"  No,  asthore,  it  couldn't — it  can't ;  husth  ! 
— do  you  hear  it  ?  There  they  are  ;  that's 
the  car  ;  ay,  indeed,  it's  at  the  gate." 

They  both  listened  for  a  moment,  and  the 
voices  of  her  father  and  brother  were  dis- 
tinctly heard  giving  some  necessary-  orders 
to  the  sei-vant. 

"  Mother,  mother,"  exclaimed  Una,  press- 
ing her  hands  ujjon  her  heart,  "  my  heart 
is  bursting,   and  my  tem23les — my  temples 

"  Chiema  yeelish,"  said  the  mother,  feeling 
its  strong  and  raj)id  paljDitations,  "j'ou  can't 
stand  this.  Oh,  darling  of  my  heai't,  for  the 
sake  of  your  own  life,  and  of  the  living  God, 
be  firm  ! " 

At  this  moment  theu'  knock  at  the  hall- 
door  occasioned  her  to  leap  with  a  sudden 
start,  almost  out  of  her  mother's  arms.  But, 
all  at  once,  the  tunnilt  of  that  heart  ceased, 
and  the  vermillion  of  her  cheek  changed  to 
the  hue  of  death.  With  a  comj^osure  prob- 
ably more  the  result  of  weakness  than  forti- 
tude, she  clasped  her  hands,  and  givmg  a 
fixed  gaze  towards  the  parlo)--door,  that 
spoke  the  resignation  of  desi^iir,  she  awaited 
the  tidings  of  her  lover's  doom.  They  both 
entered,  and,  after  a  cautious  glance  about 
the  room,  immediately  perceived  the  situation 
in  which,  recUning  on  her  mother's  bosom, 
she  lay,  ghastly  as  a  corpse,  before  them. 

"Una,  dear,"  said  John,  aj^proaehing  her, 
"I  am  afraid  you  are  ill.  " 

She  riveted  her  eyes  upon  him,  as  if  she 
wovild  read  his  soul,  but  she  could  not  utter 
a  syllable. 

The  young  man's  countenance  became 
overshadowed  by  a  dee})  and  niournfid  sense 
of  the  task  he  found  himself  compelled  to 
perform  ;  his  voice  faltered,  and  his  lips 
trembled,  as,  in  a  low  tone  of  heartfelt  and 
profound  sympathy,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Una,  dear,  you  had  better  go  to  bed,  and 
let  my  mother  stay  with  you." 

Calndy  she  heard  him,  and,  rising,  she 
slowly  but  deliberately  left  the  room,  and  pro- 
ceeded up  stairs  with  a  degree  of  steadiness 
which  surprised  her  mother.  The  only  wm-ds 
she  uttered  on  hearing  this  blighting  com- 
munication, were,  "Come  with  me,  mother." 
"Una,  darling,"  said  the  latter  when  they 
had  reached  the  bed-room,  "  why  don't  you 
spake  to  me  ?  Let  me  hear  your  voice, 
jewel ;  only  let  me  hear  your  voice." 

Una  stooped  and  afi'ectionately  kissed  her. 


FAIiBOEOOGHA,   THE  MISER. 


261 


but  made  no  roply  for  some  minutes.  She 
then  began  to  undress,  which  she  did  in  fits 
and  starts  ;  sometimes  ijausing,  in  evident 
abstraction,  for  a  considerable  time,  and 
again  resuming  the  task  of  preparing  for 
bed. 

"  Mother,"  she  at  length  sai''  my  heart 
is  as  cold  as  ice  ;  but  my  brain  is  burning  ; 
feel  my  temples  ;  how  hot  they  are,  and  how 
they  beat !  " 

"  I  do,  alanna  dheelish  ;  your  body,  as  well 
as  your  mind,  is  sick  ;  but  we'll  sind  for  the 
doctor,  darlin',  and  you'll  soon  be  betther,  I 
hope." 

"  I  hope  so  ;  and  then  Connor  and  I  can 
be  married  in  spite  of  them.  Don't  they 
say,  mother,  that  marriages  are  made  in 
heaven  ?  " 

"They  do,  darlin'." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  meet  him  there.     Oh, 
my  head— my   head!  I   cannot   bear — bear  | 
this  racking  pain."  ! 

Her  mother,  who,  though  an  uneducated  ■ 
woman,  was  by  no  means  deficient  in  saga- 
city, immediately  perceived  that  her  mind  , 
was  beginning  to  exhibit  symjjtoms  of  being  j 
unsettled.     Having,  therefore,   immediately  [ 
cilled  one  of  the  maid-servants,  she  gave  her 
orders  to  stay  with  Una,  who  had  now  gone 
to  bed,  until  she  herself  could  again  return 
to  her.     She  instantly  proceeded  to  the  jsar- 
lor,  where  her  husband  ami  son  were,  and 
with  a  face  i)ale  from  alarm,  told  them  that 
she  feared  Una's  mind  was  going.  j 

"  May  the  Almighty  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  i 
her  father,  laying  down  his  knife  and  foi'k,  ' 
for  they  had  just  sat  down  to  dinner  ;  "  oh,  j 
what  makes  you  say  such  a  thing,  Bridget  ? 
What  on  earth  makes  you  think  it  ?  "  j 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  mother,  tell  us  at ; 
once,"  inquired  the  son,  rising  from  the  ! 
table,  and  walking  distractedly  across  the  | 
room.  \ 

"  Wlay,  she's  beginning  to  rave  about  him,"  ; 
replied  her  mother ;  "  she's  afther  saying 
that  she'll  be  married  to  him  in  spite  o'  i 
them."  I 

"In  spite   o'  who,  Bridget?"  asked   the  | 
Bodagli,  willing  his  eyes — "in  spite  o'  who 
does  she  mane  ?  " 

"  Whj',  I  suppose  in  spite  of  Flanagan  and 
thim  that  found  him  guilty,"  replied  his 
wife. 

"  Well,  but  what  else  did  she  say,  mo- 
ther?" i 

"  She  axed  me  if  marriages  warn't  made  I 
in  heaven  ;  and  I  tould  her  that  the  jieople  , 
said  so  ;  upon  that  she  said  she'd  meet  him  ; 
there,  and  then  she  complained  of  her  head,  j 
The  trewtli  is,  she  has  a  heavy  load  of  sick-  1 
ness  on  her  back,  and  the  soiTa  hour  should 
be  lost  till  we  get  a  docthor."  i 


"  Yes,  that  is  the  truth,  mother  ;  I'll  go 
this  moment  for  Dr.  H .  There's  noth- 
ing like  taking  these  things  in  time.  Poor 
Una !  God  knows  this  trial  is  a  sore  one 
upon  a  heart  so  faithful  and  afifectiouate  as 
hers." 

"  John,  had  you  not  betther  ait  something 
before  you  go  ?  "  said  his  father  ;  "  you  want 
it  afther  the  troublesome  day  you  had." 

"  No,  no,"  reijlied  the  son  ;  "I  cannot — I 
cannot ;  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink  till  I 
hear  what  the  doctor  will  say  about  her.  O, 
my  God  ! "  he  exclaimed,  whilst  his  eyes  tilled 
with  tears,  "  and  is  it  come  to  this  with  you, 
our  darUng  Una  ? — I  won't  lose  a  moment 
till  I  return,"  he  added,  as  he  went  out ; 
"  nor  will  I,  under  any  circumstances,  come 
without  medical  aid  of  some  kind." 

"  Let  these  things  be  taken  away,  Brid- 
get," said  the  Bodagh  ;  "  my  appetite  is  gone, 
too  ;  that  last  news  is  the  worst  of  all.  May 
the  Lord  of  heaven  keep  our  child's  mind 
right !  for,  oh.  Bridget,  wouldn't  death  itself 
be  far  afore  Ihcd  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  up  to  her,"  repHed  his  wife  ; 
"and  may  God  guard  her,  and  spare  her 
safe  and  sound  to  us  ;  for  wliat — what  kind 

of  a  house  would  it  be  if  she but  I  can't 

think  of  it.  Oh,  wiirrah,  wurrah,  this 
night ! " 

Until  the  return  of  their  son,  with  the 
doctor,  both  O'Brien  and  his  wife  hung  in  a 
state  of  alarm  bordering  on  agony  over  the 
bed  of  theu'  beloved  daughter.  Indeed,  the 
rapidity  and  vehemence  with  which  incoher- 
ence, accompanied  by  severe  illness,  set  in, 
were  sufficient  to  excite  the  greatest  alarm, 
and  to  justify  their  darkest  apprehensions. 
Her  skin  was  hot  almost  to  burning  ;  her 
temples  throbbed  terribly,  and  svich  were  her 
fits  of  starting  and  raving,  that  they  felt  as 
if  every  minute  were  an  hour,  until  the  phy- 
sician actually  made  his  appearance.  Long 
before  this  gentleman  reached  the  house,  the 
son  had  made  him  fully  acc[uainted  with 
what  he  looked  upon  as  the  immediate  cause 
of  her  illness ;  not  that  the  doctor  himself 
had  been  altogether  ignorant  of  it,  for,  in- 
deed, there  were  few  j)ersons  of  any  class  or 
condition  in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  that 
circumstance  was  'unknown. 

On  examming  the  diagnostics  that  pre- 
sented themselves,  he  iironouuced  her  com- 
plaint to  be  brain  fever  of  the  most  formi- 
dable class,  to  wit.,  that  which  ai-ises  fi'om 
extraordinary  pressure  upon  the  mind,  and 
unusual  excitement  of  the  feehngs.  It  was 
a  relief  to  her  family,  however,  to  know  that 
beyond  the  temporai-y  mental  aberrations, 
inseparable  from  the  nature  of  her  complaint, 
there  was  no  evidence  whatsoever  of  insanity. 
They  felt  grateful  to  God  for  this,  and  were 


262 


WILLIAM  CAliLETON'S  WORKS. 


eonsequentlj'  enabled  to  watch  lier  sick-bed 
with  more  coniisosure,  and  to  look  forward 
to  her  ultimate  recovery  with  a  hope  less 
morbid  and  gloomy.  In  this  state  we  are 
now  compelled  to  leave  them  and  her,  and 
to  beg  the  reader  will  accompany  us  to 
another  house  of  sorrow,  where  the  mourn- 
ing was  stiU  more  deej),  and  the  spirits  that 
were  wounded  driven  into  all  the  wild  and 
dreary  darkness  of  affliction. 

Our  readers  cannot  forget  the  helpless 
state  of  intoxication,  in  which  Fardorougha 
left  his  unhappy  son  on  the  evening  of  the 
calamitous  day  that  saw  him  doomed  to  an 
ignominious  death.  His  neighbors,  as  we 
then  said,  having  procured  a  cai',  assisted 
him  home,  and  would,  for  his  wife's  and  son's 
sake,  have  afforded  him  all  the  sympathy  in 
their  jDower  ;  he  was,  however,  so  completely 
overcome  mth  the  sf>irits  he  had  di-ank,  and 
an  unconscious  latent  feeUng  of  the  dreadful 
sentence  that  had  been  pronounced  upon 
his  son,  that  he  required  little  else  at  their 
hands  than  to  keep  him  steady  on  the  car. 
During  the  greater  part  of  the  journey  home, 
his  language  was  only  a  continuation  of  the 
incoherencies  which  Connor  had,  ■nith  such 
a  humihating  sense  of  shame  and  sorrow, 
witnessed  in  his  jtrison  cell.  A  Uttle  before 
they  arrived  within  sight  of  his  house,  liis  com- 
panions iiereeived  that  he  had  faUen  asleep) ; 
b"*t  to  a  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  occurrences 
of  the  day,  the  car  presented  the  ajipearance 
of  a  party  returning  fi-om  a  wedding  or  fi'om 
some  other  occasion  equ;illy  festive  and  so- 
cial. Most  of  them  were  the  worse  for  liquor, 
and  one  of  them  in  particular  had  reached  a 
condition  whicli  may  be  too  often  mtnessed 
in  this  country.  I  mean  that  in  which  the 
language  becomes  thick  ;  the  eye  knowing 
but  vacant ;  the  face  impudent  but  relaxed  ; 
the  Umbs  tottering,  and  the  voice  inveter- 
ately  disposed  to  melody.  The  general  con- 
versation, therefore,  of  those  who  accompa- 
.  uied  the  old  man  was,  as  is  usual  with  persons 
so  circumstanced,  high  and  ^indy  ;  but  as 
far  as  could  be  supposed  by  those  who  heard 
them  cheerful  and  amiable.  Over  the  loud- 
ness of  theii-  dialogue  might  be  heai'd,  from 
time  to  time,  at  a  great  distance,  the  song  of 
the  drunken  melodist  just  alluded  to,  rising 
into  those  desperate  tones  which  boiTow 
their  drowsy  energy  from  intoxication  alone. 
•Such  was  the  character  of  those  who  accom- 
panied the  miser  home  ;  and  such  were  the 
indications  conveyed  to  the  ears  or  eyes  of 
those  who  either  saw  or  heard  them,  as  they 
approached  Fardorougha's  dweUing,  where 
the  unsleeping  heart  of  the  mother  watched 
— and  oh  !  with  what  a  dry  and  burning  an- 
guish of  exjjectation,  let  our  readers  judge — 
for  the  life  or  death  of  the  only  child  that 


God  had  ever  vouchsafed  to  that  loving  heart 
on  which  to  rest  all  its  tenderest  hopes  and 
affections. 

The  manner  in  which  Honor  O'Donovan 
spent  that  daj'  was  marked  by  an  earnest 
and  simple  piety  that  would  have  excited 
high  praise  and  admiration  if  witnessed  in 
a  person  of  rank  or  consideration  in  society. 
She  was,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  too 
ill  to  be  able  to  attend  the  trial  of  her  son, 
or  as  she  herself  expressed  it  in  Iiish,  to 
draw  strength  to  her  heart  by  one  look  at 
his  manly  face  ;  by  one  glance  fi'om  her  boy's 
eye.  She  resolved,  however,  to  draw  conso- 
lation fi-om  a  higher  soui-ce,  and  to  rest  the 
burden  of  her  sorrows,  as  far  as  in  her  lay, 
upon  that  being  in  whose  hands  are  the  is- 
sues of  life  and  death.  From  the  moment 
her  husband  left  the  threshold  of  his  child- 
less house  on  that  morning  until  his  return, 
her  pi'ayers  to  God  and  the  saints  were  truly 
incessant.  And  who  is  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  inscrutable  ways  of  the  Almighty, 
as  to  dare  assert  that  the  humble  supplica- 
tions of  this  pious  and  sorrowful  motlier 
were  not  heard  and  answered '?  AMiether  it 
was  owing  to  the  feiTor  of  an  imagination 
WTOiight  upon  by  the  iufiuence  of  a  creed 
which  nourishes  religious  enthusiasm  in  an 
extraordiuary  degree,  or  whether  it  was  by 
dii'ect  sujjport  fi'oni  that  God  who  compas- 
sionated her  affliction,  let  others  determine  ; 
but  certain  it  is,  that  in  the  course  of  that 
day  she  gained  a  calmness  and  resignation, 
joined  to  an  iucreasmg  serenity  of  heart, 
such  as  she  had  not  hojjed  to  feel  under  a 
calamity  so  black  and  terrible. 

On  healing  the  approach  of  the  car  which 
bore  her  husband  home,  and  on  hstening  to 
the  noisy  mii'th  of  those,  who,  had  they  been 
sober,  wordd  have  siucerelj-  resiseeted  her 
grief,  she  put  up  an  inward  prajer  of  thanks- 
giving to  God  for  what  she  sujiposed  to  be 
the  happy  event  of  Connor's  acquittal.  Stun- 
ning was  the  blow,  however,  and  dreadful  the 
rev'ulsion  of  feehngs,  occasioned  by  the  dis- 
coveiy  of  this  sad  mistake.  ^^^len  they 
reached  the  door  she  felt  stiU  further  2>er- 
suaded  that  all  had  ended  as  she  -vvisheil,  for 
to  nothing  else,  except  the  wildness  of  unex- 
pected joy,  could  she  think  of  aseribiug  her 
husband's  intoxication. 

"  "We  must  can-y  Fardorougha  in,"  snid  one 
of  them  to  the  rest ;  "  for  the  hquor  has  fau'- 
ly  overcome  him  — he's  sound  asleep." 

"  He  is  cleared  !  "'  exclaimed  the  mother  ; 
"he  is  cleared  !  My  heart  tells  me  he  has 
come  out  without  a  stain.  ^\liat  else  could 
make  his  father,  that  never  tasted  hquor  for 
the  last  thirty  years,  be  as  he  is "? " 

"  Honor  O'Donovan,"  said  one  of  them, 
wringing  her  hand  as  he  spoke,   "  this  has 


FAIiDOROUGIlA     THE  MISER. 


363 


been  a  blade  day  to  you  all ;  you  must  pre- 
pare yoiu-self  for  bad  news." 

"  Thin  Christ  and  Lis  blessed  mother  sup- 
Ijort  me,  and  support  us  all !  but  what  is  the 
worst '?  oh,  what  is  the  worst  ?  " 

"The  harradh  dhu,"  rej^lied  the  man,  al- 
luding to  the  lilack  cap  which  the  judge  puts 
on  when  passing  sentence  of  death. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  may  the  name  of  the 
Lord  that  sent  this  upon  us  be  firaised  for- 
ever !  That's  no  rason  why  we  shoiddn't 
still  put  our  trust  and  reliance  in  him.  I 
will  show  them,  by  the  help  of  God's  grace, 
an'  by  the  assistance  of  His  blessed  mother, 
who  suffered  herself — an'  oh,  what  is  my  suf- 
feriu's  to  hers  '? — I  will  show  them  I  say,  that 
I  can  bear,  as  a  Christian  ought,  wliatever 
hard  fate  it  may  plase  the  Siviour  of  the  earth 
to  lay  upon  us.  I  know  my  son  is  innocent, 
an'  surely,  although:  it's  hard,  hard  to  part 
with  such  a  boy,  yet  it's  a  consolation  to  know 
that  he'll  be  better  ■«dd  God,  who  is  takin' 
him,  than  ever  he'd  be  wid  us.  So  the 
Lord's  will  be  done  this  night  and  forever  ! 
amin ! " 

This  noble  disjilay  of  glowing  piety  and 
fortitude  was  not  lost  ujiou  those  who  wit- 
nessed it.  After  uttering  these  simjile  but 
exalted  sentiments,  she  crossed  herself  de- 
voutly, as  is  the  custom,  ami  bowed  her  head 
with  such  a  \TOd  sense  of  God's  j^resence, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  she  actually  stood,  as  no 
doubt  she  did,  under  the  shadow  of  His  pow- 
er. These  men,  knowing  the  force  of  her 
love  to  that  son,  and  the  consequent  depth 
of  her  misery  at  losing  him  by  a  death  so 
shameful  and  ^-iolent,  reverently  took  oif  theii- 
hats  as  she  bent  her  head  to  express  this  obe- 
dience to  the  decrees  of  God,  and  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  and  manner  exclaimed,  almost  with 
one  voice — 

"  May  God  pity  you.  Honor  !  for  who  but 
yourself  woidd  or  could  act  as  you  do  this 
bitther,  bitther  night  ?  " 

"I'm  only  doin'  what  I  ought  to  do,"  she 
replied,  "  what  is  religion  good  for  if  it 
doesn't  keep  the  heart  light  an"  support  us 
undher  thrials  like  this  ;  what  'ud  it  he  then 
but  a  name  ?  But  how,  oh  how,  came  his 
father  to  be  in  sich  a  state  on  this  bitther, 
bitther  night,  as  you  say  it  is — an'  oh  !  Heav- 
en above  sees  it's  that — how  came  hin  father, 
I  say,  into  sich  a  state  ?  " 

They  then  related  the  circumstance  as  it 
actually  haj)pened  ;  and  she  appeai-ed  much 
relieved  to  hear  that  his  inebriety  was  only 
accidental. 

"I  am  glad,"  slie  said,  "that  he  got  it  as 
he  did  ;  for,  indeed,  if  he  had  made  himself 
dhrunk  tliis  day,  as  too  many  like  him  do 
on  such  occasions,  he  never  again  would  ap- 
pear the  same  man  in  my  eyes,  nor  would 


my  heai-t  ever  more  warm  to  him  as  it  did. 
But  thanks  to  God  that  he  didn't  take  it 
himself ! " 

She  then  heard,  with  a  composure  that 
could  result  only  from  fortitude  and  resig- 
nation united,  a  more  detailed  account  of 
her  son's  trial,  after  which  she  added — 

"  As  God  is  above  me  this  night  I  find  it 
asier  to  lose  Connor  than  to  forgive  the  man 
that  destroyed  him  ;  but  this  is  a  bad  state 
of  heart,  that  I  trust  my  Saviour  will  give 
me  grace  to  overcome  ;  an'  I  know  He  will 
if  I  ax  it  as  I  ought ;  at  all  events,  I  won't 
lay  my  side  on  a  bed  this  night  antil  I  praj- 
to  God  to  forgive  Bartle  Flanagan  an'  to  tiu'n 
his  heart." 

She  then  pressed  them,  with  a  heart  as 
hospitable  as  it  was  pious,  to  partake  of 
food,  which  they  declined,  fi-oni  a  natural 
reluctance  to  give  trouble  where  the  heart  is. 
known  to  be  pressed  down  by  the  violence 
of  domestic  calamity.  These  are  distinc- 
tions wliich  our  humble  countrymen  draw 
■\^ith  a  delicacy  that  may  well  shame  those 
who  move  in  a  higher  rank  of  hfe.  Respect 
for  unmerited  affliction,  and  symisathy  for 
the  sorrows  of  the  just  and  virtuous,  are  never 
withheld  by  the  Irish  peasant  when  allowed 
by  those  who  can  guide  him  either  for  good 
or  for  evil  to  follow  the  impulses  of  his  own 
heart.  The  dignity,  for  instance,  of  Honor 
O'Donovan's  bearing  under  a  trial  so  over- 
whelming in  its  nature,  and  the  piety  with 
which  she  sujiported  it,  struck  them,  half 
ti2D,sy  as  thej-  were,  so  forcibly,  that  they  be- 
came sobered  do'mi — some  of  them  into  a  full 
perception  of  her  firmness  and  high  religious 
feelings  ;  and  those  who  were  more  affected 
by  chink  into  a  maudlin  gl■a^ity  of  dei^ortr 
m«nt  still  more  honorable  to  the  admirable 
j)iincij)les  of  the  woman  who  occasioned  it. 

One  of  the  latter,  for  instance,  named  Bat 
Hanratty,  exclaimed,  after  they  had  bade 
her  good  night,  and  expressed  their  unaffect- 
ed sorrow  for  the  severe  loss  she  was  about 
to  sustain  : 

"  Well,  well,  you  may  all  talk  ;  but  be  the 
powdhers  o'  delf,  nothin'  bai'rin'  the  down- 
right grace  o'  God  could  sup — sup-jjort  that 
dacent  mother  of  ould  Fardorougha — I  mane 
of  his  son,  poor  Connor.  But  the  truth  is,  you 
see,  that  there's  nothin' — notbin'no,  the  div- 
il  saize  the  hap'o'rth  at  all,  good,  bad,  or  indif- 
ferent aquil  to  puttin'  your  tiaist  in  God  ; 
bekase,  j'ou  see — Con  Roach,  I  say — bekaae 
you  see,  when  a  man  does  that  as  he  ought  i 
to  do  it  ;  for  it's  all  faisthelagh  if  you  go 
the  wrong  way  about  it  ;  but  Con — Condy, 
I  say,  j'ou're  a  dacent  man,  an'  it  stands  to 
raison — it  does,  boj-s — upon  my  soul  it  does. 
It  wasn't  for  nothin'  that  money  was  lost 
ui)on  myself,  when  I  was  takin'  in  the  edjig- 


364 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


gation  ;  and  maybe,  if  Connor  O'Donovan, 
tliat  is  now  goin'  to  suffer,  poor  fellow — 

For  the  villain  swore  away  my  life,  an'  all  by  per- 

]\xr<-e  ; 
And  tor  that  same  I  die  wid  shame  upon  the  gallows 

tree. 

So,  as  I  was  sayin',  wliy  didn't  Connor  come 
in  an'  join  the  boys  like  another,  an'  then  we 
could  settle  Bartle  for  staggiu'  against  him. 
For,  you  see,  in  regard  o'  that,  Coudy,  it 
doesn't  signify  a  traneen  whether  he  put  a 
match  to  the  haggard  or  not ;  the  thing  is, 
you  know,  that  even  if  he  did,  Bartle  daren't 
swear  against  him  widout  breakin'  his  first 
oath  to  the  boys  ;  an'  if  he  did  it  afther  that, 
an'  brought  any  of  them  into  throuble  con- 
thrary  to  the  articles,  be  gorra  he'd  be 
entitled  to  get  a  gusset  opened  undher  one 
o'  his  ears,  any  how.  But  you  see,  Con,  be 
the  book — God  pardon  me  for  swearin' — but 
be  the  book,  the  mother  has  the  thrue 
raUigion  in  her  heart,  or  she'd  never  stand  it 
the  way  she  does,  an'  that  proves  what  I  .was 
aspoundin' ;  that  afther  all,  the  sorra  hap'- 
o'rth  aquil  to  the  grace  o'  God." 

He  then  sang  a  comic  song,  and,  having 
passed  an  additional  eulogiura  on  the  conduct 
of  Honor  O'Donovan,  concluded  by  exhibiting 
some  rather  unequivocal  symptoms  of  becom- 
ing pathetic  from  sheer  sympathy  ;  after 
which  the  soporific  effect  of  his  libations  soon 
hushed  him  into  a  snore  that  acted  as  a  base 
to  the  shrill  tones  in  wliich  his  companions 
addressed  one  another  from  each  side  of  the 
car. 

Fardoroiigha,  ever  since  the  passion  of 
avarice  had  estabhshed  its  accursed  dominion 
in  his  heart,  narrowed  by  degrees  his  domes- 
tic establishment,  until,  towards  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  it  consisted  of  onh'  a  labor- 
ing boy,  as  the  terra  is,  and  a  seiTant  girl. 

Indeed,  no  miser  was  ever  known  to  main- 
tain a  large  household  ;  and  that  for  reasons 
too  obvious  to  be  detailed.  Since  Connor's 
incarceration,  however,  his  father's  heart  had 
so  far  expanded,  that  he  hired  two  men  as 
inside  servants,  one  of  them,  now  the  father 
of  a  large  family,  being  the  identical  Noglier 
M'Cormick,  who,  as  the  reader  remembers, 
was  in  his  senice  at  the  time  of  Connor's 
birth.  The  other  was  a  young  man  named 
Thaddj'  Star,  or  Reillaghan,  as  it  is  called  in 
Irish,  who  was  engaged  upon  the  recom- 
mendation of  Biddy  Nulty,  then  an  estab- 
.,lished  favorite  with  her  master  and  mistress, 
in  consequence  of  her  faithful  devotion  to 
them  and  Connor,  and  her  simple-hearted 
participation  in  their  heavy  trouble.  The 
manner  in  which  they  received  the  result  of 
her  son's  trial  was  not  indeed  calculated  to 
sustain  his  mother.     In   the    midst   of   the 


clamor,  however,  she  was  calm  and  com- 
posed ;  but  it  would  have  been  evident,  to  a 
close  observer,  that  a  deep  impression  oi 
religious  duty  alone  sustained  her,  and  that 
the  yearnings  of  the  mother's  heart,  though 
stilled  by  resignation  to  the  Divine  Will,  were 
yet  more  intensely  agonized  by  the  sujJ- 
Ijression  of  what  she  secretly  felt.  Such, 
however,  is  the  motive  of  those  heroic  acts 
of  self-denial,  which  religion  only  can  enable 
us  to  jserform.  It  does  not  harden  the  heart, 
or  prevent  it  fi'om  feeling  the  fuU  foi'ce  of 
the  calamity  or  sorrow  which  comes  upon  us  ; 
no,  but  whilst  we  experience  it  ill  all  the 
rigor  of  distress,  it  teaches  us  to  reflect  that 
suffering  is  our  lot,  and  that  it  is  our  duty  to 
receive  these  severe  dispensations  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  prevent  others  from  being  cor- 
rupted by  our  imisatience,  or  by  our  open  want 
of  submission  to  the  decrees  of  Providence. 
"When  the  agony  of  the  J\Ian  of  Sorrow  was 
at  its  highest.  He  retired  to  a  solitary  place, 
and  whilst  every  pore  exuded  water  and 
blood,  he  stUl  exclaimed — "  Not  My  will,  but 
Thine  be  done."  Here  was  resignation,  in- 
deed, but  at  the  same  time  a  heart  exquisitely 
sensible  of  all  it  had  to  bear.  And  much,  in- 
deed, as  yet  lay  before  that  of  the  jsious 
mother  of  our  unhappy  hero,  and  severe  was 
the  trial  which,  on  this  very  night,  she  was 
doomed  to  encounter. 

"When  Fardorougha  awoke,  which  he  did 
not  do  until  "about  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  looked  wildly  about  him,  and,  start- 
ing up  in  the  bed,  put  his  two  hands  on  liis 
temples,  like  a  man  distracted  b_y  acute  pain  ; 
yet  anxious  to  develop  in  his  memory  the 
proceedings  of  the  foregouig  day.  The  in- 
mates, however,  were  startled  from  their 
sleep  by  a  shriek,  or  rather  a  yell,  so  loud 
and  imearthly  that  in  a  few  minutes  they 
stood  collected  about  his  bed.  It  would  he. 
impossible,  indeed,  to  conceive,  much  less  to 
describe,  such  a  picture  of  utter  horror  as 
then  presented  itself  to  their  observation. 
A  look  that  resembled  the  turbid  glare  of 
insanity  was  riveted  upon  them  whilst  he 
uttered  shriek  after  shriek,  without  the 
power  of  articulating  a  syllable.  The  room, 
too,  was  dim  and  gloomy  ;  for  the  light  of 
the  candle  that  was  left  burning  beside  him 
had  become  ghastly  for  want  of  snuffing. 
There  he  sat — his  fleshless  hands  pressed 
against  his  temples ;  his  thin,  gray  hair 
standing  out  wildly  fi'om  his  head  ;  his  lips 
asunder  ;  and  his  cheeks  sucked  in  so  far 
that  the  chasms  occasioned  in  his  jawbones, 
by  the  want  of  his  back  teeth,  were  plainly 
visible. 

"  Chiernah  dheelish,"  exclaimed  Honor, 
"  what  is  this  ?  as  Heaven's  above  me,  I  be- 
lieve he's  dyin' ;    see  how  he  gasps  !     Here, 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


265 


FaidorougLa,"  she  exclaimed,  seizing  a  jug 
of  water  which  had  been  left  on  a  chaii-  be- 
side him,  but  which  he  evideutlj'  did  uot 
see,  "  here,  here,  darlin',  wet  your  hps  ;  the 
cool  water  will  refi-esh  you." 

He  immediately  clutched  the  jug  with 
eager  and  trembling  hands,  and  at  one  rapid 
draught  emptied  it  to  the  bottom. 

"  Now,"  he  shouted,  "I  can  spake,  now  I 
can  spake.  Where's  my  sou?  where's  my 
son?  an'  what  has  happened  mel  how 
did  I  come  here  ?  was  I  mad  ?  am  I  mad  ? 
but  tell  me,  teU  me  first,  where's  Connor? 
Is  it  thrue  ?  is  it  all  thrue  ?  or  is  it  me 
that's  mad  ?  " 

"  Fardorougha,  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "  be 
a  man,  or,  rather,  be  a  Christian.  It  was 
God  gave  Connor  to  us,  and  who  has  a  bet- 
ter right  to  take  him  back  from  us  ?  Don't 
be  tlyin'  in  His  face,  bekase  He  won't  ordher 
everything  as  you  wish.  You  haven't  taken 
oli'  of  you  to-night,  so  rise,  dear,  and  calm 
yourself  ;  then  go  to  your  knees,  lift  your 
lieart  to  God,  and  beg  of  Him  to  grant  you 
striuth  and  patience.  Thry  that  coorse, 
avourueeu,  an'  you'll  find  it  the  best." 

"How  did  I  come  home,  I  say?  Oh, 
tell  me,  Honor,  tell  me,  was  I  out  o'  my 
wits  ?  " 

"You  fainted,"  she  repljed  ;  "and  thin 
they  gave  you  whiskey  to  supjjort  you  ;  an' 
not  bein'  accustomed  to  it,  it  got  into  j'our 
head." 

"  Oh,  Honor,  our  son,  our  son  !  "  he  re- 
plied ;  then,  starting  out  of  the  bed  in  a  fit 
of  the  wildest  despau",  he  clasped  his  hands 
together,  and  shrieked  out,  "  Oh,  our  son, 
oiu-  son,  our  sou  Connor  !  Merciful  Sa\'iour, 
how  will  I  name  it  ?  to  be  hanged  by  the 
neck !  Oh,  Honor,  Honor,  don't  jou  jjity 
ine  ?  don't  you  pity  me  ?  Mother  of  Heaven, 
this  night?  That  barradh  dim,  that  harradh 
dha,  put  on  for  our  boy,  our  innocest  boy  ; 
who  can  undherstand  it.  Honor?  It's  not 
justice  ;  there's  no  justice  in  Heaven,  or  my 
son  wouldn't  be  murdhered,  slaughtered 
down  in  the  prime  of  his  life,  for  no  rason  ! 
But  no  matther  ;  let  him  be  taken  ;  only 
near  this :  if  he  goes,  I'll  never  bend  my 
(jnee  to  a  single  prayer  while  I've  life  ;  for 
.t's  teri'ible,  it's  cruel,  'tisn't  justice  ;  nor  do 
care  what  becomes  of  me,  either  in  this 
vorld  or  the  other.  All  I  want.  Honor,  is 
o  folly  him  as  soon  as  I  can  ;  my  hopes,  my 
lappiness,  mj-  life,  my  everything,  is  gone 
ml  him  ;  an'  what  need  I  care,  thin,  what 
becomes  of  me?    I  don't,  I  don't." 

The  faces  of  the  domestics  grew  pale  as 
'ney  heard,  with  silent  horroi-,  the  iiico- 
ierent  blasphemies  of  the  fi-antic  miser  ; 
Liut  his  wife,  whose  eyes  w'ere  riveted  on 
lim  while  he  spoke,  and  paced,  with  a  hiu-- 


ried  step,  up  and  down  the  room,  felt  at  a 
loss  whether  to  attribute  his  impiety  to  an 
attack  of  insanity,  or  to  a  temporary  fever, 
brought  on  by  his  late  sufferings  and  the 
intoxication  of  the  preceding  nigiit. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost,  Fardorougha,"  she  said  calmly, 
placing  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "  are 
you  sinsible  that  you're  this  minute  afther 
blasphemiii'  your  Creator  ?  " 

He  gave  her  a  quick,  disturbed,  and  pee- 
vish look,  but  made  no  reply.  She  then 
proceeded  : 

"  Fardorougha,  I  thought  the  loss  of  Con- 
nor the  greatest  ijunishment  that  could  be 
put  upon  me  ;  but  I  find  I  was  mistaken. 
I  would  rather  see  him  dead  to-morrow,  wid, 
wid  the  I'ope  about  his  neck,  than  to  hear  his 
father  blasphemin'  the  liviu'  God !  Fardo- 
rougha, it's  clear  that  you're  not  now  fit  to 
pray  for  yourself,  but,  in  the  name  of  our 
Saviour,  I'll  go  an'  pray  for  you.  In  the 
mean  time,  go  to  bed  ;  sleep  will  settle  your 
head,  and  you  will  be  better,  I  trust,  in  the 
morniu'." 

The  calm  solemnity  of  her  manner  awed 
him,  notwithstanding  the  vehemence  of  his 
grief.  He  stood  and  looked  at  her,  with  his 
hands  tightly  clasped,  as  she  went  to  her 
son's  bedroom,  in  order  to  i^ray  for  him. 
For  a  moment,  he  seemed  abashed  and 
stunned.  WhUe  she  addressed  him,  he  in- 
voluntarily ceased  to  utter  those  sounds  of 
anguish  which  were  neither  sluieks  nor 
groans,  but  something  between  botli.  He 
then  resumed  his  pace,  but  with  a  more 
settled  step,  and  for  some  minutes  main- 
tained perfect  silence. 

"Get  me,"  said  he,  at  length,  "get  me  a 
drink  of  wathcr  ;  I'm  in  a  flame  wid  drouth." 

When  Biddy  Nulty  went  out  to  fetch  him 
this,  he  inquired  of  the  rest  what  Honor 
meant  bj'  charging  him  with  blasphemy. 

"Surely  to  God,  I  didn't  blasphame,"  he 
said,  23ee\ishly  ;  "  no,  no,  I'm  uot  tliat  bad  ; 
but  anyhow,  let  her  jsray  for  me  ;  Ac;- prayer 
will  be  heard,  if  ever  woman's  was." 

WTien  Biddy  returned,  he  emjitied  the  jug 
of  water  with  the  same  trembling  eagerness 
as  before  ;  then  clasped  his  hands  again,  and 
commenced  jjaciug  the  room,  evidently  in  a 
mood  of  mind  about  to  darken  into  ;dl  the 
wildness  of  his  former  grief. 

"Fardorougha,"  said  Nogher  M'Cormick  ; 
"I  was  undher  this  roof  the  night  your 
manly  son  was  born.  I  remimber  it  well  ; 
an'  I  remimber  more  betoken,  I  had  to  check 
you  for  flying  in  the  face  o'  God  that  sent 
him  to  you.  Instead  o'  feeliu'  happy  and 
delighted,  as  you  ought  to  ha'  done,  an'  as 
any  other  man  but  j-ourself  would,  you  gre^v 
dark   an'  sulky,    and  grumbled  bekase  you 


266 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tliouglit  there  was  a  family  comin'.  I  tould 
you  that  night  to  take  care  an'  not  be  com- 
mitting sin  ;  an'  you  may  remimber,  too, 
that  I  gev  yovi  chapter  an'  verse  for  it  ovit  o' 
Scripture  :  '  Woe  be  to  the  man  that's  bom 
■wid  a  millstone  about  his  neck,  especially  if 
he's  to  be  cast  into  the  say.'  The  truth  is, 
Fardorougha,  you  wani't  thankful  to  God 
for  him  ;  and  you  see  that  afther  all,  it 
doesn't  do  to  go  to  loggerheads  wid  the  Al- 
mighty. Maybe,  had  yoii  been  thankful  for 
him,  he  wouldn't  be  where  he  is  this  night. 
Millstone  !  Faith,  it  was  a  home  thnist,  that 
same  verse  ;  for  if  you  didn't  cany  the  mill- 
stone about  j'our  neck,  you  had  it  in  your 
heart ;  an'  you  now  see  and  feel  the  upshot. 
I'm  now  goin'  fast  into  age  myself  ;  my  hair 
is  grayer  than  your  own,  and  I  could  take  it 
to  my  death,"  said  the  honest  fellow,  while 
a  tear  or  two  ran  slowly  down  his  cheek  ; 
"  that,  exceptin'  one  o'  my  own  childre',  an' 
may  God  .spare  them  to  me  !  I  couldn't  feel 
more  sorrow  at  the  fate  of  any  one  Uvin', 
than  at  Connor's.  Many  a  time  I  held  him 
in  these  arms,  an'  many  a  httle  play  I  made 
for  him  ;  an'  many  a  time  he  axed  me  why 
his  father  didn't  nurse  him  as  I  did  ;  'bekase,' 
he  used  to  say,  '  I  would  rather  he  would 
nui'se  me  than  anybody  else,  barring  my 
mother  ;  and,  afther  him,  you,  Nogher.'  " 

These  last  obei-vations  of  his  servant 
probed  the  heart  of  the  old  man  to  the 
quick  ;  but  the  feehng  which  they  excited 
was  a  healthy  one  ;  or,  rather,  the  associa- 
tions they  occasioned  threw  Fardorougha's 
mind  upon  the  memory  of  those  att'ections, 
which  avarice  had  supjjressed,  without  de- 
stroying. 

"I  loved  him,  Nogher,"  said  he,  deef)ly 
agitated  ;  "  Oh  none  but  God  knows  how  I 
loved  liim,  although  I  didn't  an'  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  show  it  at  the  time.  There 
was  something  upon  me  ;  a  curse,  I  think, 
that  prevented  me  ;  an'  now  that  I  love  him 
as  a  father  ought  to  do,  I  will  not  have  him. 
Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  what  ■ndU  become  of 
me,  after  you?  Heavenly  Father,  pity  me 
and  support  me !  Oh,  Connor,  my  son,  my 
son,  what  wiU  become  of  me  ?  " 

He  then  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and,  j)lacing 
his  hands  upon  his  face,  wept  long  and  bit- 
terly. His  grief  now,  however,  was  natural, 
for,  during  the  most  violent  of  his  j)aroxysms 
in  the  preceding  hour,  he  .shed  not  a  teai' ;  yet 
now  they  ran  down  his  cheeks,  and  through 
his  fingers,  in  torrents. 

"  Cry  on,  cry  on,"  said  Nogher,  wiping  his 
own  eyes ;  "it  will  lighten  your  heart;  an' 
who  knows  but  it's  las  mother's  prayers 
that  lirought  you  to  yourself,  and  got  this 
rahef  for  you.  Go,  Biddy,"  said  he,  in  a 
..uisper,  to  the  servant-maid,  ''and  tell  the 


mistress  to  come  here  ;  she'll  know  best  ho\* 
to  manage  him,  now  that  he's  a  little  calm." 

"  God  be  jjraised  !  "  ejaculated  Honor,  on 
seeing  him  weejj ;  "  these  tears  will  cool  your 
head,  avourneen;  an' now,  Fardorougha,  when 
you're  tired  cryin',  if  you  take  my  advice, 
you'U  go  to  yom-  knees  an'  offer  uji  five  pa- 
thers,  five  Aves,  an'  a  creed,  for  the  grace  of 
the  Almighty  to  direct  and  strengthen  3'ou  ; 
and  thin,  afther  that,  go  to  bed,  as  I  sed,  an' 
you'll  fuid  how  well  you'U  be  afther  a  sound 
sleep." 

"  Honor,"  replied  her  husband,  "avourneen 
machi'ee,  I  think  j'ou'U  save  j'our  husliand's 
sowl  yet,  undher  my  merciful  Saviour." 

"  Your  son,  undher  the  same  merciful 
God,  ^\'ill  do  it.  Your  heai-t  was  hiu-d  and 
godless,  Fardorougha,  and,  surely,  if 
Connor's  death  '11  be  the  manes  of  savin'  his 
father's  sowl,  wouldn't  it  be  a  blessin'  instead 
of  a  misfortune  ?  Thhik  of  it  in  that  light, 
Fardorougha,  and  turn  your  heart  to  God. 
As  for  Connor,  isn't  it  a  comfort  to  know 
that  the  breath  won't  be  out  of  liis  body  till 
he's  a  bright  angel  hi  heaven  ?  " 

The  old  man  wijied  his  eyes  and 
knelt  down,  first  ha\ing  deshed  them  to 
leave  him.  When  the  j^rayers  were  recited 
he  called  in  Honor. 

"I'm  afeard,';  said  he,  "that  my  heart 
wasn't  properly  in  them,  for  I  couldn't  pre- 
vent my  mind  from  wanderin'  to  our  boy." 

This  touching  observation  took  the 
mother's  affections  bj'  surprise.  A  tear 
started  to  her  eye,  but,  after  what  was  evi- 
denth"  a  severe  struggle,  she  supjsressed  it. 

"  It's  not  at  once  you  can  do  it,  Fardo- 
rougha ;  so  don't  be  cast  down.  Now,  go  to 
bed,  in  the  name  of  God,  and  sleeji  ;  and 
may  the  Lord  in  heaven  supjiort  you — and 
sujjjjort  lis  both  !  for  oh  !  it's  we  that  want 
it  this  night  of  sorrow  !  " 

She  then  stooped  do\vn  and  affectionately 
kissed  him,  and,  ha^•ing  VNished  him  good 
night,  she  retired  to  Connor's  bed,  where, 
ever  since  the  day  of  his  incarceration,  this 
weU-tried  mother  and  enduring  Christian 
slept. 

At  this  stage  of  our  story  we  will  pause, 
for  a  moment,  to  consider  the  state  of  inind 
and  comparative  happiness  of  the  few  jiersont' 
who  are  actors  in  our  humble  drama. 

To  a  j^erson  capable  of  obser\ing  only  hu 
man  action,  independently  of  the  motives  1\^ 
wliicli  it  is  regulated,  it  may  appear  thattlie 
day  A\  liich  sa\\'  Coiuior  O'Donovan  consignee' 
to  a  premature  and  shameful  death,  was  one. 
of  uumiugled  hajspiness  to  Bartle  Flanagan 
They  know  little  of  man's  heart,  however 
who  could  supjjose  this  to  be  the  case,  01 
who  could  even  imagine  that  he  was  happie. 
than  those  on  whom  his  revenge  and  perfidy 


FARDOEOUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


267 


had  eutailed  such  a  cmshing  load  of  misery. 
It  is,  indeed,  impossible  to  guess  what  the 
nature  of  that  feeling  must  be  which  arises 
fi-om  the  full  gratification  of  mean  and 
diabolic  malignity.  Every  action  of  the 
heart  at  variance  with  virtue  and  truth  is 
forced  to  keep  up  so  many  minute  and  fear- 
ful precautions,  all  of  which  are  felt  to  be  of 
vast  moment  at  the  time,  that  we  question  if 
ever  the  greatest  glut  of  vengeance  produced, 
no  matter  what  the  occasion  may  have  been, 
any  satisfaction  cai3able  of  counterbalancing 
all  the  contigencies  and  ajjprehensious  by 
whicli  the  mind  is  distracted  both  before  and 
after  its  prejiaration.  The  jilau  and  accom- 
plishment must  both  be  perfect  in  all  their 
parts — for  if  either  fail  only  in  a  single 
point,  all  is  lost,  and  the  pleasure  arising 
from  them  resembles  the  fruit  which  is  said 
to  grow  by  the  banks  of  the  Dead  Sea — it  is 
beautiful  and  tem2:)ting  to  the  ej-e,  but  bit- 
terness and  ashes  to  the  taste. 

The  failing  of  the  county  treasurer,  for  in- 
stance, deprived  Bartle  Flanagan  of  more 
than  one  half  his  revenge.  He  was  certainly 
far  more  anxious  to  punish  the  father  than 
the  son,  and  were  it  not  that  he  saw  no  other 
mode  of  effecting  his  vengeance  on  Fardo- 
rougha,  than  by  destroying  the  only  object 
on  earth  that  he  loved  next  to  his  wealth,  he 
would  have  never  made  the  innocent  pay  the 
penalty  of  the  guilty.  As  he  had  gone  so 
far,  however,  self-preservation  now  made  him 
anxious  that  Connor  should  die  ;  as  he  knew 
his  death  would  remove  out  of  his  way  the 
only  person  in  existence  absolutelj'  acquaint- 
ed with  his  viUany.  One  would  think,  indeed, 
that  the  sentence  pronounced  upon  his  vic- 
tim ought  to  have  satisfied  him  on  that  head. 
This,  however,  it  failed  to  do.  That  sentence 
contained  one  clause,  which  utterly  destroyed 
the  comjjleteness  of  his  design,  and  filled  his 
soul  -with  a  secret  apprehension  either  of  just 
retribution,  or  some  future  ill  which  he  could 
not  shake  off,  and  for  which  tlie  reward  re- 
ceived for  Connor's  apprehension  was  but  an 
ineffectual  antidote.  The  clause  alluded  to 
in  the  judge's  charge,  viz. — "  the  recommen- 
dation of  the  jury  to  the  mercy  of  the  Crown, 
m  consideration  of  your  youth,  and  previous 
»ood  conduct,  shall  not  be  overlooked " — 
mounded  in  his  ears  like  some  mysterious 
sentence  that  itivolved  his  o-«ti  fate,  and  liter-  I 
ally  tilled  his  heai't  with  terror  and  dismay,  j 
independently  of  all  this  his  viUauous  jjro-  I 
ects  had  involved  him  in  a  systematic  j 
sourse  of  guUt,  which  was  yet  far  from  being  ' 
wrought  to  a  close.  In  fact,  he  now  found  by 
3xperience  how  difficult  it  is  to  work  out  a 
Jad  action  mth  success,  and  how  the  means,  I 
iud  pl'ins,  and  instruments  necessary  to  it  j 
nust  multiply  and  become  so  ileep  and  com-  ! 


plicated  in  gmLt,  that  scarcely  any  single  in- 
tellect, in  the  case  of  a  person  who  can  be 
reached  by  the  laws,  is  equal  to  the  task  of 
executing  a  great  crime  agaiiist  society,  in  a 
perfect  manner.  If  this  were  so,  discovery 
would  be  impossible,  and  revenge  certain. 

With  respect  to  Connor  himself  it  is  only 
necessary  to  say  that  a  short  but  well-spent 
life,  and  a  heart  naturally  tirm,  deprived 
death  of  its  greatest  terrors.  Still  he  felt  it, 
in  some  depre-ised  moods,  a  terrible  thing  in- 
deed to  reflect,  that  he,  in  the  very  fullness 
of  strength  and  youth,  should  be  cut  down 
from  among  his  fellows — a  victim  without  a 
crime,  and  laid  with  shame  in  the  grave  of  a 
felon.  But  he  had  witnessed  neither  his 
mother's  j)iety  nor  her  example  in  vain,  and 
it  was  in  the  gloom  of  his  dungeon  that  he 
felt  the  light  of  both  upon  his  spirit. 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  "  as  I  am  to  die,  is  it 
not  better  that  I  should  die  innocent  than 
guilty  ?  Instead  of  fi-etting  that  I  suffer,  a 
guiltless  man,  sui-ely  I  ought  to  thank  God 
that  I  am  so  ;  an'  tliat  my  soul  hasn't  to  meet 
the  sin  of  such  a  revengeful  act  as  I'm  now 
condemned  for.  I'll  die,  then,  like  a  Chris- 
tian man,  putting  my  hope  and  trust  in  the 
mercy  of  m_v  Redeemer — ever  an'  always  hop- 
ing that  by  His  assistance  I  will  be  enabled 
to  do  it." 

Dift'erent,  indeed,  were  the  moral  state  and 
position  of  these  two  young  men  ;  the  one, 
though  lying  in  his  jjrison  ceU,  was  sustam- 
ed  by  the  force  of  conscious  innocence,  and 
that  reliance  upon  the  mercy  of  God,  which 
constitutes  the  highest  order  of  piety,  and 
the  noblest  basis  of  fortitude  ;  the  other,  on 
the  contrary,  disturbed  by  the  tumultuous 
and  gloomy  associations  of  guilt,  and  writh- 
ing under  the  conviction,  that,  although  he 
had  revenge,  he  had  not  satisfaction.  The 
terror  of  crime  was  uj)on  him,  and  he  felt 
himself  deprived  of  that  best  and  only  secu- 
rity, which  sets  all  vain  apprehensions  at  de- 
fiance, the  consciousness  of  inward  integrity. 
Wlio,  after  all,  would  barter  an  honest  heart 
for  the  danger  arising  from  secret  villany, 
when  such  an  apijarently  triumj^hant  villain 
as  Bartle  Flanagan  felt  a  deadh'  fear  of  Con- 
nor O'Donovan  in  his  very  dungeon  ?  Such, 
however,  is  gndt,  and  such  are  the  terrors 
that  accompany  it. 

The  circumstances  which,  in  Ireland,  usual- 
ly follow  the  conviction  of  a  criminal,  are  so 
similar  to  each  other,  that  we  feel  it,  even  in 
this  case,  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  give 
a  mere  sketch  of  Connor's  brief  life  as  a  cul- 
prit. We  have  just  observed  that  tlie  only 
clause  in  tlie  judge's  charge  which  smote  the 
heart  of  the  traitor,  Flanagan,  with  a  j^re- 
sentiment  of  e\'il,  was  that  containing  the 
woi'ds  in  which  something  like  a  hopaofhav- 


268 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ing  liis  sentence  mitigated  was  lield  out  to 
him,  in  consequence  of  the  recommendation 
to  mercy  by  wHcli  the  jvu-y  accompanied 
their  verdict.  It  is  very  strange,  on  the 
other  hand,  tliat,  at  the  ^Jrcssnt  stage  of  our 
story,  neither  liis  father  nar  mother  knew  any- 
thing whatsoever  of  the  judge  ha^'iug  given 
expression  to  such  a  hope.  The  old  man, 
distracted  as  he  was  at  the  time,  heard  noth- 
ing, or  at  least  remembered  nothing,  but 
the  awful  appearance  of  the  black  cap,  or,  as 
they  term  it  in  the  country,  the  barradh  dim, 
and  the  jiaralyzing  words  in  which  the  sen- 
tence of  death  was  pronounced  ujjon  his  son. 
It  consequently  happened  that  the  same 
clause  iu  the  chai-ge  actually,  although  in  a 
different  sense,  occasioned  the  miseiy  of  Bar- 
tie  Flimagan  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  Con- 
nor's parents  on  the  other. 

The  morning  after  the  trial,  Fardorougha 
was  up  as  early  as  usual,  but  his  grief  was 
nearly  as  vehement  and  frantic  as  on  the 
preceding  night.  It  was  observed,  however 
— such  is  the  power  of  sorrow  to  humanize 
and  create  symj)athy  in  the  heart — that, 
when  he  arose,  instead  of  peevishly  and 
weakly  obtruding  his  grief  and  care  upon 
those  about  him,  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  he 
now  kejJt  aloof  from  the  room  iu  which  Hon- 
or sle]3t,  fi'om  an  aj)preheusiou  of  disturbing 
her  repose — a  fact  which  none  who  knew  his 
previous  selfishness  would  have  beheved,  had 
he  not  himself  expressed  iu  strong  terms  a 
fear  of  awakening  her.  Nor  did  this  new 
trait  of  his  character  escaj)e  the  obseiTation 
of  his  own  servants,  esjjeciaUy  of  his  honest 
monitor,  Nogher  M'Cormiek. 

"Well,  well,"  exclaimed  this  rustic  phil- 
osopher ;  "  see  what  God's  affliction  does. 
Faith,  it  has  brought  Fardorougha  to  feel  a 
trifle  for  others,  as  well  as  for  himself.  Who 
knows,  begad,  but  it  may  take  the  miUstoue 
out  of  his  heart  yet  ;  and  if  it  does,  my  word 
to  you,  he  may  thank  his  wife,  undher  God, 
for  it." 

Before  leaving  home  that  morning  to  see 
his  son,  he  found  with  deep  regret  that 
Honor's  illness  had  been  so  much  increased 
by  the  events  of  the  preceding  day,  that  she 
could  not  leave  her  bed.  And  now,  for  the 
first  time,  a  thought,  loaded  with  double  an- 
guish, struck  vipou  his  heart. 

"  Saver  of  earth  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what 
would  become  of  me  if  both  should  go  and 
lave  me  alone  ?  God  of  heaven,  alone  !  Ay, 
ay,"  he  continued,  "  I  see  it.  I  see  how 
asily  God  might  make  my  situation  still 
worse  than  I  thought  it  coidd  be.  Oh  God, 
forgive  me  my  sins  ;  and  may  God  soften  my 
heart !     Amin  !  " 

He  then  went  to  see  his  wife  ere  he  set 
out  for  his  unhappy  sou  ;  and  it  was  with 


much  satisfaction  that  Honor  observed  a 
changed  and  chastened  tone  in  his  manner, 
which  she  had  never,  except  for  a  moment  at 
the  birth  of  his  child,  noticed  before.  Not 
that  his  grief  was  much  lessened,  but  it  was 
more  rational,  and  altogether  fi-ee  fi'om  the 
violence  and  impiety  which  had  characterized 
it  when  he  awoke  from  his  intoxication. 

"  .Honor,"  said  he,  "  how  do  you  find  your- 
self this  mornin',  alanna?  They  tell  me 
you're  worse  than  you  wor  yesterday." 

"  Lideed,  I'm  wake  enough,"  she  replied, 
"  and  very  much  bate  do^^ai,  Fardorougha  ; 
but  you  know  it's  not  our  own  striugth  at 
any  time  that  we're  to  depend  ujDon,  but 
God's.  I'm  not  willing  to  attempt  anything 
beyant  my  power  at  present.  Mj'  seeing 
him  now  would  do  neither  of  us  any  good, 
a,nd  might  do  me  a  great  dale  o'  harm.  I 
must  see  him,  to  be  sure,  and  I'U  strive, 
plase  God,  to  gather  up  a  httle  strength  for 
that." 

"  My  heart's  breakin'.  Honor,  and  I'm 
beginnin'  to  see  that  I've  acted  a  bad  j)art  to 
both  of  you  all  along.  I  feel  it,  indeed  ; 
and  if  it  was  the  wiU  of  God,  I  didn't  cai-e 
if " 

"Whisht,  accushla,  whisht — sich  talk  as 
that's  not  right.  Think,  Fardorougha, 
whether  you  acted  a  bad  jJart  towards  God 
or  not,  and  never  heed  us ;  an'  think,  too, 
dear,  whether  you  acted  a  bad  or  a  good 
part  towards  the  p)oor,  an'  them  that  was  in 
distress  and  hardshiiJ,  an'  that  came  to  you 
for  reUef  ;  they  were  your  fellow-crathers, 
Fardorougha,  at  aU  evints.  Think  of  these 
things  I'm  sayin,  and  never  heed  us.  You 
know  that  Connor  and  I  forgive  you,  but 
vou  arn't  so  sure  whether  God  and  them 
wiU." 

These  observations  of  this  estimable 
woman  had  the  desired  effect,  which  was,  as 
she  afterwards  said,  to  divert  her  husband's 
mind  as  much  as  possible  fiom  the  contem- 
plation of  Connor's  fate,  and  to  fix  it  upon 
the  consideration  of  those  duties  in  which 
she  knew  his  conscience,  now  touched  by 
calamity,  would  tell  him  he  had  been  defi- 
cient. 

Fardorougha  was  silent  for  some  time 
after  her  last  observations — but  at  length  he 
observed : 

"  Would  it  he  joossible.  Honor,  that  aU 
this  was  brought  upon  us  in  ordher  to  pun- 
ish me  for — for " 

"To  j)unish  you,  Fardorougha?  Farefr 
gaih  avoiirncm,  ani't  we  all  punished?  look 
at  my  worn  face,  and  think  of  what  ten  days 
sorrow  can  do  iu  a  mother's  heart — think, 
too,  of  the  boy.  Oh  no,  no — do  you  think 
we  have  uothin'  to  be  punished  for  ?  But  wt 
have  all  one  comfort,  F;u'dorougha,  and  thai 


FARDOROUGTIA,   THE  MISER. 


269 


iv,  ibut  God's  ever  and  always  willin'  to  re- 
BP-Te  ns,  when  we  turn  to  Him  wd  a  true 
heart  ?  Nobody,  aviliish,  can  forget  and  for- 
give as  Ke  does." 

"  Honor,  why  didn't  you  oftener  spake  to 
me  this  a-way  than  you  did  ?  " 

"  I  often  did,  dear,  an'  you  may  remember 
it ;  but  yoii  were  then  strong  ;  you  had  your 
wealth  ;  everything  flowed  wid  you,  an'  the 
Barne  wealth — the  world's  temptation — was 
stroiig  in  your  heart ;  but  God  has  taken  it 
from  you  I  hope  as  a  blessing — for,  indeed, 
Fai-dr-rougha,  I'm  afeard  if  you  had  it  now, 

thai  lieither  he  nor but  I  won't  say  it, 

dear,  for  God  sees  I  don't  wish  to  say  one 
■word  that  'ud  distress  j'ou  now,  avoumeen. 
Ar^y  how,  Fardorougha,  never  despair  in 
God's  goodness — never  do  it ;  who  can  tell 
what  may  haj)pen  ?  " 

Her  husband's  grief  was  thus  checked, 
and  a  train  of  serious  reflection  laid,  which, 
like  some  of  those  self-evident  convictions 
that  fastened  on  the  awakened  conscience, 
the  old  man  could  not  shake  oft*. 

Honor,  in  her  further  conversation  with 
him,  touching  the  coming  interview  with  the 
unhappy  culprit,  desired  him,  above  all 
things,  to  set  "  their  noble  boy  "  an  example 
of  firmness,  and  by  no  means  to  hold  out  to 
him  any  expectation  of  life. 

"  It  would  be  worse  than  murdher,"  she 
exclaimed,  "to  do  so.  No — prepare  liim by 
your  advice,  Fardorougha,  ay,  and  by  yoiu- 
example,  to  be  firm — and  teU  him  that  his 
mother  expects  he  ^vill  die  like  an  innocent 
man — noble  and  brave — and  not  Uke  a  guilty 
coward,  afeard  to  look  up  and  meet  his 
God." 

Infidels  and  hypocrites,  so  long  as  their 
career  in  vice  is  unchecked  by  calamity,  will 
no  doubt  sneer  when  we  assure  them,  that 
Fardorougha,  after  leaving  his  wife  that 
morning  •once  more  to  visit  his  son,  felt  a 
sense  of  relief,  or,  perhaps  we  should  say,  a 
breaking  of  faint  light  upon  his  mind, 
wliich,  slight  as  it  was,  afforded  him  more 
comfort  and  support  than  he  ever  hoped  to 
experience.  Indeed,  it  was  almost  impossi- 
ble for  any  heart  to  exist  within  the  influ- 
ence of  that  i^iety  which  animated  his  ad- 
mirable mfe,  and  not  catch  the  holy  fire 
which  there  burned  with  such  purity  and 
brightness. 

Ii'eland,  however,  abounds  with  such  in- 
stances of  female  piety  and  fortitude,  not, 
indeed,  as  they  would  be  made  to  appear  in 
the  uufeminine  violence  of  political  turmoil, 
in  whictli  a  tnily  pious  female  would  not 
embroil  herself  ;  but  in  the  qviiet  recesses  of 
domestic  life — in  the  hard  struggles  against 
poverty,  and  in  those  cruel  visitations,  where 
the  godly  mother  is  forced  to  see  her  inno- 


cent son  coiTupted  by  the  dark  influence  of 
political  crime,  drawTi  wthin  the  vortex  ol 
secret  confederacy,  and  subsequently  yieldiug 
up  his  life  to  the  outraged  laws  of  that  coun- 
try which  he  assisted  to  distract.  It  is  in 
scenes  like  these  that  the  unostentatious 
magnanimity  of  the  pious  Irish  wife  or 
mother  may  be  discovered  ;  and  it  is  Jiere 
where,  as  the  night  and  storms  of  life  darken 
her  path,  the  holy  fortitude  of  her  heart 
shines  with  a  lustre  proportioned  to  the 
dej^tli  of  the  gloom  around  her. 

When  Fardorougha  reached  the  town  in 
which  his  ill-fated  son  occuijied  the  cell  of  a 
felon,  he  found  to  his  sui-prise  that,  early  as 
were  his  habits,  there  were  others  whose 
movements  were  still  more  early  than  his 
o^vn.  John  O'Brien  had  come  to  town — 
been  with  his  attorney — had  got  a  memorial 
in  behalf  of  Connor  to  the  Irish  government, 
engrossed,  and  actually  signed  by  more  than 
one-half  of  the  jury  who  tried  him — all  before 
the  hour  of  ten  o'clock.  A  copy  of  this  docu- 
ment, which  was  wi-itten  by  O'iirien  himself, 
now  lies  before  us,  with  the  names  of  all  the 
jui'ors  attached  to  it  ;  and  a  more  beautiful 
or  aft'ecting  j)iece  of  composition  we  have 
never  read.  The  energy  and  activity  of 
O'Brien  were  certainly  uncommon,  and  so, 
indeed,  were  his  motives.  As  he  himself 
told  Fardorougha,  whom  he  met  as  the  latter 
entered  the  to^ai — 

"  I  would  do  what  I  have  done  for  Connor, 
although  I  have  never  yet  exchanged  a  sylla- 
ble wth  liim.  Yet,  I  do  assure  you,  Fardo- 
rougha, that  I  have  other  motives — which 
you  shall  never  know — far  stronger  than  any 
connected  with  the  fate  of  j-our  son.  Now, 
don't  misunderstand  me." 

"  No,"  replied  the  helpless  old  man,  who 
was  ignorant  of  the  condition  of  liis  sister, 
"I  will  not,  indeed — I'd  be  long  .saiTy." 

O'Brien  saw  that  any  rational  explanation 

he  might  give  would  be  only  tlu'o\\Ti  away 

i  upon  a  man  who   seemed  to  be  so  utterly 

absorbed  and  stupefied  by  the  force  of  hia 

own  suft'erings. 

"  Poor  old  man,"  he  exclaimed,  as  Fai-do- 
I'ougha  left  Mm,  to  ^-isit  Connor  ;  "  see  what 
affliction  does "?  There  are  thousands  now 
who  pity  you — even  you,  whom  almost  every 
one  who  knew  you,  cursed  and  detested." 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  fact.  The  old  man's 
hardness  of  heart  was  forgotten  in  the  pity 
that  was  produced  by  the  dreadful  fate  which 
awaited  his  unhappy  son.  We  must  now 
pass  briefly'  over  occuiTences  wliich  are  better 
understood  when  left  to  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion. John  O'Brien  was  not  the  only  one 
who  interested  himself  in  the  fate  of  Connor. 
Fardorougha,  as  a  matter  of  course,  got  the 
priest  of  the  parish,  a  good  and  j^ious  man, 


270 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


to  draw  up  a  memorial  in  the  name,  as  lie 
baid,  of  Liniself  and  his  wife.  The  gentry  of 
the  neighborhood,  also,  including  the  mem- 
bers of  the  grand  jury,  addressed  government 
on  his  behalf — for  somehow  there  was  created 
among  those  who  knew  the  parties,  or  even 
who  heard  the  history  of  their  loves,  a 
sympathy  wliich  resulted  more  fi'om  those 
generous  impulses  that  intuitively  perceive 
truth,  than  from  the  cooler  calculations  of 
reason.  The  heart  never  reasons — it  is, 
therefore,  the  seat  of  feeUng,  and  the  foun- 
tain of  mercy  ;  the  head  does — and  it  is 
probably  on  that  account  the  seat  of  justice, 
often  of  severity,  and  not  unfi'equently  of 
cruelty  and  persecution,  Connor  himself 
was  much  relieved  by  that  day's  interview 
with  his  father.  Even  he  could  perceive  a 
cliange  for  the  better  in  the  old  man's  deport- 
ment. Fardorougha's  praises  of  Honor,  and 
his  strong  allusions  to  the  supj)ort  and 
affection  he  experienced  at  her  hands,  under 
circumstances  so  trying,  were  indeed  weU 
calculated  to  prepare  "  her  noble  boy,"  as 
she  truly  called  him,  for  the  reception  of  the 
still  more  noble  message  which  she  sent  him. 

"Father,"  said  he,  as  they  separated  that 
day,  "  tell  my  mother  that  I  will  die  as  she 
wishes  me  ;  and  teU  her,  too,  that  if  I  wasn't 
an  innocent  man,  I  could  not  do  it.  And  oh, 
father,"  he  added,  and  he  seized  his  hands, 
and  fell  upon  his  neck,  "oh,  father  dear,  if 
3'ou  love  me,  your  own  Connor — and  I  know 
you  do — oh,  then,  father  dear,  I  say  again, 
be  guided  in  this  heavy  affliction  by  my  dear 
mother's  advice." 

"Connor,"  returned  the  old  man,  deeply 
affected,  "  I  wiU.  I  had  made  my  mind  up 
to  that  afore  I  saw  you  at  all  to-daj'.  Con- 
nor, do  you  know  what  I'm  beginning  to 
think?" 

"No,  father  dear,  I  do  not." 

"Wliy,  then,  it's  tliis,  that  she'll  be  the 
manes  of  savin'  yoiu-  father's  soul.  Connor, 
I  can  look  back  now  upon  my  money — all  I 
lost — it  was  no  doubt  t«rrible — terrible  all 
out.  Connor,  my  rint  is  due,  and  I  haven't 
the  manes  of  meetin'  it." 

Alas  !  thought  the  boy,  how  hard  it  is  to 
root  altogether  out  of  the  heart  that  prin- 
cixjle  which  inclines  it  to  the  love  of  wealth  ! 

"  At  any  rate,  I  will  take  your  advice, 
Connor,  and  lie  guided  by  your  mother. 
She's  very  poorly,  or  she'd  be  wid  you  afore 
now  ;  but,  indeed,  Connor,  her  health  is  the 
occasion  of  it — it  is — it  is  !  " 

Fardorougha's  apologj'  for  his  'mie  con- 
tained much  more  truth  than  he  himself  was 
aware  of  at  the  time  he  made  it.  On  return- 
ing home  that  night  he  found  her  consider- 
ably worse,  but,  as  she  hatl  been  generally 
heiilthy,  he  very  naturally  ascribed  her  illness 


to  the  affliction  she  felt  for  the  fate  of  thcii 
son.  In  this,  however,  he  was  mistaken,  as 
the  original  cause  of  it  was  unconnectGd  ^nXi, 
the  heavy  domestic  dispensation  Vi'ViioI.  had 
fallen  upon  them.  So  far  as  she  wa?  con- 
cerned, the  fate  of  her  boy  would  hive  csUed 
up  from  her  heart  fresh  energj'  ani  it'  pos- 
sible a  liigher  order  of  meek  but  pii  r>-  ot .\ir- 
age.  She  would  not  have  left  him  vj.' sus- 
tained and  uncherished,  had  the  ph^j.sical 
powers  of  the  mother  been  able  to  S'.'cond 
the  sacred  jDrinciples  with  which  she  mev  and 
triumphed  over  the  trial  that  was  In  id  UTX)n 
her. 

It  was  one  evening  about  ten  days  after 
O'Douovan's  conviction  that  Bodagh  Euie 
O'Brien's  wife  sat  by  the  bedside  of  hcj  en- 
feebled and  languishing  daughter.  The 
crisis  of  her  comjslaint  had  passed  the  diiy 
before  ;  and  a  very  slight  im];rovement,  visi- 
ble only  to  the  eye  of  her  ishysieian,  had 
taken  place.  Her  delfrium  remained  much 
as  before  ;  sometimes  returnmg  with  con- 
siderable violence,  and  agaui  lea^^ng  reason, 
thovigh  feeble  and  easUj'  disturbed,  yet  when 
imexcited  by  external  causes,  cajjable  of  .ap- 
plying its  powers  to  the  circumstances 
around  her.  On  this  occasion  the  mother, 
who  watched  every  motion  and  anticipated 
every  wish  of  the  beloved  one,  saw  that  she 
turned  her  eye  several  times  upon  her  as  if 
some  peculiar  anxiety  distressed  her. 

"Una,  jewel,"  she  at  length  inqufred,  "is 
there  anything  you  want,  colleen  maehree  ; 
or  anj'thing  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Come  near  me,  mother,"  she  rejiUed, 
"  come  near  me." 

Her  mother  approached  her  still  more 
nearly. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"  I'm  afraid  to  ask  it." 

"  Only  wait  for  a  minute  or  two,"  said  her 
mother,  "  an'  John  wiU — but  here's  the  doc- 
tor's foot ;  they  wor  si^akin'  a  word  or  two 
below  ;  an'  whisper,  dai'hn'  o'  my  heart,  sure 
John  hss  sometliing  to  teU  you — something 
that  will" 

She  looked  with  a  searching  anxiety  into 
her  mother's  face  ;  and  it  might  have  been 
perceived  that  the  mornuig  twilight  of  hope 
beamed  faintlj-  but  beautifully  upon  her  pale 
features.  The  expression  that  passed  over 
them  was  indeed  so  hglit  and  tivansient  that 
one  could  scarcely  say  she  smiied  ;  yet  that 
a  more  perceptible  serenity  diffu.sed  its  gen- 
tle irradiation  over  her  Lmguid  counteuiuice 
was  observed  even  by  her  mother. 

The  doctor's  repoi't  was  favorable. 

"  She  is  slowly  improving,"  he  said,  on 
reaching  the  pailor,  "  since  yesterday  ;  I'm 
afraid,  however,  she's  too  weak  at  present  to 
sustain  this  intelligence.      I  would  recom- 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


371 


Mend  you  to  wait  for  a  day  or  two,   and  in  I 
tlie  meantime  to  assume  a  cheerful  deport-  I 
luent,  and  to  break  it  to  lier  rather  \>y  your  i 
loots  and  manner  than  by  a  direct  or  abrupt 
commuuieation. " 

They  promised  to  observe  his  directions  ; 
but  when  her  mother  informed  them  of  the 
liint  she  herself  tlu-ew  out  to  her,  they  re- 
s--. lived  to  delay  the  matter  no  longer  ;  and 
John,  in  consequence  of  what  his  mother 
had  led  her  to  exjaect,  went  to  break  the  in- 
telligence to  her  as  well  as  he  could.  An 
ex2)ectation  had  been  raised  in  her  mind, 
and  he  judged  proj^erly  enough  that  there 
was  less  danger  in  satisfying  it  than  in  leav- 
ing her  just  then  in  a  state  of  such  j)ainful 
uncertainty. 

"Dear  Una,"  said  he,  "I  am  glad  to  hear 
the  doctor  say  that  you  are  better." 

"I  think  I  am  a  little,"  said  she. 

"  Wliat  was  my  mother  saying  to  you, 
just  now,  before  the  doctor  was  with  you  ? 
But  why  do  you  look  at  me  so  keenly,  Una  ?  " 
said  he,  cheerfully  ;  "  it's  some  time  since  you 
saw  me  in  such  a  good  humor — isn't  it  ?" 

She  paused  for  a  moment  herself  ;  and 
her  brother  could  observe  that  the  hope 
which  liis  manner  was  calculated  to  awaken, 
lit  itself  into  a  faint  smile  rather  visible  in 
har  eyes  than  on  her  features. 

"  Why,  I  beUeve  you  are  smiling  yourself, 
Ifna." 

"  John,"  said  she,  earnestly,  "  is  it  good  ?  " 

"  It  is,  darling — he  wont  die." 

"  Kiss  me,  kiss  me,"  she  said ;  "  may 
eternal  blessings  rest  upon  you  ! " 

She  then  kissed  him  affectionately,  laid 
her  head  back  vipon  the  pillow,  and  John 
saw  with  delight  that  the  large  tears  of  haji- 
piness  rolled  in  torrents  down  her  pale 
cheeks. 

It  was  indeed  true  that  Connor  O'Douo- 
van  was  not  to  die.  The  memorials  which 
had  reached  government  fi'om  so  many 
quarters,  backed  as  they  were  hy  very  f)ower- 
ful  influence,  and  detaihng  as  they  did  a 
case  of  such  very  romantic  interest,  could 
scarcely  fail  in  arresting  the  execution  of  so 
stern  and  deadly  a  sentence.  It  was  ascer- 
tained, too,  hy  the  intercourse  of  his  friends 
with  government,  that  the  judge  who  tried 
his  case,  notwithstanding  the  apparent  se- 
verity of  his  charge,  had  been  moved  by  an 
irresistible  impulss  to  save  him,  and  he  act- 
ually determined  from  the  begLuning  to 
have  his  sentence  commuted  to  transporta- 
tion for  life. 

The  happy  effect  of  this  communication 
on  Una  O'Brien  diffused  a  cheerful  spirit 
among  her  family  and  relatives,  who,  in 
truth,  had  feared  that  her  fate  would  ulti- 
mately depend  upon  that  of  her  lover.    After 


having  been  much  relieved  by  the  copious 
flood  of  tears  she  shed,  and  heard  with  com- 
posure all  the  details  connected  with  the 
mitigation  of  his  sentence,  she  asked  her 
brother  if  Connor's  parents  had  been  yet 
made  acquainted  with  it. 

"  I  think  not,"  he  replied  ;  "  the  time  is 
too  short." 

"Jolm,"  said  the  affectionate  girl,  "oh, 
consider  his  mother  ;  and  think  of  the  misery 
that  one  single  hour's  knowledge  of  this 
may  take  away  fi'om  her  heart !  Go  to  her, 
my  dear  John,  and  may  all  the  blessings  of 
heaven  rest  upon  you  !  " 

"  Good-by,  then,  Una  dear  ;  I  will  go." 

He  took  her  worn  hand  in  his,  as  he 
sjjoke,  and,  looking  on  her  with  affectionate 
admii-ation,  added — 

"Yes  !  good-by,  my  darling  sister  ;  believe 
me,  Una,  that  I  think  if  there's  justice  in 
Heaven,  you'll  have  a  light  heart  yet." 

"It  is  very  light  now,"  she  returned, 
"  compared  with  what  it  was  ;  but  go,  John, 
don't  lose  a  moment ;  for  I  know  ii'hat  they 
aiifl'er." 

Her  mother,  after  John's  departure  for 
Fardorougha's,  went  up  to  sit  with  lier';  but 
she  found  that  the  j)revious  scene,  although 
it  relieved,  had  exhausted  her.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  minutes  their  limited  dia- 
logue ceased,  and  she  sank  into  a  sound  and 
refreshing  sleep,  fi-om  which  she  did  not 
awaken  until  her  brother  had  some  time  re- 
turned from  the  execution  of  his  pious  mes- 
sage. Au<l  piously  was  that  message  received 
by  lier  for  whose  misery  the  considerate 
heart  of  Una  O'Brien  felt  so  deeply.  Far- 
dorougha  had  been  out  about  the  premises, 
mechanically  looking  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  business  of  his  farm"  had  been  of  late 
managed  by  his  two  servants,  when  he  de- 
scried O'Brien  approaching  the  house  at  a 
quick  if  not  a  hurried  jjace.  He  immediately 
went  in  and  communicated  the  circumstance 
to  liis  wife. 

"Honor,"  said  he,  "here  is  BodaghBuie's 
son  comin'  up  to  the  house — what  on  earth 
can  bring  the  boy  here  ?  " 

This  was  the  first  day  on  which  his  ■wife 
had  been  able  to  rise  from  her  sick  bed.  She 
was  consequently  feeble,  and,  jihysieally 
speaking,  capable  of  no  domestic  exertion. 
Her  mind,  however,  was  firm  as  ever,  and 
prompt  as  before  her  calamity  to  direct  and 
overlook,  in  her  own  sweet  and  affectionate 
manner,  whatever  required  her  sujierinten- 
dence. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Fardorougha," 
she  replied.  "  It  can't,  I  hope,  lie  -ndd  bad 
news— they  thravel  fast  enough — an'  I'm 
sure  the  Bodagh's  son  woiddn't  take  i^leacur* 
in  beiu'  the  first  to  tell  them  to  us." 


873 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  But  what  can  bring  him,  Honor  ?  What 
on  eai'th  can  bring  the  boy  here  now,  that 
never  stood  undher  our  roof  afore  ?  " 

"  Three  or  four  minutes,  Fardorougha, 
will  tell  us.  Let  u^  hoi^e  in  God  it  isn't  bad. 
Eh,  Saver  above,  it  wouldn't  be  the  death  of 
his  sister — of  Connor's  Oona  !  No,"  she  add- 
ed, "  they  wouldn't  send,  much  less  come, 
to  tell  us  that;  but  sure  we'll  hear  it — we'll 
hear  it ;  and  may  God  give  us  stringth  to  hear 
it  right,  whether  it's  good  or  bad  !  Amin, 
Jasus,  this  day  !  " 

She  had  hardly  uttered  the  last  words, 
when  O'Brien  entered. 

"Young  man,"  said  this  superior  woman, 
"  it's  a  poor  welcome  we  can  give  you  to  a 
house  of  sorrow." 

"Ay,"  said  Fardorougha,  "  his  mother  an' 
I's  here,  but  where  is  he '?  Nine  days  fi'ora 
this  ;  but  it  'Ul ,  kill  me — it  will — it  will. 
Whin  he's  taken  from  me,  I  don't  care  how 
soon  I  folly  him  ;  God  forgive  me  if  it's  a  sin 
to  say  so  !  " 

"Fardorougha,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of 
affectionate  reproof,  "reminiber  what  you 
promised  me,  an',  at  all  evints,  you  forget 
that  ]Mi\  O'Brien  here  may  have  his  own 
troubles  ;  I  heard  your  sister  was  unwell. 
Oh,  how  is  she,  poor  thing  ?  " 

"I  thank  you,  a  great  deal  better  ;  I  mil 
not  deny  but  she  heard  a  piece  of  intelligence 
this  daj',  thiit  has  reheved  her  mind  and 
taken  a  dead  weight  oft' her  heart." 

Honor,  mth  uncommon  firmness  and 
solemuity  of  manner,  placed  her  hand  upon 
bis  shoulder,  and,  looking  him  earnestly  in 
the  face,  said, 

"  That  news  is  about  our  son  ?  " 

"It  is,"  replied  O'Brien,  "and  it's  good; 
his  sentence  is  changed,  and  he  is  not  to 
die." 

"  Not  to  die  ! "  shrieked  the  old  man, 
starting  ujj,  and  clapping  his  hands  frantic- 
ally— '■  not  to  die  !  our  son — -Connor,  Con- 
nor— not  to  be  hanged — not  to  be  hanged  ! 
Did  you  say  that,  son  of  O'Brien  Buie,  did 
you — did  you?" 

"  I  did,"  replied  the  other;  "  he  will  not 
suffer." 

"  Now  that's  God,"  ejaculated  Fardor- 
ougha, wildly  ;  "  that's  God  an'  his  mother's 
prayers.  Boys,"  he  shrieked,  "  come  here  ; 
come  here,  Biddy  Nulty,  come  here  ;  Con- 
nor's not  to  die  ;  he  won't  suifcr — he  won't 
suffer ! " 

He  was  rushing  wildly  to  the  door,  but 
Honor  placed  herself  before  him,  and  said, 
in  that  voice  of  calmness  wliich  is  uniformly 
that  of  authority  and  power  : 

"  Fardorougha,  dear,  calm  yourself.  If 
this  is  God's  work,  as  you  say,  why  not 
resavG   it   as  comin'  from  God?     It's  upon 


your  two  knees  you  ought  to  droj?,  an' — — 
Saver  above,  what's  the  matther  wid  him? 
He's  oft" ;  keep  him  up.  Oh,  God  bless  yoii ! 
that's  it,  avourneen  ;  jist  pla(te  him  on  the 
chaii"  there  forninst  the  door,  wdiere  he  can 
have  air.  Here,  dear,"  said  she  to  Bidciy 
Nulty,  who,  on  hearing  herself  called  by  hfr 
master,  had  come  in  from  another  room ; 
"  get  some  feathers,  Biddy,  till  we  burn  them 
undher  his  nose  ;  but  first  fetch  a  jug  of  cold 
water." 

On  looking  at  the  face  of  the  miser, 
O'Brien  started,  as  indeed  well  he  might,  at 
such  a  pallid,  worn,  and  death-like  comite- 
nance  ;  why,  thought  he  to  himself,  surely 
this  must  be  death,  and  the  old  man's  cares, 
and  sorrows,  and  hoj)es,  are  all  passed  for- 
ever. 

Honor  now  bathed  his  face,  and  wet  his 
lijis  with  water,  and  as  she  sprinkled  and 
rubbed  back  the  gray  hair  from  his  emaciated 
temples,  there  might  be  read  there  an  ex- 
jiression  of  singular  wildness  that  resembles 
the  wreck  produced  by  insanity. 

"  He  looks  ill,"  obsei"ved  O'Brien,  who 
actually  thought  him  dead  ;  "  but  I  hope  it 
won't  signify." 

"  I  trust  in  God's  mercy  it  won't,"  replied 
Honor  ;  "  for  till  his  heart,  poor  man,  is 
brought  more  to  God — " 

Slie  jsaused  mth  untaught  delicacy,  fof  she 
reflected  that  he  was  her  husband. 

"For  that  matther,  who  is  there,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  that  is  fit  to  go  to  their  last  account 
at  a  moment's  warnin'  ?  That's  a  good  girl, 
Biddy  ;  give  me  the  feathers  ;  there's  noth- 
ing like  them.  Dlieah  Gras'lhiux !  Dheah 
Qraxtliias!"  she  exclaimed,  "he's  not — he's 
not — an'  I  was  afeard  he  was — no,  he's  re- 
coverin'.  Shake  him ;  rouse  liim  a  little  ; 
Fardorougha,  dear  !  " 

"  Where — where  am  I  ?  "  exclaimed  her 
husband  ;  "  what  is  this  ?  what  ails  me  ?  " 

He  then  looked  inquiringly  at  his  wife  and 
O'Brien  ;  but  it  appeai'ed  that  the  presence 
of  the  latter  revived  in  his  mind  the  cause  of 
his  excitement. 

"  Is  it — is  it  thrue,  young  man?  tell  me — ■ 
tell  mo  !  " 

"  How,  dear,  can  any  one  have  sisirits  to 
tell  jou  good  news,  W'lien  yovi  can't  beai-  it 
aither  hke  a  man  or  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  Good  news !  You  say,  then,  it's  thiiie, 
an'  he's  not  to  be  hanged  by  the  nock,  as  the 
judge  said  ;  an'  my  cirrse — my  heavy  curse 
ujjon  him  for  a  judge  !  " 

"  I  hate  to  hear  the  words  of  his  sentence, 
Fardorougha,"  said  the  wife;  "but  if  you 
have  patience  you'll  find  that  his  life's  grant- 
ed to  hini ;  an',  for  Heaven's  sake,  curse 
nobody.     The  judge  only  did  his  duty." 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed,   sinking  upon  liis 


FARDOROUGllA,    THE  MISER. 


27H 


knees,  "  now,  from  this  day  out,  let  what 
will  hajjpeu,  I'll  stick  to  my  duty  to  God — 
I'll  repent — I'll  repent  sind  lead  a  new  life. 

I  will,  an'  wbile  I'm  alive  I'll  never  say  a 
word  against  tue  -will  cl  my  heavenly  Saviour  ; 
never,  never." 

"  Fardorougha,"  replied  his  wiia,  "it'c 
good,  no  doubt,  to  have  a  grateful  heart  to 
God ;  but  I'm  afeard  there's  sin  in  what 
you're  savin',  for  you  know,  dear,  that, 
whether  it  jjlased  the  Almighty  to  take  our 
boy,  or  not,  what  you've  promised  to  do  is 
your  duty.  It's  like  sayiu',  'I'll  now  turn 
"my  heart  bekase  God  has  deserved  it  at  my 
hands.'  Still,  dear,  Vm  not  goin'  to  con- 
dimn  you,  only  I  think  it's  betther  an'  safer 
to  love  an'  obey  God  for  His  own  sake, 
blessed  be  His  holy  name  !  " 

Young  O'Brien  was  forcibly  struck  by  the 
uncommon  character  of  Honor  O'Donovan. 
Her  patience,  good  sense,  and  sincere  a'?- 
quiescence  in  the  will  of  God,  under  so  severe 

II  trial,  were  such  as  he  had  never  seen 
equalled.  Nor  could  he  help  admitting  to 
himself,  wliile  contemplating  her  conduct, 
that  the  examj^le  of  such  a  woman  was  not 
only  the  most  beautiful  comment  on  religion  4 
truth,  but  the  noblest  testimony  of  iti 
l^ower. 

"  Yes,  Honor,"  said  the  husband,  in  reply, 
■'you're  right,  for  I  know  that  what  you  siy 
is  alwaj-s  thrue.  It  is,  indeed,"  he  added, 
addressing  O'Brien,  "  she's  aquil  to  a  prayer- 
book. " 

"  Yes,  and  far  sujjerior  to  any,"  replied  the 
latter  ;  "  for  she  not  only  gives  you  the  advice, 
but  sets  you  the  example." 

"Ay,  the  sorra  lie  in  it;  an',  oh.  Honor, 

he's  not  to  die — he's  not  to  be  h ,  not  to 

suffer.  Our  son's  to  live !  Oh,  Saver  of 
earth,  make  me  thankful  this  day  !  " 

The  tears  ran  fast  from  his  eyes  as  he 
looked  up  to  heaven,  and  uttered  the  last 
words.  Indeed,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel 
deep  comf)assion  for  this  aged  man,  whose 
heart  had  been  smitten  so  heavily,  and  on 
the  only  two  jioints  where  it  was  capable  of 
feeling  the  blow. 

After  having  indulged  his  grief  for  some 
lime,  he  became  considerabh'  more  com- 
I'osed,  if  not  cheei-ful.  Honor  made  many 
kind  inquiries  after  Una's  health,  to  which 
her  l)rother  answered  with  stj'ict  candoi-,  for 
he  had  heard  fi'om  Una  that  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  whole  history  of  their 
court.ship. 

"  Who  knows,"  said  she,  speaking  with 
reference  to  their  melancholy  fate,  "  but  the 
God  who  has  saved  his  life,  an'  most  likely 
hers,  may  yet  do  more  for  them  both '? 
While  there's  life  there's  hope!" 

"  Young  man,"  said  Fardorougha,   "  you 


carr\'  a  blessiu'  wid  you  wherever  3'ou  go,  nil' 
may  God  bless  you  for  the  news  you  have 
brought  tons  this  day  !  I'll  go  to  .see  him  to- 
morrow, an'  \ru\.  a  light  heai-t  111  go  too,  for 
my  sou  is  not  to  die." 

O'Brien  then  took  his  leave  and  returned 
home,  jiondering,  as  he  went,  upon  the 
singular  ccntrast  which  existed  between  the 
character  of  the  miser  and  tliat  of  his  ad- 
mirable wife.  He  was  no  sooner  gone  than 
Honor  adtb-essed  her  husband  as  follows  : 

"Fardorougha,  what  do  you  think  we 
ought  both  to  do  now  afther  the  happy  news 
we've  heard  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  guided  by  you.  Honor ;  I'll  bo 
guided  by  you." 

'■  Then,"  said  she,  "go  an'  thank  God  that 
has  taken  the  edge,  the  bitther,  keen  edge 
off  of  our  sufferin' ;  an"  the  best  way,  in  my 
opinion,  for  you  to  do  it,  is  to  go  to  the  barn 
by  yourself,  an'  strive  to  jiut  your  whole 
heart  into  yoiir  prayers.  You'll  pray  betther 
by  yourself  than  wid  me.  An'  in  the  nsmf 
of  God  I'U  do  the  same  as  well  as  I  can  in 
the  house  here.  To-morrow,  too,  is  Friday, 
iVn',  plaise  our  Saviour,  we'U  1)oth  fast  in 
honor  of  His  goodness  to  us  an'  to  our  son." 

"  W^e  wiU,  Honor,"  said  he,  "  we  will,  in- 
deed ;  for  now  I  have  si^irits  to  fast,  and 
spirits  to  pray,  too.  Whit  will  I  say,  now? 
Will  I  say  the  five  Decades  or  the  whole  Eo- 
s  u-y  ?  " 

"  If  you  can  keep  your  mind  in  the  pray- 
ers, I  think  you  ought  to  say  the  whole  of 
it ;  Init  if  you  waudher  don't  say  more  than 
the  five." 

Fardoi'ouglia  then  went  to  the  bam,  rather 
becatise  his  wife  desired  him,  than  from  a 
higher  motive,  whilst  she  withdrew  to  her 
own  aj)artmeut,  there  humbly  to  worship 
God  in  thanksgiving. 

The  next  day  had  made  the  commutation 
of  Connor's  j)unishment  a  matter  of  notoriety 
through  the  whole  parish,  and  very  sincere 
indeed  was  the  gratification  it  convej'ed  to 
all  who  heard  it.  Public  fame,  it  is  true, 
took  her  usual  liberties  with  the  facts.  Some 
said  he  had  got  a  free  pardon,  others  that  he 
was  to  be  liberated  after  six  mouths'  im- 
prisonment ;  and  a  third  report  asserted  that 
the  lord  lieutenant  sent  him  do^Mi  a  bimdrecl 
pounds  to  fit  him  out  for  marriage  with 
Una  ;  and  it  further  added  that  his  excellency 
wrote  a  letter  with  his  own  hand,  to  Bodagh 
Buie,  desiring  him  to  give  his  daughter  ic: 
Connor  on  receipt  of  it,  or  if  not,  that  the 
Knight  of  the  Black  Rod  would  come  down, 
stiij)  liim  of  his  laroiierty,  and  bestow  it  upon 
Coimor  and  his  daughter. 

The  young  man  himself  was  almost  one 
of  the  first  who  heard  of  this  favorable  changw 
in  his  dreadful  sentence. 


2U 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


He  was  seated  on  Lis  bedside  reading, 
when  the  sherifl'  and  jailer  entered  his  cell, 
anxious  to  lay  before  him  the  reply  which 
liad  that  moniing  arrived  from  government. 

"I'm  inclined  to  think,  O'Donovan,  that 
your  case  is  likely  to  turn  out  more  favor- 
ably than  we  expected,"  said  the  humane 
sheriif. 

"I  hope,  with  all  my  heart,  it  may,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "there  is  no  denj'ing,  sir, 
that  I'd  wisli  it.  Life  is  sweet,  especially  to 
a  young  man  of  my  years." 

"  But  if  we  should  fail,"  observed  the 
jailer,  "I  trust  you  will  act  the  part  of  a 
man." 

"  I  hope,  at  aU  events,  that  I  will  act  the 
part  of  a  Christian,"  returned  O'Donovan. 
"  I  certainly  would  rather  live  ;  but  I'm  not 
nfeard  of  death,  and  if  it  comes,  I  trust  I  will 
meet  it  humbly  but  firmly." 

"I  beUeve,"  sdd  tho  sheriff,  "you  need 
entertain  little  apprehension  of  death  ;  I'm 
inclined  to  think  .that  tliat  part  of  your  sen- 
tence is  not  likely  to  be  put  in  execution.  I 
have  heard  as  much." 

"I  think,  sii',  by  your  manner,  that  yoti 
^'.TS,"  returned  Connor  ;  "  but  I  beg  you  to 
tell  me  without  goiu'  about.  Don't  be 
afenred,  sir,  that  I'm  too  wake  to  hear  either 
good  news  or  bad." 

The  sheriff  made  no  rejily  ;  but  placed  in 
his  hands  the  official  docinnent  which  remit- 
ted to  him  the  awful  penalty  of  his  life. 
Connor  read  it  over  slowly,  and  the  other 
kept  his  eye  fixed  keenly  upon  his  couute- 
naiiee,  in  order  to  observe  his  bearing  under 
circumstances  that  are  often  known  to  test 
human  fortitude  as  severely  as  death  itself. 
He  could,  however,  perceive  no  change  ;  not 
even  the  unsteadiness  of  a  nerve  or  muscle 
was  visible,  nor  the  slightest  fluctuation  in 
the  hue  of  his  complexion. 

"  I  feel  grateful  to  the  lord  lieutenant  for 
his  mercy  to  me,"  said  he,  handing  him  back 
the  letter,  "as  I  do  to  the  fiieuds  who  inter- 
ceded for  me  ;  I  never  will  or  can  forget 
their  goodness.     Oh,  never,  never  !  " 

"I   believe   it,"    said   the   sheriff;    "but 
there's  one  thing  that  I'm  anxious  to  press 
upon  your  attention  ;  and  it's  tliis,  that  no 
further  mitigation  of  your  punishment  is  to 
be  expected  from  government ;  so  that  you  ' 
must   make   up   your  mind  to  leave   your  i 
fiiends  and  your    country   for   life,    as  you  j 
know  now."  j 

"  I  expect  nothing  more,'  rctiu'ned  Con- 
nor, "  except  this,  that  the  hand  of  (lod  may 
vet  brmg  the  guilt  of  burning  home  to  the  i 
man  that  committed  it,  and  prove  my  inuo-  1 
cence.  I'm  now  not  wdthout  some  hope  that 
such  a  thing  may  be  brought  about  some 
how.    I  thank  you,  Misther  Sherifi',  for  your 


kindness  in  coming  to  me  with  this  good 
news  so  soon  ;  all  that  I  can  say  is,  that  I 
thank  you  from  my  heart.  I  am  bound  to 
say,  too,  that  any  civility  and  comfort  that 
could  be  shovm  was  aft'orded  me  ever  since 
I  came  here,  an'  I  feel  it,  an'  I'm  grateful  for 
it." 

Both  were  deeply  impressed  bj'  the  firm 
tone  of  manly  sincerity  and  earnestness  with 
which  he  spoke,  blended  as  it  was  bv  a  mel- 
ancholy which  gave,  at  the  same  time,  a 
character  of  elevation  and  pathos  to  all  he 
said.  They  then  shook  hands  with  him. 
after  chatting  for  some  time  on  indifferent 
subjects,  the  jailer  promising  to  make  his 
situation  while  he  should  remain  in  jn'ison 
as  easy  as  the  regulations  would  allow  him  ; 
or,  "  who  knows,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  but 
we  might  make  them  a  little  easier  '?  " 

"  That's  a  tine  young  fellow,"  said  he  to 
the  sheriff,  after  they  had  left  him. 

"He  is  a  gentleman,"  rephed  the  sheriff^ 
"by  nature  a  gentleman  ;  and  a  vei'iv uncom- 
mon one,  too.  I  defj'  a  man  to  doubt  a 
word  that  comes  out  of  his  lijjs  ;  all  he  says 
is  impressed  with  the  stamp  of  tiiith  itself, 

and  by  h n's  he  never   committed    the 

felony  he's  in  for  !  Keep  him  as  comforta- 
ble as  you  can." 

They  then  separated. 

The  love  of  life  is  the  first  and  sti'ongest 
principle  iii  our  nature,  and  what  man  is 
there  except  some  unhaj^i^y  wretch  pressed 
down  by  long  and  gnlhng  misery  to  the  ut- 
termost depths  of  despair,  who,  knowing 
that  life  was  forfeited,  whether  justly  or  not 
matters  Uctle,  to  the  laws  of  his  comitiy, 
will  not  fetl  the  mercy  which  bids  liim  live 
T.  ith  a  corresjjonding  sense  of  gi'atitude "? 
The  son  of  the  pious  mother  acted  as  if  she 
was  still  his  guide-  and  monitress. 

He  knelt  down  and  poui'ed  out  /i/.-;  grati- 
tude to  that  great  Being  who  had  the  first 
claim  upon  it,  and  whose  blessing  he  fervent- 
ly invoked  ujaon  the  heads  of  those  true  fiiends 
by  whose  exertions  and  influence  he  now  felt 
that  life  was  restored  to  him. 

Of  his  life  whUe  he  remained  in  this  coun- 
try there  is  little  more  to  be  said  than  what 
is  usually  known  to  occur  in  the  case  of  other 
convicts  similarly  circumstMiced,  if  we  except 
his  separation  from  the  few  persons  who  were 
dear  to  him.  He  saw  his  father  the  next  day, 
and  the  old  man  felt  ahnost  disappointed  on 
discovering  that  he  was  deprived  of  the  jjleas- 
ure  which  lie  proposed  to  himself  of  being 
the  bearer  of  such  glad  tidings  to  him. 
Those  who  visited  him,  however,  noticed, 
with  a  good  deal  of  surprise,  that  he  appear- 
ed as  laboring  under  some  secret  anxiety, 
which,  however,  no  tact  or  address  on  their 
part  could  induce  him  to  disclose.     Many  of 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


275 


them,  actuatefl  by  the  best  motives,  asked 
him  in  distinct  terms  why  he  apjseared  to  be 
troubled ;  but  the  only  reply  they  received 
was  a  good-humored  remark  that  it  was  not 
to  be  expected  that  he  could  leave  forever  all 
that  was  dear  to  him  on  earth  with  a  very 
cheerful  spirit. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  his  old  friend 
Nogher  M'Cormick  came  to  jJay  him  a  visit ; 
it  being  the  last  time,  as  he  said,  that  he 
would  ever  have  an  opi)ortumty  of  seei)ig  his 
face.  Nogher,  whose  moral  impressions  were 
by  no  means  so  correct  as  Connor's,  asked 
him,  with  a  face  of  dry,  j'ecuhar  mystery,  if 
he  had  any  particular  wish  imfulfiUed  ;  or  if 
there  remained  behind  him  any  individual 
against  whom  he  entertained  a  spii'it  of  en- 
mity. If  there  were  he  begged  him  to  make 
no  seruijle  in  entrusting  to  him  a  fuU  state- 
ment of  his  wishes  on  tlie  subject,  adding 
that  he  might  rest  assured  of  having  them  ac- 
complished. 

"  One  thing  you  may  be  certain  of,  Nogh- 
er," said  lie,  to  the  affectionate  fellow,  "  that 
I  have  no  secrets  to  teU  ;  so  don't  let  that  go 
abroad  ujiou  me.  I  have  heard  to-day,"  he 
added,  "  that  the  vessel  we  are  to  go  in  will 
sail  on  this  day  week.  My  father  was  here 
this  mornin'  ;  but  I  hadn't  heard  it  then. 
Will  you,  Nogher,  teU  my  mother  privately 
that  she  niu-;tn't  come  to  see  me  on  the  day 
I  appointed  with  my  father  ?  From  the  state 
of  health  she's  in,  I'm  tould  she  couldn't  bear 
it.  Tell  her,  then,  not  to  come  till  the  day 
before  I  sail ;  an'  that  I  will  expect  to  see  her 
early  on  that  day.  And,  Nogher,  as  you 
know  more  about  this  unhappy  business  than 
any  one  else,  exeejjt  the  O'Briens  and  our- 
selves, will  you  give  this  little  packet  to  my 
mother  ?  There's  three  or  four  locks  of  my 
hair  in  it  ;  one  of  them  is  for  Una  ;  and  de- 
sire my  mother  to  see  Una,  and  to  get  a  link 
of  her  hair  to  wear  next  my  heart.  My  poor 
father — now  that  he  finds  he  must  part  with 
me — is  so  distracted  and  distressed,  that  I 
couldn't  trust  him  witli  this  message.  I  want 
it  to  be  kejit  a  secret  to  every  one  but  j'ou,  my 
mother,  and  Una  ;  but  ray  poor  father  would 
be  apt  to  mention  it  in  some  fit  of  grief." 

"  But  is  there  nothing  else  on  your  mind, 
Connor  ? " 

"There's  no  heavy  guilt  on  my  mind, 
Nogher,  I  thank  my  God  and  my  dear  mother 
for  it." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  before  you 
go,  Connor — Bartle  Flanagan's  well  watched. 
If  lie  has  been  guilty — if — derry  downs,  wlio 
doubts  it? — well,  never  mind  ;  I'U  hould  a 
trifle  we  get  him  to  show  the  cloven  foot, 
and  condemn  himself  yet." 

"The  villain,"  said  Connor,  "will  be  too 
deep — too  poli.shed  f  r  yoti." 


"  Ten  to  one  he's  not.  Do  you  know  what 
we've  found  out  since  this  business '? " 

"No." 

"  Why,  the  di^il  resave  the  squig  of  jJunch, 
whiskey,  or  hquor  of  any  sort  or  size  he'U 
allow  to  jiass  the  lips  of  him.  Now,  Connor, 
aren't  you  up  to  the  cunnin'  villainy  of  the 
thraitor  in  that  maynewvi'e  ?  " 

"  I  am,  Nogher  ;  I  see  his  design  in  it. 
He  is  afeard  if  he  got  dnink  that  he  wouldn't 
be  able  to  keep  his  own  secret." 

"Ah,  then,  by  the  holy  NeUy,  we'll  sleep 
him  yet,  or  he'U  look  sharp.  Never  you  mind 
him,  Connor." 

"  Nogher !  stoji,"  said  Connor,  almost 
angrily,  "  stop  ;  what  do  you  mane  by  them 
last  words  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  much  ;  it's  about  the  blaggard 
I'm  spakin'  ;  he'll  be  ped,  I  can  tell  you. 
There's  a  few  friends  of  yours  that  intinds, 
some  o'  these  nights,  to  open  a  gusset  under 
one  of  his  ears  only  ;  the  divil  a  thing  moi'e." 

"  ^^Tiat !  to  take  the  luihajjpy  man's  life— 
to  murdher  him  ?  " 

"  Hut,  Connor  ;  who's  spakin'  about  mur- 
dher ?  No,  only  to  make  him  miss  liis  breath 
some  night  afore  long.  Does  he  desarve 
mercy  that  'ud  swear  away  the  life  of  an  in- 
nocent man  ?  " 

"Nogher,"  replied  the  other,  rising  up 
and  speaking  with  the  utmost  solemnity — 

"  If  one  drop  of  his  blood  is  spilt  on  my 
account,  it  will  bruig  the  vengeance  of 
Heaven  upon  the  head  of  every  man  havin'  a 
hand  in  it.  WiU  you,  because  he's  a  viUain, 
make  yourself  murdherers — make  youi'selves 
blacker  than  he  is  ?  " 

"  Why,  thin,  death  alive !  Connor,  have 
you  your  seven  sinsis  about  you  ?  Faith, 
that's  good  ;  as  if  it  was  a  sin  to  knock  such 
a  white-livered  Judas  upon  the  head  !  Sin  ! 
— oh  liell  resave  the  morsel  o'  sin  in  that  but 
the  contrairj'.  Sure  its  only  sarrin'  honest 
jieople  right,  to  knock  such  a  desaiver  on 
the  head.  If  he  had  paijured  himself  for 
sake  of  the  truth,  or  to  assist  a  brother  in 
trouble — or  to  help  on  the  good  cause — it 
would  be  something  ;  but  to  go  to — but— 
arra,  be  me  sowl,  he'U  sup  sarra  for  it,  sure 
enough  !  I  thought  it  would  make  your 
mind  aisy,  or  I  wouldn't  mintion  it  tiU  we'd 
let  the  breath  out  of  him." 

"  Nogher,"  said  Connor,  "  before  you  leave 
this  unfortunate  room,  you  must  take  the 
Almighty  to  witness  that  you'U  have  no  hand 
in  this  l)loody  business,  an'  that  you'll  put  a 
stop  to  it  altogether.  If  you  don't,  and  that  his 
life  is  taken,  in  the  first  place,  I'll  be  misera- 
ble for  life  ;  and  in  the  next,  take  my  word 
for  it,  that  the  judgment  of  God  \rill  faU 
heavUy  ujion  every  one  consamed  in  it." 

"AVhat  for?     Is  it  for  sUttin'  the  jugglel 


L'76 


JVlLL!A3f  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


of  sicli  a  lip?  Isn't  lie  as  Lad  as  a  heretic, 
'lu'  worse,  for  lie  turned  agaiust  his  own. 
He  has  got  himself  made  the  head  of  a  lodge, 
too,  and  holds  Articles  ;  but  it's  not  bein'  an 
Article-bearer  that'll  save  him,  an'  he'll  find 
that  to  his  cost.  But,  indeed,  Connor,  the 
villain's  a  double  thraitor,  as  you'd  own,  if 
you  knew  what  I  heard  a  hint  of? " 

"  Well,  but  you  must  lave  him  to  God." 

"  What  do  you  think  but  I  got  a  whisper 
that  he  has  bad  designs  on  her." 

"  On  who?"  said  O'Donovan^  starting. 

"  Why,  on  your  own  girl,  Oona,  the  Bo- 
dagh's  daugliter.  He  intends,  it's  wliispered, 
to  take  her  off ;  an'  it  seems,  as  her  father 
doesn't  stand  well  with  the  boys,  that  Bai'- 
tie's  to  get  a  great  body  of  them  to  assist 
him  in  bringing  her  away." 

Connor  paced  his  cell  in  deep  and  vehement 
agitation.  His  resentment  against  this  dou- 
ble-dyed -idllaiu  rose  to  a  fearful  pitch  ;  his 
color  deepened — his  eye  shot  fire,  and,  as  he 
clenched  his  hand  convulsively,  Nogher  saw 
the  fury  which  this  intelligence  had  excited 
in  him. 

"  No,"  he  proceeded,  "  it  would  be  an  open 
sin  an'  shame  to  let  such  an  etarnal  hmb  of 
the  devil  escape." 

It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that  O'Donovan 
never  jjroperly  felt  the  sense  of  his  restraint 
until  this  moment.  ^Tien  he  reflected  on 
the  danger  to  which  his  beloved  Una  was  ex- 
posed from  the  dark  jslans  of  this  detestable 
villain,  and  recollected  that  there  existed  in 
the  members  of  the  Ulegal  confederacy  such 
a  strong  sjiirit  of  enmity  against  Bodagh 
Buie,  as  would  induce  them  to  sui:)port  Bar- 
tie  in  his  designs  upon  his  daughter,  he 
pressed  his  hand  against  his  forehead,  and 
walked  about  in  a  tumult  of  distress  and  re- 
sentment, such  as  he  had  never  yet  felt  in  his 
bosom. 

"  It's  a  chaiity  it  will  be,"  said  Nogher, 
shrewdly  availing  himself  of  the  commotion 
he  had  created,  "to  stoj)  the  vagaboue  short 
in  the  coorse  of  his  villany.  He"ll  surely 
bring  the  d;u'liii'  young  gui  ofl",  an'  destroy 
her." 

For  a  few  moments  he  felt  as  if  his  heart 
were  disposed  to  rebel  against  the  common 
ordinances  of  Providence,  as  they  appeared 
to  be  manifested  in  his  own  punishment,  and 
the  successful  vUlainy  of  Bartle  Flanagan. 
The  reflection,  however,  of  a  strong  and 
natundly  jjious  mind  soon  enabled  liim  to  per- 
ceive the  errors  into  which  his  passions 
would  lead  him,  if  not  resti-ained  and  siib- 
jected.  He  made  an  eft'ort  to  be  calm,  and 
in  a  considerable  degree  succeeded. 

"  Nogher,"  said  he,  "  let  us  not  forget  that 
tliis  Bartle — tliis — but  I  will  not  say  it — 
let  us  not  forget  that  God  can  asily  turn 


his  plans  against  himself.  To  God,  then,  let 
us  lave  him.  Now,  hear  me — you  must  swear 
in  His  presence  that  you  wiU  have  neither  act 
nor  pai-t  in  doing  him  an  injury — that  you 
will  not  shed  kis  blood,  nor  allow  it  to  be 
shed  by  others,  as  far  as  you  can  j^reveut  it 

Nogher  rubbed  Iris  chin  gi-avely,  and  al- 
most smiled  at  what  he  considered  to  be  a 
j)iece  of  siUy  nonsense  on  the  part  of  Con- 
nor. He  determined,  therefore,  to  satisfy 
his  scruples  as  well  as  he  could  ;  but,  let  the 
consequence  be  what  it  mighty  to  evade  such 
an  oath. 

"Why,  Connor,"  said  he,  "surely,  if  you 
go  to  that,  we  can  have  no  iU-will  against 
the  d — n  villain ;  an'  as  you  don't  wish  it. 
we'U  dhrojj  the  thing ;  so  now  make  jour 
mind  aisy,  for  another  word  you  or  any  one 
else  won't  ever  hear  about  it." 

"  And  you  won't  injure  the  man  ?  " 

"  Hut !  no,"'  replied  Nogher,  with  a  gTa- 
vity  whose  irony  was  barely  perceptiUe, 
"what  would  we  murdher  him  for,  now 
that  you  don't  wish  it  ?  I  never  had  any  f)ar- 
ticular  wish  to  see  my  own  fimeral." 

"And,  Nogher,  you  will  do  all  you  can 
to  prevent  him  fi'om  being  murdliered  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,  Connor — to  be  sui-e.  Bj' 
He  that  made  me,  we  w-ou't  give  pain  lo  a 
single  hair  of  his  head.  Are  you  satisfied 
now  ?  " 

"I  am,"  replied  the  ingenuous  young 
man,  who  was  himself  too  candid  to  see 
through  the  sophistry  of  Nogher 's  oath. 

"And  now,  Nogher,"  he  rephed,  "many 
a  day  have  we  spent  together — _you  are  one 
of  my  oldest  fiiends.  I  suppose  this  is  the 
last  time  you  will  ever  see  Connor  O'Dono- 
van ;  however,  don't,  man — don't  be  cast 
down  ;  you  wOI  hear-  from  me,  I  hope,  and 
hear  that  I  am  weU  too." 

He  uttered  this  with  a  smile  which  cost 
him  an  effort ;  for,  on  looking  into  the  face 
of  his  faithful  old  friend,  he  saw  his  muscles 
working  under  the  influence  of  strong  feel- 
ing—  or,  I  should  rather  say,  deejj  sorrow — 
which  he  felt  anxious,  by  a  show  of  cheerful- 
ness, to  remove.  The  fountains,  however, 
of  the  old  servant's  heart  were  ojjened,  and, 
after  some  iueft'ectual  attempts  to  rejjress 
his  grief,  he  fell  upon  Connor's  neck,  and 
wept  aloud. 

"  Tut,  Nogher,"  said  Connor,  "  surely  it's 
glad  you  ought  to  be,  instead  of  sorry. 
What  would  you  have  done  if  my  first  sen^ 
fence  had  been  acted  upon  ?  " 

"  I'm  glad  for  your  sake,"  replied  the 
other,  "  but  I'm  now  sorry  for  my  own. 
You  wdll  live,  Connor,  and  you  may  yet  be 
hap2)y  ;  but  he  that  often  held  you  in  his 
arms — that  often  played  with  you,  and  that, 
next  to  your  father  and  mother,  you  loved 


FAllDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


277 


betther  than  any  other  liviu' — he,  poor 
Noffher,  will  never  see  his  boy  more." 

On  uttering  these  words,  ho  threw  liim- 
self  again  ujjon  Connor's  neck,  and  we  are 
not  ashamed  to  say  that  their  tears  flowed 
together. 

•'  I'll  miss  yon,  Connor,  dear  ;  I'll  not  see 
your  face  at  fair  or  market,  nor  on  the 
chapel-gi'een  of  a  Sunday.  Your  poor  father 
will  break  his  heart,  and  the  mother's  eye 
will  never  more  have  an  oj)portunity  of  being 
proud  out  of  her  son.  It's  hard  ujjon  me 
to  part  wid  you,  Connor,  but  it  can't  be 
helped  ;  I  only  ax  you  to  remember  Nogher, 
that,  you  know,  loved  you  as  if  you  wor  his 
own  ;  remimber  me,  Connor,  of  an  odd 
time.  I  never  thought — oh,  God,  I  never 
thought  to  see  this  day  !  No  wondher — oh, 
no  wondher  that  the  fan-  yomig  crature 
should  be  pale  and  worn,  an'  sick  at  heart ! 
I  love  her  now,  an'  ever  will,  as  well  as  I  did 
yourself.  I'll  never  see  her,  Connor,  widout 
thinkiu'  heavily  of  him  that  her  heart  was 
set  upon,  an'  that  will  then  be  far  away  fi'om 
her  an'  from  all  that  ever  loved  liim." 

"  Nogher,"  replied  Connor,  "  I'm  not 
without  hope  that — but  this — tliis  is  foUy. 
You  know  I  have  a  right  to  be  thankfid  to 
God  and  the  goodness  of  government  for 
sparin'  my  life.  Now,  farewell — it  k  forever, 
Nogher,  an'  it  is  a  trJ^u'  word  to-day  ;  but 
you  know  that  every  one  goin'  to  America 
must  say  it ;  so,  think  that  I'm  goin'  there, 
an'  it  won't  signify." 

"Ah,  Connor,  I  wish  I  could,"  rejjUed 
Nogher  ;  "  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  what  breaks 
my  heart  is,  to  think  of  the  way  you  are 
goin'  from  us.  Farewell,  then,  Connor 
daiiin' ;  an'  may  the  blessin'  of  God,  an'  His 
holy  mother,  an'  of  all  the  saints  be  ujaon 
you  now  an'  foi'iver.     Amin  !  " 

His  tears  flowed  fast,  and  he  sobbed  aloud, 
whilst  uttering  the  last  words  ;  he  then 
threw  his  arms  about  Connor's  neck,  and, 
having  kissed  him,  he  again  wTung  his  hand, 
and  passed  out  of  the  ceD  in  an  agony  of 
grief. 

Such  is  the  anomalous  nature  of  that 
peculiar  temperament,  which,  in  L-eland, 
combines  within  it  the  extremes  of  gen- 
erosit}^  and  crime.  Here  was  a  man  who 
had  been  literally  affectionate  and  harm- 
less during  his  whole  past  life,  yet,  who  was 
now  actually  plotting  the  murder  of  a  person 
who  had  never, — except  remotely,  by  his 
treacheiy  to  Connoi',  whom  he  loved — ren- 
dered him  an  injury,  or  given  him  any 
cause  of  offence.  And  wliat  can  show  us 
the  degraded  state  of  moral  feeling  among 
a  people  whose  natural  impulses  are  as 
quick  to  virtue  as  to  vice,  and  the  reckless 
estimate  which  the  pcasantrj-  form  of  human 


life,  more  clearly  than  the  fact,  that  Connor, 
the  noble-minded,  heroic,  and  pious  peasant, 
could  admire  the  honest  attachment  of  hi.s 
old  fi-iend,  vsithout  dweUing  ujoon  the  dark 
point  in  his  character,  and  mingle  his  tears 
with  a  man  who  was  deUberately  about  to 
join  in,  or  encompass,  the  assassination  of  a 
fellow-creature  ! 

Even  against  jiersons  of  his  own  creed  tlie 
Ii'ishman  thinks  that  revenge  is  a  duty  which 
he  owes  to  himself ; — but  against  those  of  a 
different  faith  it  is  not  only  a  duty  but  a 
virtue — and  any  man  who  acts  out  of  this 
feeling,  either  as  a  juror,  a  witness,  or  an 
elector — for  the  principle  is  the  same — must 
expect  to  meet  such  retribution  as  was  sug- 
gested by  a  heart  like  Nogher  M'Cormiek's, 
which  was  otherwise  affectionate  and  honest. 
Li  the  secret  code  of  jjerverted  honor  by 
which  Irishmen  ai'e  giiided,  he  is  undoubt- 
edly the  most  heroic  and  manly,  and  the 
most  worthy  also  of  imitation,  who  indulges 
in,  and  executes  his  vengeance  for  injuries 
whether  I'eal  or  sup230sed,  VNith  the  most 
determined  and  uushi'inking  spirit ;  but  the 
man  who  is  capable  of  braving  death,  by 
quoting  his  own  innocence  as  an  argument 
against  the  justice  of  law,  even  when  noto- 
riously gTiilty,  is  looked  upon  by  the  jseople, 
not  as  an  imiocent  man — for  his  accomplices 
and  fi'iends  know  he  is  not — but  as  one  who 
is  a  hero  in  his  rank  of  life  ;  and  it  is  un- 
fortunately a  kind  of  ambition  among  too 
many  of  our  ilL-thinking  but  generous 
countrymen,  to  propose  such  men  as  tlie 
best  models  for  imitation,  not  only  in  theii' 
lives,  but  in  that  hardened  hj'ijocri.sy  whicli 
defies  and  triumphs  over  the  ordeal  of  death 
itself. 

Connor  O'Donovan  was  a  happy  repre- 
sentation of  all  that  is  noble  and  pious  in 
the  Irisli  character,  without  one  tinge  of  tlie 
crimes  wliicli  darken  or  discolor  it.  But 
the  heart  that  is  full  of  generosity  and  forti- 
tude, is  generally  most  susceptible  of  the 
kinder  and  more  amialile  affections.  The 
noble  boy,  who  could  hear  the  sentence  of 
death  without  the  commotion  of  a  non'e, 
was  forced  to  weep  on  the  neck  of  an  old 
and  faithful  follower  who  loved  him,  when 
he  remembei-ed  that,  after  that  melancholy 
visit,  he  should  see  his  familiar  face  no  more. 
'\\nien  Nogher  left  him,  a  train  of  painnil 
retleetious  passed  through  liis  mind.  He 
thought  of  Una,  of  his  father,  of  his  mother, 
and  for  some  time  was  more  dei^ressed  than 
usual.  But  t)ie  gift  of  life  to  the  young  is 
ever  a  counterbalance  to  every  evil  that  is 
less  than  death.  In  a  short  time  he  reflected 
that  the  same  Providence  which  had  inter- 
posed between  him  and  his  recorded  sen- 
tence, had  his  future  fate  in  its  hands  ;  and 


278 


WILLIAM  CAR  LET  ON' S  WORKS. 


that  he  had  health,  and  youth,  and  strength 
— and,  above  all,  a  good  conscience — to  bear 
him  through  the  future  ^'icissitudes  of  his 
appointed  fate. 


PAET  YI. 

To  those  whose  minds  and  bodies  are  of 
active  habits,  there  can  be  scarcely  anything 
more  trying  than  a  position  in  which  the 
latter  is  dej)rived  of  its  usual  occupation, 
and  the  former  forced  to  engage  itself  only 
on  the  contemplation  of  that  which  is  pain- 
ful. In  such  a  situation,  the  mental  and 
physical  fiowers  are  rendered  incapable  of 
mutually  sustaining  each  other  ;  for  we  aU 
know  that  mere  corporal  emj^loyment  lessens 
affiiction,  or  enables  us  in  a  shorter  time  to 
forget  it,  whilst  the  acuteuess  of  bodily  suf- 
fering, on  the  other  hand,  is  blunted  by 
those  piusuits  which  iDl  the  mind  with 
agreeable  impressions.  During  the  few 
days,  therefore,  that  intervened  between  the 
last  interview  "vvhich  Connor  held  with  No- 
gher  M'Cormick,  and  the  day  of  his  final  de- 
partui'e  he  felt  himself  rather  relieved  than 
depressed  by  the  number  of  fi'iends  who 
came  to  visit  liim  for  the  last  time.  He 
was  left  less  to  solitude  and  himself  than  he 
otherwise  would  have  been,  and,  of  course, 
the  daj"s  of  his  imprisonment  were  neither 
so  dreary  nor  opj^ressive  as  the  uninteriiipted 
contemjalatiou  of  his  gloomy  destiny  would 
have  rendered  them.  Full  of  the  irrepres- 
sible ardor  of  youth,  he  longed  for  that 
change  which  he  knew  mvist  bring  liim  on- 
ward in  the  jiath  of  life  ;  and  in  this  how 
little  did  he  resemble  the  generality  of  other 
convicts,  who  feel  as  if  time  were  bringing 
about  the  day  of  their  dej)arture  with  jjain- 
fid  and  more  tlian  ordinary  celerity  !  At 
length  the  interviews  between  him  and  all 
those  whom  he  wished  to  see  were  concluded, 
with  the  exception  of  three,  \iz.  —  John 
O'Brien  and  his  own  j>arents,  whilst  only 
two  clear  days  intervened  until  the  jJeriod 
of  his  departure. 

It  was  on  the  third  morning  previous  to 
that  unhappy  event,  that  the  brother  of  his 
Una — the  most  active  and  indefatigable  of 
all  those  who  had  interested  themselves  for 
liim — was  announced  as  requiring  an  inter- 
view. Connor,  although  prep.ared  for  this, 
experienced  on  the  occasion,  as  every  high- 
minded  person  would  do,  a  strong  feehng  of 
degr.-idatiou  and  shame  as  the  predominant 
sensation.  That,  indeed,  was  but  natural, 
for  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  we  feel  dis- 
grace lie  more  heavily  upon  us  in  the  eyes 
of  those  we  esteem,  than  we  do  under  any 


other  cu'cumstances.  This  impression,  how- 
ever, though  as  we  have  said  the  strongest, 
was  far  fi-om  being  the  only  one  he  felt.  A 
heart  like  his  could  not  be  insensible  to  the 
obligations  under  which  the  generous  and 
idefatigable  exertions  of  young  O'Brien  had 
placed  him.  But,  indejjendently  of  this,  he 
was  Una's  brother,  and  t'  le  appearance  of 
one  so  dear  to  her  gave  to  all  his  love  for 
her  a  character  of  melancholj^  tenderness, 
more  deep  and  full  than  he  had  probably 
ever  experienced  before.  Her  brother  would 
have  been  received  with  extraordinary 
warmth  on  his  ovm  accoiuit,  but,  in  addition 
to  that,  Connor  knew  that  he  now  came  on 
behalf  of  Una  herself.  It  was,  therefore, 
under  a  tumult  of  mingled  sensations,  that 
he  received  him  in  his  gloomy  ajJurtment — 
gloomy  in  despite  of  all  that  a  humane  jailer 
could  do  to  lessen  the  rigors  of  his  confine- 
ment. 

"  I  cannot  welcome  you  to  sich  a  place  as 
this  is,"  said  Connor,  grasjiiug  and  wringing 
his  hand,  as  the  other  entered,  "although  I 
may  well  say  that  I  would  be  glad  to  see  you 
anywhere,  as  I  am,  indeed,  to  see  you  even 
here.  I  know  what  I  owe  you,  an'  what  you 
have  done  for  me." 

"  Thank  God,"  replied  the  other,  return- 
ing his  grasp  with  equal  jsressure,  "  thank 
God,  that,  at  aU  events,  the  worst  of  what 

we  expected  will  not "     He  paused,  for, 

on  looking  at  O'Donovan,  he  observed  upon 
bis  open  brow  a  singiilar  dej)th  of  melau-' 
choly,  mingled  less  with  an  expression  of 
shame,  than  with  the  calm  but  indignant 
sorrow  of  one  who  could  feel  no  resentment 
against  him  with  whom  he  spoke. 

O'Brien  saw,  at  a  glance,  that  Connor,  in 
consequence  of  something  in  his  manner, 
joined  to  his  inconsiderate  congratulations, 
imagined  that  he  beheved  him  guilty.  He 
lost  not  a  moment,  therefore,  in  correcting 
this  mistake. 

"It  would  have  been  dreadful,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  to  see  innocent  blood  shed,  through 
the  jaerjury  of  a  viUaiu — for,  of  course,  you 
cannot  suppose  for  a  moment  that  one  of  our 
family  suj)j)ose  you  to  be  guilty." 

"I  was  near  doiu'  you  injustice,  then,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "  but  I  ought  to  know  that 
if  you  did  thmk  me  so,  you  wouldn't  now 
be  here,  nor  act  as  you  did.  Not  but  that 
I  thought  it  possible,  on   another  account 

you No,"   he   added,    after   a  jaause, 

"that  would  be  doin'  the  brother  of  Una 
injustice." 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  O'Brien.  "  No 
circumstance  of  any  kuid  " — and  he  laid  a  pe 
culiar  emphasis  on  the  words — "  mi  circum- 
stance of  aiuj  kind  could  bring  mc  to  visit  a 
man  capable  of  such  a  mean  nnd  cowardly 


FAR  DO  ROUGH  A,   THE  MISER. 


279 


act ;  for,  as  to  the  loss  we  sustained,  I 
wouldn't  tbink  of  it.  You,  Connor  O'Dono- 
van,  ai'e  not  the  man  to  commit  any  act,  eith- 
er tlie  one  or  the  other.  If  I  did  not  feel 
this,  you  would  not  see  me  hefoi'e  you."  He 
extended  his  hand  to  him  while  he  spoke, 
and  the  brow  of  Connor  brightened  as  he  met 
his  grasp. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  replied  ;  "and  now  I 
hope  we  may  spake  out  like  men  that  un- 
dherstaud  one  another.  lu  case  you  hadn't 
come,  I  intended  to  lave  a  message  for  you 
with  my  mother.  I  believe  you  know  aU 
Una's  secrets  ?  " 

"I  do,"  replied  O'Brien,  "just  as  well  as 
her  confessor." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  that,"  said  Connor.  "  The 
Bun  in  heaven  is  not  purer  than  she  is.  The 
only  fault  she  ever  could  be  charged  with 
was  her  love  for  me  ;  and  heavily,  oh  !  far 
too  heavily,  has  she  suffered  for  it !  " 

"  I,  for  one,  never  blamed  her  on  that  ac- 
count." said  her  brother.  "  I  knew  that  her 
good  sense  would  have  at  any  time  jjrevented 
her  from  forming  an  attachment  to  an  un- 
worthy object  ;  and  upon  t!ie  strength  of  her 
own  judgment,  I  approved  of  that  which  she 
avowed  for  you.  Indeed,  I  jaerceived  it  my- 
self before  she  told  me  ;  butu23on  attempting 
to  gain  her  secret,  the  candid  creature  at  once 
made  me  lier  confidant." 

"It  is  like  her,'  said  Connor  ;  "  she  is  aU 
truth.  Well  would  it  be  for  her,  if  she  had 
never  seen  me.  Not  even  the  parting  from 
my  father  and  mother  sinks  my  heart  with  so 
much  sorrow,  as  the  thought  that  her  love 
for  me  had  made  her  so  unhapisy.  It's  a 
strange  case,  John  O'Brien,  an'  a  ti-jdng  one; 
but  since  it  is  the  will  of  God,  we  must  sub- 
mit to  it.  How  did  you  leave  her  ?  I  heard 
she  was  getting  better." 

"  She  is  better,"  said  John — "  past  dan- 
ger, but  still  very  delicate  and  feeble.  Indeed, 
she  is  so  much  worn  down,  that  you  would 
scarcely  know  her.  The  brightness  of  her 
dark  eye  is  dead  —  her  comi^lexion  gone.  Sor- 
row, as  she  says  herself,  is  in  her  and  upon 
her.  Never,  indeed,  was  a  young  creature's 
love  so  jiure  and  true." 

O'Donovau  made  no  reply  for  some  time  ; 
but  the  other  observed  that  he  turned  away 
his  face  from  him,  as  if  to  conceal  his  emo- 
tion. At  length  his  bosom  heaved  vehement- 
ly, three  or  four  times,  and  his  breath  came 
and  went  with  a  quick  and  quivering  motion, 
that  betrayed  the  powerful  struggle  which  he 
felt. 

"I  know  it  is  but  natural  for  you  to  feel 
deejjly,"  continued  li^r  brother  ;  "but  as  you 
have  borne  everything  heretofore  with  so 
much  firmness,  you  must  not  break  down 
now." 


"  But  you  know  it  is  a  deadly  thrial  to  be 
forever  sepai'ated  fi'om  sich  a  girl.  Sufierin' 
so   much  as  you  say — so  worn !     Her  dark 

eye  dim  with oh,  it  is,   it  is  a  deadly 

thrial — a  heart-breaking  thrial !  John  O'Bri- 
en," he  proceeded,  with  uncommon  earnest- 
ness, "you  are  her  only  brothei-,  an'  she  in 
your  only  sister.  Oh,  will  you,  for  the  sake 
of  God,  and  for  my  sake,  if  I  may  take  the 
liberty  of  sayin'  so — but,  above  all  things, 
will  you,  for  her  own  sake,  when  I  am  gone, 
comfort  and  support  her,  and  I'aise  her 
heart,  if  po.ssible,  out  of  this  heavy  throu- 
ble  ?  " 

Her  brother  gazed  on  him  with  a  melan- 
choly smile,  in  wliich  might  be  read  both 
admiration  and  sympathy. 

"  Do  you  think  it  possible  that  I  would,  or 
could  omit  to  cherish  and  sustain  poor  Una, 
under  such  thrying  circumstances?  Every- 
thing considered,  however,  youi-  words  are 
only  natural — only  natural." 

"  Don't  let  her  think  too  much  about  it," 
continued  O'Donovan.  "  Bring  her  out  as 
much  as  you  can — let  her  not  be  much  by 
herself.  But  this  is  folly  in  me,"  he  added  ; 
"  you  know  yourself  better  than  I  can  instruct 
you  how  to  act." 

"  God  knows,"  repUed  the  brother,  struck 
and  softened  by  the  mournful  anxietj'  for  her 
welfire  which  Connor  exj^ressed,  "God 
knows  that  all  you  say,  and  all  I  can  tliinli  of 
besides,  shall  be  done  for  our  dear  girl — so 
make  your  mind  easy." 

"  I  thank  you,"  rephed  the  other  ;  "  from 
my  soul  an'  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I 
thank  you.  Endeavor  to  make  her  forget 
me,  if  you  can  ;  an'  when  this  passes  away 
out  of  her  mind,  she  may  yet  be  happy — a 
liappy  wife  and  a  happy  mother — an'  she  can 
then  think  of  her  love  for  Connor  O'Donovau, 
only  as  a  troubled  dream  that  she  had  in  her 
early  life." 

"Connor,"  said  the  other,  "this  is  not 
right — you  must  be  firmer  ; "  but  as  he 
uttered  the  woi-ds  of  reproof,  the  tears 
almost  came  to  his  eyes. 

"As  for  my  part,"  continued  Connor, 
"  what  is  the  world  to  me  now,  that  I've  lost 
her  ?  It  is — it  is  a  hard  and  a  dark  fate,  but 
why  it  should  fall  ui:>on  us  I  do  not  know.  It's 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  bear  it  as  I  ought." 

"  Weli,  well,"  replied  John,  "  don't  dwell 
too  much  on  it.  I  have  something  else  to 
speak  to  you  about." 

"Dwell  on  it!"  returned  the  other;  "as 
God  is  above  me,  she's  not  one  minute  out 
of  my  thoughts  ;  an'  I  teU.  you,  I'd  rather  be 
dead  this  minute,  than  forget  hei-.  Her 
memory  now  is  the  only  hap]iii!ess  that  is  left 
to  me — my  only  wealth  in  this  world." 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  it   is  not.     Connor,  ] 


3S0 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


have  now  a  few  words  to  say  to  you,  and  I 
know  they  will  prove  whether  you  ai'e  as 
generous  as  you  are  said  to  be  ;  and  whether 
your  love  for  luy  sister  is  ti-uly  tender  and  dis- 
interested. You  have  it  now  in  your  power 
to  ease  her  heart  very  much  of  a  heavy  load  of 
concern  which  she  feels  on  your  account.  Your 
father,  you  know,  is  now  a  ruined  man, 
or  I  should  say  a  poor  man.  You  ai'e  going 
out  under  circumstances  the  most  painful. 
In  the  countrj'  to  which  you  are  unhappily 
destined,  you  will  have  no  friends — and  no 
one  living  feels  this  more  acutely  than  Una  ; 
for,  observe  me,  I  am  now  speaking  on  her  ; 
behalf,  and  acting  in  her  name.  I  am  her  ! 
agent.  Now  Una  is  richer  than  you  might 
imagine,  being  the  possessor  of  a  legacy  left  j 
her  by  oixr  grandfather  by  my  father's  side. 
Of  this  legacy,  she  herself  stands  in  no  need 
— but  you  may  and  will,  when  you  reach  a 
distant  country.  Now,  Connor,  you  see  how 
that  admirable  creature  loves  you — j'ou  see 
how  that  l(jve  would  foUow  you  to  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth.  "Will  you,  or  rather 
lu'e  you  capable  of  being  as  generous  as  she 
is  ? — and  can  you  show  her  that  you  are  as 
much  above  the  absurd  prejudice  of  the 
world,  and  its  cold  forms,  as  he  ought  to  be 
who  is  loved  by  a  creature  so  trulj*  generous 
and  deUeate  as  Una  ?  You  know  how  very 
poorly  she  is  at  present  in  health  ;  and  I  tell 
you  candidly,  that  your  declining  to  accejit 
this  as  a  gift  and  memorial  by  which  to  re- 
member her,  may  be  attended  with  very 
serious  consequences  to  her  health." 

Connor  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
speaker,  with  a  look  of  deej}  and  eiu-nest  at- 
tention ;  and  as  O'Brien  detailed  with  singu- 
lu-  address  and  delicacy  these  strikuigjsroofs 
of  Una's  affection,  her  lover's  countenance 
became  an  index  of  the  truth  with  wliich  his 
heart  corresponded  to  the  noble  girl's  ten- 
derness and  generosity.  He  seized  O'Brien's 
hand. 

"John,"  said  he,  "you  are  worthy  of  bein' 
Una's  brother,  and  I  could  say  nothmg  higher 
in  your  favor  ;  but,  in  the  mane  time,  you 
and  she  both  know  that  I  want  nothing  to 
enable  me  to  remember  )ier  by.     This  is  a 

Eroof,  I  grant  you,  that  she  loves  me  trulj' ; 
ut  I  knew  Uiat  as  well  before,  as  I  do  now. 
In  this  business  I  cannot  comply  with  her 
vidsh  an'  yours,  an'  you  musu't  press  me.  Yon, 
I  say,  nmsn't  press  me.  Through  my  whole 
life  I  have  never  lost  my  own  good  opinion ; 
but  if  I  did  what  you  want  me  now  to  do,  I 
couldn't  respect  myself — I  would  feel  low- 
ered in  my  own  mind.  In  short,  I'd  feel 
vinhappy,  an'  that  I  was  too  mane  to  be  wor- 
thy of  your  sister.  Once  for  all,  then,  I  can- 
not comply  in  this  business  with  your  wish 
-.a'  hers." 


"  But  the  anxiety  jjroduced  by  your  refusal 
may  have  vei-y  dangerous  effects  on  her 
health." 

"  Then  you  must  contrive  somehow  to 
consale  my  refusal  fi-om  her  till  she  gets  re- 
covered. I  couldn't  do  what  you  want  me  ; 
an'  if  you  jjress  me  fui-ther  upon  it,  I'U  think 
you  don't  resj)ect  me  as  much  as  I'd  wish 
her  brother  to  do.  Oh,  God  of  Heaven  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands,  "  must  I  lave 
you,  my  dai-ling  Una,  forever?  I  must,  I 
must !  an'  the  drame  of  aU  we  hoped  is  past 
— but  never,  never,  wiU  she  lave  my  heart  I 
Her  eye  dim,  an'  her  cheek  jiale  !  an'  all  for 
me — for  a  man  covered  with  shame  and  dis- 
grace !  Oh,  John,  John,  what  a  heart ! — to 
love  me  in  spite  of  all  this,  an'  in  spite  of 
the  world's  opinion  along  with  it !  " 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  turnkeys  en- 
tered, and  told  him  that  his  mother  and  a 
young  lady  were  coming  up  to  see  him. 

"My  mother!  "  he  exclaimed,  "I  am  glid 
she  is  come  ;  but  I  didn't  expect  her  till  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  A  3'oung  lady  !  Heav- 
ens above,  what  young  lady  woidd  come  with 
my  mother  ?  " 

He  involuntarily  exchanged  looks  with 
O'Brien,  and  a  thought  flashed  on  the  instant 
across  the  minds  of  both.  They  immediately 
understood  each  other. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Jolm,  "  it  can  be  no 
other — it  is  she — it  is  Una.  Good  God,  how 
is  this  ?  The  interview  and  separation  wiU 
be  more  than  she  can  bear — she  will  shik 
under  it." 

Connor  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  and 
pressed  his  right  hand  ujion  his  forehead,  as 
if  to  collect  energy  sulhcient  to  meet  the 
double  trial  which  was  now  before  him. 

"  I  have  only  one  course,  John,"  said  he, 
"  now,  and  that  is,  to  appear  to  be — what  I 
am  not — a  firm-hearted  man.  I  must  tr^-  to 
put  on  a  smiling  face  before  them." 

"If  it  be  Una,"  returned  the  other,  "I 
shall  withdraw  for  a  while.  I  know  her 
extreme  bashfulness  in  many  cases  ;  and  I 
know,  too,  that  anything  like  restraint  upon 
her  heart  at  present — in  a  word,  I  sh;\ll  retire 
for  a  little." 

"It  may  be  as  well,"  said  Connor  ;  "but 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence— just  as  you  think  proper." 

"  Yoiu-  mother  wiU  be  a  sulficient  witness," 

said   the   delicate-minded   brother ;  "  but  I 

will  see  you  again  after  they  have  left  you." 

i       "  You  must,"   rephed  O'Donovan.     "  Oh 

I  see  me — see  me  again.     I  have  something 

to  say  to  you  of  more  value  even  thim  Una's 

hfe." 

1      The  door  then   opened,  and  assisted,   or 

'  rather  supported,  by  the   governor   of   the 

',  gaol,  and  one  of  the  turnkeys,  Honor  O'Don- 


FARDOIWUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


281 


ovan  and  Una  O'Brien  entered  the  gloomy 
cell  of  the  guiltless  oou^-iet. 

The  situation  in  which  O'Douovan  was 
now  placed  will  be  admitted,  we  think,  by 
the  reader,  to  have  been  one  equally  un- 
l^recedeuted  and  distressing.  It  has  been 
often  said,  and  on  many  occasions  with  j)er- 
fect  truth,  that  ojjjjosite  states  of  feeUng 
existing  in  the  same  breast  generally  neutral- 
ize each  other.  In  Connor's  heart,  however, 
there  was  in  this  instance  nothing  of  a  con- 
flicting nature.  The  noble  boy's  love  for 
such  a  mother  bore  in  its  melancholy  beauty 
a  touching  resemblance  to  the  purity  of  liis 
affection  for  Una  O'Brien — each  exhibiting  in 
its  highest  character  those  virtues  which 
made  the  heart  of  the  mother  jjroud  and 
loving,  and  that  of  his  beautiful  girl  generous 
and  devoted.  So  far,  therefoi-e,  from  their 
appearance  together  tending  to  concentrate 
his  moral  fortitude,  it  actually  divided  his 
strength,  and  forced  him  to  meet  each  -n-ith  a 
heart  subdued  and  softened  by  his  love  for 
the  other. 

As  they  entered,  therefore,  he  approached 
them,  smiling  as  well  as  he  could  ;  and,  fii'st 
taking  a  hand  of  each,  would  have  led  them 
over  to  a  deal  form  beside  the  fire,  but  it  was 
soon  evident,  that,  o\\-ing  to  their  weakness 
and  agitation  united,  they  required  greater 
support.  He  and  O'Brien  accordingly  helped 
them  to  a  seat,  on  which  they  sat  with  everj' 
symptom  of  that  exhaustion  whii^h  results  at 
once  fi'om  illness  and  mental  sufiering. 

Let  us  not  forget  to  inform  our  readers 
that  the  day  of  this  moui'uful  visit  was  that 
on  whicli,  according  to  his  original  sentence, 
he  should  have  jielded  up  his  hfe  as  a  penalty 
to  the  law. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  he,  "you  an'  Una 
know  that  this  day  ought  not  to  be  a  day  of 
sorrow  among  us.  Only  for  the  goodness 
of  my  fiiends,  an'  of  Government,  it's  not 
my  voice  you'd  be  now  Usteniug  to — but 
that  is  now  changed — so  no  more  about  it. 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  both  able  to  come  out." 

His  mother,  on  first  sitting  down,  clasjjed 
her  hands  together,  and  in  a  silent  ejacula- 
tion, \rith  closed  ejes,  raised  her  heart 
to  the  ^Umighty,  to  supplicate  aid  and 
strength  to  enable  her  to  part  finally  with 
that  boy  who  was,  and  ever  had  been,  dearer 
to  her  than  her  own  heart.  Una  trembled, 
and  on  meeting  her  brother  so  unexpectedly, 
blushed  faintly,  and,  indeed,  appeared  to 
breathe  with  ditticulty.  Slie  held  a  bottle  of 
smelling  salts  in  her  hand. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  I  will  explain  this 
visit." 

"  My  dear  Una,"  he  replied,  affectionately, 
"  you  need  not — it  requires  none — and  I  beg 
you  wUl  not  think  of  it  one  moment  more. 


I  must  now  leave  you  together  for  about 
half  an  hour,  as  I  have  some  business  to  do 
in  town  that  will  detain  me  about  that  time." 
He  then  left  them. 

"Connor,"  said  his  mother,  "  sit  down  be- 
tween this  darlin'  gui  an'  me,  till  I  spake  to 
you." 

He  sat  down  and  took  a  hand  of  each. 

"  A  darUu'  gii'l  she  is,  mother.  It's  now  I 
see  how  very  ill  you  have  been,  my  own 
Una." 

"  Yes,"  she  rejDhed,  "  I  was  ill — but  when  I 
heard  that  your  Ufe  was  spai'ed,  I  got  better." 

This  she  said  with  an  artless  but  melan- 
choly naivete,  that  was  very  ti-jdng  to  the 
fortitude  of  her  lover.  As  she  spoke  she 
looked  fondly  but  moiu-ufuUy  into  his  face. 

"  Connor,"  jjroceeded  his  mother,  "  I  hojje 
you  are  fully  sensible  of  the  mercy  God  has 
sho%vn  you,  under  this  great  trial  ?  " 

"  I  hope  I  am,  indeed,  my  dear  mother. 
It  is  to  God  I  siu'ely  owe  it." 

"  It  is,  an'  I  trust  that,  go  where  you  will, 
and  live  where  you  may,  the  day  will  never 
come  when  you'U  forget  tlie  debt  you  owe 
Ihe  Almighty,  for  jsreventin'  you  fi-om  bein' 
cat  down  Kke  a  flower  in  the  wevy  bloom  of 
your  Ufe.  I  hope,  a\illish  machree,  that 
that  day  wdU  never  come." 

"  God  fori  lid  it  ever  should,  mother 
deal' !  " 

"  Thin  you  may  learn  from  what  has  haji- 
pened,  avick  agus  asthore,  never,  oh  never, 
to  despair  of  God's  mercy — no  matter  into 
what  thrial  or  difiicidty  you  may  be  brought. 
You  see,  whin  you  naither  hoped  for  it  here, 
nor  expected  it,  how  it  came  for  all  that." 

"  It  cUd,  blessed  be  God  !  " 

"  You're  goin'  now,  ahagur,  to  a  strange 
land,  where  j'ou'll  meet — ay,  where  my  dar- 
lin' boy  ^\•iIl  meet  the  worst  of  company ; 
but  remember,  alanna  avillish,  that  j'oiu- 
mother,  well  as  she  loves  you,  an'  well,  I 
own,  as  you  desei-ve  to  be  loved — that 
mother  that  hung  over  the  cradle  of  her 
only  one — that  dressed  him,  an'  reared  him, 
an'  felt  many  a  jsroud  heai-t  out  of  him — 
that  mother  would  sooner  at  any  time  see 
him  in  his  grave,  his  sowl  bein'  fi-ee  fi-om 
stain,  than  to  know  that  his  heart  was  cor- 
rupted by  the  world,  an'  the  peojale  you'U 
meet  in  it."   . 

Sometlung  in  the  last  sentence  must 
have  touched  a  chord  in  Una's  heart,  for  the 
tears,  without  showing  any  other  externid 
signs  of  emotion,  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

"  My  advice,  then,  to  you — an'  oh,  avick 
machree,  machi-ee,  it  is  my  last,  the  last  you 
will  ever  hear  from  my  Ups — " 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Con- 
nor, tint  he  coidd  not  jjroceed — voice  waa 
denied  him.     Una  here  sobbed  aloud. 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"Yoii  bore  your  thrial  nobly,  my  darliu' 
son — 3'ou  must  tbiu  bear  tliis  as  well  ;  an' 
you,  a  colleen  dlias,  remember  your  ^Jromise 
to  me  afore  I  consinted  to  come  with  you 
this  clay." 

The  weeping  girl  here  dried  her  eyes, 
and,  by  a  strong  effort,  hushed  her  grief. 

"  My  advice,  thin,  to  you,  is  never  to  neg- 
lect your  duty  to  God  ;  for,  if  you  do  it  wanst 
or  twist,  you'll  begin  by  degrees  to  get  care- 
less— thin,  bit  by  bit,  asthore,  your  heart 
will  harden,  your  conscience  will  leave  you, 
an'  wickedness,  an'  sin,  an'  guilt  will  come 
upon  you.  It's  no  matter,  asthore,  how 
much  wicked  comrades  may  laugh  an' 
jeer  at  you,  keep  you  thrue  to  the  will  of 
your  good  God,  an'  to  j'our  religious  duties, 
an'  let  (hem  take  their  own  coorse.  Will  you 
promise  me  to  do  this,  aauillkh  macliree?  " 

"  Mother,  I  have  always  sthrove  to  do  it, 
an'  with  God's  assistance,  always  wiU." 

.  "An',  my  son,  too,  will  you  bear  uj)  un- 
dher  this  like  a  man  ?  Remember,  Connor 
darlin',  that  although  you're  la\'in'  us  for- 
ever, yet  your  poor  father  an'  I  have  the 
blessed  satisfaction  of  knowin'  that  we're 
not  childless — that  you're  alive,  an'  that 
you  may  yet  do  well  an'  be  happy.  I  rain- 
tion  these  tilings,  acushla  maehree,  to  show 
you  that  there's  notliin'  over  you  so  bad, 
but  you  may  show  yourself  firm  and  manly 
undher  it — act  as  you  have  done.  It's  you, 
asthore,  ought  to  comfort  your  father  an 
me  ;  an'  I  hope,  whin  you're  parted  fi'om 
him,  that  you  'ill — Oh  God,  sui^iaort  him  !  I 
wish,  Connor,  darlin',  that  that  partin'  was 
over,  but  I  depend  ui:)on  you  to  make  it  as 
hght  upon  him  as  you  can  do." 

She  paused,  aj^parently  from  exhaustion. 
Indeed,  it  was  evident,  either  that  she  had  lit- 
tle else  to  add,  or  that  she  felt  too  weak  to 
speak  much  more,  with  such  a  load  of  sor- 
row and  affliction  on  her  heart. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Connor  jewel,  that 
I  needn't  mintion.  Of  coorse  you'll  vmte  to 
us  as  often  as  you  convaniently  can.  Oh, 
do  not  forget  that !  for  you  know  that  that 
bit  of  paper  from  yoiw  own  hand,  is  all  be- 
longin'  to  you  we  will  ever  see  more.  Aviek 
maehree,  maehree,  many  a  long  look-out  we 
will  have  for  it.  It  maykeej)the  ould  man's 
heart  from  breakiii'."  • 

She  was  silent,  but,  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words,  there  was  a  shaking  of  the  voice, 
which  gave  clear  proof  of  the  difficulty  with 
which  she  went  through  the  solemn  task  of 
being  calm,  which,  for  the  sake  of  her  son, 
she  had  heroically  imposed  ujjon  herself. 

She  was  now  silent,  but.  as  is  usual  with 
Irish  women  under  the  influence  of  soitow, 
she  rocked  herself  involuntary  to  and  fro, 
whilst,  with  closed  eyes,  and   hands  elasjied 


j  as  before,  she  held   communion  with  God, 
the  only  true  source  of  comfort. 

"  Connor,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  dur- 
ing which  he  and  Una,  though  silent  from  ■ 
respect  to  her,  were  both  deeply  affected : 
"  sit  fornint  me,  avick  maehree,  that,  for 
the  short  time  you're  to  be  ^^^th  me,  I  maj' 
have  you  before  my  eyes.  Husth  now,  a  col- 
leen maehree,  an'  remimber  your  promise. 
"\\Tiere's  the  stringth  you  said  you'd  show  ?  " 

She  then  gazed  with  a  long  look  of  love 
and  sorrow  upon  the  fine  countenance  of 
her  manly  son,  and  nature  would  be  no  lon- 
ger restrained — 

"  Let  me  lay  my  head  upon  your  breast," 
said  she  ;  I'm  attemptin'  too  much — the  mo- 
ther's heart  will  give  out  the  mother's  voice — 
will  speak  the  mother's  sorrow  !  Oh.  my  son, 
my  son,  my  darlin',  manly  son — are  you  lavin' 
your  lovin'  mother  for  evermore,  for  ever- 
more ?  " 

She  was  overcome  ;  placing  her  head  upon 
his  bosom,  her  grief  fell  into  that  beautiful 
but  mournful  wail  with  which,  in  Ii'eland, 
those  of  her  sex  weep  over  the  dead. 

Indeed,  the  scene  assumed  a  tenderness, 
fi'om  this  incident,  which  was  inexpressibly 
affecting,  inasmuch  as  the  cry  of  death  was 
but  little  out  of  j)lace  when  bewailing  that 
beloved  boy,  whom,  by  the  stern  decree  of 
law,  she  was  never  to  see  again. 

Connor  kissed  her  pale  cheek  and  lijas, 
and  rained  down  a  flood  of  bitter  tears  upon 
lier  face  ;  and  Una,  borne  away  by  the  en- 
thusiasm of  her  sorrow,  threw  her  arms  also 
around  her,  and  wept  aloud. 

At  length,  after  having,  in  some  degree, 
eased  her  heart,  she  sat  up,  and  with  that 
consideration  and  good  sense  for  which  she 
had  ever  been  remarkable,  said — 

"  Nature  must  have  its  way  ;  an'  surely, 
within  reason,  it's  not  sinful,  seein'  that  God 
himself  has  given  us  the  feelin's  of  sorrow, 
whin  thim  that  we  love  is  lavin'  us — lavin'  us 
never,  never  to  see  them  agin.  It's  only 
nature,  atther  aU ;  and  now  ma  colleen 
dhas" — 

Her  allusion  to  the  final  sejiaration  of 
those  who  love — or,  in  her  own  words,  "  to 
the  feelin's  of  son-ow,  whm  thim  tliat  we 
love  is  lavin'  us " — was  too  much  for  the 
heart  and  affections  of  the  fair  girl  at  her 
side,  whose  grief  now  j^iassed  all  the  bounds 
which  her  pre\dous  attempts  at  being  firm 
had  prescrilied  to  it. 

O'Donovan  took  the  beloved  one  in  hia 
arms,  and,  in  the  long  embrace  which  en- 
sued, seldom  were  love  and  sorrow  so  singu- 
lai'ly  and  mournfully  blended. 

"  I  don't  want  to  prevent  you  fi-om  cryin', 
a  colleen  maehree  ;  for  I  know  it  will  lighten 
an' aise  yoiu'  heart,"  said  Honor;  "but  re- 


FARDOROnOITA,    THE  MISER. 


283 


mimber  j'our  Wtokeness  an'  your  poor  health  ; 
an',  Conuor  avourneeu,  don't  you — if  you 
love  her — don't  forget  the  state  her  health's 
in  either." 

"  Mother,  mother,  you  know  it's  the  last 
time  I'll  ever  look  upon  mj-  Una's  face 
again,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  well  may  I  be 
loiith  an'  unwillm'  to  part  with  her.  You'll 
think  of  me,  my  clarlin'  life,  when  I'm  gone 
— not  as  a  guilty  man,  Una  dear,  but  as  one 
that  if  he  ever  committed  a  crime,  it  was 
lovin'  you  an'  bringin'  jou  to  this  unhappy 
state." 

"  God  sees  my  heart  this  day,"  she  re- 
plied— and  she  spoke  with  difficulty — "  that 
I  could  and  would  have  travelled  over  the 
world  ;  bome  joy  and  sorrow,  hardship)  and 
distress — good  fortune  and  bad — all  hapjjily, 
if  you  had  been  by  my  side — if  you  had  not 
been  taken  from  me.  Oh,  Conuor,  Connor, 
you  may  well  pity  your  Una — for  yours  I 
am  and  was — another's  I  never  wUl  be.  You 
ai'e  entering  into  scenes  that  wiU  reheve  you 
by  their  novelty — that  wiU  force  you  to  think 
of  other  things  and  of  other  jjersons  tlian 
those  you've  left  behind  you  ;  but  oh,  what 
can  I  look  upon  that  will  not  fill  my  heart 
with  despair  and  sprrow,  by  reminding  me 
of  j'ou  and  your  afi'ection  ?  " 

"  Fareer  gair,"  exclaimed  the  mother, 
speaking  involuntarily  aloud,  and  interrupt- 
ing her  own  words  with  sobs  of  bitter 
anguish — "  Fareer  gair,  ma  colleen  dhas,  but 
that's  the  heavy  truth  \^'ith  us  all.  Oh,  the 
ould  man — the  ould  man's  heart  will  break 
all  out,  when  he  looks  ujjon  the  place,  an' 
everything  else  that  oiu-  boy  left  behind  him." 

"Dear  Una,"  said  Conuor,  "you  know 
'chat  we're  j)artiu'  now  forever." 

"  My  breaking  heart  teUs  me  that,"  she 
replied.  "  I  would  give  the  wealth  of  the 
world  that  it  was  not  so — I  would — I  would." 

"Listen  to  me,  my  owa  life.  You  must 
not  let  love  for  me  he  so  heavy  ujjon  your 
lieart.  Go  out  and  keep  yom-  mind  em- 
ployed ujaon  other  thoughts — by  degi'ees 
you'll  forget — no,  I  don't  think  you  could 
altogether  forget  me — me — the  first,  Una, 
you  ever  loved." 

"And  the  last,  Connor — the  last  I  evei- 
will  love." 

"  No,  no.  In  the  presence  of  my  lo^-iu' 
mother  I  say  that  you  must  not  think  that 
way.  Time  will  pass,  my  own  Una,  an'  you 
win  yet  be  happj-  with  some  other.  You're 
very  young  ;  an',  as  I  said,  time  vaR  wear  me 
by  degrees  out  of  your  mimoi-y." 

Una  broke  hastily  from  his  embrace,  for 
she  lay  upon  his  breast  all  this  time — 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Connor  O'Donovan  ?  " 
she  exclaimed  ;  but  on  looking  into  his  face, 
and  reatling  the  history  of  deep-seated  sor- 


row which  appeared  there  so  legible,  she 
again  "  fied  to  him  and  wept." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  continued,  "I  cannot  quar- 
rel with  you  now  ;  but  you  do  the  heart  ol 
your  own  Una  injustice,  if  you  thuik  it  could 
ever  feel  happiness  with  another.  Already 
I  have  my  mother's  consent  to  enter  a  con- 
vent— and  to  enter  a  convent  is  my  fixed 
determination." 

"Oh,  mother,"  said  Connor,  "How  wiU  I 
lave  this  blessed  girl  ?  how  wiU  I  jjart  with 
her?" 

Honor  rose  up,  and,  by  two  or  thi-ee 
simple  words,  disclosed  more  forcibly,  more 
touchingly,  than  any  direct  exhibition  of 
grief  could  have  done,  the  inexpressible 
250wer  of  the  misery  she  felt  at  this  eternal 
separation  from  her  only  boy.  She  seized 
Una's  two  hands,  and,  kissing  her  lips,  said, 
in  tones  of  the  most  heart-rending  pathos— 

"  Oh,  Una,  Una,  pity  me — I  am  liis  ?«ci- 
ther!" 

Una  threw  herself  into  her  arms,  and 
sobbed  out — 

"  Yes,  and  mine." 

"  Thin  you'll  obey  me  as  a  daughter 
should,"  said  Honor.  "  This  is  too  much 
for  you,  Oona  ;  part  we  both  must  fi-om  him, 
an'  neither  of  us  is  able  to  bear  much  more." 

She  here  gave  Connor  a  private  signed  to 
be  firm,  pointing  imobservedly  to  Una's  pale 
cheek,  which  at  that  moment  lay  upon  her 
bosom. 

"Connor,"  she  proceeded,  "Oona  has 
what  you  sent  her.  Nogher — an'  he  is 
breakin'  his  heart  too — gave  it  to  me  ;  an' 
my  daughter,  for  I  vnl].  always  call  her  so, 
has  it  this  minute  next  her  lovin'  heai-t. 
Here  is  hers,  an'  let  it  lie  next  yours." 

Connor  seized  ^lie  glossy  ringlet  from  his 
mother's  hand,  and  placed  it  at  the  moment 
next  to  the  seat  of  his  imdying  affection  for 
the  fair  girl  from  whose  ebon  locks  it  had 
been  taken. 

His  mother  then  kissed  Una  again,  and, 
rising,  said — 

"Now,  my  daughther,  remimber  I  am 
your  mother,  an'  obey  me." 

"I  ■ndll,"  said  Una,  attempting  to  repress 
her  giief— "I  will ;  but — " 

"Yes,  darhn',  you  wdl.  Now,  Connor,  my 
son,  mj-  son — Connor  ?  " 

"  "What  is  it,  mother,  dai'liu'  ?  " 

"^Ve're  goin',  Connor, — we'relaviu'  you— 
be  firm — be  a  man.  Ai-en't  you  my  son, 
Connor  ?  my  only  sou — an'  the  ould  man — 
an'  iiever,  never  more — ^kneel  do\N'n — kneel 
down,  till  I  bless  you.  Oh,  many,  many  a 
blessin' has  risen  from  your  mother's  liiJS  an' 
your  mother's  heart,  to  Heaven  for  you,  my 
son,  my  son  !  " 

Connor  knelt,  his  heai-t  bursting,  but  he 


284 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


knelt  not  alone.  By  his  side  was  his  own 
Una,  with  meek  and  bended  head,  awaiting 
for  hi%  mothers  blessing. 

She  then  jjom-ed  forth  that  blessing  ;  first 
upon  him  who  was  nearest  to  her  heart,  and 
aftei-wards  upon  the  worn  but  stOl  beautiful 
girl,  whose  love  for  that  adored  son  had  made 
her  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  her.  Whilst 
she  uttered  this  fervent  but  sorrowful  bene- 
diction, a  hand  was  placed  upon  the  head  of 
each,  after  which  she  stooped  and  kissed 
them  both,  but  without  shedding  a  single 
tear. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  comes  the  mother's 
wakeness  ;  but  my  son  will  help  me  by  his 
manliness — so  will  my  daughter.  I  am  very 
weak.  Oh,  what  heart  can  know  the 
sufferiu's  of  tliis  hour,  but  mine  ?  Mj'  son, 
my  son — Connor  O'Donovan,  my  son  ! "' 

At  this  moment  Jolm  O'Brien  entered  the 
room  ;  but  the  solemnity  and  pathos  of  her 
tnauner  and  voice  hushed  him  so  completely 
mto  silent  attention,  that  it  is  probable  she 
did  not  i^erceive  him. 

"  Let  me  put  my  arms  about  him  and  kiss 
his  lips  once  more,  an'  then  I'll  say  farewell." 

She  again  approached  the  boy,  who 
opened  his  arms  to  receive  her,  and,  after 
having  kissed  him  and  looked  into  his  face, 
said,  "  I  will  now  go — I  wiU  now  go;"  but 
instead  of  withdi-awing,  as  she  had  intended, 
it  was  observed  that  she  pressed  him  more 
closely  to  her  heart  than  before  ;  phed  her 
hands  about  his  neck  and  bosom,  as  if  she 
were  not  actually  conscious  of  what  she  did  ; 
and  at  length  sunk  into  a  forgetfulness  of 
aU  her  misery  upon  the  aching  breast  of  her 
unhappy  son. 

"  Now,"  said  Una,  rising  into  a  spirit  of 
unexpected  fortitude,  "  nc^,  Connor,  I  will 
be  her  daughtei',  and  you  must  be  her  sou. 
The  moment  she  recovers  we  must  separate, 
and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  show  that  our 
affection  for  each  other  shall  not  be  injuri- 
ous'to  her." 

"It  is  nature  only,"  said  her  brother  ;  "or, 
in  other  words,  the  love  that  is  natural  to 
such  a  mother  for  such  a  son,  that  has  over- 
come her.     Connor,  this  must  be  ended." 

"  I  am  willmg  it  should,"  replied  the  other. 
"  You  must  assist  them  home,  and  let  me  see 
you  again  to-morrow.  I  have  something  of 
the  deejjest  imijortance  to  say  to  you." 

Una's  bottle  of  smeUing  salts  soon  relieved 
the  woe-worn  mother  ;  and,  ere  the  lapse  of 
many  minutes,  she  was  able  to  summon  her 
own  natural  firmness  of  character.  The 
lovers,  too,  strove  to  be  firm  ;  and,  after  one 
long  and  last  embrace,  they  separated  from 
Connor  with  more  composure  than,  from  the 
preceding  scene,  might  have  been  expected. 

The  next  day,  according  to  promise,  John 


O'Brien  paid  him  an  early  visit,  in  order  to 
hear  what  Connor  had  assured  him  was  of 
more  importance  even  than  Una's  life  itself. 
Tueir  conference  was  long  and  serious,  for 
each  felt  equally  interested  in  its  subject- 
matter.  When  it  was  concluded,  and  they 
had  sej)arated,  O'Brien's  friends  obsei-ved 
that  he  appeared  like  a  man  whose  mind  was 
occupied  by  something  that  occasioned  him 
to  feel  deep  anxiety.  What  the  cause  of  this 
secret  care  was,  he  did  not  disclose  to  any 
one  except  his  father,  to  whom,  in  a  few  days 
afterwards;  he  mentioned  it.  His  coUege 
vacation  had  now  nea)ly  expired  ;  bvit  it  was 
mutually  agreed  upon,  in  the  course  of  the 
communication  he  then  made,  that  for  the 
l^resent  he  should  remain  with  them  at  home, 
and  post25one  his  return  to  IMajaiooth,  if  not 
abandon  the  notion  of  the  priesthood  alto- 
gether. When  the  Bodagh  left  his  son,  aftev 
this  dialogue,  his  oj^en,  good-humored  coun- 
tenance seemed  clouded,  his  brow  thought- 
ful, and  his  whole  manner  that  of  a  man  who 
has  heard  something  more  than  u.sually  im- 
pleasant ;  but,  whatever  this  intelligence 
was,  he,  too,  aj^peared  equally  studious  to 
conceal  it.  The  day  now  arrived  on  which 
Coimor  O'Donovan  v.'as  to  see  his  other  pa- 
rent for  the  last  time,  and  this  iuterriew  he 
dreaded,  on  the  old  man's  account,  more 
than  he  had  done  even  the  separation  from 
his  mother.  Our  readers  may  judge,  thel-e- 
fore,  of  his  surprise  on  finding  that  his  father 
exhibited  a  want  of  sorrow  or  of  common 
feeling  that  absolutely  amounted  idniost  to 
indifference. 

Connor  felt  it  difiSeult  to  account  for  a 
change  so  singular  and  extraorduiary  in  one 
with  whose  affection  for  himself  he  was  so 
well  acquainted.  A  little  time,  however,  and 
an  odd  hint  or  two  tluown  out  in  the  early 
part  of  their  conversation,  soon  enabled  him 
to  perceive,  either  that  the  old  man  labored 
under  some  strange  haUuciuation,  or  had 
discovered  a  secret  source  of  comfort  known 
only  to  himself.  At  lengih,  it  appeared  to 
the  son  that  he  had  discovered  the  cause  of 
this  unaccountable  change  in  the  conduct  of 
his  father  ;  and,  we  need  scsu'cely  assure  oru- 
readers,  that  his  heart  sank  into  new  and 
deeper  distress  at  the  words  fi'om  which  he 
drew  the  inference. 

"Connor,"  said  the  miser,  "I  had  great 
luck  yesthei'day.  You  remember  Antonj'  Cu- 
sack,  that  ran  away  from  me  wid  seventy- 
three  pounds  fifteen  shiUiu's  an'  nine  pence, 
now  betther  than  nine  years  ago.  Many  a 
ciu-se  he  had  fi'om  me  for  his  roguery  ;  but 
somehow,  it  peems  he  only  thriiv  under  them. 
His  son  Andy  called  on  me  yestherday 
mornin',  an'  pcil  me  to  the  last  farden,  in- 
th'rest  an'  aU.     Wasn't  I  in  luck  ?  " 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


2S5 


"  It  was  veiy  fortunate,  father,  an'  I'm  glad 
iji  it." 

"  It  was,  indeed,  the  hoighth  o'  hiok.  Now, 
Connor,  you  think  one  thing,  an'  that  is,  that 
we're  partiu'  forever,  an'  that  we'll  never  see 
one  another  tUl  we  meet  in  the  next  world. 
Isn't  that  what  you  think  V  — eh,  Connor  ?  " 

"  It's  hard  to  tell  what  may  happen,  father. 
We  may  see  one  another  even  in  this;  stranger 
things  have  been  brought  about." 

"  I  tell  you,  Connor,  we'll  meet  agin  ;  I 
have  made  out  a  plan  in  my  own  head  for 
that ;  but  the  luckiest  of  all  was  the  money 
yestherday." 

"  What  is  the  plan,  father?  " 

"  Don't  ax  me,  avick,  bekase  it's  betther 
for  you  not  to  know  it.  I  may  be  disappoint- 
ed, but  it's  not  likely  aither  ;  still  it  'ud  be 
risin'  expectations  iu  j'ou,  an'  if  it  didn't 
come  to  pass,  you'd  only  be  more  unhappy  ; 
an'  you  know,  Connor  darlin',  I  wouldn't 
wish  to  be  the  manes  of  making  your  poor 
heart  sore  for  one  minute.  God  knows  the 
same  young  heart  has  suffered  enough,  an' 
more  than  it  ought  to  suffer.     Connor  ?  " 

"Well,  father?" 

"  Keep  ujj  your  spirits,  darlin',  don't  be  at 
all  cast  down,  I  tell  you." 

The  old  man  caught  his  son's  hands  ere  he 
spoke,  and  uttered  these  words  with  a  voice 
of  such  tenderness  and  affection,  that  Con- 
nor, on  seeing  him  assume  the  ofSee  of  com- 
forter, contrary  to  all  he  had  expected,  felt 
himself  more  deeply  touched  than  if  his  fa- 
ther had  fallen,  as  was  his  wont,  into  all  the 
imjjotent  violence  of  grief. 

"It  was  only  comin'  here  to-day,  Connor, 
that  I  thought  of  this  plan  ;  but  I  wish  to 
goodness  your  poor  mother  knew  it,  for  thin 
maybe  she'd  let  me  mintion  it  to  you." 

"  If  il  would  make  me  any  way  unhappy," 
replied  Connor,  "  I'd  rather  not  hear  it ;  only, 
whatever  it  is,  father,  if  it's  against  my  dear 
mother's  wishes,  don't  put  it  in  jiractice." 

"I  couldn't,  Connor,  widout  her  consint, 
barrin'  we'd — but  there's  no  us  in  that ;  only 
keep  up  your  spirits,  Connor  dear.  Still  I'm 
glad  it  came  into  my  head,  this  plan  ;  for  if 
I  thought  that  I'd  never  see  you  agin,  I 
wouldn't  know  how  to  part  wid  you  ;  my 
heart  'ud  fairly  break,  or  my  head  'u;l  get 
light.  Now,  won't  you  promise  me  not  to 
fret,  acushla  machree — an'  to  keep  your  heart 
up,  an'  your  spirits  ?  " 

"  I'll  fret  as  little  as  I  can,  father.  You 
know  there's  not  much  j)leasure  in  fi-ettin',  an' 
th  it  no  one  would  fret  if  they  could  avoid  it ; 
bnt  will  you  promise  me,  my  dear  father,  to  be 
guided  an'  advised,  iu  whatever  you  do,  or 
intend  to  do,  by  mj-  mother — my  blessed 
mother  ?  " 

"I  wiU — I  will,  Connor  ;  an'  if  I  had  alwavs 


done  so,  maybe  it  isn't  here  now  you'd  be 
standing,  an'  my  heart  breakin'  to  look  at 
you  ;  but,  indeed,  it  was  God,  I  hope,  put  this 
plan  into  my  head  ;  an'  the  money  yesther- 
day— that,  too,  was  so  lucky — far  more  so, 
Connor  dear,  than  you  think.  Only  foJ 
that — but  sure  no  matther,  Connor,  we're 
not  partin'  for  evermore  now  ;  so  acushla 
machree,  let  your  mind  be  aisy.  Cheer  up, 
cheer  up  my  darhu'  son." 

Much  more  conversation  of  this  kind  took 
place  between  them  during  the  old  man's 
stay,  which  he  prolonged  almost  to  the  last 
hour.  Connor  wondered,  as  was  but  natural, 
what  the  plan  so  recently  fallen  upon  by  his 
father  could  be.  Indeed,  sometimes,  he 
feared  that  the  idea  of  their  separation  had 
shaken  his  intellect,  and  that  his  allusions  to 
this  mysterious  discovery,  mixed  up,  as  they 
were,  with  the  uncommon  dehght  he  ex- 
l)ressed  at  having  recovered  Cusack's  money, 
boded  nothing  less  than  the  ultimate  de- 
rangement of  his  faculties.  One  thing,  how- 
ever, seemed  obvious — that,  whatever  it 
might  be,  whether  reasonable  or  otherwise, 
his  father's  mind  was  exclusively  occupied  by 
it  ;  and  that,  during  the  whole  scene  of  their 
parting,  it  sustained  him  in  a  manner  for 
which  he  felt  it  utterly  imi")ossible  to  account. 
It  is  true  he  did  not  leave  him  without  shed- 
ding tears,  and  bitter  tears  ;  but  they  were 
unaccompanied  by  the  wild  vehemence  of 
grief  which  had,  on  former  occasions,  raged 
through  and  almost  desolated  his  heart. 
The  reader  maj-  entertain  some  notion  of 
what  he  would  have  felt  on  this  occasion, 
were  it  not  for  the  "plan,"  as  he  called  it, 
which  supported  him  so  much,  when  we  tell 
him  that  he  blessed  his  son  three  or  four 
times  during-their  interview,  without  being 
conscious  tliat  he  had  blessed  him  more  than 
once.  His  last  words  to  him  were  to  keep 
up  his  sj)irits,  for  that  there  was  little  doubt 
that  they  would  meet  again. 

The  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  "  their 
noble  boy,"  as  they  fondly  and  j)roudly  called 
him,  was  conveyed  to  the  transj^ort,  iu  com- 
pany with  many  others ;  and  at  the  hour  of 
five  o'clock  p.  M.,,  that  melancholy  vessel 
weighed  anchor,  and  spread  her  broad  sails 
to  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

Although  the  necessary  aiRiirs  of  life  are, 
after  all,  the  great  assuager  of  sorrow,  yet 
there  are  also  cases  where  the  heart  persists 
iu  rejecting  the  consolation  brought  liy  time, 
and  in  clinging  to  the  memory  of  that  whicli 
it  loved.  Neither  Honor  O'Donovan  nor 
Una  O'Brien  could  forget  om-  unhajipy  hero, 
nor  school  their  affections  into  the  apathy  of 
ordinary  feelings.  Of  Fardorougha  we  might 
say  the  .same  ;  for,  although  he  probably  fcli 
the  want  of  his  son's  jJresence  more  keenly 


286 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


even  than  liis  wife,  yet  liis  grief,  notwith-  j 
st:uulin{;-  its  severitj',  was  mingled  with  the 
interruption  of  a  habit — such  as  is  frequently 
the  prevailing  cause  of  sorrow  in  selfish  and 
contracted  minds.  That  there  was  much 
selfishness  in  his  grief,  our  readers,  we  dare  i 
say,  will  admit.  At  all  events,  a  scene  which 
took  place  between  him  and  his  wife,  on  the 
night  of  the  day  which  saw  Connor  depart 
from  his  native  land  forever,  will  satisfy  them 
of  the  different  spirit  which  maj-ked  their 
feelings  on  that  unfortunate  occasion. 

Honor  had,  as  might  be  expected,  recov- 
ered her  serious  composure,  and  spent  a 
great  portion  of  that  day  in  offering  up  her 
prayers  for  the  welfare  of  their  son.  Indeed, 
much  of  her  secret  grief  was  checked  by  the 
alarm  which  she  felt  for  her  husband,  whose 
conduct  on  that  morning  before  he  left  home 
was  marked  by  the  wild  excitement,  which  of 
late  had  been  so  peculiar  to  him.  Her  sur- 
prise was  consequently  great  when  she  ob- 
served, on  his  return,  that  he  manifested  a 
degree  of  calmness,  if  not  serenity,  utterly  at 
variance  with  the  outrage  of  his  grief,  or,  we 
should  rather  say,  the  deUriura  of  his  despair, 
in  the  early  part  of  the  day.  She  resolved, 
however,  with  her  usual  discretion,  not  to 
catechize  him  on  the  subject,  lest  his  violence 
might  revive,  but  to  let  his  conduct  explain 
itself,  which  she  knew  in  a  little  time  it 
would  do.  Nor  was  she  mistaken.  Scarcely 
had  an  hour  elajised,  when,  with  something 
like  exultation,  he  disclosed  his  plan,  and 
asked  her  ad\-ice  and  opinion.  She  heard  it 
attentively,  and  for  the  first  time  since  the 
commencement  of  their  affliction,  did  the 
mother's  brow  seem  unburdened  of  the  sor- 
row which  sat  upon  it,  and  her  eye  to  gleam 
with  something  like  the  light  of  exjiected 
happiness.  It  was,  however,  on  their  retiring 
to  rest  that  night  that  the  affecting  contest 
took  place,  which  exhibited  so  strongly  the 
contrast  between  their  characters.  We 
mentioned,  in  a  preceding  pai't  of  this  narra- 
tive, that  ever  since  her  son's  incarceration 
Honor  had  slept  in  his  bed,  and  with  her 
head  on  the  very  pillow  which  he  had  so  often 
pressed.  As  she  was  about  to  retire,  Fardo- 
rougha,  for  a  moment,  appeared  to  forget  his 
"  2)lan,"  and  everything  but  the  departure  of 
his  son.  He  followed  Honor  to  his  bedroom, 
which  he  traversed,  distractedly  clasping  his 
hands,  kissing  his  boy's  clothes,  and  uttering 
sentiments  of  extreme  misery  and  despair. 

"  There's  his  bed,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "there's 
our  boy's  bed — but  where  is  he  himself?* 
gone,  gone  forever  !  There's  his  clothes,  our 
darlin'  son's  clothes ;  look  at  them.  Oh 
God!  oh  God  !  my  heart  will  break  outright. 
Oh  Connor,  our  boy,  our  boy,  are  you  gone 
from  us  forever  !     We  must  sit  down  to  our 


breakfast  in  the  morniu',  to  our  dinner,  an' 
to  our  supper  at  night,  but  our  noble  boj'"a 
face  we'U  never  see — his  voice  we'U  never 
hear." 

"  Ah,  Fardorougha,  it's  thrue,  it's  thrue  !  * 
replied  the  wife  ;  "  but  remember  he's  not  in 
the  grave,  not  in  the  clay  of  the  churchyard  ; 
we  haven't  seen  him  carried  there,  and  laid 
down  undher  the  heart-breakin'  sound  of  the 
dead-bell ;  we  haven't  hard  the  cowld  noise 
of  the  clay  fallin'  in  ui^on  his  coffin.  Oh  no, 
no — thanks,  everlastin'  thanks  to  God,  that 
has  sjjared  our  boy's  Ufe  !  How  often  have 
you  an'  I  bard  people  say  over  the  corpses  of 
their  children,  '  Oh,  if  he  was  only  ahve  I 
didn't  care  in  what  part  of  the  world  it  was, 
or  if  I  was  never  to  see  his  face  again,  only 
that  lie  was  livin' ! '  An'  wouldn't  they, 
Fardorougha  dear,  give  the  world's  wealth  to 
have  their  wishes?  Oh  they  would,  they 
would — an'  thanks  forever  be  to  the  Al- 
mighty !  our  boy  is  livin'  and  may  yit  be 
happ3'.  Fardorougha,  let  us  not  fly  into  the 
face  of  God,  who  has  in  His  mercy  siDai-ed 
our  son." 

"  I'll  sleep  in  his  bed,"  replied  the  hus- 
band ;  "  on  the  very  sj^ot  he  lay  on  I'll  lie." 

This  was,  indeed,  trenching,  and  selfishly 
trenching  upon  the  last  mournful  privilege 
of  the  mother's  heart.  Her  sleeping  here 
was  one  of  those  secret  but  melancholy  en- 
joyments, which  the  love  of  a  mother  or  of  a 
wife  will  often  steal,  like  a  miser's  theft,  from 
the  very  hoard  of  their  own  sorrows.  Li 
fact,  she  was  not  prepared  for  this,  and  when 
he  spoke  she  looked  at  him  for  some  time  in 
silent  amazement. 

"Oh,  no,  Fardorougha  dear — the  mother, 
the  mother,  that  her  breast  was  so  often  his 
pillow,  has  the  best  right,  now  that  he's  gone, 
to  lay  her  head  where  his  lay.  Oh,  for  Heav- 
en's sake,  lave  that  jjoor  jjleasure  to  me,  Far- 
doroughn, !  " 

"  No,  Honor,  you  can  bear  \ip  inidher  grief 
better  thaii  I  can.  I  must  slee^:)  where  my 
boy  slept." 

"Fardorougha,  I  could  go  uj^on  my  knees 
to  you,  an'  I  wiU,  avom-neen,  if  you'll  grant 
me  this." 

"  I  can't,  I  can't,"  he  rej)Ued,  distractedly  ; 
"  I  could  sleep  nowhere  else.  I  love  every- 
thing belongin'  to  him.  I  can't,  Honor,  J 
can't,  I  can't." 

"  Fardorougha,  my  heart — his  mother's 
heart  is  fixed  uijou  it,  an'  was.  Oh  lave  this 
to  me,  acushla,  lave  this  to  me — it's  all  I 
axe  !  " 

"  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't — my  heart  is  break- 
in' — it'll  be  sweet  to  me — I'll  think  I'll  be 
neax'er  him,"  and  as  he  uttered  these  words 
the  teai's  flowed  copiously  do-wii  his  cheeks. 

His  affectionate  wife  was  touched  with  com- 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


287 


passion,  and  immediately  resolved  to  let  him 
have  his  way,  whatever  it  might  cost  herself. 

"  (iDil  pity  you,"  she  said  ;  "  I'll  give  it  up, 
I'll  give  it  up,  Fardorougha.  Do  sleej)  where 
he  slep' ;  I  can't  blame  you,  nor  I  dou't ;  for 
sure  it's  only  a  jjroof  of  how  much  you  love 
him."  She  then  bade  him  good-night,  and, 
with  sjwrits  dreadfull.y  weighed  down  by  this 
singular  incident,  withdrew  to  her  lonely  pil- 
low ;  for  Connor's  bed  had  been  a  single 
one,  in  which,  of  course,  two  persons  could 
not  sleep  together.  Thus  did  these  bereav- 
ed parents  retire  to  seek  that  rest  which 
nothing  but  exhausted  nature  seemed  dispos- 
ed to  give  them,  until  at  length  they  fell  asleep) 
under  the  double  shadow  of  night  and 
a  calamity  which  tilled  their  hearts  with  so 
much  distress  aiid  misery. 

In  the  mean  time,  whatever  these  two  fam- 
ilies might  have  felt  for  the  sufferings  of 
their  respective  children  in  consequence  of 
Bartle  Flanagan's  villamy,  that  plausible  trai- 
tor had  watched  the  departure  of  his  victim 
with  a  palijitating  anxiety  almost  equal  to 
what  some  unhappy  culprit,  in  the  dock  of  a 
prison,  would  experience  when  the  foreman 
of  his  jury  lu^uC:  down  the  septence  which  is 
either  to  han^;  or  acquit  him.  Up  to  the 
very  moment  on  which  the  vessel  sailed,  his 
cruel  but  cowardly  heart  was  Hterally  sick 
with  the  aj)prehension  that  Connor's  mitiga- 
ted sentence  might  be  still  further  commut- 
ed to  a  term  of  imprisonment.  Great,  there- 
fore, was  his  joy,  and  boundless  his  exultation 
on  satisfying  himself  that  he  was  now  per- 
fecth'  safe  in  the  crime  he  had  committed, 
and  that  his  path  was  never  to  be  crossed  by 
him,  whom,  of  all  men  living,  he  had  most 
feired  and  iiated.  The  reader  is  not  to  sup- 
jjose,  hciwevcr,  that  by  the  ruin  of  Connor, 
and  thd  fc.'>enge  he  consequently  had  gained 
upon  Fariorougha,  the  scope  of  his  dark  de- 
signs was  by  any  means  accomplished.  Far 
fi''.-?.ii  it  ;  the  fact  is,  his  measures  were  only 
in  a  progressive  state.  In  Nogber  M'Cor- 
mick's  last  ii\terview  with  Connor,  our  read- 
ers will  pJease  to  remember  that  a  hint  had 
been  tlu'own  out  by  that  attached  old  follow- 
er, of  Flanagan's  entertaining  certain  guilty 
purposes  involving  nothing  less  than  the  ab- 
d\iction  of  Una.  Now,"  in  justice  even  to 
Flanag in,  we  are  bound  to  siy  that  no  one 
living  h  id  ever  received  from  himself  any  in- 
timation of  such  an  intention.  The  whole 
story  was  fabricated  by  Nogher  for  the  pur- 
jDose  of  getting  Connor's  consent  to  the 
vengeance  which  it  had  been  determined  to 
execute  upon  liis  enemy.  By  a  curious  co- 
incidence, however, the  story,  though  decided- 
ly f  ilse  so  far  as  Nogher  knew  to  the  contra- 
ry, happened  to  be  litendly  and  absolutely 
true      i'ltmagan,  indeed,  was  too  skilful  and 


secret,  either  to  jwecipitate  his  own  designs 
until  the  feeling  of  the  j)arties  should  abate 
and  settle  down,  or  to  place  himself  at  the 
mercy  of  another  person's  honesty.  He  knew 
his  own  heart  too  well  to  risk  his  life  by 
such  dangerous  and  unseasonable  confidence. 
Some  months  consequently  passed  away  since 
Connor's  departure,  when  an  event  took  jjlace 
which  gave  him  still  greater  security.  This 
was  nothing  less  than  the  fulfilment  by  Far- 
dorougha of  that  plan  to  which  he  looked 
forward  with  such  prospective  satisfaction. 
Connor  had  not  been  a  month  gone  when  his 
father  commenced  to  dispose  of  his  property, 
which  he  soon  did,  having  sold  out  his  farm 
to  good  advantage.  He  then  j^aid  his  rent, 
the  only  debt  he  owed  ;  and,  having  taken  a 
I^assage  to  New  South  Wales  for  himself  and 
Honor,  they  departed  with  melancholy  satis- 
faction to  seek  that  son  without  whose  soci- 
ety they  found  theii'  desolate  hearth  gloomier 
than  the  cell  of  a  prison. 

This  was  followed,  too,  by  auotlier  circum- 
stance— but  one  apparently  of  little  impor- 
tance— which  was,  the  removal  of  Biddy 
Nulty  to  the  Bodagh's  family,  through  the 
interference  of  Una,  by  whom  she  was  treated 
with  singular  affection,  and  admitted  to  her 
confidence. 

Such  was  the  position  of  the  imrties  after 
the  lapse  of  five  months  subsequent  to  the 
transjjort'itiou  of  Connor.  Flanagan  had 
conducted  himself  with  gi'eat  circumspection, 
and,  so  far  as  jjubhc  obsei-vation  could  go, 
w-ith  much  propriety.  There  was  no  change 
W'hatsoever  perceptible,  either  in  his  dress 
or  manner  excejst  that  alluded  to  by  Nogher 
of  his  altogether  declining  to  taste  any  in- 
toxicating hquor.  In  truth,  so  well  did  he 
act  his  part,  that  the  obloquy  raised  against 
him  at  the  j'^i'iod  of  Connor's  t»ial  was 
nearly,  if  not  altogether,  removed,  and  many 
persons  once  more  adopted  an  impression  of 
his  victim's  guilt. 

With  respect  to  the  Bodagh  and  his  son, 
the  anxiety  which  we  have  described  them  as 
feeling  in  consequence  of  the  latter's  inter- 
view with  O'Donovan,  was  now  completely 
removed.  Una's  mother  had  nearly  forgotten 
both  the  crime  and  its  consequences  ;  but 
upon  the  spirit  of  her  daughter  there  ap- 
25eared  to  rest  a  silent  and  settled  soitow  not 
likely  to  be  diminished  or  removed.  Her 
cheerfulness  had  abandoned  her,  and  many 
aa  hour  did  she  contrive  to  spend  with 
Biddy  Nulty,  eager  in  the  mournful  satis- 
faction of  talking  over  all  that  affection 
prompted  of  her  banished  lover. 

We  must  now  beg  our  readers  to  accom- 
pany us  to  a  scene  of  a  different  descrij^tion 
from  any  we  have  yet  drawn.  The  night  of 
a  November  day  had  set  in,  or  rather  had 


288 


WILLIAM  CiUlLETON'S  WORKS. 


advanced  so  far  as  nine  o'clock,  and  towards 
the  angle  of  a  small  three-cornered  field, 
called  by  a  pecuUar  coincidence  of  name, 
Oona's  Handkerchief,  in  consequence  of  an 
old  legend  connected  with  it,  might  be  seen 
moving  a  number  of  straggling  figures, 
sometimes  in  gi-oups  of  fours  and  fives ; 
sometimes  in  twos  or  threes  as  the  case 
might  be,  and  not  uirfi-equently  did  a  single 
straggler  advance,  and,  after  a  few  jwivate 
words,  either  join  the  others  or  ^jroceed  alone 
to  a  house  situated  in  the  angular  corner  of 
the  field  to  which  we  aUude.  As  the  district 
was  a  remote  one,  and  the  night  rather  dark, 
several  shots  might  be  heard  as  thej'  proceed- 
ed, and  several  flashes  in  the  pan  seen  fi-om 
the  rusty  arms  of  those  who  were  probably 
anxious  to  pull  a  trigger  for  the  first  time. 
The  country,  at  the  j)eriod  we  write  of,  be  it 
observed,  was  in  a  com'piU-ative  state  of 
tranquihty,  and  no  such  thing  as  a  police 
corps  had  been  heard  of  or  known  in  the 
neighborhood. 

At  the  lower  end  of  a  long,  level  kind  of 
moor  called  the  Black  Park,  two  figures  ap- 
l^roached  a  kind  of  gate  or  pass  that  opened 
into  it.  One  of  them  stood  tmtil  the  other 
advanced,  and,  in  a  significant  tone,  asked 
who  comes  there  ? 

"  A  friend  to  the  guard,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Good  morrow,"  said  the  other. 

"  Good  monow  momin'  to  you." 

"What  age  are  vou  in?" 

"In  the  end  of  the  Fifth." 

"All  right;  come  on,  boy;  the  true 
blood's  in  you,  whoever  you  are." 

"An'  is  it  possible  you  don't  know  me, 
Dandy  ?  " 

"  Faix,  it  is  ;  I  forgot  my  spectacles  to- 
night.    "Who  the  dickins  are  you  at  all  ?  " 

"I  sftppose  you  purtind  to  forget  Ned 
M'Cormick  ?  " 

"  Is  it  Nogher's  son  ?  " 

"  The  divil  a  other ;  an'.  Dandy  Duffy, 
how  are  you,  man  alive  ?  " 

"  Why,  ycu  see,  Ned,  I've  been  so  long 
out  of  the  counthry,  an'  I'm  now  so  short  a 
time  back,  that,  upon  my  sowl,  I  forget  a 
great  many  of  my  ould  acquaintances,  es- 
pecially them  that  wor  only  slips  when  I  ■wint 
acrass.  Faith,  I'm  purty  well  considherin, 
Ned,  I  thank  you." 

'"Eadluck  to  them  that  sint  you  acrass, 
Dandy  ;  not  bvit  that  you  got  off  purty  well 
on  the  whole,  by  all  accounts.  They  say 
only  that  Eousin  Redhead  swore  like  a  man 
you'd  'a'  got  a  touch  of  the  Sharjci\j  Shot'." 

"To  the  di^-il  wid  it  all  now,  Ned  ;  let  us 
have  no  more  about  it ;  I  don't  for  my  own 
part  like  to  think  of  it.  Have  you  any 
notion  of  what  we're  called  upon  for  to- 
night ?  " 


"  Divil  the  laste  ;  but  I  beUeve,  Dandy, 
that  Bartle's  not  the  white-headed  boy  wid 
you  no  more  nor  wid  some  more  of  us." 

"Him!  a  double-distilled  villain.  Faith, 
there  wor  never  good  that  had  the  white 
liver  ;  an'  he  has  it  to  the  backbone.  My 
brother  Laclilin,  that's  now  dead,  God  rest 
him,  often  tould  me  about  the  way  he  tricked 
him  and  Eaniey  Bradly  when  they  wor 
gTeenhonis  aljout  nineteen  or  twenty.  He 
got  them  to  join  him  in  steaUn'  a  sheep  for 
their  Christmas  dinner,  he  said  ;  so  they  all 
three  stole  it ;  an'  the  blaggard  skinned  and 
cut  it.  ujj,  sendin'  my  poor  boacim  of  a 
brother  home  to  hide  the  skin  in  the  straw 
in  our  bam,  and  j^oor  Barney,  wid  only  the 
head  an'  trotters,  to  hide  them  in  his  father's 
tow-house.  Very  good  ;  in  a  day  or  two 
the  neighbors  wor  aU  called  ui)ou  to  clear 
themselves  upon  the  holy  EvangeUsp  ;  and 
the  two  first  that  he  egg'd  an'  to  do  it  was 
my  brother  an'  Barney.  Of  coorse  he  switch- 
ed the  primmer  himself  that  he  was  inno- 
cent ;  but  whin  it  was  all  over  some  one  sint 
Jarmy  Campel,  that  lost  the  sheep,  to  the 
very  spot  where  they  hid  the  fleece  an'  trot- 
ters. Jai-my  didn't  wish  to  say  much  about 
it ;  so  he  tould  them  if  they'd  fairly  acknowl- 
edge it  an'  pay  him  betune  them  for  the 
sheep,  he'd  dhrop  it.  My  father  an'  Andy 
Bradlj'  did  so,  an'  there  it  ended  ;  but  pur- 
shue  the  morsel  of  miitton  ever  they  tasted 
in  the  mane  time.  As  for  Bartle,  lie  man- 
aged the  thing  so  weU  that  at  the  time  they 
never  suspected  him,  althovigh  divil  a  other 
could  betray  them,  for  he  was  the  only  one 
knew  it  ;  an'  he  had  the  aiten  o'  the  mutton, 
too,  the  blaggard !  Faith,  Ned,  I  know  him 
v/oU.'; 

"He  has  conthrived  to  get  a  strong  back 
o'  the  boys,  anyhow." 

"  He  has,  an'  'tis  that,  and  bekase  he's  a 
good  hand  to  be  iindher  for  my  revinge  on 
Blennerhasset,  that  made  me  join  him." 

"  I  dunna  what  could  make  him  refuse  to 
let  Alick  Nulty  join  him  ?  " 

"Is  it  my  cousin  fi-om  Annaloghau  ?  an' 
did  he  ?  "      ' 

"Divil  a  lie  in  it  ;  it's  as  thrue  as  yoii're 
staudin'  there  ;  but  do  you  know  what  is 
suspected  ?  " 

"No." 

"Why,  that  he  has  an  eye  on  Bodagb 
Buie's  daughter.  Alick  towld  me  that,  for 
a  long  time  afther  Connor  O'Donovau  was' 
thransjiorted,  the  father  an'  son  wor  afeard 
of  him.  He  haixl  it  from  his  sister  Biddy, 
an'  it  aj^pears  tliat  the  Bodagh's  daughter 
tould  her  family  that  he  used  to  stare  her 
out  of  countenance  at  mass,  an'  several  times 
struv  to  put  the  furraun  on  her  in  hopes  to 
get  acquainted." 


LIBRARY 

'.;  THE 

JNIVERGiTV  OF  tlLINOIC 


I 


o'donovan  took  the  beloved  one  in  his  arms,  and,  in  the  lonu  embrace  which  ensued,  seldom  w 
LOVB  ajjd  boubow  SO  SIHODLARLY  AND  MODKNPOLLY  BLENDED   -Fardorougho  the  Miscr,  Pait  vi.— J).  282. 


J^'ABDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


289 


"  He  would  do  it ;  an'  my  hand  to  you,  if 
he  undhertakes  it  he'll  not  fail ;  an'  I'll  tell 
you  another  thing,  if  he  suspected  that  I 
knew  an^-thing  about  the  thi-aicherous  thrick 
he  put  on  my  poor  brother,  the  divil  a  toe 
he'd  let  me  join  him  ;  but  you  see  I  was 
only  a  mere  gorsoon,  a  child  I  may  say  at 
the  time. 

"  At  all  events  let  us  keep  an  eye  on  him ; 
an'  in  regard  to  Connor  O'Donovan's  busi- 
ness, let  him  not  be  too  sure  that  it's  over 
wid  him  yet.  At  any  rate,  by  dad,  my  father 
has  slijjped  out  a  name  upon  him  an'  us 
that  will  do  him  no  good.  The  other  boys 
now  call  us  the  iilag^  of  Lkdhu,  that  bein' 
the  place  where  his  father  hved,  an'  the 
nickname  you  see  rises  out  of  his  thrachery 
to  poor  Connor  O'Donovan." 

"  Did  he  ever  give  any  hint  himself  about 
carrvin'  awaj'  the  Bodagh's  jjretty  daugh- 
ter?" 

"Is  it  him?  Oh,  oh!  catch  him  at  it; 
he's  a  damn  sight  too  close  to  do  any  sich 
thing." 

After  some  further  conversation  iipon 
that  and  other  topics,  they  amved  at  the 
place  of  appointment,  which  was  a  hedge 
school-house  ;  one  of  those  where  the 
master,  generally  an  unmarried  man,  merely 
wields  his  sceptre  during  school-hours,  leav- 
ing it  open  and  uninhabited  for  the  rest  of 
the  twenty-four. 

The  appearance  of  those  who  were  here 
assembled  was  indeed  singularly  striking. 
A  large  fire  of  the  unconsumed  peat  brought 
by  the  scholars  on  that  morning,  was  kind- 
led in  the  middle  of  the  floor — it's  usual 
site.  Around,  upon  stones,  hobs,  bosses, 
and  seats  of  various  deseriijtions,  sat  the 
"  boys  " — some  smoking  and  others  drink- 
ing ;  for  upon  nights  of  this  kind,  a  shebeen- 
housekeeper,  vmiformly  a  member  of  such 
societies,  generally  attends  for  the  sale  of 
his  liquor,  it  he  cannot  succeed  in  pi'evaiLing 
on  them  to  hold  their  meetings  in  his  own 
house — a  circumstance  which  for  many  rea- 
sons may  not  be  in  every  case  ad^-isable. 
As  they  had  not  all  yet  assembled,  nor  the 
business  of  tlie  night  commenced,  they  were, 
of  course,  di\ided  into  several  gi'ouj)s  and 
engaged  in  various  amusements.  In  the 
iower  end  of  the  house  was  a  knot,  busy  at 
the  game  of  "  spoiled  five,"  their  ludicrous 
table  being  the  cro^^'n  of  a  hat,  j^laced  vipon 
the  floor  in  the  centre.  These  all  sat  upon 
the  ground,  their  legs  stretched  out,  their 
torch-be;irer  holding  a  lit  bunch  of  fir  splin- 
ters, stuck  for  convenience  sake  into  the 
muzzle  of  a  horse-pistol.  In  the  upper  end, 
again,  sat  another  cUque,  listening  to  a  man 
who  was  reading  a  treasonable  ballad.  Such 
of  them  as  could  themselves  read  stretched 


over  their  necks  in  eagerness  to  perune  it 
along  mth  him,  and  such  as  could  not — in- 
deed, the  greater  number — gave  force  to  its 
principles  by  very  significant  gestures  ;  some 
being  those  of  melody,  and  others  those  of 
murder  ;  that  is  to  say,  pai't  of  them  were 
attempting  to  hum  a  tune  in  a  low  voice 
suitable  to  the  words,  whilst  others  more  fe- 
rocious brandished  their  weapons,  as  it 
those  against  whom  the  sjsirit  of  the  baUad 
was  directed  had  been  then  within  the  reach 
of  their  savage  passions.  Beside  the  fire, 
and  near  the  middle  of  the  house,  sat  a  man. 
who,  by  his  black  stock  and  military  appesu-- 
ance,  together  with  a  scar  over  his  brow 
that  gave  him  a  most  repulsive  look,  wag 
evidently  a  pensioner  or  old  soldier.  Tliis 
person  was  engaged  in  examining  some  nasty 
fire-anns  that  had  been  siibmitted  to  his  in- 
spection. His  self-importance  was  amusing, 
as  was  also  the  deferential  aspect  of  those 
who,  with  arms  in  their  hands,  hammering 
flints  or  turning  screws,  awaited  patiently 
theu-  turn  for  his  opinion  of  theii-  efficiency. 
But  perhaps  the  most  sticking  group  of  all 
was  that  in  which  a  thick-necked,  bull-head- 
ed yoimg  fellow,  with  blood-colored  hair, 
a  son  of  Eousin  Redhead's —who,  by  the 
way,  was  himself  present — and  another  bee- 
tle-browed sliiJ  were  engaged  in  drawing  for 
a  wager,  ujDon  one  of  the  school-boy's  slate.s, 
the  figiu'e  of  a  coifin  and  cross-bones.  A 
hardened-looking  old  sinner,  with  murder 
legible  in  his  face,  held  the  few  half-jience 
which  they  wagered  in  his  open  hand,  whUst 
in  the  other  he  clutched  a  pole,  surmounted 
by  a  bent  bayonet  that  had  evidently  seen 
service.  The  last  group  worthy  of  remark 
was  comi^osed  of  a  few  j)ersons  who  were 
wi-iting  threatening  notices  iipon  a  leaf  torn 
out  of  a  school-boy's  copy,  which  was  kiid 
upon  what  they  formerly  termed  a  copy- 
board,  of  plain  deal,  kept  upon  the  knees,  as 
a  substitute  for  desks,  while  tlie  boys  were 
writing.  Tins  mode  of  amusement  was 
called  waiting  for  the  Ai-ticle-bearer,  or  the 
Captain,  for  such  was  Bartle  Flanagan,  who 
now  entered  the  house,  and  saluted  all  pres- 
ent with  great  cordiality. 

"  Begad,  boys,"  he  said,  "  our  four  guards 
widout  is  worth  any  money.  I  had  to  pass 
the  sign-word  afore  I  could  pass  myself,  and 
that's  the  way  it  ought  to  be.  But,  boys, 
before  we  go  further,  an'  for  fiT.id  of  thrait- 
ors,  I  must  call  the  rowl.  You'U  stand  in  a 
row  roun'  the  walls,  an'  thin  we  can  mako 
sure  that  there's  no  spies  among  us." 

He  then  called  out  a  roll  of  those  who 
were  members  of  his  lodge  a:ad,  having 
ascertained  that  all  was  right,  he  proceeded 
immediately  to  business. 

"  Rousin  Redhead,  what's  the  raisin  you 


290 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


didn't  take  the  arms  from  Captain  St.  Ledf;;. 
er's  Stewart  ?  Sixteen  men  armed  was  enough 
to  do  it,  an'  yees  failed." 

"Ay,  an'  if  you  had  been  wid  us,  and  six- 
teen more  to  the  back  o'  that,  you'd  failed 
too.  BegaiTa,  caj^tain  dear,  it  seems  that 
good  jjeople  is  scarce.  Look  at  Mickey 
Mulvather  there,  you  see  his  head  tied  up  ; 
but  aldo  he  can  jjlay  cards  well  enough,  be 
me  sowl,  he's  short  of  wan  ear  any  how,  an' 
if  you  could  meet  wan  o'  the  same  Stewart's 
bullets,  goin'  abroad  at  night  like  oiu'selves 
for  its  divarsiou,  it  might  tell  how  he  lost  it. 
Bartle,  I  tell  you  a  number  of  us  isn't  satis- 
fied wid  you.  You  sends  u^s  out  to  meet 
danger,  an'  you  won't  come  yourself." 

"  Don't  you  know,  Rouser,  that  I  always 
do  go  whenever  I  can?  But  I'm  caged 
now  ;  faix  I  don't  sleep  in  a  bam,  and  can't 
budge  as  I  used  to  do." 

"All'  who's  tyiu'  you  to  your  place,  thin?" 

"  Rouser."  replied  Bartle,  "  I  wish  I  had  a 
thousand  like  you,  not  but  I  have  iine 
fellows.  Boys,  the  tlu-uth  is  this,  you  must 
all  meet  here  to-morrow  night,  for  the  short 
an'  long  of  it  is,  that  I'm  goin'  to  run  away 
wid  a  wife." 

"  Well,"  replied  Redhead,  "  sure  you  can 
do  that  widout  oiu'  assistance,  if  she's  willin' 
to  come." 

"Willin'!  why,"  replied  Bartle,  "it's  by 
her  o^vn  appointment  we're  goin'." 

"An'  if  it  is,  then,"  said  the  Rouser,  who, 
in  truth,  was  the  leader  of  the  suspicious 
and  disaffected  party  in  Flanagan'.o  lodge, 
"  what  the  blazes  use  have  you  for  us  ?  " 

"Rouser  Redhead,"  said  Bartle,  casting  a 
suspicious  and  malignant  glance  r.t  him, 
"  might  I  take  the  liberty  of  axin'  what  you 
mane  by  sjjakiu'  of  me  in  that  dispnragia' 
manner  ?  Do  you  remimber  your  oath  ?  or 
do  you  forget  that  j'ou're  bound  by  it  to 
meet  at  twelve  hours'  notice,  or  less,  whin- 
ever  you're  called  upon  ?  Dar  Chriestha ! 
man,  if  I  hear  another  word  of  the  kiad  out 
of  your  lips,  down  you  go  on  the  black  list. 
Boys,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  wheedHug  look 
of  good-humor  to  the  rest,  "v\'e'll  have 
neither  Sjiies  nor  Staga  here,  come  or  go 
what  may." 

"  Stags !  "  rej)hed  Rouser  Redhead,  whose 
face  had  ah-eady  become  scarlet  with  indig- 
nation. "  Stags,  you  say,  Bartle  Fl.anagan  ! 
AiTah,  boys,  I  wondher  where  is  poor  Con- 
nor O'Donovan  by  this  time  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  bushin'  it  afore  now,"  said 
our  fiiend  of  the  preceding  part  of  the 
night.  "I  bushed  it  myself  for  a  year  and 
.<i,  half,  but  be  Japurs  I  got  sick  of  it.  But 
any  how,  Bartle,  you  oughn't  to  sjiake  of 
Stags,  for  although  Connor  refused  to  join 
us,  damn  your  blood,  you  had  no  right  to 


go  to  inform  upon  him.  Sure,  only  for  the 
intherest  that  was  made  for  him,  you'd  have 
his  blood  on  your  sowl." 

"  An'  if  he  had  itself,"  observed  one  of 
Flanagan's  friends,  "'twould  signifv'  very 
little.  The  Bodagh  desai-ved  what  he  got, 
and  more  if  he  had  got  it.  "WTiat  right  has 
he,  one  of  oiu-  own  pm-swadjion  as  lie  is  to 
hould  out  against  us  the  way  he  does  ?  Sure 
he's  as  rich  as  a  Sassenach,  an'  may  hell  re- 
save  the  farden  he'U  subscribe  towards  our 
gettin'  arms  or  ammunition,  or  towai-ds  de- 
findin'  us  when  we're  brought  to  thrial.  So 
hell's  dehght  vrid  the  dirty  Bodagh,  says 
myself  for  wan." 

"All'  is  that  by  way  of  defince  of  Captain 
Bai-tle  Flanagan  ? "  inquired  Rouser  Red- 
head, indignantly.  "  An'  so  our  worthy 
captain  sint  the  man  acrans  that  jjunished 
our  inimy,  even  accordian  to  your  own  prov 
in',  an'  that  by  staggin'  aginst  him.  Of 
coorse,  had  the  miser's  son  been  one  of  huz, 
Bai-tle's  brains  would  be  scattered  to  the 
four  quarthers  of  heaven  long  agoue." 

"  An'  how  did  I  know  but  he'd  stag  agiast 
me  ?  "  said  Bartle,  very  calmly. 

"Damn  well  you  knew  he  would  not,"  ob- 
served Ned  M'Cormick,  now  encoiu-aged  by 
the  bold  and  decided  manner  of  Rouser 
Redhead.  "Before  ever  you  wsntinto  Far- 
dorougha's  sanice  you  sed  to  more  than  one 
that  you'd  make  him  sup  sorrow  for  his 
harshness  to  j-our  father  and  family." 

"  An'  didn't  he  desarve  it,  Ned?  Didn't  he 
ruin  ns?  " 

"  He  might  desarve  it,  an'  I  suj^pose  he 
did  ;  but  what  right  had  you  to  punish  the 
innocent  for  the  guilty?  You  knew  very  well 
that  both  his  son  and  his  v\ife  idways  set 
their  faces  against  his  doin's." 

"Boys,"  said  Flanagan,  "I  don't  under- 
stand this,  and  I  tell  you  more  I  won't  bear 
it.  This  night  let  any  of  you  that  doesn't 
like  to  be  undher  me  say  so.  Rouser  Red- 
head, you'll  never  meet  in  a  Ribbon  Lodge 
agin.  You're  scratched  out  of  wan  book, 
but  by  way  of  comfort  you're  down  in 
another  " 

"What  other,  Bai-tle?" 

"  The  black  list.  An'  now  I  have  nothin' 
more  to  say  except  that  if  there's  anything  on 
your  mind  that  wants  absolution,  look  to  it." 

We  must  now  pause  for  a  moment  to  ob- 
serve upon  that  which  we  suppose  the  saga- 
city of  the  reader  has  ah-eady  discovered — 
that  is,  the  connection  between  ^^  hat  has  oc- 
curred in  Flanagan's  lodge,  and  (he  iist  dia- 
log-ue  which  took  jalace  between  Nogher  and 
Connor  O'Donovan.  It  is  evident  that  No- 
gher  had  spirits  at  work  for  the  purpose 
both  of  watching  and  contravening  all  Flana- 
gan's plans,  and,  if  possible,  of  drawing  him 


FAIiDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


291 


into  some  position  which  might  justify  the 
"few  Mends,"  as  he  termed  them,  first  in 
disgracing  him,  and  afterwards  of  settUng 
their  account  ultimately  with  a  man  whom 
they  wished  to  blacken,  as  dangerous  to  the 
society  of  which  they  were  members.  The 
curse,  however,  of  these  secret  confederacies, 
and  indeed  of  ribbonism  in  general,  is,  that 
the  savage  principle  of  personal  vengeance  is 
transferred  from  the  nocturnal  assault,  or  the 
midday  assassination,  which  may  be  directed 
against  rehgious  or  ^jolitical  enemies,  to  the 
private  bickerings  and  petty  jealousies  that 
must  necessarOy  occur  in  a  combination  of 
ignorant  and  bigoted  men,  whose  jjassions 
are  guided  by  no  principle  but  one  of  j^rac- 
tical  cruelty.  This  explains,  as  we  have  just 
put  it,  and  justly  put  it,  the  incredible  num- 
ber of  murders  which  are  committed  in  this 
unhappy  country,  under  the  name  of  way- 
layings  and  midnight  attacks,  where  the  of- 
fence that  caused  them  cannot  be  traced  by 
society  at  large,  although  it  is  an  incontro- 
vertible fact,  that  to  aU  those  who  are  con- 
nected with  ribbonism,  in  its  vai'ied  phaBes, 
it  often  happens  that  the  projection  of  such 
murders  is  known  for  weeks  before  they  are 
perisetrated.  The  wretched  assassin  who 
murders  a  man  that  has  never  offended  him 
personally,  and  who  suffers  himself  to  become 
the  instrument  of  executing  the  hatred  which 
originates  from  a  princiijle  of  general  enmity 
again  a  claxs,  wiU  not  be  likely,  once  his 
hands  are  stained  with  blood,  to  spare  any 
one  who  may,  by  du-ect  personal  injury,  in- 
cur his  resentment.  Every  such  offence, 
where  secret  societies  are  concerned,  is  made 
a  matter  of  personal  feeling  and  trial  of 
strength  between  factions,  and  of  course  a 
similar  spirit  is  superinduced  among  persons 
of  the  same  creed  and  principles  to  that 
which  actuates  them  against  those  who  differ 
fi'om  them  in  politics  and  rehgion.  It  is  true 
that  the  occurrence  of  murders  of  this  char- 
acter has  been  referred  to  as  a  proof  that 
secret  societies  are  not  founded  or  conducted 
U23on  a  spirit  of  religious  rancor  ;  but  such 
an  assertion  is,  in  sonie  cases,  the  result  of 
gross  ignorance,  and,  in  many  more,  of  far 
gi'osser  dishonesty.  Their  murdciring  each 
other  is  not  at  all  a  fjroof  of  any  such  thing, 
but  it  is  a  proof,  as  we  have  said,  that  their 
habit  of  taking  awaj'  human  life,  and  shed- 
ding hmuan  blood  upon  slight  grounds  or 
poUtieal  feelings,  follows  them  fi-om  their 
conventional  principles  to  their  private  re- 
sentments, and  is,  therefore,  such  a  conse- 
quence as  might  naturally  be  expected  to  re- 
sult from  a  combination  of  men  who,  in  one 
sense,  consider  murder  no  crime.  Thus  does 
this  secret  tjT.'anny  fall  back  upon  society,  as 
well  as  upon  those  who  ai-e  concerned  in  it. 


as  a  double  curse ;  and,  indeed,  we  believe 
that  even  the  ^-eater  number  of  these  un- 
happy -nTetches  whom  it  keeps  withiu  its 
toils,  would  be  glad  if  the  princiiale  were 
rooted  out  of  the  country  forever. 

"  An'  so  you're  goin'  to  put  my  father 
down  on  the  black  list,"  said  the  beetle- 
browed  son  of  the  Rouser.  "Very  well, 
Bartle,  do  so  ;  but  do  you  see  that  ?  "  he  ad- 
ded, pointing  to  the  sign  of  the  coffin  and 
the  cross-bones,  which  he  had  previously 
di-awn  upon  the  slate  ;  "dhar  a  sphu'it  Neev, 
if  you  do,  youll  waken  some  mornin'  in  a 
warmer  eountliry  than  Ii-eland." 

"  Very  weU,"  said  Bartle,  quietly,  but  evi- 
dently shi'inkingfi'om  a  threat  nearly  as  fear- 
ful, and  far  more  daring  than  his  own. 
"  You  know  I  have  nothin'  to  do  except  my 
duty.  Yez  are  goin'  aginst  the  cause,  an'  I 
must  report  yez  ;  afther  whatever  happens 
won't  come  from  me,  nor  from  any  one  here. 
It  is  from  thim  that's  in  higher  quarters 
you'll  get  your  doom,  an'  not  fi-om  me,  or, 
as  I  said  afore,  fi'om  any  one  here.  Mark 
that ;  but  indeed  you  know  it  as  well  as  I 
do,  an'  I  beUeve,  Rouser,  a  good  deal  bet- 
ther." 

Flanagan's  argument,  to  men  who  under- 
stood its  drc'idful  import,  was  one  before 
which  almost  everj'  descrij)tion  of  personal 
courage  must  quail.  Persons  were  then 
present,  Rouser  Redhead  among  the  rest, 
who  had  been  sent  upon  some  of  those  mid- 
night missions,  which  contumacy  against  the 
system,  when  operating  in  its  cruelty,  had 
dictated.  -  Persons  of  humane  disposition, 
declining  to  act  on  the.se  sanguinary  occa- 
sions, are  generally  the  first  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, for  individual  life  is  nothing  when  ob- 
structing the  propagation  of  general  piinci- 
ple. 

This  trath,  coming  from  Flanagan's  lips, 
the}'  themselves,  some  of  whom  had  executed 
its  spirit,  knew  but  too  well.  The  difference, 
however,  between  theu'  api^rehension,  so  far 
as  they  were  individually  concerned,  was  not 
much  ;  Flanagan  had  the  person  to  fear,  and 
his  opponents  the  principle. 

Redhead,  however,  who  knew  that  what- 
ever he  had  executed  upon  delinquents  like 
himself,  might  also  upon  himself  be  visited 
in  his  turn,  saw  that  his  safest  jjlan  for  the, 
present  was  to  submit ;  for  indeed  the' 
meshes  of  the  White-boys'  system  leave  no 
man's  life  safe,  if  he  express  hostile  opinions 
to  it. 

"  Bartle,"  said  he,  "  you  know  I'm  no  cow- 
ard ;  an'  I  grant  that  you've  a  long  head  at 
plannin'  anything  you  set  about.  I  don't 
see,  in  the  mane  time,  why,  afther  all,  we 
should  cjuarrel.  You  know  me,  Bartle  ;  an' 
if  anything  happens  me,  it  ivon't  be  fur  notk» 


292 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


m'.  I  say  no  more  ;  but  I  say  still  that  you 
throw  the  danger  upon  uz,  and  don't — " 

"  Rouser  Redhead,"  said  Bartle,  "  give  me 
your  liand.  I  say  now,  what  I  didn't  wish 
to  say  to-night  afore,  bj'  Jajjurs,  you're  wortli 
live  men  ;  an'  I'll  tell  you  all,  boys,  you  must 
meet  the  Rouser  here  to-morrow  night,  an' 
we'll  have  a  dhrink  at  my  cost ;  an',  boys — 
Rouser,  hear  me — you  all  know  your  oaths  ; 
we'll  do  something  to-morrow  night — an'  I 
say  again,  Rouser,  I'll  be  wid  yez  an'  among 
yez  ;  an'  to  prove  my  opinion  of  the  Rouser, 
rU  allow  him  to  head  us." 

"  An',  by  the  f-ross  o'  Moses,  I'll  do  it  in 
style,"  rejoined  the  hot-headed  but  unthink- 
ing fellow,  who  did  not  see  that  the  adroit 
caf)taiu  was  placing  him  in  the  post  of 
danger.  "  I  ilon't  care  a  damn  what  it  is — 
we'll  meet  here  to-moiTow  night,  boys,  an' 
I'll  show  you  that  I  can  lead  as  well  as 
folly." 

"  'Whatever  hapijens,"  said  Bailie,  "  we 
oughtn't  to  have  any  words  or  bickeriu's 
among  ourselves  at  any  rate.  I  undherstand 
that  two  among  yez  sthruck  one  another. 
Sure  yez  know  that  there's  not  a  blow  ye 
giv  to  a  brother  but's  a  perjury — an'  there's 
no  u.se  in  that,  barin  an'  to  help  forid  the 
thruth.  Ill  say  no  more  about  it  now  ; 
but  I  hope  there'll  never  be  another  blow 
given  .among  yez.  Now,  get  a  hat,  some  o' 
yez,  till  we  draw  cuts  for  six  that  I  want  to 
be.at  Tom  Lynchagan,  of  Lisdhu  ;  he's 
worken  for  St.  Ledger,  afther  gettin'  two 
notices.  He's  a  quiet,  civU  man,  no  doubt ; 
but  that's  not  the  thing.  Obadience,  or 
where's  the  use  of  our  meetin's  at  all'?  Give 
him  a  good  sound  batin',  but  no  further — 
break  no  bones." 

He  then  marked  slips  of  jjaper,  equal  in 
number  to  those  who  were  present,  with  the 
numbers  1,  2,  3,  &c.,  to  correspond,  after 
which  he  determined  that  the  three  first 
numbers  and  the  three  last  should  go — all 
of  which  was  agreed  to  without  remonstrance, 
or  any  apparent  show  of  reluctance  whatever. 

"  Now,  boys."  he  continued,  "  don't  forget 
to  attend  to-morrow  night ;  an'  I  say  to 
every  man  of  you,  as  Darby  Spaight  said  to 
the  divU,  when  he  promised  to  join  the  re- 
bellion, ' phe  'Ilia  p/ier/ra  laght,'  (bring  your 
pike  with  you,)  bring  the  weapon." 

"  An  who's  the  pnrty  girl  that's  goin'  to 
get  you,  Captain  Bartle  ?  "  inquired  Dandy 
Duffv. 

"  The  purtiest  girl  in  this  parish,  any- 
how,"replied  Flanagan,  unawares.  The  words, 
however,  w^.re  scarcely  out  of  his  lips,  when 
he  felt  that  he  had  been  indiscreet.  He 
immediately  added — "that  is,  if  she  is  of 
this  parish  ;  but  I  didn't  say  she  is.  Maybe 
We  11   have  t )    thravel  a  bit  to  find  her  out, 


but  come  what  come  may,  don't  neglect  to 
be  all  here  aboiit  half-jjast  nine  o'clock,  wid 
your  arms  an'  ammunition." 

Duli'y,  who  had  sat  beside  Ned  M'Cormick 
during  the  night,  gave  him  a  significant 
look,  which  the  other,  who  had,  in  truth, 
joined  himself  to  Flanagan's  lodge  only  to 
watch  his  movements,  as  significantly  re-, 
turned. 

When  the  men  deputed  to  beat  LjTielia- 
ghan  had  blackened  their  faces,  the  lodge 
dispersed  for  the  night.  Dandy  Dufty  and 
Ned  M'Cormick  taking  their  way  home  to- 
gether, ill  order  to  consider  of  matters, 
with  which  the  reader,  in  due  time,  shall  be 
made  acquainted. 


PART  vn. 

Our  readers  may  recoUect,  that,  at  the 
close  of  that  part  of  our  tale  which  appeared 
in  the  preceding  number.  Dandy  Dutt^-  and 
Ne'd  M'Cormick  exchanged  signiticant  glances 
at  each  other,  upon  Flanagan's  having  ad- 
mitted unawares  that  the  female  he  designed 
to  take  away  on  the  following  night  was  "  the 
purtiest  girl  in  the  j^arish."  The  truth  was, 
he  imagined  a,t  the  moment  that  his  designs 
were  fully  matured,  and  in  the  secret  vanity, 
or  rather,  we  should  say,  in  the  triumphant 
villainj'  of  his  heart,  he  allowed  an  expression 
to  incautiously  pass  his  lips  which  was  nearly 
tantamount  to  an  admission  of  Una's  name. 
The  truth  of  this  he  instantly  felt.  But  even 
had  he  not,  by  his  own  natural  sagacity, 
perceived  it,  the  look  of  mutual  intelligence 
which  his  quick  and  susjiicious  eye  observed 
to  pass  between  Duffy  and  Ned  M'Cormick 
would  at  once  have  convinced  him.  Una 
was  not  merely  entitled  to  the  compliment  so 
covertly  bestowed  ujiou  her  extraordinary 
jaersonal  attractions,  but  in  addition  it  might 
have  been  truly  affirmed  that  neither  that 
nor  any  adjoining  parish  could  produce  a 
female,  in  any  rank,  who  could  stand  on  a 
level  wth  her  in  the  character  of  a  rival 
beauty.  This  was  admitted  by  all  who  had 
ever  seen  the  caUeen  dhan  dhini,  or  "the 
purty  brown  girl,"  as  she  was  called,  and  it 
followed  as  a  matter  of  couise,  that  Flanagan's 
words  could  imply  no  other  than  the  Bodagh's 
daughter. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say,  that  Flanagan, 
knowing  this  as  he  did,  could  almost  have 
bit  a  ijortion  of  his  own  tongue  otf  as  a 
puuisliment  for  its  indiscretion.  It  w'as  then 
too  late,  however,  to  etl'ace  the  impression 
which  the  words  were  cixlculated  to  make, 
and  he  felt  besides  that  he  would  only 
strengthen  the  suspicion  by  an  over-anxiety 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


293 


to  remove  it.  He,  tlierefore,  repeated  Ms 
orders  respecting  the  appointed  meeting  on 
the  following  night,  although  he  had  already 
resolved  in  his  own  mmd  to  change  the 
whole  plan  of  his  operations. 

Such  was  the  jjrecautiou  w-ith  which  this 
cowardly  but  accomplished  miscreant  pro- 
ceeded towards  the  accomislishment  of  his 
purjjoses,  and  such  was  liis  apprehension  lest 
the  prematui-e  suspicion  of  a  sLugle  indi- 
^'iduol  might  by  contingent  treachery  defeat 
his  design,  or  affect  his  personal  safet}^  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  communicate  the 
secret  of  his  eutei-prise  to  none  until  the 
moment  of  its  execution  ;  and  this  being  ac- 
comphshed,  his  ultimate  plans  were  laid,  as 
he  thought,  with  siifiieient  skill  to  baffle 
pursuit  and  defeat  either  the  mahce  of  his 
enemies  or  the  vengeance  of  the  law. 

No  sooner  had  they  left  the  schoolhouse 
than  the  Dandy  and  MCormick  immediately 
separated  from  the  rest,  in  order  to  talk  over 
the  proceedings  of  the  night,  with  a  view  to 
their  suspicions  of  the  "  CaiDtaiu."  They 
had  not  gone  far,  however,  when  they  were 
overt:dcen  by  two  others,  who  came  up  to 
them  at  a  quick,  oi-,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
expression,  an  earnest  pace.  The  two  latter 
were  Rousin  Redhead  and  his  son,  Corney. 

"So,  boys,"  said  the  Rouser,  "what  do 
you  think  of  our  business  to-night?  Didn't 
I  get  well  out  of  liis  clutches  ?  " 

"  Be  me  troth,  Rouser,  darlin',"  replied  the 
Dandy,  "  you  niver  wor  completely  in  them 
tUl  this  minnit." 

"  JJhar  ma  Uuim  charth,"  said  Comey,  "I 
say  he's  a  black-hearted  villLn." 

"  But  how  am  I  in  his  clutches,  Dandy  ?  " 
inquired  the  Rouser. 

"  Why,"  rejoined  Duffy,  "  didn't  you  see 
that  for  all  you  said  about  his  thi'owin'  the 
post  of  danger  on  other  people,  he's  givin'  it 
to  you  to-mori'ow  night  ?  " 

Rousin  Redhead  stood  still  for  nearly  half 
a  minute  without  uttering  a  syllable  ;  at 
length  he  seized  Dandy  by  the  ai'm,  which 
he  pressed  with  the  gvipe  of  Hercules,  for 
he  was  a  man  of  huge  size  and  strength. 

"  Chorp  ad  dioual,  you  giant,  is  it  my  arm 
you're  goin'  to  break  ?  " 

'  Be  the  tarnal  primmer,  Dandy  Duffy,  but 
I  see  it  now  !  "  said  the  Rouser,  struck  by 
Bartle's  address,  and  indignant  at  the  idea  of 
having  been  overreached  hy  him.  "  Eh, 
Comey,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  son, 
"  hasn't  he  the  Rouser  .^eti  I  see,  boys,  I  see. 
I'm  a  marked  man  wid  him,  an'  it's  likely, 
for  all  he  said,  will  be  on  the  black  list  afore 
he  sleeps.  Well,  Comey  a^dc,  you  au'  others 
know  how  to  act  if  anything  happens  me." 

"  I  don't  tliink,"  said  i\I"Cormick,  who  was 
n  lad  of  consid-irable  penetration,  "  that  you 


need  be  afeard  of  either  him  or  the  black 
hst.  Be  lue  sowl,  I  know  the  same  Bartle 
well,  an'  a  bigger  cowaixl  never  jjut  a  coat  on 
his  back.  He  got  as  pale  as  a  sheet,  to-night, 
when  Comey  there  threatened  him  ;  not  but 
he's  desateful  enough  I  gi'ant,  but  he'd  be  a 
gi-eater  tyrant  only  that  he's  so  hen-heart- 
ed." 

"  But  what  job,"  said  the  rouser,  "  has  he 
for  us  to-morrow  night,  do  you  think  ?  It 
must  be  something  j)ast  the  common.  '\Mio 
the  dioual  can  he  have  in  his  eye  to  run  away 
vdA  ?  " 

"  Who's  the  the  pmiiest  girl  in  the  parish, 
Rouser  ?  "  asked  Ned.  "  I  thought  everj'  one 
knew  that." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mane  for  to  say,"  replied 
Redhead,  "  that  he'd  have  the  spunk  in  him 
to  run  away  with  Bodagh  Buie's  daughter  ? 
Be  the  contents  o'  the  book,  if  I  thought  he'd 
thry  it,  I  stick  to  him  like  a  Throjan  ;  the 
dirty  Bodagh,  that,  as  Larry  Lawdher  said  to- 
night, never  backed  or  supported  us,  or  gev 
a  single  rap  to  help  us,  if  a  penny  'ud  save 
us  fi'om  the  gallis.  To  heU's  dehghts  wid  him 
an'  all  belongiu'  to  him,  I  say  too  ;  an'  I'U 
tell  you  what  it  is,  boj's,  if  Flanagan  has  the 
manliness  to  take  away  his  daughter,  I'U  be 
the  first  to  sledge  the  door  to  pieces." 

"  Dhar  a  xpiridh,  an'  so  will  I,"  said  the 
young  beetle-browed  tiger  beside  him ; 
"  thim  that  can  an'  won't  help  on  the  cause, 
desarves  no  mercy  from  it." 

Thus  spoke  from  the  lips  of  ignorance  and 
bnitaUty  that  eifprit  de  corps  of  blood,  which 
never  scmj^les  to  sacrifice  all  minor  resent- 
ments to  any  opportunitj'  of  extending  the 
cause,  as  it  is  termed,  of  that  ideal  monster, 
in  the  jsromotion  of  which  the  worst  princi- 
ples of  our  nature,  still  most  active,  are  sure 
to  experience  the  greatest  glut  of  low  and 
gross  gratification.  Oh,  if  reason,  virtue, 
and  time  rehgion,  were  only  as  earnest  and 
vigorous  in  extending  their  o^ti  cause,  as  ig- 
norance, j)ersecution,  and  bigotry,  how  soon 
would  society  present  a  different  asisect ! 
But,  unfortunately,  theij  cannot  stooj)  to  call 
in  the  aid  of  tiiTanny,  and  cnielty,  and  blood- 
shed, nor  of  the  thousand  other  atrocious 
aUies  of  falsehood  and  dishonesty,  of  which 
ignoi'ance,  craft,  and  cruelty,  never  fail  to 
avail  themselves,  and  without  which  they 
could  not  proceed  successfully. 

iM'Cormick,  ha'^ing  heard  Rousin  Redhead 
and  his  sou  utter  such  sentiments,  did  not 
feel  at  aU  justified  in  admitting  them  to  any 
confidence  with  himself  or  Dufty.  He  accord- 
ingly rephed  with  more  of  adroitness  than 
of  candor  to  the  savage  sentiments  they  ex- 
pressed. 

"  Faith,  you're  right,  Rouser ;  he'd  never  • 
liave  spunk,   sure  enough,  to  c;uTy  oft'  tha 


294 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Bodagb's  daughter.  But,  in  the  mane  time, 
who  was  sj)akin'  about  her?  Begor,  if  I 
thought  he  had  the  heai't  I'd — but  he 
hasn't." 

"  I  know  he  hasn't,"  said  the  Eouser. 

"  He's  nothing  but  a  white-livered  dog," 
said  Dufly. 

"I  thought,  to  tell  you  the  tnith,"  said 
IkTCormick,  "  that  you  might  give  a  guess  as 
to  the  girl,  but  for  the  Bodagh's  daughter, 
he  has  not  the  mettle  for  that." 

"If  he  had,"  rejilied  the  Eouser,  "he 
might  count  iipou  Corney  an'  myself  as 
right-hand  men.  We  aU  have  a  crow  to 
pluck  wid  the  dirty  Bodagh,  an',  be  me 
zounds,  it'll  jiuzzle  him  to  find  a  bag  to 
hould  the  feathers." 

"  One  'ud  think  he  got  enough,"  obseiTed 
M'Cormiek,  "in  tlie  loss  of  his  haggai'd." 

"  But  that  didn't  come  from  uz,"  said  the 
Eouser  ;  "  we  have  our  share  to  give  him 
yet,  an'  never  fear  he'll  get  it.  We'll  taich 
him  to  abuse  us,  an'  set  us  at  defiance,  as 
he's  constantly  doin'." 

"  WeU,  Eouser,"  said  M'Cormiek,  who  now 
felt  anxious  to  get  rid  of  him,  "  we'll  be 
T\'ishin'  you  a  good  night ;  we're  goin'  to 
have  a  while  of  a  kaih/eah*  up  at  my  imcle's. 
Comey,  my  boy,  good  night." 

"Good  night  kindl_v,  boys,"  replied  the 
other,  "an'  hanaght  ki/li,  any  how." 

"  Eouser,  you  divil,"  said  the  Dandy,  call- 
ing after  them,  "  wiU  you  an'  blessed  Corney 
there,  offer  up  a  Patthemavy  for  my  conver- 
sion, for  I'm  sure  that  both  your  prayers 
will  go  far  ?  " 

Eousin  Eedhead  and  Corney  resjDonded 
to  this  with  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  banter. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Dandy  ;  but,  be  me  sowl,  if  they 
only  go  as  far  as  yoiu-  own  goodness  sint  you 
before  now,  it'U  be  seven  years  before  they 
come  back  again  ;  eh,  do  you  smell  anything  ? 
— ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

"  The  big  boshthoon  hot  me  fairly,  begad," 
observed  the  Dandy.  Aside — "The  divil's 
own  tongue  he  has." 

"  Bad  cess  to  you  for  a  walldn'  bonfire, 
an'  go  home,"  rei^lied  the  Dandy  ;  "  I'm  not 
a  match  for  you  wid  the  tongue,  at  all  at 
iill." 

"  No,  nor  wid  anything  else,  ban-in'  your 
heels,"  rephed  the  Eouser  ;  "or  your  hands, 
if  there  was  a  horse  in  the  way.  Arrah, 
Dandy  ? " 

"  Well,  j'ou  graceful  youth,  well?  " 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  good  workman  by 
this  time  ;  you  first  lamed  your  thrade,  an' 
thin  you  put  in  your  apprenticeshii) — ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

"  Faith,  an'  Eoiiser  I  can  promise  you  a 

*  An  eveninq'  conversational  visit. 


merry  end,  my  beauty  ;  you'U  be  the  onl< 
man  that'll  dance  at  your  ovm  funeral ;  an' 
I'll  teU  you  what,  Eouser,  it'll  be  like  an 
egg-hornpipe,  wid  your  eyes  covered.  That's 
what  I  caU  an  active  death,  avouchal !  " 

"Faith,  an'  if  you  wor  a  priest,  Dandy, 
you'd  never  die  with  yoiu-  face  to  the  con- 
gregation. You'll  be  a  rope-dancer  yoirrself 
yet ;  only  this.  Dandy,  that  you'll  be  uudher 
the  rope  instead  of  over  it,  so  good  night." 

"  Eouser,"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Kousia 
Eedhead ! " 

" Go  home,"  replied  the  Eouser.  "Good 
night,  I  say  ;  you've  thravelled  a  great  deal 
too  far  for  an  ignorant  man  like  me  to  stand 
any  chance  wid  you.  Your  tongue's  hghter 
than  your  hands  *  even,  and  that's  pajdn'  it 
a  high  eomishment." 

"  Divil  sweep  you,  Brien,"  said  Dandy, 
"  you'd  beat  the  divU  an'  Docthor  Fosther, 
Good  night  again  !  " 

"  Oh,  ma  bannaght  laht,  I  say." 

And  they  accordingly  parted. 

"Now,"  said  Ned,  "what's  to  be  done, 
Dandy  ?  As  sure  as  gun's  iron,  this  limb  o^ 
heU  will  take  awaj'  the  Bodagh's  daughter, 
if  we  don't  do  something  to  prevent  it." 

"I'm  not  puttin'  it  past  him,'  returnee? 
his  companion,  "  but  how  to  j^revent  it  ii 
the  thing.  He  has  the  boys  all  on  liis  side, 
barrin'  yourself  and  me,  an'  a  few  more." 

"  An'  you  see,  Ned,  the  Bodagh  is  sff 
much  hated,  that  even  some  of  tliim  tha* 
don't  like  Flanagan,  won't  scruple  to  joi» 
him  in  this." 

"  An'  if  we  were  known  to  let  the  cat  out 
o'  the  bag  to  the  Bodagh,  we  might  as  weU 
jsrepare  our  cofiins  at  waust." 

"Faith,  sure  enough — that's  but  gospel, 
Ned,"  replied  the  Dandy  ;  still  it  'ud  be  the 
milliah  murdher  to  let  the  double-faced  vilht 
carry  off  such  a  girl." 

"I'U  tell  you  what  you'U  do,  thin,  Dandy," 
rejoined  Ned,  "what  if  you'd  walk  down 
wid  me  as  far  as  the  Bodagh's." 

"For  why?  Sure  they're  in  bed  now, 
man  aUve." 

"I  know  that,"  said  M'Cormiek;  "but 
how-an-ever,  if  you  come  down  wid  me  that 
far,  I'll  conthrive  to  get  in  somehow,  widout 
wakenin'  them." 

"  The  dickens  you  wiU  !  How,  the  sarra, 
man  ?  " 

"  No  matther,  I  will ;  an'  you  see,"  he  add- 
ed, pulling  out  a  flask  of  spuits,  "  I'm  not 
goin'  impty-handed." 

"Phew!"  exclaimed  Duffy',  "is  it  there 
you  are?— oh,  that  indeed  !  Faith  I  got  a 
whisper  of  it  some  time  ago,  but  it  wmt  out 


In  Ireland,  to  be  light-handed  signifies  to  be  ! 


FAEDOROUGEA,   TEE  MISER. 


29a 


o'  my  head.  Biddy  Nulty,  faix — a  nate 
clane  girl  she  is,  too." 

"  But  that's  not  the  Ijest  of  it,  Dandy. 
Sure,  blood  ahve,  I  can  tell  you  a  sacret— - 
in  ay  dipiud  ?  Honor  bright !  The  Bodagh's 
daughter,  man,  is  to  give  her  a  portion,  in 
regard  to  her  beiu'  so  thrue  to  Connor 
O'Donovan.  Bad  luck  to  the  oath  she'd 
swear  agiust  him  if  they'd  made  a  queen  of 
her,  but  outdone  the  counsellors  and  law- 
yers, an'  all  the  whole  bobbery  o'  them, 
whin  they  wanted  her  to  turn  king's  evi- 
dence. Now,  it's  not  but  I'd  do  anything  to 
sarve  the  purty  Bodagh's  daughter  widout 
it ;  but  you  see.  Dandy,  if  white  liver  takes 
her  off,  I  may  stand  a  bad  chance  for  the 
portion." 

"  Say  no  more  ;  I'll  go  'nid  you  ;  but  how 
will  you  get  in,  Ned  ?  " 

"  JJever  you  mind  that  ;  here,  take  a 
puU  out  of  this  flask  before  j'ou  go  any  fur- 
ther. Blood  an'  flummeiy  !  what  a  night ; 
divil  a  my  finger  I  can  see  before  me.  Here 
— Where's  your  hand  ? — that's  it ;  warm 
your  heart,  my  boy." 

"  You  iutind  thin,  Ned,  to  give  Biddy  the 
hard  word  about  Flanagan  ?  " 

"  WJiy,  to  bid  her  j)ut  them  on  their 
guard  ;  sure  there  can  be  no  harm  in  that." 

"  They  say,  Ned,  it's  not  safe  to  trust  a 
woman  ;  what  if  you'd  ax  to  see  the  Bo- 
dagh's son,  the  young  soggarth  ?  " 

"I'd  trust  my  life  to  Biddy — she  that 
was  so  honest  to  the  Donovans  woiddn't  be 
desatefid  to  her  sweetheart  that — ^he — hem 
— she's  far  gone  in  consate  wid — your  sowl. 
Her  brother  Aliek's  to  meet  me  at  the  Bo- 
dagh's on  his  way  fi'om  their  lodge,  for  they 
hould  a  meetin'  to-night  too." 

"  Never  say  it  again.  I'll  stick  to  you  ;  so 
push  an,  for  it's  late.  You'U  be  apt  to  make 
lip  the  match  before  you  part,  I  suppose." 

"  That  won't  be  hard  to  do  any  time, 
Dandy." 

Both  then  proceeded  down  the  same  field, 
which  we  have  already  said  was  called  the 
Black  Park,  in  consequence  of  its  dark  and 
mossy  soil.  Having,  with  some  difficulty, 
foimd  the  stile  at  the  lower  end  of  it,  they 
jjassed  into  a  short  car  track,  which  they 
were  barely  able  to  follow. 

The  night,  considering  that  it  was  the 
montli  of  Novemlier,  was  close  and  foggj' — 
such  as  frequently  follows  a  calm  day  of  in- 
cessant rain.  The  bottoms  were  j^lashing, 
the  drains  all  full,  and  the  small  rivulets  and 
streams  about  the  country  were  above  their 
banks,  wliilst  the  larger  rivers  swejit  along 
with  the  hoarse  continuous  murmurs  of  an 
unusual  flood.  The  sky  was  one  sheet  of 
darkness— for  not  a  cloud  could  be  seen,  or 
anytliing,  except  the  passing  gleam  of  a  cot- 


tage taper,  lessened  by  the  haziness  of  the 
night  into  a  mere  point  of  faint  hght,  and 
thrown  by  the  same  cause  into  a  distance 
which  appeared  to  the  eye  much  more  re- 
mote than  that  of  reality. 

After  having  threaded  their  way  for 
nearly  a  mile,  the  water  spouting  almost  at 
every  step  up  to  their  knees,  they  at  length 
came  to  an  old  bridle-way,  deeply  shaded 
with  hedges  on  each  side.  They  had  not 
spoken  much  since  the  close  of  their-  last 
dialogue  ;  for,  the  truth  is,  each  had  enough 
to  do,  independently  of  dialogue,  to  keep 
himself  out  of  drains  and  c[uagmires.  An 
occasional  "  hanamondioid,  I'm  into  the 
hinches  ;"  "holy  St.  Peter,  I'm  stuck  ;  "tun- 
dher  an'  turf,  where  are  you  at  all  ? "  or, 
"  by  this  an'  by  that,  I  dunno  where  I 
am,"  were  the  only  words  that  jiassed  be- 
tween them,  until  they  reached  the  little 
road  we  are  speaking  of,  which,  in  fact,  was 
one  unbroken  rut,  and  on  such  a  night  almc/st 
impassable. 

"  Now,"  said  M'Cormi«k,  "  we  musii't 
keep  this  devil's  gut,  for  conshumin'  to  the 
shoe  or  stockin'  ever  we'd  bring  out  of  it ; 
however,  do  you  folly  me,  Dandy,  and  there's 
no  danger." 

"  I  can  do  nothing  else,"  reislied  the  other, 
"for  I  know  no  more  where  I  am  than  the 
man  of  the  moon,  who,  if  all's  thrue  that's 
sed  of  him,  is  the  biggest  blockhead  alive." 

M'Coi'mick,  who  knew  the  path  well,  turned 
off  the  road  into  a  pathway  that  ran  inside  the 
hedge  and  along  the  fields,  but  parallel  with 
the  muddj-  boreen  in  question.  They  now 
found  themselves  upon  comparatively  clear 
gi'ouud,  and,  with  the  exception  of  an  occa- 
sional slip  or  two,  in  consequence  of  tne 
hea'^y  rain,  they  had  little  difficult}'  in  ad- 
vancing. At  this  stage  of  their  journey  not 
a  light  was  to  be  seen  nor  a  sound  of  life 
heard,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  whole 
population  of  the  neighborhood  had  sunk  to 
rest. 

"Where  will  this  bring  us  to,  Ned?" 
asked  the  Dandy — "  I  hope  we'll  soon  be  at 
the  Bodagh's." 

ll'Cormick  stood  and  suddenly  pressed 
his  arm,  "  Whisht !  "  said  he,  in  an  under  tone, 
"  I  think  I  hai'd  voices." 

"  No,"  repUed  the  other  in  the  same  low 
tone. 

"  I'm  sure  I  did,"  said  Ned,  "  take  my  word 
for  it,  there's  people  before  us  on  the  boreen 
— whisht !  " 

They  both  listened,  and  very  distinctlj' 
heard  a  confused  but  suppj-essed  mui'miur 
of  voices,  apparently  about  a  hundred  yai'ds 
before  them  on  the  little  bridle-way.  Without 
uttering  a  word  they  both  jiroceeded  as  (juietly 
and  quickly  as  j)ossible,  and  in  a  few  minutes 


296 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


nothing  sepaa-ated  them  but  the  hedge.  The 
party  on  the  road  were  wallowing  through 
the  mire  with  great  difficulty,  many  of  them, 
at  the  same  time,  bestowing  very  energetic 
execrations  upon  it  and  upon  those  who 
suffered  it  to  remain  in  such  a  condition. 
Even  oaths,  however,  were  uttered  in  so  low 
and  cautious  a  tone,  that  neither  M'Cormick 
uor  the  Dandy  could  distinguish  theu-  voices 
so  clearly  as  to  recognize  those  who  sjooke, 
supposing  that  they  had  known  them.  Once 
or  twice  they  heard  the  clashing  of  ai'ms  or 
of  iron  instruments  of  some  sort,  and  it 
seemed  to  them  that  the  noise  was  occasioned 
by  the  accidental  jostling  together  of  those 
who  carried  them.  At  length  they  heard 
one  voice  exclaim  rather  testilj'.  "  D — n 
your  blood,  Bartle  Flanagan,  will  you  have 
patience  till  I  get  mj"  shoe  out  o'  the  mud — 
you  don't  exjiect  me  to  lose  it,  do  you? 
We're  not  goiu'  to  get  a  pui'ty  wife,  whatever 
you  may  be." 

The  reply  to  this  was  short,  but  isithy — 
"  May  all  the  divils  iu  hell's  fire  pull  the 
tongue  out  o'  you,  for  nothin'  but  hell  itself, 
you  viUin,  timj)ted  me  to  bring  you  with 
me." 

This  was  not  intended  to  be  heard,  nor 
was  it  by  the  j)erson  against  whom  it  was 
uttered,  he  being  some  distance  behind — 
but  as  Ned  and  his  companion  were  at  that 
moment  exactly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge,  they  could  hciu-  the  words  of  this 
precious  sohloquy — for  such  it  was — de- 
hveied  as  they  were  with  a  suppressed 
energy  of  malignity,  worthy  of  the  heai't 
which  suggested  them. 

M'Cormick  immediately  jjulled  Duffy's 
coat,  without  speakmg  a  word,  as  a  hint  to 
follow  him  with  as  httle  noise  as  possible, 
which  he  did,  and  ere  many  minutes  they 
were  so  far  in  advance  of  the  others,  as  to 
be  enabled  to  converse  without  being  heard. 
"  Thar  Dheah  Duffy,"  said  his  companion, 
"there's  not  a  minute  to  be  lost." 

"There  is  not,"  rephed  the  other — "but 
what  will  you  do  with  me  ?  I'll  lend  a  hand 
in  any  way  I  can — but  remember  that  if  we're 
seen,  or  if  it's  known  that  we  go  against 
them  in  this — " 

"  I  know,"  said  the  other,  "  we're  gone 
men  ;  still  we  must  manage  it  somehow,  so 
as  to  save  the  girl ;  God  !  if  it  was  only  on 
Connor  O'Donovan's  account,  that's  far  away 
this  night,  I'd  do  it.  Dandy  you  wor  only 
a  boy  when  Blannarhasset  jDrosecuted  you, 
and  people  pitied  you  at  the  time,  and  now 
they  don't  think  much  the  worse  of  you  for 
it ;  an'  you  know  it  was  proved  since,  that 
what  you  sed  then  was  tbrue,  that  other 
rogues  made  j-ou  do  it,  an'  thin  lift  you  iu 
the  lurch.     But  d — n  it,  where's  the  use  of 


all  this?  give  me  your  hand,  it's  life  oi 
death — can  I  thrust  you  ?  " 

"You  may,"  said  the  other,  "you  may, 
Ned  ;   do  whatever  you  wish  with  me." 

"  Then,"  continued  Ned,  "  I'll  go  into  the 
house,  and  do  you  keep  near  to  them  -n-ith- 
out  bein'  seen  ;  watch  their  motions  ;  but 
above  all  thmgs,  if  they  take  her  off — folly 
on  till  you  see  where  thej''U  bring  her  ;  af- 
ter that  they  can  get  back  enough — the  so- 
gers, if  they're  a  wautin'." 

"  Depind  an  me,  Ned  ;  to  the  core  depind 
an  me." 

They  had  now  reached  the  Bodagh's 
house,  ujoon  which,  as  upion  every  other 
object  aroinid  them,  the  deep  shadows  of 
night  rested  heavily.  The  Dandy  took  tij) 
his  i^osition  behind  one  of  the  isorches 
of  the  gate  that  di^dded  the  little  grass- 
plot  before  the  hall-door  and  the  farm- 
yard, as  being  the  most  central  sjjot,  and 
from  W'hich  he  could  with  more  ease  hear, 
or  as  far  as  might  be  observe,  the  jAan  and 
nature  of  theur  jsroceedings. 

It  was  at  least  fifteen  minutes  before  they 
reached  the  httle  avenue  that  led  uji  to  the 
Bodagh's  residence  ;  for  we  ought  to  have 
told  our  readers,  that  M'Cormick  and  Dufty, 
having  taken  a  short  path,  left  the  others — 
who,  being  ignorant  of  it,  were  forced  to 
keep  to  the  road — considerable  behind  them. 
Ned  was  consequently  from  ten  to  fifteen 
minutes  in  the  house  jirevious  to  their 
arrival.  At  length  they  approached  silently, 
and  with  that  creejjing  Y>ace  which  betokens 
either  fear  or  caution,  as  the  case  may  be, 
and  stood  outside  the  gate  which  led  to  the 
grass-plot  before  the  hall-door,  not  more 
than  three  or  four  yaixls  from  the  j)oreh  of 
the  farm-yard  gate  where  the  Dandy  stood 
concealed.  And  here  he  had  an  oi^portunity 
of  witnessing  the  extreme  skill  with  which 
Flanagau  conducted  this  nefarious  exploit. 
After  listening  for  about  a  minute,  he  foimd 
that  their  worthy  leader  was  not  present, 
but  he  almost  immediately  discovered  that 
he  was  engaged  in  placing  guards  upon  all 
the  back  windows  of  the  dweUing-house  and 
kitchen.  During  his  absence  the  following 
short  consultation  took  jilace  among  those 
whom  he  left  behind  him,  for  the  pui-^jose  of 
taking  a  personal  pai't  in  the  enterprise  : 

"  It  was  too  thrue  what  Eousin  Redhead 
said  to-night,"  observed  one  of  them,  "  he 
always  takes  care  to  throw  the  jiost  of  dan- 
ger on  some  one  else.  Now  it's  not  that  I'm 
afeared,  but  as  he's  to  have  the  girl  himself, 
it's  but  fau-  that  his  own  neck  should  run  the 
first  danger,  an'  not  mine." 

They  all  assented  to  this. 

"  ^Vell,  then,  boys."  he  jjroceeded,  "if  yez 
support  me,  we'll  make  him  head  this  busi- 


FARDOEOUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


291 


ness  himself.  It's  his  own  cousarn,  not  ours; 
an'  besides,  as  he  houlds  the  Ai-ticles,  it's  his 
duty  to  lead  us  in  everything.  So  I  for  wan, 
won't  take  away  his  girl,  an'  himself  keepin' 
back.  If  there's  any  one  here  that'll  take  my 
place  for  his,  let  him  now  say  so." 

They  were  all  silent  as  to  thai  jDoint ;  but 
most  of  them  said,  they  wished,  at  all  events, 
to  give  "  the  dirty  Bodagh,"  for  so  they  iisu- 
ally  called  him,  something  to  remember  them 
by,  in  consequence  of  his  having,  on  all  occa- 
sions, stood  out  against  the  system. 

"  Still  it's  fair,"  said  several  of  them,  "that 
in  takia'  away  the  colleen,  Bartle  should  go 
foremost,  as  she's  for  himself  an'  not  for 
huz." 

"  Well,  then,  you'll  all  agree  to  this "?  " 

"  We  do,  but  whist — here  he  is." 

Deeply  mortified  was  their  leader  on  find- 
ing that  they  had  come  unanimously  to  this 
determination.  It  was  too  late  now,  how- 
ever, to  reason  with  them,  and  the  crime,  to 
the  perpetration  of  which  he  brought  them, 
too  dangerous  in  its  consequences,  to  render 
a  quarrel  with  them  safe  or  prudent.  He  felt 
himself,  therefore,  in  a  position  which,  of  all 
others,  he  did  not  wish.  Still  his  address 
was  too  perfect  to  allow  any  symptoms  of 
chagrin  or  disappomtment  to  he  perceptible 
in  his  voice  or  manner,  although,  the  truth 
is,  he  cursed  them  in  his  heart  at  the  moment, 
and  vowed  in  some  shape  or  other  to  visit 
then-  insubordination  with  vengeance. 

Such,  indeed,  is  the  nature  of  these  secret 
confederacies  that  are  opposed  to  the  laws  of 
the  land,  and  the  spirit  of  religion.  It  mat- 
ters little  how  ojien  and  apparently  honest 
the  conduct  of  such  men  may  be  among  each 
other  ;  there  is,  notwithstanding  this,  a  dis- 
trust, a  fear,  a  suspicion,  lurking  at  every 
heart,  that  renders  personal  seciuity  unsafe, 
and  life  miserable.  But  how,  indeed,  can 
they  rejjose  confidence  in  each  other,  when 
they  know  that  in  consequence  of  their  con- 
nection with  such  systems,  manj'  of  the  civil 
duties  of  life  cannot  be  performed  without 
perjury  on  the  one  hand,  or  risk  of  life  on 
the  other,  and  that  the  whole  joriucij^le  of  the 
combination  is  founded  upon  hatred,  re- 
venge, and  a  violation  of  all  moral  obliga- 
tion? 

"Well,  then,"  said  their  leader,  "as  your 
minds  is  made  up,  boys,  follow  me  as  quick- 
ly as  you  can,  an'  don't  spake  a  word  in  your 
own  voices." 

They  aj)ioroached  the  hall-door,  with  the 
exception  of  six,  who  stood  guarding  the 
front  windows  of  the  dwelling-house  and 
kitchen  ;  and,  to  the  D.andv's  astonishment, 
the  whole  party,  amounting  to  about  eigh- 
teen, entered  the  house  without  either  noise 
or  obstruction  of  any  kind. 


"By  Japurs,"  thought  he  to  himself, 
"  there's  thraichery  there,  any  how." 

This  now  to  the  Dandy  was  a  moment  of 
intense  interest.  Though  by  no  means  a 
coward,  or  a  young  fellow  of  deUcate  nerves, 
yet  his  heart  beat  furiously  against  his  ribs, 
and  his  whole  frame  shook  with  excitement. 
He  would,  in  truth,  much  rather  have  been 
engaged  in  the  outrage,  than  forced  as  he 
was,  merely  to  look  on  without  an  opfiortu- 
nity  of  taking  a  part  in  it,  one  way  or  the 
other.  Such,  at  least,  were  his  own  impres- 
sions, when  the  rejiort  of  a  gun  was  heard 
inside  the  house. 

Dhar  an  Iffrin,  thought  he  again,  I'll  bolt  in 
an'  see  what's  goin'  an — oh  ma  duight  millia 
mallach  orth,  Flanagan,  if  you  spill  blood — 
Jasus  above  !  Well,  any  how,  come  or  go 
what  may,  we  can  hang  him  for  this — glory 
be  to  God ! 

These  reflections  were  very  near  breaking 
forth  into  words. 

"  I  don't  hke  that,"  said  one  of  the  guards 
to  another  ;  "he  may  take  the  girl  away,  but 
it's  not  the  thing  to  murdher  any  one  be- 
longin'  to  a  dacent  famUy,  an'  of  our  own  re- 
ligion." 

"If  it's  only  the  Bodagh  got  it,"  replied 
his  comrade,  who  was  no  other  than  Micky 
Malvathra,  "  blaizes  to  the  hair  I  care.  "When 
my  brother  Barney,  that  sutlered  for  C'aam 
Heal  (crooked  mouth)  Grime's  business,  was 
before  his  tlirial,  hell  resave  the  taisther  the 
same  Bodagh  would  give  to  defind  him." 

"  Damn  it,"  rejoined  the  other,  "  but  to 
murdher  a  man  in  his  bed  !  Wh\%  now,  if  it 
was  only  comm'  home  fi'om  a  fair  or  market, 
but  at  midnight,  an'  in  his  bed,  begorra  it  is 
not  the  thing,  jNIickey." 

There  was  now  a  paiise  in  the  conversation 
for  some  minutes  ;  at  length,  screams  were 
heard,  and  the  noise  of  men's  feet,  as  if  en- 
gaged in  a  scuffle  upon  the  stairs,  for  the  hall- 
door  lay  ojien.  A  light,  too,  was  seen,  but  it 
appeared  to  have  been  blown  out ;  the  same 
noise  of  feet  tramjjing,  as  if  stUl  in  a  tumult, 
approached  the  door,  and  almost  immediately 
afterwards  Flanagan's  party  approached, 
bearing  in  their  arms  a  female,  who  panted 
and  struggled  as  if  she  had  been  too  weak  to 
shriek  or  call  for  assistance.  The  hall-door 
was  then  pulled  to  and  locked  by  those  who 
were  outside. 

The  Dandy  could  see,  by  the  j)assing 
gleam  of  hght  which  fell  upon  those  who 
watched  beside  him,  that  their  faces  were 
blackened,  and  their  clothes  covered  by  a 
shirt,  as  was  usual  with  the  Whiteboys  of  old, 
and  for  the  same  object — that  of  preventing 
themselves  fi'om  being  recognized  by  their 
apparel. 

"  So   far   so    good,"   said   Flanagan,  who 


298 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


cared  not  bow  whether  liis  voice  was  known 
or  not ;  "  the  prize  is  mine,  boys,  an'  how  to 
bring  ma  colleen  dhas  dhun  to  a  snug  jilace, 
an'  a  fiiendly  priest  that  I  have  to  pint  the 
knot  on  us  for  life." 

"  Be ,"  thought  Dvifly',    "  I'll   put  a 

different  kind  of  a  knot  on  you  for  that,  if  I 
should  swing  myself  for  it. " 

They  huiTied  onwards  with  as  much  speed 
as  possible,  bearing  the  fainting  female  in  a 
seat  formed  by  clasping  their  hands  to- 
gether. Duffy  still  stood  in  his  j)lace  of  con- 
cealment, waiting  to  let  them  get  so  far  in 
advance  as  that  he  might  dog  them  without 
danger  of  being  heard.  Just  then  a  man 
cautiously  apjiroached,  and  in  a  whisper 
asked,  "  Is  that  Dandy  ?  " 

"It  is — Saver  above,  Ned,  how  is  this? 
aU's  lost ! " 

"  No,  no — I  hope  not — but  go  an'  watch 
them  ;  we'll  folly  as  soon  as  we  get  help. 
My  curse  on  Alick  Nvilty,  he  disai:)pointed 
me  an'  didn't  come  ;  if  he  had,  some  of  the 
Bodagh's  sarvaut  boys  would  be  up  wid  us 
in  the  kitchen,  an'  we  could  bate  them  back 
aisy  ;  for  Flanagan,  as  I  tould  you,  is  a  dam 
coward." 

"Well,  thin,  I'll  trace  them,"  replied  the 
other  ;  "but  you  know  that  in  sich  darkness 
as  this  you  h.aven't  a  minute  to  lose,  other- 
wise you'll  miss  them." 

"Go  an  ;  but  afore  you  go  Hsten,  be  the 
light  of  daj',  not  that  we  have  much  of  it 
now  any  way — by  the  vestment,  Biddy 
Nulty's  worth  her  weight  in  Bank  of  Ireland 
notes  ;  now  pelt  and  afther  them  ;  I'll  tell 
you  again." 

Flanagan's  party  were  necessarily  forced  to 
retrace  theii-  steps  along  the  sludgy  boreen 
we  have  mentioned,  and  we  need  scarcely 
say,  that,  in  consequence  of  the  charge  with 
which  they  were  encumbered,  their  progi-ess 
was  projJortionally  slow  ;  to  cross  the  fields 
on  such  a  night  was  out  of  the  question. 

The  first  thing  Flanagan  did,  when  he 
foimd  his  prize  safe,  was  to  tie  a  handker- 
chief about  her  mouth  that  she  might  not 
scream,  and  to  secure  her  hands  together  by 
the  wrists.  Indeed,  the  first  of  these  precau- 
tions seemed  to  be  scarcely  necessary,  for  what 
with  the  terror  occasioned  by  such  unexpec- 
ted and  frightfid  violence,  and  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  her  health,  it  was  evident  that 
she  coiild  not  utter  even  a  shriek.  Yet,  did 
she,  on  the  other  hand,  lapse  into  fits  of  such 
.si^asmodic  violence  as,  wi'ought  \\\i  as  she 
was  by  the  horror  of  her  situation,  called 
forth  all  her  j^hysical  energies,  and  literally 
gave  her  the  strength  of  three  women. 

"  Well,  well,"  observed  one  of  the  fellows, 
who  had  assisted  in  lioldiug  her  down  during 
these   wild   fits,  "  you   may   talk   of  jinteel 


peoijle,  but  be  the  piper  o'  Moses,  that  same 
sick  daughter  of  the  Bodagh's  is  the  hardiest 
spi'out  I've  laid  my  hands  on  this  month  o' 
Sundays." 

"  May  be  you'd  make  as  hai-d  a  battle 
youi'self,"  replied  he  to  whom  he  sj)oke,  "  if 
you  wor  forced  to  a  thing  you  hate  as  much 
as  she  hates  Bartle." 

"  May  be  so,"  rejoined  the  other,  vrith  an 
incredulous  shiaig,  that  seemed  to  say  he  was 
by  no  means  satisfied  by  the  reasoning  of  his 
companion. 

Bartle  now  addressed  his  charge  with  a 
hope  of  reconciling  her,  if  j^ossible,  to  the 
fate  of  becoming  united  to  him. 

"  Don't  be  at  all  alarmed.  Miss  Oona,  for 
indeed  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  that  I'U 
make  as  good  and  as  lovin'  a  husband  as  ever 
had  a  purtj^  wife.     It's  two  or  three  ^-ears 
I  since  I  fell  in  cousate  ■n'id  you,  an'  I  needn't 
I  tell  j'ou,  darhn',  how  hapjiy  I'm  now,  that 
:  you're  mine.     I  have  two  hor.ses  waitin'  for 
!  us  at  the  end  of  this  vile  road,  an',   plase 
j  Providence,  we'U  ride  onwards  a  bit,   to  a 
friend's  house  o'  mine,  where  I've  a  priest 
ready  to    tie  the   knot  ;  an'   to-morrow,    if 
you're  willin',  we'll  stai't  for  America  ;  but  if 
you  don't  Uke  that,  we'll  live  together  tiU 
you'll  be  mUin'  enough,  I  hope,  to  go  any 
where  I  wish.     So  take  heart,  darlin',  take 
heart.     As  for  the  money  I  made  fi'ee  wid 
out  o'  your  desk,  it'U  help  to  keep  us  com- 
fortable ;  it  was  your  own,   you  know,  an' 
who  has  a  betther  right  to  be  at  the  sisendLn' 
of  it?" 

This,  which  was  meant  for  consolation, 
utterly  failed,  or  rather  aggravated  the 
sufferings  of  the  affrighted  gii'l  they  bore, 
who  once  more  struggled  with  a  power  that 
resembled  the  intense  musculai-  strength  of 
epilejjsy,  more  than  anything  else.  It 
hterally  required  four  of  them  to  hold  hor 
down,  so  dreadfully  spasmodic  were  her 
efforts  to  be  fi'ee. 

The  delay  caiised  by  those  occasional 
workings  of  terror,  at  a  moment  when  Flan- 
agan exj)ected  every  sound  to  be  the  noise  of 
pursuit,  ^NTOught  up  his  own  bad  passions  to 
a  furious  height.  His  ovm.  conqjnnions  could 
actuiilly  hear  him  grinding  his  teeth  with 
vexation  and  venom,  whenever  anything  on 
her  part  occurred  to  retard  their  flight.  All 
this,  however,  he  kept  to  himself,  owing  to 
the  singular  command  he  possessed  OTCr  his 
jiassions.  Nay,  he  undertook,  once  more, 
the  task  of  reconciling  her  to  the  agreeable 
prosj^ect,  as  he  termed  it,  that  hfe  presented 
her. 

"  We'll  be  as  happy  as  the  day's  long," 
said  he,  "  esiiichilly  when  heaven  sends  lis 
a  family  ;  an'  upon  my  troth  a  purty  mother 
you'll   make.     I   sujipose,    d;ii-lin'  love,  you 


FARDOROUOnA,    THE  MISER. 


299 


wondher  how  I  got  in  to-uight,  but  I  tell 
you  I've  my  wits  about  me  ;  you  don't  know 
that  it  was  I  encouraged  Biddy  Nulty  to  go 
to  live  wid  you,  but  I  know  what  I  was  about 
then  ;  Biddy  it  was  that  left  the  door  023en 
for  me,  an'  that  tould  me  the  room  you  lay 
in,  an'  the  place  you  keej)  your  hard  goold 
an'  notes  ;  I  mintion  these  things  to  show 
you  how  I  have  you  hemmed  in,  and  that 
your  -wisest  way  is  to  submit  without  makin' 
a  rout  al>out  it.  You  know  that  if  you  wor 
taken  from  me  this  minit,  there  'ud  be  a 
stain  ujiou  j'our  name  that  'ud  never  lave  it, 
an'  it  wouldn't  be  my  business,  you  know,  to 
clear  up  your  character,  but  the  conthrary. 
As  for  Biddy,  the  poor  fool,  I  did  all  in  my 
power  to  prevint  her  bein'  fond  o'  me,  but 
ever  since  we  two  lived  mth  the  ould  miser, 
somehow  she  couldn't." 

For  some  time  before  he  had  proceeded  thus 
far,  there  was  felt,  by  those  who  carried  their 
fair  charge,  a  slight  working  of  her  whole 
body,  especially  of  the  arms,  and  in  a  moment 
Flanagan,  who  walked  a  httle  in  advance  of 
her,  with  his  head  bent  down,  that  he  might 
not  be  i3ut  to  the  necessity  of  speaking  loud, 
suddenly  received,  right  ujiou  his  nose,  such 
an  incredible  facer  as  made  the  blood  si^in  a 
yard  out  of  it. 

"  May  all  the  curses  of  heaven  an'  hell 
blast  you,  for  a  cowardly,  thraicherous,  j)ar- 
jured  stag  !  Wliy,  you  black-hearted  infor- 
mer, see  now  what  you've  made  by  your 
cunnin'.  Well,  we  hope  you'll  keep  your 
word — won't  I  make  a  purty  mother,  an' 
won't  we  be  happy  as  the  daj-'s  long,  espi- 
chilly  when  Heaven  sends  us  a  family  ?  Why, 
you  rap  of  heU,  aren't  you  a  laughing-stock 
this  minute '?  An'  to  go  to  take  my  name 
too — an'  to  leave  the  guilt  of  some  other 
body's  thraichery  on  me,  that  you  knew  in 
your  burnin'  sowl  to  be  innocent — me,  a 
poor  girl  that  has  only  my  name  an'  good 
character  to  carry  me  through  the  world. 
Oh,  you  mane-spirited,  revengeful  dog,  for 
you're  not  a  man,  or  you'd  not  go  to  take 
sich  revenge  upon  a  woman,  an'  all  for  sajdn' 
an'  25uttin'  it  out  on  you,  what  I  ever  an'  al- 
ways wiU  do,  that  stiTiv  to  hang  Connor  O'- 
Douovan,  knowin'  that  it  was  yourself  did 
the  crime  the  jjoor  boy  is  now  sutYeriu'  for. 
Ha !  may  the  sweetest  an'  bitterest  of  bad 
luck  both  meet  upon  you,  you  viUin  !  Amin 
I  pray  this  night !  " 

The  scene  that  followed  this  discovery, 
and  the  unexpected  act  which  produced  it, 
coulil  not,  we  think,  be  properly  described  | 
liy  either  pen  or  pencil.  Flanagan  stood  | 
with  hio  hands  alternately  kept  to  his  nose,  j 
from  which  he  flung  away  the  blood,  as  it 
sprung  out  in  a  most  copious  stream.  Two-  ■ 
thii-ds,  indeed  we  might  say  tlu-ee-fourths  of  I 


his  party,  were  convulsed  with  sup23ressed 
laughter,  nor  could  they  jjrevent  an  occa- 
sional cackle  from  being  heard,  when  forcibly 
drawing  in  their  breath,  in  an  eifort  not  to 
oft'end  their  leader.  The  discovery  of  the 
mistake  was,  in  itself,  extremely  ludicrous, 
but  when  the  home  truths  uttered  by  Biddy, 
and  the  indescribable  bitterness  caused  by 
the  disappointment,  joined  to  the  home 
blow,  were  aU  put  together,  it  might  be  said 
that  the  darkness  of  hell  itself  was  not  so 
black  as  the  rage,  hatred,  and  thirst  of  ven- 
geance, which  at  this  moment  consumed 
Bartle  Flanagan's  heart.  He  who  had  laid 
his  plans  so  artfully  that  he  thought  failure 
in  securing  his  prize  imj^ossible,  now  not 
only  to  feel  that  he  was  baffled  bj'  the  sui^e- 
rior  cunning  of  a  girl,  and  made  the  laughing- 
stock of  his  own  jjarty,  who  valued  him 
princif)ally  ujjon  his  ability  in  such  matters  ; 
but,  in  addition  to  tliis,  to  have  his  heart 
and  feelings  torn,  as  it  were,  out  of  his  body, 
and  flung  down  before  him  and  his  confrere* 
in  all  their  monstrous  deformity,  and  to  be 
jeered  at,  moreover,  and  desj^ised,  and  liter- 
ally cufl'ed  by  the  female  who  outreached 
him — this  was  too  much  ;  aU  the  worst  pas- 
sions within  him  were  fired,  and  he  swore  in 
his  own  heart  a  deep  and  blasjjhemous  oath, 
that  Biddy  Nulty  never  should  f)art  from 
him  luiless  as  a  degTaded  gu'l. 

The  incident  that  we  have  just  related 
happened  so  quickly  that  Flanagan  had  not 
time  to  reply  a  single  word,  and  Biddy  fol- 
lowed up  her  imprecation  by  a  powerful  ef- 
fort to  release  herself. 

"  Let  me  home  this  minnit,  j'ou  villin," 
she  continued  ;  "  now  that  you  find  yourself 
on  the  ^Tong  scent — boys,  don't  hoidd  me, 
nor  back  that  ruffin  in  his  villany." 

"  Hould  her  like  heU,"  said  Bartle,  "  an' 
tie  her  uji  wanst  more  ;  we'U  gag  you,  too, 
my  lady — ay,  mil  we.  Take  away  your  name 
— I'll  take  care  }•  ou'U  carry  shame  upon  your 
face  fi-om  this  night  to  the  hour  of  your 
death.  Characther  indeed ! — ho,  by  the 
crass  I'll  lave  you  that  Little  of  that  will  go 
fiU'  wid  you." 

"May  be  not,"  replied  Biddy  ;  "the  same 
God  that  disappointed  you  hi  hangin'  Con- 
nor O'Donovan " 

"Damn  you,"  said  he,  "talie  that;"  and 
as  he  spoke  he  struck  the  poor  girl  a  heavy 
blow  in  the  cheek,  which  cut  her  deeply, 
and  for  a  short  time  rendered  her  sjieechless. 

"  Bartle,"  said  more  than  one  of  them, 
"that's  unmanly,  an'  it's  conthrary  to  the 
regulations. ' 

"  To  perdition  wid  the  regulations  !  Hasn't 
the  vagabone  drawn  a  pint  of  blood  from 
my  nose  already  ? — look  at  that !  "  he  ex- 
claimed,  throwing  away  a   handful   of  the 


300 


WILLIAM  CAELETOS'S   WOllKS. 


wai-m  gore — "  Lell  seize  her !  look  at  that. 

Ho  be  the "     He  made  another  onset  at 

the  yet  unconscious  girl  as  he  spoke,  and 
would  have  stiU  inflicted  further  punish- 
ment upon  her,  were  it  not  that  he  was  pre- 
vented. 

"  Stop,"  said  several  of  them,  "  if  you  wor 
over  us  fifty  times  you  won't  lay  another 
tinker  on  her ;  that's  wanst  for  all,  so  be 
quiet." 

"  Ai'e  yez  threateuin'  me?"  he  asked,  fui'i- 
ously,  but  in  an  instant  he  changed  his  tone 
— "Boys  deal',"  continued  the  wily  but  un- 
manly villain — "boys  dear,  can  you  blame 
me  ?  disapjjointed  as  I  am  by  this — by  this 

— ha  ai>hien  ho  slhreopa — 1'U "  but  agaiu 

he  checked  himself,  and  at  length  burst  out 
into  a  bitter  tit  of  weeping.  "  Look  at 
this,"  lie  proceeded,  throwing  away  another 
handfid  of  blood,  "I've  lost  a  quart  of  it  by 
her." 

"  Be  the  hand  af  my  body,"  said  one  of 
them  in  a  whisper,  "he's  like  even-  coward, 
it's  at  his  own  blood  he's  crjin'  ;  be  the  var- 
tue  of  my  oath,  that  man's  not  the  thing  to 
depind  on." 

"Is  she  tied  an'  gagged?"  he  then  in- 
quired. 

"She  is,"  rephed  those  who  tied  her. 
"It  was  very  asy  done.  Bar  tie,  afther  the 
blow  you  hot  her." 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  out  of  iU-wiU  I  hot 
her  aither,"  he  replied,  "  although,  boys 
dear,  you  know  how  she  vexed  me,  but  you 
see,  the  tlu-uth  is,  she'd  a'  given  us  a  great 
dale  o'  throul)le  in  gettin'  her  quiet." 

"An'  you  tuck  the  right  way  to  do  that," 
they  replied  ironically ;  and  they  added, 
"Bartle  Flanagan,  you  may  thank  the  oaths 
we  tuck,  or  be  the  crass,  a  single  man  of  us 
v\-ouldn't  assist  you  in  tim  consai-n,  afther 
youi-  cow;u-dly  behaver  to  this  poor  gu-1. 
Takin'  away  the  Bodagh's  daughter  was  an- 
other thing  ;  you  had  betther  let  the  gui  go 
home." 

Biddy  had  now  recovered,  and  heard  this 
suggestion  with  joy,  for  the  i^oor  girl  began 
to  entertain  serious  apf)rehensions  of  Flana- 
gan's revenge  and  violence,  if  left  alone  with 
him  ;  she  could  not  speak,  however,  and 
those  who  bore  her,  quickened  their  pace  at 
his  desu'e,  as  much  as  they  could. 

"  No,"  said  Bartle,  ai'tfuUy,  "  III  keep  her 
prisoner  anyhow  for  this  night.  I  had  once 
a  notion  of  marrii-iu'  her — an'  may  be — as  I 
am  disappointed  in  the  other — but,  we'll 
think  of  it.  Now  we're  at  the  horses,  an' 
we'U  get  an  faster." 

This  was  indeed  true.  After  the  journey 
we  have  just  described,  they  at  length  got 
out  of  the  boreen,  where,  in  the  corner  of  a 
field,  a  httle  to  the  right,  two  horses,  each 


saddled,  w-ere  tied  to  the  branch  of  a  tre& 
They  now  made  a  slight  delay  uutU  theL» 
charge  should  be  got  mounted,  and  were 
collected  in  a  group  on  the  road,  when  a 
voice  called  out,  "\Mio  goes  there?" 

"  A  fi-iend  to  the  guaixl." 

"  Good  morrow  !  " 

"  Good  morrow  mornin'  to  j'ou  !  " 

"  AMiat  Age  Are  vou  in  ?  " 

"The  end  of  the  fifth" 

"AH  right,"  said  Bartle,  aloud;  "now, 
boys,"  he  w-hispered  to  his  own  jjarty,  "we 
must  tell  them  good-humoredly  to  pass  on 
— that  this  is  a  runaway— jist  a  girl  we're 
bringin'  afl'  wid  us,  an'  to  hould  a  hard 
cheek*  about  it.  You  know  we'd  do  as 
much  for  them." 

Both  parties  now  met,  the  sti-angers  con- 
sisting of  about  twenty  men. 

"'XVeU,  boys,"  said  the  latter,  "what's  the 
fun?" 

"  Devil  a  thing  but  a  girl  we're  helpin'  a 
boy  to  take  away.     "W'hat's  your  own  sport  ?  " 

"Begorra,  we  wor  in  luck  to-night;  we 
got  as  iJurty  a  double-barrelled  gun  as  ever 
you  seen,  an'  a  case  of  miu-dheriu'  fine 
pistols." 

"  Success,  ould  heart  1  that's  right ;  we'U 
be  able  to  stand  a  tug  whin  the  '  Day '  comes." 

"  Which  of  you  is  takin'  away  the  gu'l, 
boys  ?  "  inquu-ed  one  of  the  strangers. 

"  Begad,  Bartle  Flanagan,  since  there's  no 
use  in  hidin'  it,  when  we're  all  as  we  ought 
to  be." 

"  Bartle  Flanagan  !  "  said  a  voice — "Bartle 
Flanagan,  is  it  ?     An'  who's  the  girl  ?  " 

"  Bhu-  an'  agres,  Ahck  Nulty,  don't  be 
too  curious,  she  comes  from  Bodagh  Buie's." 

Biddy,  on  heai'ing  the  voice  of  her  brother, 
made  another  \iolent  effort,  and  succeeded 
in  partially  working  the  gag  out  of  her  mouth 
— she  screamed  faintly,  and  struggled  with 
such  energy  that  her  hands  agaiu  became 
loose,  and  in  an  instant  the  gag  was  whoUj' 
removed. 

"  Oh  Ahck,  AHck,  for  the  love  o'  God  save 
me  fi'om  Flanagan !  it's  me,  your  sisther 
Biddy,  that's  in  it ;  save  me,  Ahck,  or  I'U  be 
lost  ;"he  has  cut  me  to  the  bone  w  id  a  blow, 
an'  the  blood's  pourin'  fi'om  me." 

"Her  brother  lieAV  to  her.  "'UTiisht, 
Biddy,  don't  be  afeai-d ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"Boys,"  said  he,  "let  my  pai-ty  stand  by 
me  ;  this  is  the  way  Bai-tle  Flanagan  keep.s 
his  oath."j 

"Secure  Bartle,"  said  Biddy.  "He  rob- 
bed Bodagh  Buie's  house,  an'  has  the  money 
about  him." 

*  To  keep  it  secret. 

f  One  of  the  clause.^  of  the  Ribbon  oath  was,  not 
to  injure  or  maltreat  the  wife  or  sister  of  a  brothel 
Ribbonman. 


FARDOROHGHA,    THE  MISER. 


301 


The  horses  were  ub-eady  on  the  road,  but, 
in  consequence  of  both  parties  filling  up  the 
passage  in  the  direction  which  Bartle  and 
his  followers  intended  taking,  the  animals 
could  not  be  brought  through  them  without 
delay  and  trouble,  even  had  there  been  no 
resistance  offered  to  their  progress. 

"  A  robber  too  !  "  exclaimed  Nulty,  "  that's 
more  of  his  paijury  to'ards  uz.  Bartle  Flan- 
agan, you're  a  thraitor,  and  you'll  get  a 
thraitor's  death  afore  you're  much  oulder. 
He's  not  fit  to  be  among  us,"  added  AUck, 
addressing  himself  to  both  i^arties,  "  an'  the 
tnith  is,  if  we  don't  hang  or  settle  him,  he'll 
some  day  hang  us." 

"B.artle's  no  thraitor,"  said  Mulvather, 
"  but  he's  a  thraitor  that  says  he  is." 

The  coming  reply  was  interrupted  by 
"  Boys,  good  night  to  yez  ;"  and  immediately 
the  clatter  of  a  horse's  feet  was  heard  stum- 
bling ;ind  tloundeiing  back  along  the  deep 
stony  boreen.  "Be  the  vestment  he's  aff," 
said  one  of  his  party  ;  "  the  cowardly  viUin's 
aft'  wid  himself  the  minit  he  seen  the  ap- 
proach of  danger." 

"  Sure  enough,  the  bad  dhrop's  in  liim," 
exclaimed  several  on  both  sides.  "  But 
what  the  h  --1  does  he  mane  now,  I  dunna  ?  " 
"It'll  be  only  a  good  joke  to-morrow  wid 
him,"  obser\'ed  one  of  them — "  but,  boys,  we 
must  think  how  to  manage  him  ;  I  can't 
forgive  him  for  the  cowardly  blow  he  hot 
the  poor  eoUeen  hei-e,  an'  for  the  same  rason 
I  didn't  dlu-aw  the  knot  so  tight  upon  her 
as  1  could  a'  done." 

"  Was  it  you  that  nipped  my  arm  ?  "  asked 
Biddy. 

"Faix,  you  may  say  that,  an'  it  was 
to  let  you  know  that,  let  him  say  as  he 
would,  after  what  we  seen  of  him  to-night, 
we  wouldn't  allow  him  to  thrate  you  baidly 
without  marryin'  you  first." 

The  niglit  having  been  now  pretty  far 
advanced,  the  two  parties  sej)arated  in  order 
to  go  to  their  resf)ective  homes — Alick 
taking  Biddy  under  his  protection  to  her 
master's.  As  the  way  of  many  belonging  to 
each  lodge  laj'  in  the  same  direction,  they 
were  accompanied,  of  course,  to  the  turn 
that  led  up  to  the  Bodagh's  house.  Biddy, 
notwithstanding  the  severe  blow  she  had 
got,  relrited  the  night's  adventure  with  much 
humor,  dwelling  upon  her  ovm  part  in  the 
trans  action  with  singular  glee. 

"  There's  some  thraicherous  A-iUin  in  the 
Bodagh's,"  said  she,  "  be  it  man  or  woman  ; 
for  what'id  you  think  but  the  hall-door  was 
left  lying  to  only — neither  locked  nor  boulted. 
But,  indeed,  anyhow,  it's  the  start  was 
taken  out  o'  me  whin  Ned  M'Cormick — 
that  you  wor  to  meet  in  our  kitchen,  Alick 
— throth,  I  won't  let  Kitty  Lowry  wait  up 


for  you  so  long  another  time."  She  added  this 
to  throw  the  onus  of  the  assignation  off  her 
own  shoulder.s,  and  to  lay  it  upon  those  ol 
Alick  and  Kitty.  "  But,  anj-how,  I  had  just 
time  to  throw  her  clothes  ufion  me  and  get 
into  her  bed.  Be  me  sowl,  but  I  acted 
the  flight  an'  sickness  in  style.  I  wasn't 
able  to  spake  a  word,  you  persave,  tiU  we 
got  far  enough  from  the  house  to  give  Miss 
Oona  time  to  hide  herself.  Oh,  thin,  the 
robbiu'  vilKn  how  he  put  the  muzzle  oi 
his  gun  to  the  lock  of  Miss  Oona's  desk, 
when  he  couldn't  get  the  key,  an'  hlewn  it  to 
pieces,  an'  thin  he  took  every  fai'din'  he  could 
lay  his  hands  upon." 

She  then  detailed  her  own  feelings  dur- 
ing the  abduction,  in  terms  so  ludicrously 
abusive  of  Flanagan,  that  those  who  accom- 
jjanied  her  were  exceedingly  amused  ;  for 
what  she  said  was  strongly  jirovocative  of 
mirth,  yet  the  chief  cause  of  laughter  lay 
in  the  vehement  sincerity  with  which  she 
spoke,  and  iu  the  utter  unconsciousness  of  ut- 
tering anything  that  was  calculated  to  excite 
a  smile.  Thei-e  is,  however,  a  class  of  such 
persons,  whose  power  of  jirovokiug  laugh- 
ter consists  in  the  utter  absence  of  humor. 
Those  I  sj)eak  of  never  laugh  either  at  what 
they  say  themselves,  or  what  any  one  else 
may  say  ;  but  they  drive  on  right  ahead 
with  an  inverted  originality  that  is  perfectly 
irresistible. 

We  must  now  beg  the  reader  to  accompany 
them  to  the  Bodagh's,  where  a  scene  awaited 
them  for  which  they  were  scarcely  prejiared. 
On  approaching  the  house  they  could  per- 
ceive, by  the  light  ghttering  from  the  window 
chinks,  that  the  family  were  in  a  state  of 
alarm  ;  but  at  this  they  were  not  siirprised  ; 
for  such  a  commotion  in  the  house,  after 
what  had  occurred,  was  but  natural.  They 
went  directly  to  the  kitchen  door  and  rapped. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  said  a  voice  within. 

"  It's  Biddy ;  for  the  love  o'  God  make 
haste,  Kitty,  an'  ojjen." 

"  What  Biddy  are  you  ?     I  won't  oj)en." 

"  Biddy  Nulty.  You  know  me  well  enough, 
Kitty  ;  so  make  haste  an'  open,  Alick,  mark 
my  words,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice  to  her 
brother,  "Kitty's  thevei-y  one  that  jwactised 
the  desate  this  night — that  left  the  hall-door 
ojien.     Make  haste,  Kitty,  I  say." 

"  I'U  do  no  such  thing  indeed,"  replied  the 
other  ;  "it  was  you  left  the  hall-door  open 
to-night,  an'  I  heard  you  spakin'  to  fellows 
outside.  I  have  too  much  regard  for  my 
masther's  house  an'  family  to  let  you  or  any 
one  else  in  to-night.     Come  in  the  mornin'." 

"  FoUy  me,  Alick,"  said  Biddy,  "foEy  me." 

She  went  immediately  to  the  hall-door, 
and  gave  such  a  single  raj)  with  the  knocker, 
as  brought  more  than  Kittv  to  the  door. 


302 


WILLIAM   CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Who's  there  ?  "  inquired  a  voice,  which 
she  and  her  brother  at  once  knew  to  be  Ned 
M'Cormiek's. 

"  Ned,  for  the  love  o'  God,  let  me  an' 
AHck  in  !  "  she  replied  ;  "  we  got  away  from 
that  netarnal  villiu." 

Instautlj'  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
first  thing  Ned  did  was  to  put  his  arms  about 
Biddy's  neck,  and — we  were  going  to  say  kiss 
her. 

"Saints  above !"  said  he,  "what's  this?" 
on  seeing  that  her  face  was  dreadfully  dis- 
figured ^^^th  blood. 

"Nothin'  to  signify,"  she  replied;  "but 
thanks  be  to  God,  we  got  clane  away  from 
the  vUlin,  or  be  the  Padheren  Partha,  the 
villin  it  was  that  .got  clane  away  from  bus. 
How  is  Miss  Oona  ?  " 

"She  went  over  to  a  neighbor's  house  for 
safety,"  rej)Hed  Ned,  smihng,  "  an'  a\t11  be 
back  in  a  few  minutes  ;  but  who  do  you 
think,  above  aU  men  iu  the  five  quarters  o' 
the  earth,  we  have  got  widin  ?     Guess  now." 

"  Who  V  "  said  Biddy  ;  "  why,  I  duuna,  save 
— but  no,  it  couldn't." 

"Fais  but  it  could,  though,"  said  Ned, 
mistaking  her,  as  the  matter  turned  out. 

"  Why,  vick  na  hoiah,  no  !  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan  back !  Oh !  no,  no,  Ned  ;  that  'ud  be 
too  good  news  to  be  thi'ue." 

The  honest  lad  shook  his  head  with  an  ex- 
pression of  regret  that  could  not  be  mis- 
taken as  the  exjjonent  of  a  sterling  heart. 
And  yet,  that  the  reader  may  perceive  how 
neai-  akin  that  one  circumstance  was  to  the 
other  in  his  mind,  we  have  only  to  say,  that 
whilst  the  regret  for  Connor  was  deeply  en- 
graven on  his  features,  yet  the  exjjression  of 
triumjah  was  as  clearly  legible  as  if  his  name 
had  not  been  at  aU  mentioned. 

"Who,  then,  Ned?"  said  Alick.  "\Y\io 
the  dickens  is  it  ?  " 

"  V\^\,  di^^l  resave  the  other  than  Bartle 
Flanagan  himself — ■'secured — and  the  consta- 
bles sent  for — an'  plaze  the  Saver  he'll  be  iu 
the  stone  jug  afore  his  head  gets  gray  any 
how,  the  black-heai'ted  viUiu  !  " 

It  was  even  so  ;  and  the  circumstances  ac- 
counting for  it  are  very  simple.  Flanagan, 
having  mounted  one  of  the  horses,  made  the 
best  of  his  way  fr-om  what  he  apjireheuded 
was  likely  to  become  a  scene  of  deadly  strife. 
Such  was  the  nature  of  the  road,  however, 
that  anything  like  a  rapid  pace  was  out  of 
the  question.  When  he  had  got  over  about 
half  the  boreen  he  was  accosted  in  the  signi- 
ficant terms  of  the  Ribbon  pass-word  of  that 
day. 

"  Good  morrow  !  " 

"  Good  morrow  momin'  to  you  !  " 

"Ai-rah  what  Age  may  you  be,  neigh- 
bor?" 


Now  the  correct  words  were,  "  What  Age 
are  we  in  ?  "  *  but  they  were  often  shghtlj 
changed,  sometimes  thi'ough  ignorance  and 
sometimes  from  design,  as  in  the  latter  case 
less  liable  to  remark  when  addressed  to  per- 
sons not  iqx  "  In  the  end  of  the  Fifth,"  was 
the  re25ly. 

"An'  if  you  wor  shakin'  hands  wid  a 
friend,  how  would  you  do  it  ?  Or  stay — all's 
right  so  far — but  give  us  a  grip  of  your 
cham  alms  (right  hand)." 

Flanagan,  who  apjprehended  pursuit,  was 
too  cautious  to  tnist  himself  within  reach  of 
any  one  coming  fr'om  the  direction  in  which 
the  Bodagh  hved.  He  made  no  rejsly,  there- 
fore, to  this,  but  ui-ged  his  horse  forward, 
and  attempted  to  get  clear  of  his  catechist. 

"Dhar  Dhegk  !  it's  Flanagan,"  said  a  voice 
which  was  that  of  Alick  Nulty  ;  and  the  next 
moment  the  ecjuestrian  was  stretched  in  the 
mud,  by  a  heavy  blow  fr-om  the  but  of  a 
cai'bine.  Nearly  a  score  of  men  were  im- 
mediately aboiit  him  ;  for  the  party  he  met 
on  his  retiu'n  were  the  Bodagh's  son,  his 
servants,  and  such  of  the  cottiers  as  hved 
near  enough  to  be  called  up  to  the  rescue. 
On  finding  himself  secured,  he  lost  all  ijres- 
ence  of  mind,  and  almost  aU  consciousness 
of  his  situation. 

"  I'm  gone,"  said  he  ;  "  I'm  a  lost  man  ;  aU 
Europe  can't  save  my  life.  Don't  kill  me, 
boys  ;  don't  kill  me  ;  I'U  go  wid  yez  quietly 
— only,  if  I  am  to  die,  let  me  die  by  the  laws 
of  the  land." 

"The  laws  of  the  land?"  said  John  O'- 
Brien ;  "  oh,  Uttle,  Biu-tle  Flanagan,  you  re- 
S2')ected  them.  You  needn'  be  alarmed  now 
— you  are  safe  here — to  the  laws  of  the  laud 
we  will  leave  you  ;  and  by  them  you  must 
stand  or  fall." 

Bartle  Flanagan,  we  need  scai'cely  say,  was 
well  guarded  until  a  posse  of  constables 
should  arrive  to  take  him  into  custody-.  But, 
in  the  mean  time,  a  large  and  increasing 
piarty  sat  up  iu  the  house  of  the  worthy  Bo- 
dagh ;  for  the  neighbors  had  been  alarmed, 
and  came  flocking  to  his  aid.  'Tis  true,  the 
danger  was  now  over  :  but  the  kind  Bodagh, 
thankful  in  his  heart  to  the  Almighty  for  the 
escape  of  his  daughter,  would  not  let  them 
go  without  first  partaking  of  his  hospitality. 
His  wife,  too,  for  the  same  reason,  was  iu  a 
flutter  of  delight ;  and  as  her  heart  was  as 
Iiish  as  her  husband's,  and  consequently  as 
hospitable,  so  did  she  stfr  about,  and  work, 
and  order  right  and  left  untQ  abundant  re- 
freshments were  smoking  on  the  table.  Nor 
was  the  gentle  and  melaucholj'  Una  herself, 
now  that  the  snake  was  at  all  events  scotched, 

*  This  order  or  throng  of  the  Ages  is  taken  from 
Pastorini. 


FARDOROUGnA,    THE  MISER. 


303 


averse  to  show  herseM  among  them — for  so 
they  would  have  it.  Biddy  Nulty  had  washed 
her  face  ;  aud,  uotwithstaudiug  the  poultice 
of  stirabout  which  her  mistress  with  her  own 
hands  apphed  to  her  wound,  she  really  was 
the  most  interesting  person  present,  in  con- 
sequence of  her  heroism  during  the  recent 
outrage.  After  a  glass  of  punch  had  gone 
round,  she  waxed  inveterately  eloquent,  iu- 
deetl,  so  much  so  that  the  mourner,  the  col- 
leen dhofs  dhun,  herself  was  more  than  once 
forced  to  smile,  and  in  some  instances  fairly 
to  laugh  at  the  odd  grotesque  spirit  of  her 
descrijitions. 

"  The  rascal  was  quick  !  "  said  the  Bodagh, 
"  but  upon  my  credit,  Biddy,  you  wor  a  pop 
afore  him  for  all  that.  Divil  a  thing  I,  or 
John,  or  the  others,  could  do  wid  only  one 
gun  an'  a  case  o'  pistols  against  so  many — 
stiU  we  would  have  fought  life  or  death  for 
poor  Una  anyhow.  But  Biddy,  here,  good 
girl,  by  her  cleverness  and  invention  saved  us 
the  danger,  an'  maybe  was  the  manes  of  sav- 
in' some  of  our  liver  or  theirs.  God  knows 
I'd  have  no  relish  to  be  shot  myself,"  said  the 
pacific  Bodagh,  "nor  would  I  ever  have  a  day 
or  night's  pace  if  I  had  the  blood  of  a  feUow- 
crathur  on  my  sowl — upon  my  sowl  I 
wouldn't." 

"  But,  blood  alive,  masther,  what  could  I 
'a'  done  only  for  Ned  M'Cormick,  that  gave 
us  the  hard  word  ?  "  said  Biddy,  anxious  to 
transfer  the  merit  of  the  transaction  to  her 
lover. 

"  Well,  well.  Bid,"  rephed  the  Bodagh, 
"  maybe  neither  Ned  nor  yourself  wiU  be  a 
loser  bj'  it.  If  you're  bent  on  layiu'  your 
heads  together  we'll  find  you  a  weddin'  jDres- 
ent,  anyway." 

"  Bedad,  sir,  I'm  puzzled  to  know  how  they 
got  in  so  aisy,"  said  Ned. 

"  That  matter  remains  to  be  cleared  up 
yet,"  said  John.  "  There  is  certainly  treajch- 
ery  in  the  camp  somewhere." 

"I  am  cock  sure  the  hall-door  was  not 
latched,"  said  Duffy  ;  "  for  they  had  neither 
stop  nor  stay  at  it." 

•'There  is  a  viUing  among  us  sartainly," 
observed  JMi's.  O'Brien  ;  "  for  as  heaving  is 
above  me,  I  locked  it  wid  my  own  two  hands 
this  blessed  night." 

"I  thought  it  might  be  wid  the  kay, 
Bridget,"  said  the  Bodagh,  laughing  at  liis 
own  easy  joke  ;  "  for  you  see,  doors  is  gin- 
eraUy  locked  wid  kays — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

"  Faix,  but  had  Oona  been  tuck  away  to- 
night wid  that  vag  o'  the  world,  it's  not 
laughin'  you'd  be." 

"  God,  He  sees,  that's  only  thruth,  too, 
Bridget,"  he  rej)hed  ;  "but  stdl  there's  some 
rogue  about  the  place  that  opened  the  door 
for  the  viUina." 


"  Dar  ma  chuirp,  I'U  hould  goold  I  put  the 
saddle  on  the  right  horse  in  no  time,"  said 
Biddy.  "  IVIisthress,  will  you  call  Kitfy  Low- 
ry,  ma'am,  i'  you  plase  ?  I'll  do  everything 
above  boord  ;  no  behind  backs  for  me  ;  blaz- 
es to  the  one  alive  hates  foul  play  more  nor 
I  do." 

We  ought  to  have  observed  that  one  of 
Biddy's  peculiarities  was  a  more  than  usual 
readiness  at  letting  fly,  and  not  unfrequently 
at  giving  an  oath  ;  and  as  her  character  pre- 
sented a  strange  compound  of  simjjlicity  and 
cleverness,  honesty  and  adroitness,  her  mas- 
ter and  mistress,  aud  fellow-servants,  wei-e 
frequently  amused  by  this  unfeminine  pro- 
pensity. For  instance,  if  Una  happened  to 
ask  her,  "  Biddj',  did  you  iron  the  linen  ?  " 
her  usual  reply  was,  "  No,  blast  the  iron, 
miss,  I  hadn't  time."  Of  coiu'se  the  family 
did  everything  in  their  j^ower  to  discourage 
such  a  j)ractice  ;  but  on  this  point  they  found 
it  impossible  to  reform  her.  Kitty  Lowry's 
countenance,  when  she  apj)eared,  certainly 
presented  strong  indications  of  guilt ;  but 
stiU  there  was  a  hardness  of  outline  about  it 
which  gave  promise  at  the  same  tune  of  the 
most  intrepid  assurance.  Biddy,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  brimful  of  consequence,  and 
a  sense  of  authority,  on  tindiug  that  the  ju- 
dicial power  was  on  this  occasion  entrusted 
chietiy  to  her  hands.  She  rose  up  when  Kit- 
ty entered,  and  stuck  a  pair  of  red  formida- 
ble fists  with  gTeat  energy  into  her  sides. 

"Pray  ma'am,"  said  she,  "what's  tlie  rai- 
sLu'  you  refused  to  let  me  in  to-night,  afther 
gettui'  away  wid  my  life  from  that  netarual 
blackguard,  Bartle  Flanagan — what's  the 
raisin  I  say,  ma'am,  that  you  kep'  me  out 
afther  you  knewa  who  was  in  it  ?  " 

There  was  here  visible  a  slight  vibration 
of  the  head,  rather  gentle  at  the  beginning, 
but  clearly  prophetic  of  ultimate  energy,  and 
an  unequivocid  determination  to  enforce 
whatever  she  might  say  with  suitable  action 
even  in  its  widest  sense. 

"  An'  pray,  ma'am,"  said  the  other,  for 
however  paradoxical  it  may  appear,  it  is  an 
established  case  that  in  all  such  displays  be- 
tween women,  politeness  usually  keej^s  pace 
with  scurrility  ;  "An'  pray,  ma'am,"  rejjhed 
Kitty,  "  is  it  to  the  likes  o'  you  we're  to  say 
our  catechize  ?  " 

Biddy  was  resolved  not  to  be  outdone  in 
politeness,  and  repilied — 

"  Af  you  plaise,  ma'am,"  with  a  courtesy. 

"  Loi'd  protect  us  !  what  wiU  we  hear  next, 
I  wondher  '?  WeU,  ma'am  ?  "  Here  her  an- 
tagonist stood,  evidently  waiting  for  the  on- 
set. 

"  Youll  hear  more  thanTl  go  down  your 
back   pleasant    afore    I've    done    wid  you, 


304 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Don't  be  makin'  iis  long  for  it  in  the 
mane  tjme,  Miss  Biddy." 

"  You  didn't  answer  my  question,  Jfm 
Kitty.  Why  did  you  refuse  to  let  me  in  to- 
night?" 

"For  good  raisons — bekase  I  hard  you 
cologgin'  an'  whispeiin'  wid  a  pack  of  fellows 
'ithout." 

"  An'  have  you  the  brass  to  say  so,  knowin' 
that  it's  false  an'  a  lie  into  the  bargain  ? " 
(Head  energetically  shaken.) 

"Have  I  the  brass,  is  it  ?  I  keep  my  brass 
in  my  pocket,  ma'am,  not  in  my  face,  like 
some  of  our  fi-iends."  (Head  shaken  in  re- 
ply to  the  action  displayed  by  Kitty.) 

This  was  a  shai-p  retort  ;  but  it  was  very 
well  returned. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Biddy,  "if 
it's  faces  you're  spakin'  about,  I  know  you're 
able  to  outface  me  any  day ;  but  whatever 's 
in  my  face  there's  no  desate  in  my  heart. 
Miss  Lowry.  Put  that  in  your  pocket." 
(One  triumfihant  shake  of  the  head  at  the 
conclusion.) 

"  There's  as  much  in  your  heart  as'U 
shame  your  face,  yet.  Miss  Nulty.  Put  that 
in  yom-s."  (Another  triumphant  shake  of 
the  head.) 

"Thank  God,"  retorted  Biddy,  "noneo' 
viy  fiiends  ever  knewn  what  a  shamed  face 
is.  I  say,  madam,  none  o'  mij  family  iver 
wore  a  shamed  face.  Thiguthu  shin  ?  "  (Do 
you  understand  that  ? ) 

This,  indeed,  was  a  bitter  hit ;  for  the 
reader  must  know  that  a  sister  of  Lowry's 
had  not  passed  through  the  world  without 
the  breath  of  slander  tarnishing  her  fair 
fame. 

"  Oh,  it's  well  known  your  tongue's  no 
slander,  Biddy." 

"  Thin  that's  more  than  can  be  said  of 
yours,  Kitty." 

"If  my  sisther  met  with  a  misfortime,  it 
was  many  a  betther  woman's  case  than  ever 
you'U  be.  Don't  shout  till  you  get  out  of 
tlie  wood,  ma'am.  You  dunua  what's  afore 
yourself.  Any  how,  it's  not  be  lettin'  fellows 
into  the  masther's  kitchen  whin  the  family's 
in  bed,  an'  dhrinkin'  whiskey  wid  them,  that'U 
get  you  through  the  world  ^\-id  your  charac- 
ter safe.  *  *  *  An'  you're  nothin"  but  a 
b;ii'ge,  or  you'd  not  dnraw  down  my  sisther's 
name  that  never  did  you  an  ill  tiun,  what- 
ever she  did  to  herself,  jioor  girl !  " 

"An'  do  you  dar'  for  to  call  me  a  barge  ? 
*  *  *  *  Blast  j'our  insurance !  be  this 
an'  be  that,  for  a  farden  I'd  malivogue  the 
devU  out  o'  you." 

"We're  not  puttin'  it  jjast  you,  madam, 
you're  blaggard  enough  to  fight  like  a  man  ; 
but  we're  not  goiu'  to  make  a  blaggard  an'  a 
bully  of  ourselves,  in  the  mane  time." 


[The  conversation,  of  which  we  are  giving 
a  very  imperfect  report,  was  garnished  by 
both  ladies  ^^'ith  sundiy  vituperative  epi. 
thets,  which  it  would  be  inconsistent  witb 
the  dignity  of  our  histoiy  to  record.] 

"  That's  bekase  you  haven't  the  blood  of  a 
hen  in  you  *  *  *  sure  w^e  know  what 
you  are  !  But  howld  !  be  me  sowl,  you're 
doin'  me  for  all  that.  Ah,  ha  !  I  see  where 
you're  ladiu'  me  ;  but  it  won't  do.  Miss  Kitty 
Lowry.  I'll  bring  you  back  to  the  catechize 
agin.  You'd  hght  the  straw  to  get  away  in 
the  smoke  ;  but  you're  worth  two  gone  peo- 
ple yet,  dhough." 

"  Worth  half  a  dozen  o'  you,  any  day." 
"Well,  as  we're  both  to  the  fore,    we'll 
soon  see  that.    How  did  you  know,  my  lady, 
that  the  masther's  hall  door  was  left  ojien 
to-night  ?  Answer  me  that,  on  the  nail !  " 

This  was  what  might  be  veiy  properly 
called  a  knock-down  blow  ;  for  if  the  reader 
but  reflects  a  moment  he  will  sec  that  Kitty, 
on  taxing  her  antagonist,  after  her  rescue, 
with  leaving  it  oj^eu,  directly  betrayed  her- 
self, as  there  was  and  could  have  been  no 
one  in  the  house  cognizant  of  the  fact  at  the 
time  unless  ihc  guilty  person.  With  this 
latter  exception,  Alick  Nulty  was  the  only 
individual  aware  of  it,  and  fi'om  whom  the 
knowledge  of  it  could  come.  Kitty,  there- 
fore, by  her  over-anxiety  to  exculf)ate  her- 
self fi-om  a  charge  which  had  not  been 
made,  became  the  unconscious  instrument 
of  disclosing  the  fact  of  her  having  left  the 
door  open. 

This  trjing  queiy,  coming  upon  her  un- 
expectedly as  it  did,  threw  her  into  jjalpable 
confusion.  Her  face  became  at  once  sufliised 
!  with  a  deep  scaiiet  hue,  occasioned  by  niin- 
I  gled  shame  and  resentment,  as  was  at  once 
1  evident  fi-om  the  malignant  and  fierj-  glare 
!  which  she  turned  upon  her  querist. 
I  '-'  Get  out,"  she  replied  ;  "do  you  think  I'd 
I  think  it  worth  my  while  to  answer  the  likes 
I  o'  you  ?  I'd  see  you  farther  than  I  could 
i  look  first.  You,  indeed  !  faugh  !  musha  bad 
I  luck  to  your  impidence  !  " 

"Oh,  i' you  i^laise,  ma'am,"  said  Biddy, 
dropi^ing  a  coiu'tesy,  that  might  well  be 
termed  the  very  pink  of  jjoliteness— "  we 
hoj^e  you'll  show  yourself  a  betther  Christin 
than  to  be  ignorant  o'  your  catechize.  So, 
ma'am,  if  it  'ud  be  jjlaisiu'  to  you  afore  the 
compiny  maybe  you'd  answer  it." 

"  ^Mi'o  made  you  my  misthress,  you  blag- 
gard flipe  ?  who  gave  you  authority  to  ax  me 
sich  a  question  ? "  rephed  the  other.  "  A 
fellow-servant  Uke  myself!  to  the  devil  I 
pitch  you.  You,  indeed  !  Faix,  it's  well  come 
up  wid  the  likes  o'  you  to  ballyi-ag  over  me." 
"  Well,  but  ma'am  dear,  will  you  answer 
— that  is,  i'  you  plaise,  for  sui'e  we  can't  for- 


FARDOIiOUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


305 


get  our  manners,  you  know — will  _you  jist 
answer  what  I  axed  you  ?  Oh,  be  me  sowl, 
your  face  condimns  you,  my  lady !  "  said 
Biddy,  abruptly  changing  her  tone  ;  "  it  does, 
you  yolla  Mullatty,  it  does.  You  bethrayed 
the  masther's  house,  an'  Miss  Oona,  too,  you 
villin  o'  blazes !  If  you  could  see  j'our  face 
now — your  guilty  face  !  " 

The  spirit  of  her  antagonist,  being  that  of 
a  woman,  could  bear  no  more.  The  last 
words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  Lowry 
made  a  spring  like  a  tigress  at  her  opponent, 
who,  however,  received  this  onset  with  a  skill 
and  intrejiidity  worthy  of  Penthesilea  her- 
self. They  were  immediately  sejjarated,  but 
not  until  they  had  twisted  and  twined  about 
one  another  two  or  three  times,  after  which, 
each  displayed,  by  way  of  a  trophy,  a  eojiious 
handful  of  hair  that  had  changed  jsroprietor- 
ship  during  their  brief  but  energetic  conflict. 

In  addition  to  this,  there  were  visible  on 
Kitty's  face  five  small  streams  of  liquid  gore, 
which,  no  doubt,  would  liave  been  found  to 
correspond  with  the  red  exf)anded  talons  of 
her  antagonist. 

John  O'Brien  then  j^ut  the  question  seri- 
oush'  to  Lowry,  who,  now  that  her  blood  was 
up,  or  probably  feeling  that  she  had  betrayed 
herself,  declined  to  answer  it  at  all. 

"  I'll  answer  nothin' I  don't  like,"  she  re- 
jilied,  "  an'  I'll  not  be  ballyraged  by  any  one 
— not  even  by  you,  Misther  John  ;  an'  what's 
more,  I'll  lave  the  sarvice  at  the  shriek  o'  day 
to-morrow.  I  wouldn't  live  in  the  house  wid 
that  one  ;  mj'  life  'udn't  be  safe  undher  the 
wan  roof  wid  her." 

"  Thin  you'll  get  no  carrecther  from  any 
one  here,"  said  Sirs.  O'Brien  ;  "  for,  indeed, 
any  way,  there  was  never  a  minute's  peace  in 
the  kitchen  since  you  came  into  it." 

"  Divil  cares,"  she  replied,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head  ;  "  if  I  don't,  I  must  only  live  wid- 
out  it,  and  will,  I  hope." 

She  tlien  flounced  out  of  the  room,  and 
kept  gi'umbling  in  an  insolent  tone  of  voice, 
until  she  got  to  her  bed.  Alick  Nulty  then 
detailed  aU  the  circumstances  he  had  wit- 
nessed, by  which  it  ajopeared  unquestionable 
that  Kitty  Lowry  had  been  aware  of  Flan- 
agan's design,  and  was  consequently  one  of 
his  accomplices.  This  in  one  sense  was  true, 
whUst  in  another  and  the  worst  they  did  her 
injustice.  It  is  true  that  Bartle  Flanagan 
pretended  afi'ection  for  her,  and  contrived  on 
many  occasions  within  the  preceding  five 
months,  that  several  secret  meetings  should 
take  place  l.jetween  them,  and  almost  always 
uj)ou  a  Sunday,  wliich  was  the  only  day  she 
had  any  opportunity  of  seeing  him.  He  had 
no  notion,  however,  of  entmsting  her  vrith 
liis  secret.  In  fact,  no  man  could  possibly 
lay  his  plans  with  deei^er  design  or  more  in- 


genious i-)recaiition  for  his  own  safety  than 
Flanagan.  Having  gained  a  promise  fi'om 
the  credulous  girl  to  elope  with  him  on  the 
night  in  question,  he  easily  induced  her  to 
leave  the  hall  door  open.  His  exploit,  how- 
ever, ha-idng  turned  out  so  different  in  its 
issue  from  that  which  Kittj-  exiiected,  she 
felt  both  chagrined  and  confounded,  and 
knew  not  at  first  whether  to  ascribe  the  ab- 
duction of  Biddy  Nulty  to  mistake  or  design  ; 
for,  indeed,  slie  was  not  ignoi'ant  of  Flan- 
agan's treacherous  conduct  to  the  sex — no 
female  having  ever  repulsed  him,  whose 
character  he  did  not  injure  whenever  he 
could  do  so  with  safety.  Biddj''s  return, 
however,  satisfied  her  that  Bartle  must  have 
made  a  blunder  of  some  kind,  or  he  would 
not  have  taken  away  her  fellow-servant  in- 
stead of  herself  ;  and  it  was  the  bitterness 
which  weak  minds  always  feel  when  theu- 
own  wishes  liapjjen  to  be  disapjiointed,  that 
promjited  her  resentment  against  jioor 
Biddy,  who  was  unconsciously  its  object. 
Flanagan's  ijrimary  intention  was  still,  how- 
ever, in  some  degree,  effected,  so  far  as  it  re- 
garded the  abduction.  The  short  space 
of  an  hour  gave  him  time  to  cool  and  collect 
himself  sufficiently  to  form  the  best  mode  of 
action  imder  tlie  circumstances.  He  re- 
solved, therefore,  to  plead  mistake,  and  to 
produce  lutty  Lo\\'iy  to  prove  that  his  visit 
that  night  to  the  Bodagh's  house  was  merely 
to  fulfil  their  mutual  promise  of  eloping  to- 
gether. 

But  there  was  the  robbery  staring  him  in 
the  face  ;  and  how  was  he  to  manage  that  ? 
This,  indeed,  was  the  point  on  which  the 
accomplished  villain  felt  by  the  sinking  of 
his  heart  that  he  had  overshot  his'  mark. 
When  he  looked  closely  into  it,  his  whole 
frame  became  cold  and  feeble  from  desjiair, 
the  hard  paleness  of  mental  suffering  settled 
ujDon  his  face,  and  his  bi-ain  was  stunned  by 
a  stupor  which  almost  destroyed  the  power 
of  thinking. 

All  this,  however,  availed  him  not.  Before 
twelve  o'clock  the  next  day  informations  had 
been  sworn  against  him,  and  at  the  hour  of 
three  he  found  himself  in  the  very  room 
which  had  been  assigned  to  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan,  sinking  under  the  double  charge  of 
abduction  and  robbery. 

And  now  once  more  did  the  mutabiUty  of 
public  fe3ling  and  opinion  as  usual  become 
apparent.  No  sooner  had  f:ime  spread  abroad 
the  report  of  Flanagan's  two-fold  crime,  and 
his  imprisonment,  than  those  veiy  people 
who  had  only  a  day  or  two  before  inferred 
that  Connor  O'Donovan  was  guilty,  because 
his  accuser's  conduct  continued  correct  and 
blameless,  now  changed  their  tone,  and  in- 
sisted that  the  hand  of  God  was  visible  in 


806 


WILLIAM    CARL  ETON'S   WOIiXS. 


Flanagan's  punishment.  Again  were  all  the 
dark  traits  of  his  character  dragged  forward 
and  exjjosed  ;  and  this  man  reminded  that 
man,'  as  that  man  did  some  other  man,  that 
he  had  said  more  than  once  that  Bartle 
Flanagan  would  be  hanged  for  swearing  away 
an  innocent  young  man's  hfe.  Such,  how- 
ever, without  reference  to  truth  or  justice,  is 
2)uljlic  opinion  among  a  great  body  of  the 
l^eople,  who  are  swaj'ed  bj'  their  feelings 
only,  instead  of  their  judgment.  The  lower 
public  wUl,  as  a  matter  of  course,  feel  at 
random  upon  everything,  and  like  a  fortune- 
teller, it  will  for  that  reason,  and  for  that 
only,  sometimes  be  found  on  the  right  side. 
From  the  time  which  elapised  between  the 
period  of  Bartle's  imprisonment  and  that  of 
his  trial,  many  strange  circumstances  oc- 
curred in  connection  with  it,  of  which  the 
public  at  large  were  completely  ignorant. 
Bartle  was  now  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  who 
had  been  long  looked  upon  with  a  spirit  of 
detestation  and  vengeance  by  those  illegal 
confederations  with  which  he  had  uniformly 
declined  to  associate  himself.  Flanagan's 
party,  therefore,  had  now  only  two  methods 
of  serving  him,  one  was  intimidation,  and  the 
other  a  general  subscription  among  the 
vai'ious  lodges  of  the  district,  to  raise  funds 
for  his  defence.  To  both  of  these  means 
they  were  resolved  to  Iiave  recourse. 

Many  private  meetings  they  held  among 
themselves  upon  those  imjjortant  matters,  at 
which  Dandy  Dufl'  and  Ned  M'Cormick  at- 
tended, as  was  their  duty  ;  and  weU  was  it 
for  them  the  j^art  they  took  in  defeating 
Bartle  Flanagan,  and  sei-ving  the  Bodagh  and 
his  family,  was  unknown  to  their  confederates. 
To  detail  the  jiroceedings  of  their  meetings, 
and  recount  the  savage  and  vindictive  ferocity 
of  such  men,  would  be  paying  the  taste  and 
humanity  of  our  readers  a  bad  comijliment. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  a  fund  was  raised  for 
Flanagan's  defence,  and  a  threatening  notice 
wi'itten  to  be  pasted  on  the  Bodagh  Buie's 
door — of  which  elegant  ijroduction  the  fol- 
lowing is  a  literal  copy  : — 

"  Buddha  Bee — You  'ave  wan  iv  our  boys 
in  for  aVijection  an'  rubbry — an'  it  seems  is 
resolved  to  parsequte  the  j)Oor  boy  at  the 
uuxt  'Shizers — now  dhis  is  be  way  av  a  dalikit 
hint  to  yew  an'  yoos  that  aff  butt  wan  spudh 
av  his  blud  is  spiled  in  quensequence  av  yewr 
parsequtiu'  im  as  the  winther's  comin'  on  an' 
tlie  wether  gettiu'  cowld  an'  the  long  nights 
settin'  in  yew  may  as  well  prnpare  yewr 
caughin  an'  not  that  same  remimber  you've 
a  praty  dother  an  may  no  more  about  her 
afore  you  much  shoulder. 

"  Simon  Pether  Staultght." 


This  and  several  others  of  the  same  clas« 
were  served  upon  the  Bodagh,  with  the  in- 
tention of  intimidating  him  from  the  prose- 
cution of  Flanagan.  They  had,  however, 
quite  mistaken  their  man.  The  Bodagh, 
though  f)eaceable  and  placable,  had  not  one 
atom  of  the  coward  in  his  whole  composition. 
On  the  contrary,  lie  was  not  only  resolute  in 
resisting  what  he  conceived  to  be  oppressive 
or  unjust,  but  he  was  also  immovably  obsti- 
nate in  anything  wherein  he  fancied  he  had 
right  on  his  side.  And  even  had  his  dispo- 
sition been  inclined  to  timidity  or  pliancy, 
his  son  John  would  have  used  all  his  influence 
to  induce  him  to  resist  a  system  which  is 
equally  opposed  to  the  laws  of  God  and  of 
man,  as  well  as  to  the  temporal  happiness  of 
those  who  are  slaves  to  the  terrible  power 
which,  like  a  familiar  devU,  it  exercises  over 
its  victims  under  the  hollow  promise  of  pro- 
tection. 


PAET  Vin.  AND  LAST. 

As  the  Bodagh  and  his  son  took  the  usual 
legal  steps  to  forward  the  prosecution,  it  was 
but  natural  that  they  shoidd  calcidate  ujion 
the  evidence  of  Dandy  Dufiy',  Ned  M'Cor- 
mick, and  Alick  Nulty.  John  O'Brien  ac- 
cordingly informed  them,  on  the  veiy  night 
of  the  outrage,  that  his  father  and  himself 
would  consider  them  as  strong  evidence 
against  Bartle  Flanagan,  and  call  upon  them 
as  such.  This  information  jslaced  these 
young  men  in  a  jjosition  of  incredible  diffi- 
culty and  danger.  They  knew  not  exactly 
at  that  moment  how  to  j)roceed  consistently 
with  the  duty  which  they  owed  to  society  at 
large,  and  that  which  was  exjiected  from 
them  b}'  the  dark  combination  to  which  they 
were  united.  M'Cormick,  however,  begged 
of  John  O'Brien  not  to  mention  their  names 
until  the  day  after  the  next,  and  told  him  if 
he  could  understand  their  reason  for  this 
request,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  com^jly 
with  it. 

O'Brien,  who  susj^ected  the  true  cause  of 
their  reluctance,  did  not  on  this  occasion 
press  them  further,  but  consented  to  their 
wishes,  and  promised  not  to  mention  their 
names,  even  as  indirectly  connected  with  the 
outrage,  until  the  time  they  had  specified 
had  elapsed. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  day  Nogher 
M'Cormick  j^resented  himself  to  the  Bodagh 
and  his  son,  neither  of  whom  felt  much 
difficulty  in  divining  the  cause  of  liis  visit. 

"  Well,"  said  Noglier,  after  the  first  usual 
ci\'ilities  had  passed,  "  glory  be  to  Ooil, 
giutlenien,  this  is  desperate  fine  weather  foi 
the  season ^ — -barrin'  the  wet" 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


307 


John  smiled,  but  the  plain  matter-of-fact 
Boclish  repHed, 

"Why,  how  the  devil  can  you  call  this 
j;;ood  weather,  neighbor,  when  it's  raining  for 
the  last  week,  night  and  day  ?  " 

"I  do  call  it  good  weather  for  all  that," 
returned  Nogher,  "  for  .you  ought  to  know 
thateveiy  weather's  good  that  God  sends." 

"  'Well,"  said  the  Bodagh,  taken  aback  a 
little  by  the  Nogher's  piety,  "there's  truth 
in  that,  too,  neighbor." 

"lam  right,"  said  Nogher,  "  an' it's  nothin' 
else  tlmn  a  sinful  world  to  say  that  this  is 
bad  weather,  or  that's  bad  weather — bekase 
the  Soriptur  says,  '  vo  be  to  thee ' " 

"But,  pray,''  internipted  John,  "what's 
your  business  with  my  father  and  me  ?  " 

Nogher  rubbed  down  his  chin  very  gi-avely 
and  siguificantl}', 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  somethin'  for  your  own 
good,  gentlemen." 

"  Well,  what  is  that?"  said  John,  anxious 
to  bring  him  to  the  jjoiut  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. 

"  The  truth,  gentlemen,  is  this — I'm  an 
ould  man,  an'  1  ho])e  that  I  never  was  found 
to  be  anything  else  than  an  honest  one. 
They're  far  away  this  day  that  could  give 
me  a  good  carrechtiir — two  o'  them  anyhow 
I'll  never  forget — Connor  an'  his  mother ; 
but  I'U  never  see  them  agin  ;  an'  the  ould 
man  too,  /  never  could  hate  him,  in  regard 
of  the  love  he  bore  his  son.  Long,  long 
was  the  journey  he  tuck  to  see  that  son,  an', 
as  he  tould  me  the  day  he  wint  into  the  ship, 
to  die  iu  his  boy's  arms  ;  for  he  said  heaven 
wouldu'i,  be  heaven  to  him,  if  he  died  any- 
where else." 

Noglier's  eyes  filled  as  he  spoke,  and  we 
need  scarcely  say  that  neither  the  Bodagh  nor 
his  son  esteemed  him  the  less  for  his  attach- 
ment to  Connor  O'Donovan  and  his  family. 

"  The  sooner  I  end  the  business  I  come 
about  to-day,"  said  he,  "  the  better.  You 
want  my  son  Ned,  Daudy  Dufiy,  an'  Alick 
Nulty,  to  join  iu  givin'  evidence  against 
blaggard  Bartle  Flanagan.  Now  the  truth 
is,  gintlemen,  you  don't  know  the  state  o'  the 
country.  If  they  come  into  a  court  of  justice 
against  him,  their  Uves  won't  be  worth  a 
traneen.  Its  agiust  their  oath,  I'm  tould,  as 
Ribbonmen,  to  prosecute  one  another  ;  au' 
from  hints  I  resaved,  I'm  afraid  they  can't 
do  it,  as  I  said,  bai-rin'  at  the  risk  o'  their 
lives." 

"  Father,"  said  John,  "  as  far  as  I  have 
heard,  he  speaks  nothing  but  truth." 

"  I  believe  he  does  not,"  rejoined  the  Bod- 
agh, "  au',  by  my  sowl,  I'll  be  bound  he's 
an  honest  man — upon  my  credit,  I  think 
you  are,  M'Corraiek." 

"  I'm  thankful  to  you,  sii-,"  said  Nogher. 


"I'm  inclined  to  think  further,"  said  John, 
"that  we  have  jjroof  enough  against  Flana- 
gan without  them." 

"Thin,  if  you  think  so,  John,  God  forbid 
that  we'd  be  the  manes  of  briugin'  the  young 
men  into  throuble.  All  I'm  sorry  for  is, 
that  they  allowed  themselves  to  be  hooked 
into  sich  a  dark  and  mui-dherous  piece  of 
villainy." 

"I  know,  su',  it's  a  bad  business,"  said 
Nogher,  "  but  it  can't  be  helped  now  ;  no 
man's  safe  that  won't  join  it." 

"Faith,  and  I  won't  for  one,"  replied  the 
Bodagh,  "not  but  that  they  sent  many  a 
threat  to  me.  Anything  against  the  laws  o' 
the  couuthry  is  bad,  and  never  ends  but  in 
harm  to  theni  that's  consarned  in  it." 

"  M'Cormick,"  added  the  son,  "  vilhun  as 
Flimagan  is,  we  shall  let  him  once  more 
loose  ujjon  society,  sooner  than  bring  the 
hves  of  j'our  son,  and  the  two  other  young 
men  into  jeoi^ardy.  Such,  unhajDj'ily,  is  the 
state  of  the  country,  and  we  must  submit 
to  it." 

"I  thank  you,  su-,"  said  Nogher.  "The 
trath  is,  they're  sworn,  it  seems,  not  to  jjros- 
ecute  one  another,  let  whatever  may  hajjjjen  ; 
an'  any  one  of  them  that  breaks  Uial  oath — 
God  knows  I  wsh  they'd  think  of  others  as 
much  as  they  do  of  it — barrin'  a  stag  that's 
taken  up,  an'  kep  safe  by  the  Government, 
is  sure  to  be  knocked  on  the  head." 

"  Say  no  more,  M'Cormick,"  said  the  Bod- 
agh's  inestimable  son,  "  say  no  more.  No 
matter  how  this  may  tenuinate,  we  shall  not 
call  upon  them  as  evidences.  It  must  be  so, 
father,"  he  added,  "  and  God  \ie\\>  the  coun- 
try in  which  the  law  is  a  dead  letter,  and  the 
passions  and  bigoted  ijrejudices  of  disaffect- 
ed or  seditious  men  the  active  jjriucijjle 
which  impresses  its  vindictive  horrors  ujjon 
society !  Although  not  myself  connected 
with  them,  I  know  theu-  oath,  and — but  I 
say  no  more.  M'Cormick,  your  friends  are 
safe  ;  we  shall  not,  as  I  told  you,  call  ujsou 
them,  be  the  result  what  it  may  ;  better  that 
one  guilty  should  escape,  than  that  thi-ee 
innocent  persons  should  suffer." 

Nogher  again  thanked  him,  and  having 
taken  up  his  hat,  was  about  to  retii-e,  when 
he  paused  a  moment,  and,  after  some  consid- 
eration with  himself,  said — 

"  You're  a  scholar,  sir,  an' — but  maybe 
I'm  savin'  what  I  oughtn't  to  say — but  sure, 
God  knows,  it's  all  veiy  well  known  long 
ago." 

"What  is  it,  M'Cormick?"  asked  John; 
"  sjjeak  out  plainly  ;  we  wUl  not  feel  offend- 
ed." 

"  'Twas  only  this,  sir,"  continued  Nogher, 
"  I'm  an  unlarued  man  ;  but  he  woukl  write 
to  you  may  be — I  mane  Connor — an'  if  hs 


308 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


did,  I'd  be  glad  to  bear — but  I  hope  I  don't 
offind  you,  sir.  You  wouldn't  think  of  me, 
may  be,  although  many  and  many's  the  time 
I  nursed  him  on  these  knees,  an'  carried 
him  about  in  these  arms,  an  he  cried — 
ay,  as  God  is  my  judge,  he  cried  bitterly 
— when,  as  he  said,  at  the  time — '  Nogher, 
Nogher,  my  affectionate  friend,  I'U  never  see 
j'ou  more.'" 

John  O'Brien  shook  him  cordially  by  the 
hand,  and  replied — "I  will  make  it  a  point 
to  let  you  know  anj-thing  that  our  family 
may  hear  from  him." 

"An'  if  you  write  to  him,  sir,  just  in  a 
single  line,  to  say  that  the  affectionate  ould 
friend  never  forgot  Mm." 

"That,  too,  shall  be  done,"  replied  John  ; 
"  you  may  rest  assured  of  it." 

The  Bodagh,  whose  notions  in  matters  of 
deHcacy  and  feeling  were  rough  but  honest, 
now  rang  the  bell  with  an  uncommon,  nay, 
an  angiy  degree  of  violence. 

"  Get  ujj  some  spirits  here,  an'  don't  be 

asleep.     You  must  take  a  glass  of  whiskey 

before  jon  go,"  he  said,  adch-essing  Nogher. 

"Sir,"  rephed  Nogher,  "I'm  in  a  hiu-i-y 

home,  for  I'm  off  my  day's  work." 

"  By but  you   must,"  rejoined   the 

Bodagh  ;  "  and  what's  your  day's  wages  ?  " 
"  Ten  pence," 

"  There's  half-a-crovrai ;  an'  I  tell  you  more, 
you  must  come  an'  take  a  cot-tack  uudher 
"me,  and  you'll  find  the  change  for  the  bet- 
ther,  never  feai-." 

In  point  of  fact  in  was  so  concluded,  and 
Nogher  left  the  Bodagh's  house  with  a  heart 
thankful  to  Proridence  that  he  had  ever  en- 
tered it. 

The  day  of  Flanagan's  trial,  however,  now 
appiroached,  and  our  readers  are  fully  aware 
of  the  many  chances  of  escaping  justice 
which  the  state  of  the  country  op)ened  to 
him,  notwithstanding  his  most  atrocious 
villainy.  As  some  one,  however,  says  in  a 
l^lay — in  that  of  Othello,  we  believe — "  God 
is  above  all,"  so  might  Flanagan  have  said  on 
this  occasion.  The  evidence  of  Biddy  Nulty, 
some  of  the  other  servants,  and  the  Bodagh, 
who  identified  some  of  the  notes,  was  quite 
sufficient  against  him,  \\ith  resjieet  to  the 
robbery.  Nor  was  any  eridence  adduced  of 
more  circumstantial  weight  than  lutty  Low- 
ry's,  who,  on  being  satisfied  of  Flanagan's 
designs  against  Una,  and  that  she  was  con- 
sequently no  more  than  his  dupe,  openly  ac- 
knowledged the  part  she  had  taken  in  the  oc- 
currences of  the  night  on  which  the  outrages 
were  committed.  This  confession  agreed  so 
well  with  Bartle's  chai-acter  for  caution  and 
skiU  in  everything  he  imdertook,  that  his 
object  in  persuading  her  to  leave  the  haU 
door  open  was  not  only  clear,  but  perfectly 


consistent  -with  the  other  jiarts  of  his  plan. 
It  was  a  capital  crime  ;  and  when  fame  ones 
more  had  proclaimed  abroad  that  Bartle 
Flanagan  was  condemned  to  be  hanged  for 
robbing  Bodagh  Buie,  they  insisted  still 
more  strongly  that  the  sentence  was  an  un- 
deniable instance  of  retributive  justice. 
Striking,  indeed,  was  the  difference  between 
liis  deportment  during  the  trial,  and  the 
manly  fortitude  of  Connor  O'Donovan,  when 
standing  imder  as  heavy  a  charge  at  the 
same  bar.  The  moment  he  entered  the  dock, 
it  was  obsen'ed  that  his  face  expressed  all 
the  pusillanimous  spnptoms  of  the  most  vm- 
manly  teiTor.  His  brows  fell,  or  rather himg 
over  his  eyes,  as  if  all  theu-  muscidar  jjower 
had  been  lost — giving  to  his  countenance 
not  only  the  vague  sullenness  of  iii-esolute 
ferocity,  but  also,  as  was  legible  m  his  dead 
small  eye,  the  cold  calculations  of  deep  and 
cautious  treachery  ;  nor  was  his  white,  hag- 
gard cheek  a  less  equivocal  assiu'ance  of  his 
consummate  cowardice.  Many  eyes  were 
now  tm-ned  upon  him  ;  for  we  need  scarcely 
say  that  his  part  of  a  case  which  created  so 
miieh  romantic  interest  as  the  conviction  of 
Connor  O'Donovan,  and  the  history  it  de- 
veloped of  the  mutual  afi'ection  which  subsist- 
ed between  him  and  Una,  was  bj'  no  means 
forgotten.  And  even  if  it  had,  his  jiresent 
appearance  and  position  woiild,  by  the  force 
of  ordinary  association,  have  revived  it  in  the 
minds  of  any  then  present. 

Deprived  of  all  moral  firmness,  as  he  ap- 
peared to  be,  on  entermg  the  dock,  yet,  as 
the  trial  advanced,  it  was  erideut  that  his 
heart  and  sj)irits  were  sinking  stiU  more  and 
more,  until  at  length  his  face,  in  consequence 
of  its  ghastUness,  and  the  involuntary  hang- 
ing of  his  eyebrows,  indicated  scarcely  any 
other  expression  than  that  of  utter  helpless- 
ness, or  the  feeble  agony  of  a  mind  so  mis- 
erably prostrated,  as  to  be  hardly  conscious 
of  the  circumstances  around  him.  This  was 
clearly  obvious  when  the  verdict  of  "guilty  ' 
was  uttered  in  the  dead  silence  which  pre- 
vailed through  the  court.  No  sooner  were 
the  words  pronoimced  than  he  looked  about 
him  -ndldly,  and  exclaimed — 

"What's  that?  what's  that?  Oh,  God- 
sweet  Jasus  !  sweet  Jasus  !  " 

His  lips  then  moved  for  a  little,  and  he 
was  obsen'ed  to  mark  his  breast  privately 
with  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  but  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  prove  that  the  act  was  dictated 
by  the  unsettled  incoherency  of  terror,  and 
not  by  the  promptings  of  piety  or  religion. 

The  judge  now  juit  on  the  black  cap,  and 

was  about  to  pronounce  the  fatal  sentence, 

i  when  the  i^risoner  slu'ieked  out,  "  Oh,  my 

I  Lord— my  Lord,  spare  me  !     Oh,   spare  me, 

I  for  I'm  not  fit  to  die.     I  daren't  meet  God  ! '" 


FAEDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


309 


"  Alas  !  "  exclaimed  the  judge,  "  unhappy 
man,  it  is  too  often  true,  that  those  who  are 
least  prepared  to  meet  their  Almighty  Judge, 
are  also  the  least  reckless  in  the  perpetra- 
tion of  those  crimes  which  are  certain,  ere 
long,  to  huny  them  into  His  presence.  You 
find  now,  that  whether  as  regards  this  Ufe  or 
the  next,  he  who  observes  the  laws  of  his  re- 
Hgion  and  his  country,  is  the  only  man  wlio 
can  be  considered,  in  the  trae  sense  of  the 
word,  his  own  fiiend  ;  and  there  is  this  ad- 
vantage in  his  conduct,  that,  whilst  he  is  the 
best  friend  to  himself,  it  necessarih/  follows 
that  he  must  be  a  benefactor  in  the  same 
degree  to  society  at  large.  To  such  a  man 
the  laws  ai'e  a  security,  and  not,  as  in  youi' 
case,  and  in  that  of  those  who  resemble  you, 
a  punishment.  It  is  the  TN-icked  only  who 
liate  the  laws,  because  they  are  conscious  of 
having  provoked  then"  justice.  In  asking  me 
to  spare  your  Hfe,  you  are  aware  that  you 
ask  me  for  that  which  I  cannot  grant.  There 
is  nothing  at  aU  in  your  case  to  entitle  you 
to  mercy ;  and  if,  by  the  hfe  you  have  led, 
you  feel  that  j'ou  are  unfit  to  die,  it  is  clear 
upon  your  own  principles,  and  by  the  use 
you  have  made  of  life,  that  you  are  unfit  to 
Uve." 

He  then  proceeded  to  exhort  him,  in  the 
usual  terms,  to  sue  for  reconciliation  wth 
an  offended  God,  through  the  merits  and 
sufferings  of  Christ.  After  which  he  sen- 
tenced him  to  be  executed  on  the  fifth  day 
from  the  close  of  the  assizes.  On  hearing 
the  last  words  of  the  judge,  he  clutched  the 
dock  at  which  he  stood  with  a  convidsive  ef- 
fort ;  his  hands  and  arms,  however,  became 
the  next  moment  relaxed,  and  he  sank  down 
in  a  state  of  helpless  msensibility.  On  re- 
viving he  found  himself  in  his  cell,  attended 
by  two  of  the  turnkeys,  who  felt  now  more 
alarmed  at  his  screams  and  the  horror  which 
was  painted  on  his  face,  than  by  the  fainting 
fit  from  which  he  had  just  recovered.  It  is 
not  our  design  to  dwell  at  much  length  upon 
the  last  minutes  of  such  a  man  ;  but  we  will 
state  briefly,  that,  as  miglit  be  expected,  he 
left  notliing  unattempted  to  save  his  owti 
life.  On  the  day  after  his  trial,  he  sent  for 
the  sheriff,  and  told  him,  that,  jjro^ided  his 
life  were  granted  by  the  government,  he 
could  make  many  imjjortant  disclosures,  and 
give  very  valuable  uiformation  concerning 
the  state  and  prospects  of  Ribbonism  in  the 
coimtry,  together  with  a  long  list  of  the  per- 
sons who  were  attached  to  it  in  that  parish. 
The  sheriff  told  him  that  this  information, 
which  might  under  other  circumstances  have 
been  deemed  of  much  value  by  the  govern- 
ment, had  ah-eady  been  anticij^ated  by 
another  man  during  the  very  short  period 
that  had  elapsed  since  his  cou^-iction.    There 


was  nothing  which  he  could  now  disclose, 
the  sheriff' added,  that  he  himself  was  not  al- 
ready in  possession  of,  even  to  the  rank  which 
he,  Flanagan,  was  invested  with  among  them, 
and  the  verj'  jilaee  where  he  and  they  had 
held  their  last  meeting.  But,  independently 
of  that,  he  jsroceeded,  it  is  not  usual  for 
government  to  pardon  the  ijrincijjals  in  any 
such  outrage  as  that  for  which  you  have 
been  con^dcted.  I  shall,  however,  transmit 
youi'  projiosal  to  the  Secretarv%  who  may  act 
in  the  matter  as  he  thinks  projDer. 

In  the  meantime  his  relatives  and  con- 
federates were  not  idle  outside,  each  party 
having  ah'eadj'  transmitted  a  petition  to  the 
Castle  in  his  behalf.  That  of  his  relations 
contained  only  the  usual  melancholy  senti- 
ments, and  earnest  entreaties  for  mercy, 
wliich  are  to  be  found  in  such  documents. 
The  memoriiil,  however,  of  his  confederates 
was  equally  remarkable  for  its  perverted  in- 
genuity, and  those  unlucky  falsehoods  which 
are  generally  certain  to  defeat  the  objects  of 
those  who  have  recourse  to  them. 

It  went  to  say  that  the  petitioners  feared 
very  much  that  the  country  was  in  a  dan- 
gerous state,  in  consequence  of  the  progres- 
sive march  of  Ribbonism  in  parts  of  that 
parish,  and  in  mauj*  of  the  surrounding  dis- 
tricts. That  the  unhappy  j^risoner  had  for 
some  time  past  made  himself  jieculiarly  ob- 
noxious to  this  illegal  class  of  jDersons  ;  and 
that  he  was  known  in  the  country  as  what  is 
termed  "  a  marked  man,"  ever  since  he  had 
the  courage  to  pi'osecute,  about  two  years 
ago,  one  of  their  most  notorious  leaders,  by 
name  Connor  O'Donovan,  of  Lisuamona ; 
who  was,  at  the  jjei-iod  of  v\Titiug  that  me- 
morial, a  convict  during  life  in  New  South 
Wales,  for  a  capital  ^Tiite-boy  offence. 

Tiiat  said  Connor  O'Donovan,  having  se- 
duced the  afl'ections  of  a  young  woman 
named  Una  O'Brien,  daughter  of  a  man  call- 
ed Michael  O'Brien,  otherwise  Bodagh  Buie, 
or  the  Yellow  Chiu'l,  demanded  her  ui  mar- 
riage from  her  father  and  family,  who  unani- 
mously rejected  his  pretensions.  Upon 
which,  instigated  by  the  example  and  prac- 
tice of  the  dark  combination  of  which  he 
was  so  distiugiiished  a  leader,  he  persuaded 
memoriahst,  partly  by  entreaties,  but  prin- 
eip;dly  bj-  awful  and  mysterious  threats,  to 
join  him  in  the  commission  of  this  most 
atrocious  crime.  That,  fi-om  the  moment 
he  had  lieen  forced  into  the  participation  of 
such  an  act,  his  conscience  could  not  permit 
him  to  rest  night  or  day  ;  and  he  conse- 
quently came  forward  boldl_y  and  feai-lessly, 
and  did  what  he  considered  his  duty  to  God 
and  his  country. 

That,  in  consequence  of  this  conscientious 
act,  O'Donovan,  the  Ribbon  ringleader,  was 


310 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS 


capitally  convieted  ;  but  tlirovigli  the  interest 
of  some  leading  g-eiitlemen  of  the  jjarish,  who 
were  ignorant  of  his  habits  and  connections, 
the  sentence  was,  by  the  mercy  of  govern- 
ment, commuted  to  transj)ortation  for  life. 

That,  upon  his  banishment  from  the 
country,  the  girl  whose  attections  he  had 
seduced,  became  deranged  for  some  time  ; 
but,  after  her  recovery,  expressed,  on  many 
occasions,  the  most  bitter  determinations  to 
revenge  upon  petitioner  the  banishment  of 
her  lover  ;  and  that  the  princii^al  evidence 
upon  which  petitioner  was  convieted,  was 
hers  *  and  that  of  a  girl  named  Bridget 
Nulty,  formerly  a  servant  in  his  father's 
house,  and  kno\vn  to  have  been  his  paramour. 

That  this  girl,  Bridget  Nulty,  was  tiJien 
into  O'Brien's  familj'  at  the  suggestion  of 
his  daughter  Una  ;  and  that,  from  motives 
of  personal  hatred,  she  and  Bridget  Nulty, 
aided  by  another  female  servant  of  O'Brien's 
named  Kitty  Lowrj',  formed  tlie  conspiracy 
of  which  petitioner  is  unhajijjily  the  victim. 

It  then  jjroceeded  to  detail  how  the  con- 
spiracy of  Una  O'Brien  and  the  two  females 
she  had  taken  in  as  accomplices,  was  carried 
into  effect  ;  all  of  which  w;is  done  with  sin- 
gidar  tact  and  ingenuity  ;  every  circumstance 
being  made  to  bear  a  character  and  design 
diametrically  opposed  to  truth.  It  con- 
cluded liy  stating  that  gi'eat  exultation  had 
been  manifested  by  the  Eibbonmen  of  that 
parish,  who,  on  the  night  of  ^petitioner's  con- 
viction, lit  bonfires  in  several  pai-ts  of  the 
neighliorhood,  fired  shots,  sounded  horns, 
and  displayed  other  symptoms  of  great  re- 
joicing ;  and  hoped  his  exeellencj'  would, 
therefore,  interpose  his  high  prerogative, 
and  prevent  petitioner  fi-om  falling  a  sacri- 
fice to  a  conspiracy  on  one  hand,  and  the 
resentment  of  a  traitorous  confederacy  on 
the  other  ;  and  all  this  only  for  having  con- 
scientiously and  firmly  served  the  govern- 
ment of  the  country. 

Our  readers  need  not  be  surprised  at  the 
ingenuity  of  this  plausible  jsetition,  for  the 
tinith  is  that  before  government  supisorted 
any  system  of  education  at  all  in  Ii-elmd, 
the  old  hedge  school-masters  were,  almost 
to  a  man,  office-bearers  and  leaders  in  this 
detestable  system.  Such  men,  and  those 
who  were  designed  for  the  priesthood,  with 
here  and  there  an  occasional  poor  scholar, 
wore  uniformly  the  petition  writers,  and,  in- 
deed, the  general  scriljes  of  the  little  world 
in  vv'hich  they  lived ,  Li  fact,  we  have  abun- 
dance of  public  evidence  to  satisfy  us,  that 


*  This  was  a  falsehood,  inasmuch  as  Una,  hav- 
ing been  conce.iled  in  imother  room,  could  give, 
and  did  give,  no  evidence  that  any  way  affected 
his  life. 


persons  of  considerable  literary  attainments 
have  been  connected  vdth  Eibbonism  in  all 
its  stages. 

This  fine  writing,  however,  was  imfortu- 
nately  counteracted  in  consequence  of  the 
information  already  laid  before  the  sheriff 
by  no  less  a  jjersonage  than  Kouser  Bed- 
head, who,  fearing  alike  the  treaehei-y  and 
enmity  of  his  leader,  resolved  thus  to  neu- 
tralize any  disclosures  he  should  hajipen  to 
make.  But  lest  this  might  not  have  been 
sufficient  to  exhibit  the  character  of  that 
document,  the  jsrojiosal  of  Bartle  himself  to 
make  disdosui-es  was  transmitted  to  the 
Secretiiiy  of  State,  by  the  same  ]50st ;  so 
that  both  reached  that  gentleman,  pari  pas- 
sii,  to  his  no  small  astonishment. 

Had  Flanagan's  confederates  consulted  him, 
he  would  of  coiu'se  have  dissuaded  them  fi-om 
sending  any  petition  at  all,  or  at  least,  onl^' 
such  as  he  could  ajiprove  of,  but  such  is  the 
hollowness  of  this  bond,  and  so  little  con- 
fidence is  i^laced  in  its  obligation,  that  when 
any  of  its  victims  happen  to  find  themselves 
in  a  predicament  similar  to  Flanagan's,  his 
companions  without  lead  such  a  life  of  ter- 
ror, and  susjiicion,  and  doubt,  as  it  would 
be  difficult  to  describe.  But  when,  as  in 
Bartle's  case,  there  exists  a  strong  distrust 
in  his  fh-mness  and  honesty,  scai-cely  one 
can  be  found  hardy  enough  to  hold  any 
communication  with  him.  This  easily  nnd 
truly  accounts  for  the  fact  of  theu"  having 
got  this  j^etitiou  written  and  sent  to  govern- 
ment in  his  name.  The  consequence  was, 
that,  on  the  day  previous  to  that  named  for 
his  execution,  his  death  warrant  reached  the 
sheriff,  \\'ho  lost  no  time  in  ajijirisiug  him  of 
his  unhajjpy  fate. 

This  was  a  trying  task  to  that  humane 
and  amiable  gentleman,  who  had  already 
heai'd  of  the  unutterable  tortures  which  the 
criminal  suffered  from  the  horror  of  aj)- 
2)roaching  death,  and  the  dread  of  eternity  ; 
for  neither  by  j)eniteuce  nor  even  by  re- 
morse, was  he  in  the  .slightest  degree  moved. 

"  To  die  !  "  said  he,  staggering  back  ;  "  to 
be  in  eternity  to-morrow !  to  have  to  face 
God  before  twelve  o'clock !  taiiible  !  tar- 
rible  !  tarrible  !  Can  no  one  save  me  ?  To  die 
to-morrow  ! — tarrible  ! — tarrible  ! — tarrible  ! 
Oh  that  I  could  sink  into  the  eai'th  !  that 
the  ground  'ud  swally  me  !  " 

The  sherift'  ad\-ised  him  to  be  a  man,  and 
told  him  to  turn  to  God,  who,  if  he  rei^ent- 
ed,  would  in  no  wise  cast  him  out.  "  Act," 
said  he,  "as  O'Donovan  did,  whom  "you 
yourself  prosecuted  and  jilaced  in  the  very 
cell  in  which  you  now  stand." 

"  Connor  O'Donovan  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  he 
might  well  bear  to  die  ;  he  was  innocent  ;  it 
was  I  that  bm-ned  Bodagh  Buie's   haggard  r 


LIBRARY 
,  r  THE 
aVERSITY  OF   ILLINOIS 


PBEOIF.OKS-DEATB  I-Fardorous^a  the  Miser,  Part  viu  ^nd  last.-p.  311. 


FAIWOEOOGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


3il 


he  bad  neither  act  uor  part  in  it  no  more 
tLan  the  child  unborn.  I  swore  away 
M.J  life  out  of  revinge  to  his  father  an' 
jealousy  of  himsehf  about  Una  O'Brien.  Oh, 
if  I  Jiad  as  little  to  answer  for  now  as  he,  I 
could  die — die  !  Sweet  Jasus,  an'  must  I 
die  to-morrow — be  in  the  flames  o'  hell  afore 
twebe  o'clock?  tarrible  !  tarrible  !  " 

It  w.ni  absolutely,  to  iise  his  own  word, 
"  teiTiblo,"  to  witness  the  almost  super- 
human energy  of  his  weakness.  On  making 
this  last  disclosure  to  the  sheriff,  the  latter 
stepped  back  from  a  feeUng  of  involuntary 
surprise  and  aversion,  exclaiming  as  he  did 
it,— 

"  Oh,  God  forgive  you,  imhapjjy  and  guilty 
man  !  you  have  much,  indeed,  to  answer  for  ; 
and,  as  I  said  before,  I  adnse  you  to  make 
the  most  of  the  short  time  that  is  allotted  to 
you,  in  rej)entiug  and  seeking  pardon  from 
God." 

The  cviljjrit  heard  him  not,  however,  for 
his  whole  soul  was  fearfully  absorbed  in  the 
contemjjlation  of  ei.emity  i\,a.\  jjunishment, 
and  death. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  turnkey,  "  that's  the  way 
he's  runnin'  about  the  room  almost  since  his 
thrial  ;  not,  to  be  sure,  altogether  so  bad  as 
now,  but  clappin'  his  hands,  an'  .3cramin'  an' 
p^roanin',  that  it's  fi'ightiul  to  listen  to  him. 
An'  his  dhrames,  sii-,  is  worse.  God,  sii",  if 
you'd  hear  him  asleep,  tho  hair  would  stand 
on  your  head  ;  indeed,  one  of  us  is  ordered 
to  be  still  \\"ith  him." 

"  It  is  right,"  re25lied  the  sheriff,  who, 
after  recommending  him  to  get  a  clergyman, 
left  him,  and,  with  his  usual  promptness 
and  decision,  immediately  wrote  to  the  Sec- 
retary of  State,  acquainting  him  with  Flana- 
gan's confession  of  his  o«ti  guilt,  and  of 
Connor  O'Douovan's  innocence  of  the  burn- 
ing of  O'Brien's  haggard  ;  hoping,  at  the 
same  time,  that  government  would  take  in- 
stant steps  to  restore  O'Douovan  to  his 
country  and  his  friends. 

Soon  after  the  sheriff'  left  him,  a  Roman 
Catholic  clergjTnan  arrived,  for  it  apjjeared 
that  against  the  j^riest  who  was  chaplain  of 
the  jail  he  had  taken  an  insurmountable 
prejudice,  in  consequence  of  some  fancied 
resemblance  he  sujiposed  him  to  bear  to  the 
miser's  son.  The  former  gentleman  spent 
that  night  with  him,  and,  after  a  vast  deal 
of  exertion  and  difficulty,  got  him  so  fai- 
composed,  as  that  he  attempted  to  confess  to 
him,  which,  however,  he  did  only  in  a  hm-- 
ried  and  distracted  mannei-. 

But  how  shall  we  describe  the  scene,  and 
we  have  it  fi-om  more  than  one  or  two  wit- 
nesses, which  presented  itself,  when  the 
hour  of  his  execution  drew  nigh.  His  cries 
and  shriekings  were  distinctly  heai-d  fi'om  a 


considerable  distance  along  the  dense  multi- 
tudes which  were  assembled  to  witness  his 
death  ;  thus  giring  to  that  dreadfid  event  a 
chai-acter  of  horror  so  deej)  and  gloomy, 
that  many  persons,  finding  themselves  ima- 
ble  to  bear  it,  withdrew  fi-om  the  crowd,  and 
actually  fainted  on  hearing  the  almost  supei'- 
naturiil  tones  of  his  yells  and  howUngs 
within. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  proceedings  in  the 
press-room  were  of  a  still  moi^e  teriific  de- 
scription   He  now  resembled  the  stag  at  bay  ; 
\  his  strength  became  more  than  human.     On 
j  attempting  to  tie  his  hands,  five  men  were 
i  found  insufficient  for  the  woeful  task.     He 
]  yelled,  and  flung  them  aside  like  children, 
but  made  no  attemjjt  at  escape,  for,  in  tiaith, 
he  knew  not  what  he  did.     The  sheriff,  one 
of  the  most  powerful  and  athletic  men  to  be 
found  in  the  province,  was  turned  about  and 
bent  Uke  an  osier  in  his  hands.     His  words, 
when  the  fury  of  despair  permitted  his  wild 
and    broken   cries   to   become    intelligible, 
were  now  for  life — only  Hfe  upon  any  terms  ; 
and  again  did  he  howl  out  his  horrors  of 
death,  hell,  and  judgment.     Never  was  such 
a  scene,  jjerhajas,  witnessed. 

At  length  his  hands  were  tied,  and  they  at- 
tempted to  get  liim  uj)  to  the  platform  of 
death,  but  to  their  amazement  he  was  once 
more  loose,  and,  flying  to  the  priest,  he 
clasjjed  him  with  the  gripe  of  Hercules. 

"  Save  me,  save  me  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Let 
me  live  !  I  can't  die  !  You're  puttin'  me 
into  hell's  fire  !  How  can  I  face  God  ?  No, 
it's  tarrible !  it's  tarrible  !  tamble !  Life, 
life,  life — only  Ufe — oh,  only  hfe  !  " 

As  he  spoke  he  pressed  the  reverend 
gentleman  to  his  breast  and  kissed  him,  and 
shouted  with  a  vN-ildness  of  entreaty,  which 
far  transcended  in  terror  the  most  outrage- 
ous paroxysms  of  insanity. 

"I  will  not  lave  the  jDriest,"  shi-ieked  he  ; 
"  so  long  as  I  stay  with  him  so  long  I'U  be 
out  of  the  punishments  of  eternity.  I  vrill 
stick  to  you.  Don't — don't  put  me  away, 
but  have  pity  on  ine  !  No — I'U  not  go,  I'll 
not  go  !  " 

Again  ht  kissed  his  lips,  cheeks,  and  fore- 
head, and  stiU  clung  to  him  wth  terrific 
violence,  until  at  last  liis  hands  were  finally 
secured  beyond  the  possibility  of  his  again 
getting  them  loose.  He  then  thi-ew  liimself 
upon  the  ground,  and  still  resisted,  with  a 
degree  of  muscular  strength  altogether  im- 
accoimtable  in  a  person  even  of  his  compact 
and  rather  athletic  form.  His  appearixnce 
upon  the  platform  -will  long  be  remembered 
by.  those  who  had  the  questionable  gi-atifi- 
catiou  of  witnessing  it.  It  was  the  straggle 
of  strong  men  dragging  a  sti-oug  man  to  the 
most    fi-ightful    of    all    precipices — Death. 


312 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS 


"Wlien  lie  was  seen  by  the  people  in  tlae  act 
of  being  forced  witli  such  violence  to  the 
droiD,  they  all  moved,  like  a  forest  agitated 
by  a  sudden  breeze,  and  uttered  that  sti-auge 
murmur,  composed  of  many  passions,  which 
can  only  be  heaixl  where  a  large  number  of 
persons  are  congregated  together  under  the 
l^ower  of  something  that  is  deep  and  thrilling 
in  its  interest.  At  length,  after  a  straggle 
for  life,  and  a  horror  of  death  possibly  im- 
precedented  in  the  annals  of  crime,  he  was 
pushed  upon  the  drojj,  the  sirring  was 
touched,  and  the  unhappy  man  passed 
shrieking  into  that  eternity  which  he  dreaded 
so  much.  His  death  was  instantaneous,  and, 
after  hanging  the  usual  tinae,  his  body  was 
removed  to  the  goal ;  the  crowd  began  to 
disperse,  and  in  twenty  minutes  the  streets 
and  j)eoj)le  jn-esented  nothing  more  than 
their  ordinaiy  aspect  of  indifierence  to  every- 
thing but  their  o\mi  afiairs.* 

Such,  and  so  slight,  after  all,  is  the  im- 
pression which  death  makes  upon  life,  when 
the  heart  and  domestic  affections  are  not 
concerned. 

And  now,  gentle  and  j)atient  reader — for 
weU,  indeed,  has  thy  patience  been  tried, 
during  the  j^rogress  of  this  tantalizing 
narrative — we  beg  to  assure  thee,  that  unless 
thou  art  so  exquisitely  tender-hearted  as  to 
mourn  over  the  fate  of  Bartle  Flanagan,  the 
shadows  which  darkened  the  morning  and 
noon  of  our  story  have  departed,  and  its  eve 
will  be  dewy,  and  calm,  and  effulgent. 

Flanagan's  execution,  lUce  anj'  other  just 
and  necessary  vindication  of  the  law,  was  not 
without  its  usual  good  effect  upon  the  great 
body  of  the  peojile  ;  for,  although  we  are 
not  advocates  for  a'sanguinary  statute-book, 
neither  are  we  the  eulogists  of  those  who, 
with  sufficient  power  in  their  hands,  sit 
cahnly  and  serenely  amidst  scenes  of  outrage 
and  crime,  in  which  the  innocent  suffer  by 
the  impunity  of  the  guilty.  Fame,  who  is 
busy  on  such  occasions,  soon  j)ublished  to  a 
far  distance  Flanagan's  confession  of  having 
committed  the  crime  for  .which  O'Donovan 
was  jmnished.  John  O'Brien  had  it  himself 
fi-om  the  slierift"s  lips,  as  well  as  fi'om  a  stUl 
more  authentic  statement  written  by  the 
priest  who  attended  him,  and  signed  by  the 
unhappy  culj)rit's  mark,  in  the  presence  of  that 


*  We  have  only  to  say.  that  W — m  0 — k,  E.sq.,  of 
L — sb— e,  sheriff  of  the  county  of  D— n.  and  tho.se 
who  officially  attended,  about  foui-  yeara  ago.  the 
execution  of  a  man  named  M — y — ,  at  the  >;aol  of 

D np — k,  for  a  most  heinous  murder,  will,  should 

they  happen  to  see  this  description,  not  hesit.-ite  to 
declare  that  it  falls  far,  far  short  of  what  they 
themselves  witnessed  upon  this  "terrible"  occa- 
sion. There  is  nothing:  mentioned  here  which  did 
not  then  occur,  but  there  is  much  omitted. 


gentleman,  the  governor  of  the  gaol,  and  two 
turnkeys.  The  sheriff"  now  heard,  from 
O'Brien,  for  the  first  time,  that  O'Donovan's 
parents,  having  disposed  of  aU  their  prop- 
erty, followed  him  to  New  South  "Wales,  a 
circumstance  by  which  he  was  so  much 
struck  at  the  moment,  that  he  observed  to 
O'Brien,— 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  the  duty  of  the 
Government,  considering  all  tlie  young  man 
and  Lis  parents  have  suffered  by  that  rascal's 
mahce,  to  bring  the  whole  family  back  at  its 
OTXTi  expense  ?  For  my  part,  aware  as  I  am 
of  tlie  excellent  disposition  of  the  Secretary, 
I  think,  if  we  ask  them,  it  ■will  be  done." 

"  Our  best  plan,  perhaps,"  replied  John, 
"is  to  get  a  memorial  to  that  effect  signed 
by  those  who  subscribed  to  the  former  one  in 
his  behalf.  I  think  it  is  certamly  necessai-y, 
for,  to  teU  you.  the  truth,  I  doubt  whether 
they  ai'e  in  possession  of  funds  sufficient  for 
the  expenses  of  so  long  a  joui-ney." 

"I  know,"  said  the  sheriff,  "  that  there  is 

Uttle  time  to  be  lost,  for  S ,"  naming  the 

governor  of  the  gaol,  "  tells  me  that  the  next 
convict  shijj  sails  in  a  fortnight.  We  must, 
therefore,  push  forward  the  business  as 
rapidly  as  we  can." 

WeU  and  truly  did  they  keep  their  words, 
for  we  have  the  satisfaction  of  adding,  that 
on  the  seventh  day  from  the  date  of  that 
conversation,  they  received  a  communication 
£rom  the  Castle,  informing  them  that,  after 
having  taken  the  pecuhar  hai'dships  of 
O'DouoviUi's  singular  case  into  matiu-e  con- 
sideration, they  deemed  the  prayer  of  the 
memorial  such  as  thej'  felt  pleasure  in  com- 
plying with  ;  and  that  the  Colonial  Seci-e- 
tary  had  been  written  to,  to  take  the  projier 
steps  for  the  return  of  the  young  man  and 
his  parents  to  their  own  coimtry  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Government. 

This  was  enough,  and  almost  more  than 
O'Brien  exjDeeted.  He  liad  now  done  as  much 
as  could  be  done  for  the  present,  and  notliing 
remained  bixt  to  await  then-  arrival  wth  hope 
and  patience.  In  truth,  the  prosjsect  that 
now  presented  itself  to  the  Bodagh's  family 
was  one  in  which,  for  the  sake  of  the  beloved 
Una,  they  felt  a  dee25  and  overwhelming  in- 
terest. Ever  since  Connor's  removitl  from 
the  country  her  spirits  had  gradually  become 
more  and  more  depressed.  All  her  mirth 
and  gayety  had  abandoned  her  ;  she  dis- 
relished reading  ;  she  avoided  com^jany  ; 
she  hardly  ever  laughed,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, indulged  in  long  fits  of  bitter  grief 
while  tipon  her  solitary  rambles.  Her  chief 
comjjanion  was  Biddy  Nulty,  whom  she  ex- 
empted fi-om  her  usual  emiiloyment  when- 
ever slie  wished  that  Connor  should  be  the 
topic  of  theu-  conversation.     Many  a  time 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


313 


have  they  strolled  together  through  the  gar- 
den, where  Uua  had  often  stood,  and,  point- 
ing to  the  summer-house,  where  the  ac- 
knowledgments of  their  affection  were  first 
exchanged,  said  to  her  humble  compan- 
ion,— 

"Biddy,  that  is  the  spot  where  he  first 
told  me  that  he  loved  me,  and  where  I  first 
acknowledged  mine  to  him." 

She  would  then  jjuU  out  from  her  heart 
the  locket  which  contained  his  rich  brown 
hair,  and,  after  kissing  it,  sit  and  weep  on 
the  spot  wliich  was  so  dear  to  her. 

Biddy's  task,  then,  was  to  recount  to  the 
U'nhaj)py  girl  such  anecdotes  as  she  remem- 
bered of  liim  ;  and,  as  these  were  all  to  his 
advantage,  we  need  scarcely  say  that  many 
an  entertainment  of  this  kind  she  was  called 
upon  to  furnish  to  her  whose  melancholy 
enjoyment  was  now  only  the  remembnince 
of  him,  and  what  he  had  once  been  to  her. 

"I  would  have  been  in  a  convent  long  be- 
fore now,  Biddy,"  said  she,  a  few  days  be- 
fore Flanagan's  trial,  '"  but  I  cannot  leave  my 
father  and  mother,  because  I  know  thej' 
could  not  live  without  me.  My  brother 
John  has  declined  Maynooth  lest  I  should 
feel  melancholy  for  want  of  some  person  to 
amuse  me  and  to  cheer  me  ;  and  now  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  an  ungrateful  return  I 
should  make  if  I  entered  a  convent  and  left 
my  parents  wthout  a  daughter  whom  they 
love  so  well,  and  my  brother  without  a 
sister  on  whom  he  doats." 

"Well,  j\Iiss,"  rejiMed  Biddy,  "don't  be 
cast  down  ;  for  my  part  I'd  always  hope  for 
the  best.  Who  knows,  Miss,  but  a  betther 
lafe  may  be  turned  up  foi'  you  yet '?  I'd 
hould  a  naggin'  that  God  nivir  intinded  an 
innocent  creature  hke  you  to  sj^ind  the  rest 
of  youi'  life  La  sadness  and  sorrow,  as  you're 
doin'.     Always  hope  for  the  best." 

"Ah,  Biddy,"  she  replied,  "you  don't 
know  what  you  sjieak  of.  //w  sentence  is 
one  that  can  never  be  changed  ;  and  as  for 
hoping  for  the  best  how  can  I  do  that,  Bid- 
dy, when  I  know  that  I  have  no  '  best '  to 
hope  for.  He  was  my  best  in  this  world  ; 
but  he  is  gone.  Now  go  in,  Biddy,  and 
leave  me  to  myself  for  a  Utile.  You  know 
how  I  love  to  be  alone." 

"  May  God  in  heaven  pity  you.  Miss 
Oona,"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  whilst  the 
tears  gushed  from  her  eyes,  "  as  I  do  this 
day  !  Oh,  keep  up  yotir  heart,  Jliss,  darlia'j 
for  where  there's  hfe  there's  hoije." 

Little  did  she  then  di-eam,  however,  that 
hope  would  be  soon  restored  to  her  heart, 
or  that  the  revolution  of  another  year  shoiild 
see  her  waiting  with  trembling  delight  for 
the  fuhiess  of  her  happiness. 

On  the  evening  previous  to  Bai'tle  Flana- 


gan's execution,  she  was  pouring  out  tea 
for  her  father  and  mother,  as  was  usual, 
when  her  brotlier  John  came  home  on  his 
return  from  the  assizes.  Although  the 
smile  of  ali'ectiou  with  which  she  always  re- 
ceived him  Ut  up  her  dark  glossy  eyes,  yet 
he  observed  that  she  appeared  unusually  de- 
pressed, and  much  more  j)ale  than  she  had 
been  for  some  time  jjast. 

"Uua,  are  you  unweU,  dear?"  he  asked, 
as  she  handed  him  a  cuj)  of  tea. 

She  looked  at  him  ^\ith  a  kind  of  affection- 
ate reproof  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  wondered 
that  he  should  be  ignorant  of  the  sorrow 
which  preyed  upon  her. 

"  Not  in  health,  John,"  she  replied  ;  "  but 
that  man's  trial,  and  the  many  remembran- 
ces it  has  stiiTed  ujJ  in  my  mind,  have  dis- 
turbed me.  I  am  very  much  cast  down,  as 
you  may  see.  Indeed,  to  speak  the  truth, 
and  without  disguise,  I  think  that  my  heart 
is  broken.  Every  one  knows  that  a  break- 
ing heart  is  incurable." 

"  You  take  it  too  much  to  yourself,  a  lanna 
dhas,"  said  her  mother ;  "  but  you  must 
keep  up  your  spirits,  daiiin' — time  wiU  work 
wondei'S." 

"  With  me,  mother,  it  never  can." 

"  Uua,"  said  John,  with  affected  gravity, 
"  you  have  just  made  two  assertions  which 
I  can  prove  to  be  false." 

Slie  looked  at  him  with  siu-prise. 

"  Fiilse,  dear  John  ?  " 

"  Yes,  false,  dear  Una  ;  and  I  will  prove 
it,  as  I  said.  In  the  first  jilace,  there  in  a 
cure  for  a  breaking  heart ;  and,  in  the  next 
place,  time  will  work  wonders  even  for  you." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  assuming  a  look  of  sick- 
ly cheerfulness,  "I  should  be  very  ungrate- 
ful, John,  if  I  did  not  smile  for  you,  even 
when  j-ou  don't  smile  yourself,  after  all  the 
ingenious  plans  you  take  to  keejj  up  my 
spirits." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  rephed  John,  "  I  will  not 
trifle  with  you  ;  I  ask  you  now  to  be  firm, 
and  say  whether  you  are  capable  of  hearing 
good  news." 

"Good  news  to  me  !    I  hope  I  am,  John." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  to  inform  you  that 
this  day  Bartle  Flanagan  has  confessed  that 
it  was  not  Connor  O'Donovan  who  biu-ned 
our  haggard,  but  himself.  Tlie  sheriff  has 
written  to  inform  the  Government,  so  that 
we  will  have  Connor  back  again  with  a  name 
and  character  unsullied." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  at 
her  parents  ;  and  her  cheek  still  got  paler, 
and  after  a  sliglit  jJause  she  burst  into  a  vehe- 
ment and  irrepressible  paroxysm  of  grief. 

"  John,  is  this  true  ?  "  inquired  his  father. 

"  f 7c  iia  hoinh  !  John — blessed  mother ! 
— thrue  ? — but  is  it,  John '?  is  it  ?  " 


314 


IVILLIAM  CAULETON'S  WORKS. 


"Indeed,  it  hs,,  mother — the  villain,  now, 
that  he  has  uo  hojie  of  his  life,  confessed  it 
this  day ! " 

"  God  knows,  darlin',"  exclaimed  the 
Bodagh's  warm-hearted  wife,  now  melting 
into  tears  herself,  "it's  no  wondher  you 
should  cry  tears  of  joy  for  this.  God 
wouldn't  be  above  us,  a  cuslila  oge  machree, 
or  he'd  sind  brighter  days  before  your 
young  and  innocent  heart." 

Una  could  not  speak,  but  wept  on  ;  the 
gi'ief  she  felt,  however,  became  gradually 
mUder  in  its  character,  until  at  length  her 
violent  sobbings  were  hushed  ;  and,  although 
the  tears  still  Howed,  thej'  flowed  in  silence. 

"  We  will  have  him  back,  sartiuly,"  said 
the  Bodagh  ;  "don't  cry,  dear,  we'll  have 
him  here  again  with  no  disateful  vUlain  to 
swear  away  his  life." 

"I  could  die  now,"  said  the  noble-minded 
girl ;  "I  think  I  could  die  now,  without  even 
seeing  him.  His  name  is  cleared,  and  will 
be  cleared  ;  his  character  untainted  ;  and 
that  is  dearer  to  me  even  than  his  love. 
Oh,  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  "  she  fei-vently  ex- 
claimed ;  "  and  when  all  the  world  was 
against  him,  I  was  for  him  ;  I  and  his  owii 
mother — for  we  were  the  two  that  knew  his 
heart  best." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  smUing,  "if  I  brought 
you  gloomy  news  once,  I  believe  I  have 
brought  you  pleasant  news  t'n'ice.  You  re- 
member when  I  told  you  he  was  not  to 
die." 

"  Indeed,  John,  dear,  you  are  the  best 
brother  that  ever  God  blessed  a  sister  with  ; 
but  I  hope  this  is  not  a  dream.  Oh,  can  it 
be  possible  !  and  when  I  awake  in  tlie  morn- 
ing, will  it  be  to  the  soiTowful  heart  I  had 
yesterday?  I  am  bewildered.  After  this, 
who  should  ever  despair  of  the  goodness  of 
God,  or  think  that  the  trial  he  sends  but  for 
a  time  is  to  last  always  ?  " 

"  Bridget,"  said  the  gracious  Bodagh,  "we 
must  have  a  glass  of  punch  ;  an'  upon  my 
reputaytion,  Oona,  we'U  drink  to  his  sjjeedy 
return." 

"  Tln-oth,  an'  Oona  will  take  a  glass,  her- 
self, this  night,"  added  her  mother ;  "  an' 
thanks  be  to  Goodness  she'll  be  our  colleen 
dhas  (Ihiin  again — won't  you  have  a  glass, 
asthore  machree  ?  " 

"I'U  do  anything  that  any  of  yoii  wishes 
me,  mother,"  replied  Una. 

She  gave,  as  she  uttered  the  words,  a 
Blight  sob,  which  turned  their  attention  once 
moi'e  to  her,  but  they  saw  at  once,  by  the 
briUiant  sparkle  of  her  eyes,  that  it  was  oc- 
casioned by  the  unexpected  influx  of  deUght 
and  happiness  which  was  accumvilating 
around  hei  heart. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "  wOl  you  make  the 


punch  for  them  to-night  ?  I  cannot  res\ 
tiU  I  let  poor  Biddy  Nulty  know  what  has 
happened.  Cleared  !  "  she  added,  exultiugly, 
"his  name  and  character  cleared  !  " 

The  beautiful  gii-l  then  left  the  room,  and, 
short  as  was  the  sjjace  -s^hich  had  elapsed 
since  she  heard  her  brother's  communica- 
tion, they  could  not  help  being  struck  at 
the  Ught  elastic  step  with  which  she  trijijJed 
out  of  it.  Brief,  however,  as  the2>eriod  was, 
she  had  time  to  cast  aside  the  burthen  of 
care  which  had  25i'essed  her  down  and 
changed  her  easy  f)ace  to  the  slow  tread  of 
sorrow. 

"  God  help  our  fioor  colleen  dhas,"  ex- 
claimed her  mother,  "  but  she's  the  happy 
creature,  this  night !  " 

"  And  happy  will  the  hearth  be  where  her 
light  will  shine,"  reislied  her  father,  quoting 
a  beautiful  Ii-ish  j^roverb  to  that  eflfect. 

"  The  ways  of  Pro^-idence  are  beautiful 
when  seen  aright  or  understood,"  observed 
her  brother.  "  She  was  too  good  to  be  pun- 
ished, but  not  too  jjerfect  to  be  tried.  Their 
calamitous  sejiaration  wiQ.  enhance  the 
value  of  their  aft'ection  for  each  other  when 
they  meet ;  for  pure  and  exalted  as  her  love 
for  him  is,  yet  I  am  proud  to  say  that  Con- 
nor is  worthy  of  her  and  it." 

That  night  her  mother  observed  that  Una 
spent  a  longer  time  than  usual  at  her  de- 
votions, and,  looking  into  her  room  when 
passing,  she  saw  her  on  her  knees,  and  heard 
her  again  sobbing  with  the  grateful  sense  of 
a  delighted  heart.  She  did  not  again  ad- 
dress her,  and  they  all  retked  to  hapj)ier 
slumbers  than  they  had  enjoyed  for  many  a 
night. 

Our  readers  have  ah-eady  had  jn'oofs  of 
Una's  consideration,  generosity,  and  com- 
mon delicacy.  Her  conduct  at  the  aj^proach 
of  her  lover's  trial,  and  again  when  he  was 
about  to  leave  her  and  his  country  forever, 
they  cannot,  we  are  sure,  have  forgotten. 
When  her  brother  had  shown  the  official 
communication  fi-om  the  Castle,  in  which 
government  expressed  its  intention  of 
bringing  Connor  and  his  parents  home  at 
its  own  expense,  the  Bodagh  and  his  wife, 
knowing  that  the  intended  husband  of  their 
daughter  jjossessed  no  means  of  sajiporting 
her,  declared,  in  order  to  remove  any  slr..dow 
of  anxiety  fi-om  her  mind,  that  O'Donovan, 
after  their  marriage,  should  live  with  them- 
selves, for  they  did  not  wish,  they  said, 
that  Una  should  be  separated  from  them. 
This  was  highly  gratif^-ing  to  her,  but  be- 
yond her  lover's  welfai'e,  whether  fi'om 
want  of  thought  or  otherwise,  it  is  not  easy 
to  say,  she  saw  that  their  sympathy  did  not 
extend.  This  troubled  her,  for  she  knew 
how    Connor    loved  his  parents,   and  how 


FARBOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


315 


much  anj'  want  of  comfort  they  might  feel 
•would  distress  him.  She  accordingly  con- 
sulted with  her  ever  faithful  confidant,  John, 
and  begged  of  him  to  provide  for  them,  at 
her  own  esjjense,  a  comfortable  dwelling, 
and  to  furnish  it,  as  near  as  might  be  prac- 
ticable in  the  manner  in  which  their  former 
one  had  been  furnished.  She  also  desu'ed 
him  to  say  nothing  to  their  parents  about 
this,  "  for  I  intend,"  she  added,  "  to  have  a 
little  surprise  for  them  all." 

About  the  time,  therefore,  when  the  ves- 
sel in  which  they  were  to  arrive  was  expected, 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  convenient  to 
the  Bodaghs,  amply  stored  with  provisions, 
and  kept  by  a  daughter  of  Nogher  M'Cor- 
mick,  awaited  them.  Nothing  that  could 
render  them  easy  was  omitted,  and  many 
things  also  were  jjrocured,  in  the  shajje  of 
additional  comforts,  to  which  they  had  not 
been  accustomed  before. 

At  length  the  arrival  of  the  much  wished- 
for  ves.sel  was  announced,  and  John  O'Brien, 
after  having  agreed  to  let  Una  know  by  let- 
ter where  the  Bodagh's  car  should  meet 
them,  mounted  the  dav'  coach,  and  proceeded 
to  welcome  home  his  future  brother-in-law, 
prepared,  at  the  same  time,  to  render  both 
to  him  and  his  parents  whatever  assistance 
they  stood  in  need  of,  either  pecuniary  or 
other«-ise,  after  so  long  and  so  trying  a 
voyage. 

The  meeting  of  two  such  kindred  spirits 
may  be  easily  conceived.  There  were  few 
words  wasted  between  them,  but  they  were 
full  of  truth  and  sincerity. 

'■  My  noble  feUow,"  said  O'Brien,  clasping 
Connor's  hand,  "  she  is  at  home  with  a  beat- 
ing heart  and  a  happy  one,  waiting  for  you." 

'•  Jolin,"  rephed  the  other  fervently,  "the 
wealth  of  the  universe  is  below  her  j)rice. 
I'm  not  worthy  of  her,  except  m  this,  that  I 
could  shed  my  heart's  dearest  blood  to  do 
her  good." 

"  Little  you  know  of  it  yet,"  said  the  other 
smiling  significantly,  "  but  you  will  soon." 

It  appeared  that  Fardorougha's  wife  had 
borne  the  hai-dsliijis  of  both  voyages  better 
than  her  husband,  who,  as  liis  son  sensibly 
observed,  had  been  too  much  worn  down  be- 
fore by  the  struggle  between  his  love  for  him 
and  hi.s  attachment  to  his  money. 

"  His  cares  are  now  nearly  over,"  said  Con- 
nor, with  a  sigh.  "  Indeed,  he  is  so  far 
gone  that  I  don't  know  how  to  Lave  him 
while  I'm  providin'  a  home  for  him  to  die 
in." 

"  Th  it  is  already  done,"  replied  O'Brien. 
"  Una  did  not  forget  it.  They  have  a  house 
near  ours,  furnished  wth  even'thing  that  can 
contribute  to  their  comfort." 

Connor,  on  hearing  this,  paused,  and  his 


cheek  became  pale  and  red  alternately  with 
emotion — Ms  nerves  thrilled,  and  a  charm  of 
love  and  jjleasui'e  diffused  itself  over  his 
whole  being. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  my  speaking,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "love  her  more  than  I  do  I  can- 
not." 

In  consequence  of  Fardorougha's  illness, 
they  were  forced  to  travel  by  slower  and 
shorter  stages  than  they  intended.  O'Brien, 
however,  never  left  them  ;  for  he  knew  that 
should  the  miser  die  on  the  way,  they  would 
require  the  jDresence  and  services  of  a  friend. 
In  due  time,  however,  they  reached  the  place 
appointed  by  John  for  the  car  to  meet  them; 
and  ere  many  hours  had  passed,  they  found 
!  themselves  once  more  in  what  they  could  call 
then-  home.  From  the  miser's  mind  the 
power  of  observing  external  nature  seemed 
to  have  been  altogether  withdrawn ;  he 
made  no  obsei-vation  whatever  upon  the  ap- 
pearance or  novelty  of  the  scene  to  which  he 
was  conveyed,  nor  of  the  country  thi'ough 
I  wliich  he  passed  ;  but  when  jjut  to  bed  lie 
!  covered  himself  with  the  bed-clothes,  and 
;  soon  fell  into  a  slumber. 

"  Connor,"  said  his  mother,  "  j-our  father's 
now  asleep,  an'  won't  miss  you  ;  lose  no 
time,  thin,  in  goLn'  to  see  her  ;  and  may  God 
strinthen  you  both  for  sich  a  meetin' !  " 

They  accordingly  went. 

The  Bodagh  was  out,  but  Una  and  her 
mother  were  sitting  in  the  parlor  when  the 
noise  of  a  jaunting-car  was  heard  driving  up 
to  the  door ;  Una  involuntarily  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  seeing  two  she  started,  up, 
and  putting  her  hands  together,  hysterically 
exclaimed  thrice,  "  Mother,  mother,  mother, 
assist  me,  assist  me — he's  here  !  "  Her  moth- 
er caught  her  in  her  arms  ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  Connor  rushed  in.  Una  could  only 
extend  her  arms  to  receive  him  ;  he  clasped 
her  to  his  heart,  and  she  sobbed  aloud  sev- 
eral times  rapidly,  and  then  her  head  sank 
upon  his  bosom. 

Her  mother  and  brother  were  both  weep- 
ing. 

Her  lover  looked  down  upon  her,  and,  aa 
he  hung  over  the  beautiful  and  insensible 
girl,  the  tears  which  he  shed  copiously  be- 
dewed her  face.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
recovered,  and  her  brother,  with  his  usual 
delicacy,  beckoned  to  his  mother  to  foUow 
him  out  of  the  room,  kno\ring  that  the  jires- 
ence  of  a  tlmxl  person  is  always  a  restraint 
upon  the  interchange  of  even  the  tenderest 
and  purest  afi'ection.  Both,  therefore,  left 
them  to  themselves ;  and  we,  in  hke  man- 
ner, must  allow  that  dehcious  interview  to 
be  sacred  only  to  themselves,  and  unprc- 
faned  by  the  gaze  or  presence  of  a  spectator. 

The   Bodagh   and   his   wife  were   highly 


316 


W11.LIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


gratified  at  the  steps  their  children  had  taken 
to  provide  for  the  comfort  of  Fardorougha 
and  his  wife.  The  next  day  the  whole  family 
paid  them  a  \dsit,  but  on  seeing  the  miser,  it 
was  clear  that  his  days  were  numbered. 
During  the  most  vigorous  and  healthy  period 
of  his  life,  he  had  always  been  thin  and 
emaciated  ;  but  now,  when  age,  illness,  the 
.severity  of  a  six  months'  voyage,  and,  last  of 
all,  the  hand  of  death,  left  their  wasting 
traces  upon  his  person,  it  would  indeed  be 
difficult  to  witness  an  image  of  penury  more 
significant  of  its  spirit.  We  must,  however, 
do  the  old  man  justice.  Since  the  loss  of  his 
money  or  rather  since,  the  trial  and  con- 
vietiou  of  his  son,  or  probably  since  the 
operation  of  both  events  upon  his  heart,  he 
had  seldom,  if  ever,  by  a  single  act  or  ex- 
pression, afi'orded  any  proof  that  his  avarice 
survived,  or  was  able  to  maintain  its  hold 
ujjon  him,  against  the  shock  which  awakened 
the  fuU  jiower  of  a  father's  love. 

About  ten  o'clock,  a.  m.,  on  the  foiu'th  day 
after  their  arrival,  Connor,  who  had  run  over 
to  the  Bodagh's,  was  hurriedly  sent  for  by 
his  mother,  who  desired  Nelly  M'Cormick  to 
say  that  his  father  incessantly  called  for  him, 
and  that  he  must  not  lose  a  moment  in 
coming.  He  returned  immediately  with 
her,  and  found  the  old  man  reclining  in 
bed,  supported  by  his  wife,  who  sat  behind 
him. 

"  Is  my  boy  comin'  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  thin, 
wiry,  worn  voice,  but  in  words  which,  to  any 
jierson  near  him,  were  as  distinct  almost  as 
ever — "  is  my  boy  Connor  comin'  ?  " 

"  I  am  here,  father,"  replied  Connor,  who 
had  just  entered  the  sick  room  ;  "  sure  I  am 
always  with  you." 

"You  are,  you  are,"  said  he,  "you  were 
ever  an'  always  good.  Grive  me  your  hand, 
Connor." 

Connor  did  so. 

"  Connor,  darlin',"  he  proceeded,  "  don't 
be  like  me.  I  loved  money  too  much  ;  I  set 
my  heart  on  it,  an'  you  know  how  it  was 
taken  away  fi-om  me.  The  priest  j'esterday 
laid  it  upon  me,  out  of  regard  to  my  reignin' 
sin,  as  he  called  it,  to  advise  you  afore  I  die 
against  lovin'  the  wealth  o'  this  world  too 
much." 

"  I  hojje  I  never  wiU,  father,  your  own  mis- 
fortune ought  to  be  a  warnin'  to  me." 

"Ay,  you  may  say  that ;  it's  I  indeed  that 
was  misfortunate  ;  but   it  was   all   through 

P an'  that  nest  o'   robbers,  the  Isle  o' 

Man." 

"  Don't  think-  of  him  or  it  now,  my  dear 
father — don't  be  discomposin'  youi-  mind 
about  them." 

Connor  and  his  mother  exchanged  a  melan- 
choly glance  ;  and  the  latter,  who,  on  witness- 


ing his  frame  of  mind,  could  not  help  shed- 
ding bitter  teai's,  said  to  him — 

"  Fardorougha  dear,  Fardorougha  asthore 
machree,  won't  you  be  guided  by  me  ? 
You're  now  on  your  death-bed,  an'  think  of 
God's  mai'cy — it's  that  you  stand  most  in 
need  of.  Sure,  avourneen,  if  you  had  aU  the 
money  you  ever  had,  you  couldn't  bring  a 
penny  of  it  where  you're  goin'." 

"  WeU,  but  I'm  givin'  Connor  advice  that'U 
sarve  him.  Sure  I'm  not  biddin'  him  to  set 
liis  heart  on  it,  for  I  tould  the  priest  I 
wouldn't ;  but  is  that  any  raisou  why  he'd 
not  .sflL't;  it?  I  didn't  tell  the  j'riest  that  I 
wouldn't  bid  him  do  that." 

"Father,"  said  Connor,  "for  the  love  o' 
God  will  you  put  these  thoughts  out  o'  your 
heart  and  mind  ?  " 

"  So  Connor  dear,"  proceeded  the  old  man, 
not  attending  to  him,  "  in  makin'  any  bar- 
gain, Connor,  be  sure  to  make  as  hard  a  one 
as  you  can  ;  but  for  all  that  be  honest,  an' 
never  lind  a  penny  o'  money  widout  interest." 
"I  think  he's  wandherin',"  whispered  his 
mother.     "  Oh  grant  it  may  be  so,  marciful 
Jasus  this  day  !  " 
"  Honor  ahagur." 
"  WeU,  darlin',  what  is  it?  " 
"  There's  another  thing  that  throubles  me 
— I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  feel  myself 
far  from  my  ovm  tiU  now. " 
"  How  is  that,  dear  ?  " 
"  My  bones  won't  rest  in  my  o-mi  coim- 
thry  ;  I  won't  sleep  wid  them  that  belong  to 
me.      How  will  I  lie  in  a  strange  grave,  and 
in  a  far  land  ?      Oh,  will  no  one  bring  me 
back  to  my  own  ?  " 

The  untutored  sjTupathies  of  neither  wife 
nor  son  could  resist  this  beautiful  and  affect- 
ing trait  of  nature,  and  the  undying  love  of 
one's  own  land,  emanating,  as  it  did;  so  un- 
exjDectedly,  from  a  heai-t  otherwise  insensible 
to  the  ordinary  tendernesses  of  life. 

"  Sure  you  are  at  home,  avourneen,"  said 
Honor  ;  "  an'  will  rest  wid  your  friends  and 
relations  that  have  gone  before  you." 

"No,"  said  he,  "I'm  not,  I'm  far  away 
fi-om  them,  but  now  I  feel  more  comforted  ; 
I  have  one  wid  me  that's  dearer  to  me  than 
them  all.  Connor  and  I  will  sleep  together, 
won't  we,  Connor  ?  " 

Tliis  affectionate  transition  from  every 
other  earthly  object  to  himself,  so  powerfully 
smote  the  son's  heart  that  he  could  not  reply. 
"What  ails  hiiu,  Connor?"  said  his  wife. 
"Help  me  to  keep  up  his  head — Saver 
above ! " 

Connor  raised  his  head,  but  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  last  struggle  in  the  old  man's  heai-t 
was  over.     The  miser  was  no  more. 

Little  now  remains  to  be  said.  The  grief 
for  old  age,  though  natiu-al,  is  never  abiding. 


FARDOROUGUA,   THE  MISER. 


317 


The  miser  did  sleep  -with  liis  OA^T^  ;  and  after 
a  decent  period  allotted  to  his  memory,  need 
we  say  that  our  hero  and  heroine,  if  we  may 
be  permitted  so  to  dignify  them,  were 
crowned  iu  the  enjoyment  of  those  afl'ections 
which  were  so  severely  tested,  and  at  the 
s-ame  time  so  worthy  of  their  sweet  reward. 

Ned  M'Cormick  and  Biddy  Nulty  followed 
their  example,  and  occupied  the  house  for- 
merly allotted  to  Fardorougha  and  his  wife. 
John  O'Brien  afterwards  married,  and   the 


Bodagh,  reseniug  a  small  but  competent 
farm  for  himself,  equally  divided  his  large 
holdings  between  his  son  and  son-in-law.  On 
John's  moiety  he  built  a  suitable  house  ;  but 
Una  and  her  husband,  and  Honor,  aU  live 
with  themselves,  and  we  need  scarcely  say, 
for  it  is  not  long  siuce  we  spent  a  week  with 
them,  that  the  affection  of  the  old  peo^jle  for 
their  grandchildren  is  quite  enthusiastic, 
and  that  the  gi-andchUdren,  both  boys  and 
guiSj  are  worthy  of  it. 


The  Black  Baronet; 

OE,  THE   CHRONICLES   OF   BALLYTEAIN. 


PEEFACE. 

The  incidents  iipon  wliicli  this  book  is 
founded  seem  to  be  extraordinary  and  start- 
ling, but  they  are  true  ;  for,  as  Byron  says, 
and  as  we  all. know,  "Truth  is  strange — 
stranger  than  JTiction."  'Mi:  West,  brother 
to  the  late  member  fi-om  Dublin,  communi- 
cated them  to  me  exactly  as  they  occurred, 
and  precise!}'  as  he  communicated  them, 
have  I  given  them  to  the  reader,  at  least,  a^ 
far  as  I  can  de23end  upon  my  memory.  With 
respect,  however,  to  Im  facts,  they  related 
only  to  the  family  which  is  shadowed  forth 
under  the  imaginary  name  of  Gourlay  ;  those 
connected  with  the  aristocratic  house  of 
Gullamore,  I  had  from  another  source,  and 
they  are  equally  authentic.  The  Lord  Dun- 
roe,  son  to  the  Earl  of  Gullamore,  is  not 
many  years  dead,  and  there  are  thousands 
still  living,  who  can  bear  testimony  to  the 
life  of  profligacy  and  extravagance,  which,  to 
the  very  last  day  of  his  existence,  he  pei"- 
sisted  in  leading.  That  his  father  was  ob- 
liged to  get  an  act  of  Parliament  piassed  to 
legitimize  his  children,  is  a  fact  also  pretty 
well  known  to  many. 

At  first,  I  had  some  notion  of  writing  a 
distinct  story  upon  each  class  of  events,  but, 
upon  more  mature  consideration,  I  thought 
it  better  to  construct  such  a  one  as  would 
enable  me  to  work  them  both  up  into  the 
same  narrative  ;  thus  contriving  that  the  in- 
cidents of  the  one  house  should  be  contiect- 
ed  with  those  of  the  other,  and  the  interest 
of  both  deepened,  not  only  by  their  connec- 
tion, but  their  contrast.  It  is  unncessary  to 
say,  that  tlie  prototj-pes  of  the  f  miilies  who 
appear  upon  the  stage  in  the  novel,  were,  in 
point  of  fact,  jjersonally  unkno^\ii  to  each 
other,  unless,  jsrobablj',  by  name,  inasmuch 
as  they  resided  in  different  and  distant  i)arts 
of  the  kingdom.  They  were,  however,  con- 
temporaneous. Such  circumstances,  never- 
theless, matter  very  little  to  the  novelist,  who 
can  form  for  his  characters  whatsoever  con- 
nections, whether  matrimonial  or  otherwise, 
he  may  deem  most  proper ;  and  of  this,  he 


must  be  considered  himself  as  the  aole,  though 
probablj-  not  the  best,  judge.  The  name  of 
lied  Hall,  the  residence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Goui'lay,  is  purely  fictitious,  but  not  the 
description  of  it,  which  applies  very  accu- 
rately to  a  magnificent  family  mansion  not  a 
thousand  miles  fi-om  the  thi'iving  Uttle  town 
of  Ballygawley.  Since  the  first  appearance, 
however,  of  the  work,  I  have  accidentally  dis- 
covered, fi'om  James  Frazer's  admirable 
"Hand-book  for  Ireland,"  the  best  and  most 
correct  work  of  the  kind  ever  published,  and 
the  only  one  that  can  be  relied  uj^on,  that 
there  actually  is  a  residence  named  Red  Hall 
in  my  own  native  county  of  Tyrone.  I  men- 
tion this,  lest  the  respectable  family  to  whom 
it  belongs  might  take  offence  at  my  having 
made  it  the  ancestral  property  of  such  a  man 
as  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  or  the  scene  of  his 
crimes  and  outrages.  On  this  j^oiut,  I  beg 
to  assure  them  that  the  coincidence  of  the 
name  is  purely  accidental,  and  that,  when  I 
wrote  the  novel,  I  had  not  the  .slightest 
notion  that  such  a  place  actually  existed. 
Some  of  those  coincidences  are  very  odd  and 
curious.  For  instance,  it  so  happens  that 
there  is  at  this  moment  a  man  named  Dun- 
phy  actually  residing  on  Constitution  Hill, 
and  engaged  in  the  very  same  line  of  life 
which  I  have  assigned  to  one  of  my  jjrincipal 
characters  of  that  name  in  the  novel,  that  of 
a  huckster  ;  yet  of  this  circumstance  I  knew 
nothing.  The  titles  of  Gullamore  and  Dun- 
roe  are  taken  fi'om  two  hills,  one  greater 
than  the  other,  and  not  far  asimder,  in  my 
native  parish  ;  and  I  have  heard  it  .said,  by 
the  iDeojjle  of  that  neighborhood,  that  Sir 
William  Richardson,  father  to  the  late  ami- 
able Sir  James  Richardson  Bunbury,  when 
exj)ecting  at  the  period  of  the  Union  to  re- 
ceive a  coronet  instead  of  a  baronetcy,  had 
made  his  mind  up  to  select  either  one  or  the 
other  of  them  as  the  designation  of  his 
rank. 

I  think  I  need  scarcely  assure  my  readers 
that  old  Sam  Roberts,  the  retired  soldier,  is 
drawn  from  life  ;  and  I  may  add,  that  I  have 
scarcely  done  the  fine  old  feUow  and  his  fine 


320 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORK^. 


old  wife  sufficient  justice.  They  were  two 
of  the  most  amiable  and  striking  originals  I 
ever  met.  Both  ai-e  now  dead,  but  I  remem- 
ber Sam  to  have  been  for  many  years  en- 
gaged in  teaching  the  sword  exercise  in  some 
of  the  leading  schools  in  and  about  Dublin. 
He  ultimately  gave  this  up,  however,  having 
been  appointed  to  some  comfortable  situa- 
tion in  the  then  Foundling  Hospital,  where 
^(.s-  Beck  died,  and  he,  poor  fellow,  did  not,  I 
have  heard,  long  sui-vive  her. 

Owing  to  painful  and  pecuhar  circum- 
stances, with  which  it  would  be  impertinent 
to  trouble  the  reader,  there  were  originally 
only  five  hundred  copies  of  this  work  pub- 
Ushed.  The  individual  for  whom  it  was  or- 
igmally  written,  but  who  had  no  more  claim 
upon  it  than  the  Shah  of  Persia,  misrejire- 
seuted  me,  or  rather  calumniated  me,  so 
gi'ossly  to  Messrs.  Saunders  &  Otley,  who 
pubhshed  it,  that  he  pi-evailed  ujion  them  to 
threaten  me  with  criminal  proceedings  for 
having  disposed  of  my  o\!u  woi'k,  and  I  ac- 
cordingly received  an  attorney's  letter,  aiford- 
ing  me  that  very  agTceable  intimation.  Of 
coui'se  they  soon  foimd  they  had  been  mis- 
led, and  that  it  would  have  been  not  only  an 
unparalleled  outrage,  but  a  matter  attended 
with  too  much  danger,  and  involving  too  se- 
vere a  25enalty  to  proceed  in.  Little  I  knew 
or  susjjected  at  the  time,  however,  that  the 
sinister  and  unscmpulous  delusions  which 
occasioned  me  and  my  family  so  much 
trouble,  vexation,  and  embarrassment,  were 
only  the  foreshadowings  of  that  pitiable  and 
melancholy  malady  which  not  long  aftei-wards 
occasioned  the  imhappy  man  to  be  placed 
apart  from  society,  which,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
he  is  never  Ukely  to  rejoin.  I  allude  to 
those  matters,  not  only  to  account  for  the 
hmited  inmiber  of  the  work  that  was  printed, 
but  to  satisfj'  those  London  pubUshers  to 
whom  the  individual  in  question  so  fouUy 
misrepresented  me,  that  my  conduct  in  every 
transaction  I  have  had  with  booksellers 
has  been  straightforward,  just,  and  honor- 
able, and  that  I  can  publicly  make  this  as- 
sertion, without  the  slightest  apprehension 
of  being  contradicted.  That  the  book  was 
cushioned  in  this  country,  I  am  fuUy  aware, 
and  this  is  all  I  shall  say  upon  that  part  of 
the  subject.  Indeed  it  was  never  23roperly 
published  at  all — never  advertised — never 
reviewed,  and,  until  now,  lay  nearly  in  as 
much  obscurity  as  if  it  had  been  stiU  in  man- 
uscript. A  few  copies  of  it  got  into  cu'cula- 
tiug  hbraries,  but,  ui  point  of  fact,  it  was 
never  placed  before  the  public  at  all.  What- 
ever be  its  merits,  however,  it  is  now  in  the 
hands  of  a  geutleman  who  will  do  it  justice, 
and,  if  it  fails,  the  fault  wUl  not  at  least  be 
his. 


My  object  in  -miting  the  book  was  to  ex- 
hibit, in  contrast,  three  of  the  most  powerful 
jDassious  that  can  agitate  the  human  heart — 
I  mean  love,  ambition,  and  revenge.  To 
contrive  the  successive  incidents,  by  which 
the  respective  indi\'iduals  on  whose  charac- 
ters they  were  to  operate  should  manifest 
their  mfluence  with  ndetpiate  motives,  and 
without  departing  from  actual  life  and  nature, 
as  we  observe  them  in  action  about  us,  was 
a  task  which  recjuii'ed  a  very  close  study  of 
the  human  mmd  when  placed  in  pecuhar 
circumstances.  Li  this  case  the  great  strug- 
gle was  between  love  and  amljitiun.  By 
ambition,  I  do  not  mean  the  ambition  of  the 
truly  great  man,  who  wishes  to  associate  it 
with  truth  and  virtue,  and  whose  object  is, 
in  the  first  jjlace,  to  gTatify  it  by  elevatmg 
his  country  and  his  kind  ;  no,  but  that  most 
hateful  species  of  it  which  exists  in  the  con- 
trivance and  working  out  of  family  arrange- 
ments and  insane  jn'ojects  for  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  our  offsj)ring,  under  circumstances 
where  we  must  know  that  they  cannot  be 
accomiolished  without  wrecking  the  happi- 
ness of  those  to  whom  they  are  proposed. 
Such  a  jjassion,  in  its  darkest  aspect — and  in 
this  I  have  di-awn  it — has  nothing  more  in 
■siew  than  the  cruel,  selfish  and  undignified 
oliject  of  acquiring  some  poor  and  paltry 
title  or  distinction  for  a  son  or  daughter, 
without  reference  either  to  hichnation  or 
wiU,  and  too  frequently  in  opposition  to 
both.  It  is  like  introducing  a  system  of 
penal  laws  into  domestic  life,  and  estabhsh- 
ing  the  tp-anny  of  a  moral  despot  among 
the  aflfections  of  the  heart.  Sometimes,  es- 
peciiiUy  in  the  case  of  an  only  child,  tliis  am- 
bition grows  to  a  terrific  size,  and  its  miser- 
able \dctim  acts  with  aU  the  unconscious 
violence  of  a  monomaniac. 

In  Sir  Thomas  Goiuiay,  the  reader  mil 
perceive  that  it  became  the  gTeat  and  en- 
grossing object  of  his  life,  and  that  its  \io- 
lence  was  strong  in  piroportion  to  that  want 
of  all  moral  restraint,  which  resulted  from 
the  creed  of  an  infidel  and  sceptic.  And  I 
may  say  here,  that  it  was  my  object  to  ex- 
hibit occasionally  the  gloomy  agonies  and  hol- 
low delusions  of  the  latter,  as  the  hard  and 
melancholy  system  on  which  he  based  his 
cruel  and  unsparing  ambition.  His  char- 
acter was  by  far  the  most  diflicult  to  man- 
age. Love  has  an  object ;  and,  in  this  case, 
in  the  person  of  Lucy  Gourlay  it  had  a  rea- 
sonable and  a  noble  one.  Eevenge  has  an 
object ;  and  in  the  person  of  Anthony  Cor- 
bet, or  Dunphy,  it  also  had,  according  to 
the  unchristian  maxims  of  life,  an  unusual- 
ly strong  argument  on  which  to  work  and 
sustain  itself.  But,  as  for  Sir  Thomas  Goiu-- 
lay's  mad  ambition,  I  felt  that,    considering 


TEE  BLACK  BAliOXET. 


321 


his  sufficiently  elevated  state  of  life,  I  coiild 
•only  compensate  for  its  want  of  sill  rational 
design,  by  making  him  scoi-n  and  reject  the 
laws  both  ci^'il  and  religious  by  which 
human  society  is  regulated,  and  all  this  be- 
cause he  had  blinded  his  eyes  against  the 
traces  of  Providence,  rather  than  take  his 
o^Ti  heart  to  task  for  its  ambition.  Had 
he  been  a  Christian,  I  do  not  think  he  could 
have  acted  as  he  did.  He  shaped  his  own 
creed,  however,  and  consequently,  his  own 
destiny.  In  Lady  Edward  Gourlay,  I  have 
endeavoreil  to  draw  such  a  chai-acter  as  only 
the  true  and  obedient  Christian  can  present ; 
and  in  tliat  of  his  daughter,  a  girl  endowed 
with  the  highest  principles,  the  best  heart, 
and  the  purest  sense  of  honor — a  woman 
who  would  have  been  precisely  such  a  char- 
acter as  Lady  Gourlay  was,  had  she  hved 
longer  and  been  subjected  to  the  same  tri- 
als. Throughout  the  whole  work,  however, 
I  trust  that  I  have  succeeded  in  the  jiurity 
and  loftiness  of  the  moral,  which  was  to  show 
the  pei-nicous  eS'ects  of  intideUtv'  and  scep- 
ticism, stri\ing  to  sustain  and  justify  an  in- 
sane ambition  ;   or,  in  a  word,  I  endeavored 

"  To  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man." 

A  literary  friend  of  mine  told  me,  a  few 
days  ago,  that  the  jioet  Massinger  had  se- 
lected the  same  subject  for  his  play  of  '•  A 
New  Way  to  pay  Old  Debts,"  the  same  in 
which  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is  the  prominent 
character.  I  ought  to  feel  ashamed  to  say, 
as  I  did  say,  in  reply  to  tliis,  that  I  never 
read  the  play  alluded  to,  nor  a  single  hue  of 
Massinger's  works  ;  neither  have  I  ever  seen 
Sir  Giles  Overreach  even  upon  the  stage.  If, 
then,  there  should  appear  any  resemblance 
in  the  scope  or  conduct  of  the  play  or  novel, 
or  in  the  character  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
and  Overreach,  I  cannot  be  charged  either 
with  theft  or  imitation,  as  I  am  utterly  igno- 
rant of  the  play  and  of  the  character  of  Sir 
GUes  Overreach  alluded  to. 

I  fear  I  have  dwelt  much  too  long  on  this 
subject,  and  I  shall  therefore  close  it  by  a 
short  anecdote. 

Some  mouths  ago  I  chanced  to  read  a 
work — I  think  by  an  American  writer — 
called,  as  well  as  I  can  recoUect,  "The  Rem- 
iniscences of  a  late  Physician."  I  felt  curi- 
ous to  read  the  book,  simply  because  I 
tliought  that  the  man  who  could,  after  "  The 
Diary  of  a  late  Phj'sieian,"  come  out  with  a 
production  so  named,  must  possess  at  the  least 
either  very  great  genius  or  the  most  astound- 
ing assurance.  .Well,  I  went  on  iJenising 
the  work,  and  found  almost  at  once  that  it 
was  what  is  called  a  catchpenny,  and  de- 
pended altogether,  for  its  success,  upon  the 
lime  and  reputation  of  its  predecessor  of 


nearly  the  same  name.  I  saw  tlie  trick  at 
ouce,  and  bitterly  regretted  that  I,  in  com- 
mon I  suppose  with  others,  had  been  taken 
in  and  bit.  Judge  of  my  astonishment, 
however,  when,  as  I  proceeded  to  read  the 
description  of  an  American  lunatic  asylum, 
I  found  it  to  be  Utrratim  et  verbatim  taken 
— stolen — j)ii'ated — sentence  by  sentence  and 
page  by  page,  fi'om  my  ovm.  description  of 
one  in  the  third  volume  of  the  first  edition 
of  this  Ijook,  and  which  I  myself  took  fi'om 
close  observation,  when,  some  years  ago, 
accompanied  by  Dr.  White,  I  was  searching 
in  the  Grangegorman  Lunatic  Asylum  and 
in  Swifts  for  a  case  of  madness  ai-ising  from 
disaijpoiutment  in  love.  I  was  then  writing 
"  .Jane  Sinclair,"  and  to  the  honor  of  the  sex, 
I  have  to  confess  that  in  neither  of  those  es- 
tablishments, nor  any  others  either  in  or  about 
Dubhn,  could  I  find  such  a  case.  Here,  how- 
ever, in  the  Yankee's  book,  there  were 
neither  inverted  commas,  nor  the  shghtest 
acknowledgment  of  the  source  from  which 
the  unprincijiled  felon  had  stolen  it. 

With  resjject  to  mad-houses,  especially  as  , 
they  were  conducted  up  until  within  the  last 
thii'ty  years,  I  must  say  with  truth,  that  if 
every  fact  originating  in  craft,  avarice,  op- 
jjression,  and  the  most  unscrujjulous  aml)i- 
tion  for  family  wealth  and  hereditary  rank, 
were  known,  such  a  dark  series  of  crime 
and  craelty  would  come  to  Ught  as  the  pub- 
lie  mind  could  scarcely  conceive — nay,  as 
would  shock  humanity  itself.  Nor  has  this 
secret  system  altogether  departed  ft-om  us. 
It  is  not  long  since  the  pohce  offices  devel- 
oped some  facts  rather  suspicious,  and  pretty 
plainly  impressed  \^-ith  the  stamp  of  the  old 
practice.  The  Lunatic  Commission  is  now 
at  work,  and  I  trust  it  vriU  not  confine  its 
investigations  merely  to  public  institutioE.s 
of  that  kind,  but  will,  if  it  possess  authority 
to  do  so,  strictly  and  rigidly  examine  every 
private  asylum  for  lunatics  in  the  kingdom. 
[  Of  one  other  chai-acter,  Giuty  Cooper,  I 
have  a  word  to  say.  Any  person  acquainted 
j  wdth  the  brilliant  and  classical  little  capital 
of  Cultra,  Ijdng  on  the  confines  of  ilonaghau 
I  and  Cavan,  vn}l  not  fail  to  recognize  the  re- 
!  mains  of  gi'ace  and  beauty,  which  once  char- 
I  acterized  that  celebrated  and  weU-kuo'svn  in- 
I  dividual. 

With  respect  to  the  watch-house  scene, 
1  and  that  in  the  poUce  office,  together  with 
the  delineation  of  the  "  Old  Charlies,"  as  the 
guardians  of  the  night  were  then  called  ;  to 
which  I  may  add   the  portraits   of  the  two 
1  magistrates  ;  I  can  confidently  reftr  to  thoii- 
[  sands  now  alive  for  their  truth.     Those  mat- 
{  ters  took  place  long  before  oui-  present  ad- 
]  mirable  body  of  metroijolitan  police  were  es- 
tablished.    At  that  jjeriod,  the  police  magis- 


322 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


trades  were  bestowed,  in  most  cases,  from 
principles  by  no  means  in  opposition  to  the 
public  good,  and  not,  as  now,  upon  gentle- 
men perfectly  free  from  party  bias,  and  well 
qualified  for  that  difficult  office  by  leg;d 
knowledge,  honorable  feeling,  and  a  strong 
sense  of  public  duty,  impartial  justice,  and 
humanity. 

William  Caeleton. 

(DtTBUN,  October  26,  1857.) 


CHAPTEE  I. 


A  Maii-coarh  by  Night,  and  a  Bit  of  Moonshine. 

It  has  been  long  obsei-ved,  'that  every 
season  sent  by  the  Almighty  has  its  own 
peculiar  beauties ;  yet,  although  this  is  felt 
to  be  univerSiiUy  tnie — ^just  as  we  know  the 
sun  shines,  or  that  we  cannot  breathe  with- 
out air — stOl  we  are  aU  certain  that  even  the 
same  seasons  have  brief  periods  when  these 
beauties  are  more  sensibly  felt,  and  diffuse 
a  more  vi\-id  sjiirit  of  enjoyment  through  all 
our  faculties.  Who  has  not  experienced  the 
gentle  and  serene  influence  of  a  calm  spring 
evening  ?  and  perhaps  there  is  not  in  -the 
whole  circle  of  the  seasons  anything  more 
deUghtful  than  the  exquisite  emotion  with 
wliich  a  human  heart,  not  hardened  by  \'ice, 
or  contaminated  by  intercourse  with  the 
world,  is  softened  into  tenderness  and  a 
general  love  for  the  works  of  God,  by  the 
pure  spirit  which  breathes  of  hohness,  at  the 
close  of  a  fine  evening  in  the  month  of  March 
or  April. 

The  season  of  sjDring  is,  in  fact,  the  resur- 
rection of  nature  to  hfe  and  happiness. 
Who  does  not  remember  the  delight  with 
which,  in  early  youth,  when  existence  is  a 
living  j)oem,  and  aU  our  emotions  sanetifs' 
the  spirit-like  inspiration — the  delight,  we 
say,  with  which  our  eye  rested  upon  a  prim- 
rose or  a  daisy  for  the  first  time  ?  And  how 
many  a  long  and  anxious  look  have  we  our- 
selves given  at  the  peak  of  Knoekmany, 
morning  after  morning,  that  we  might  be 
able  to  announce,  with  an  exulting  heart, 
the  gratifj'ing  and  glorious  fact,  that  the 
.snow  had  disajspeared  fi'om  it — because  we 
knew  that  then  sj^riug  must  have  come ! 
And  that  universal  song  of  the  lark,  which 
fills  the  air  -with  music  ;  how  can  we  forget 
the  bounding  joy  with  which  oirr  young 
heart  drank  it  in  as  we  danced  in  ecstacy 
across  the  fields  ?  Sjiring,  in  fact,  is  the 
season  dearest  to  the  recollection  of  man, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  associated  with  all  that  is 
pure,  and  innocent,  and  beautiful,  in  the 
ti'ansieut  annals  of  his  early  life.     There  is 


always  a  mournful  and  pathetic  .spirit  min- 
gled with  our  remembrances  of  it,  which  re-« 
sembles  the  sorrow  that  we  feel  for  some 
beloved  individual  whom  death  withdrew 
fi'om  our  affections  at  that  period  of  exist- 
ence when  youth  had  nearly  completed  its 
allotted  limits,  and  the  promising  manifesta- 
tions of  all  that  was  \-irtuous  and  good  were 
fiUing  the  parental  hearts  with  the  happy 
hopes  which  futurity  held  out  to  them.  As 
the  heart,  we  repeat,  of  such  a  parent  goes 
back  to  brood  over  the  beloved  memory  of 
the  early  lost,  so  do  our  recollections  go 
back,  with  mingled  love  and  sorrow,  to  the 
tender  associations  of  spring,  which  may, 
indeed,  be  said  to  perish  and  pass  away  in 
its  youth. 

These  reflections  have  been  occasioned, 
first,  by  the  fact  that  its  memory  and  asso- 
ciations ai-e  inexjiressibly  dear  to  oui'.selves  ; 
and,  secondly,  because  it  is  toward  the  close 
of  this  brief  but  beautitul  period  of  the  year 
that  our  chronicles  date  theii-  commencement. 

One  evening,  in  the  last  week  of  Apiil,  a 
coach  called  the  "Fly"  stopp)ed  to  change 
horses  at  a  small  viUage  in  a  certain  part  of 
Ii'eland,  which,  for  the  present,  shall  be 
nameless.  The  sun  had  just  sunk  behind 
the  western  hills  ;  but  those  mild  gleams 
wliich  characterize  his  setting  at  the  close  of 
April,  had  communicated  to  the  clouds  that 
I^ecuhai-ly  soft  and  golden  tint,  on  which 
the  eye  loves  to  rest,  but  fiom  which  its 
hght  was  now  gi-aduaUy  fading.  ^Mien  fi-esh 
horses  had  been  put  to,  a  stranger,  who  had 
lireviously  seen  two  large  trunks  secui'ed  on 
the  top,  in  a  few  minutes  took  his  pLace  be- 
side the  guard,  and  the  coach  proceeded. 

"  Guai'd,"  he  inquired,  after  they  had  gone 
a  eouj)le  of  miles  fiom  the  viUage,  "  I  am 
cjuite  ignorant  of  the  age  of  the  moon. 
"When  shall  we  have  moonHght '?  " 

"Not  tUl  it's  far  in  tlie  night,  sii-." 

"  The  coach  j^asses  tlu'ough  the  town  of 
Ballytrain,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"It  does,  SU-." 

"  At  what  hour  do  we  ai-rive  there  ?  " 

"About  half-past  three  in  the  morning 
sir." 

The  stranger  made  no  re23ly,  but  cast  his 
eyes  over  the  aspect  of  the  sui-rouuding 
country. 

The  night  was  calm,  warm,  and  balmy. 
In  the  west,  where  the  sun  had  gone  do-^-n, 
there  could  stUl  be  noticed  the  fciint  traces 
of  that  subdued  splendor  with  which  he  sets 
in  spring.  The  stars  wei-e  \\\).  and  the  whole 
character  of  the  sky  and  atmosphere  was 
full  of  warmth,  and  softness,  and  hope.  As 
the  eye  stretched  across  a  countiy  that 
seemed  to  be  rich  and  well  cultivated,  it  felt 
that   dream-hke    chai-m    of    dim    romance. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


323 


,  which  visible  darlcnese  throws  over  the  face 
of  natui'e,  and  which  invests  her  groves,  her 
lordly  mansions,  her  rich  cam2:)aigiis,  and 
lier  white  fsirm-hoiises,  with  a  beauty  that 
resembles  the  imagery  of  some  delicious 
dream,  more  than  the  reahties  of  natural 
scenery. 

On  passing  along,  they  could  observe  the 
careless-looking  farmer  driving  home  his 
cows  to  be  milked  and  put  uj)  for  the  nij^ht : 
whUst,  further  on,  they  passed  half-a-dozen 
ears  returning  home,  some  empty  and  some 
loaded,  from  a  neighboring  fair  or  market, 
their  drivers  in  high  conversation — a  portion 
of  them  in  friendship,  some  in  enmity,  and 
in  general  all  equally  disposed,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  previous  hbatious,  to  either 
one  or  the  other.  Here  they  meet  a  solitary 
traveler,  fatigued  and  careworn,  can-jdng  a 
bundle  slung  over  his  shoulder  on  the  jioint 
of  a  stick,  plodding  his  weary  way  to  the 
nest  village.  Anon  they  were  passed  by  a 
couple  of  gentlemen-farmers  or  countrj' 
squires,  proceeding  at  a  Imsk  trot  upon 
their  stout  cobs  or  bits  of  half-blood,  as  the 
case  might  be  ;  and,  by  and  by,  a  spanking 
gig  shoots  rapidly  ahead  of  them,  driven  by 
a  smart-looking  servant  in  murrey-colored 
livery,  who  looks  back  with  a  sneer  of  con- 
temjit  as  he  wheels  round  a  corner,  and 
leaves  the  jjlebeian  vehicle  far  behind  him. 

As  for  the  stranger,  he  took  little  notice  of 
those  whom  they  met,  be  their  rank  of  posi- 
tion in  life  what  it  might ;  his  eye  was  sel- 
dom otr  the  country  on  each  side  of  him  as 
they  went  along.  It  is  true,  when  they  passed 
a  village  or  smsill  market-town,  he  glanced 
into  the  houses  as  if  anxious  to  ascertain  the 
habits  and  comforts  of  the  humbler  clisses. 
Sometimes  he  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  them 
sitting  around  a  basket  of  potatoes  and  salt, 
tlieir  miserable-looking  faces  lit  by  the  dim 
light  of  a  rush-candle  into  the  ghastly  pale- 
ness of  sjsectres.  Again,  he  could .  catch 
glimjises  of  gi-eater  happiness  ;  and  if,  on 
the  one  hand,  the  symptoms  of  poverty  and 
distress  were  visible,  on  the  other  there  was 
the  jovial  comfort  of  the  wealth}'  fanner's 
house,  with  the  loud  laughter  of  its  content- 
ed inmates.  Nor  must  we  omit  the  songs 
which  streamed  across  the  fields,  in  the  calm 
stillness  of  the  hour,  intimating  that  they 
who  sang  them  were  in  possession,  at  all 
events,  of  light,  if  not  of  happy  hearts. 

As  the  night  advanced,  however,  all  these 
sounds  began  gradually  to  die  away.  Nature 
and  labor  required  the  refi-eshmeut  of  rest, 
and,  as  the  coach  proceeded  at  its  steady 
iiace,  the  varied  evidences  of  waking  life 
l^eeame  few  and  far  between.  One  after 
another  the  hghts,  both  near  and  at  a  dis- 
tance, disappeai'ed.    The  roads  became  silent 


and  sohtaiy,  and  the  villages,  as  they  passed 
through  them,  were  sunk  in  ref)ose,  unless, 
perhaps,  where  some  sorrowing  famdy  were 
kejjt  awake  bj'  the  watehings  that  were 
necessary  at  the  bed  of  sickness  or  death,  as 
was  evident  by  the  melancholy  steadiness  of 
the  lights,  or  the  slow,  cautious  motion  by 
which  they  glided  fi'om  one  apartment  to  an- 
otlier. 

The  moon  had  now  been  for  some  time  up, 
and  the  coach  had  just  crossed  a  bridge  that 
was  known  to  be  exactly  sixteen  miles  from 
the  town  of  which  the  stranger  had  made  in- 
quiries. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  latter,  addressing  the 
guard,  "  we  are  about  sixteen  miles  fi'om 
Ballytrain.". 

"  You  appear  to  know  the  neighborhood, 
sir  ?  "  rejjlied  the  guard. 

"  I  have  asked  you  a  question,  su","  re- 
plied the  other,  somewhat  sternly,  "  and, 
instead  of  answering  it,  you  ask  me  an- 
other." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  replied  the 
guard,  smiling,  "it's  the  custom  of  the 
covuitry.  Yes,  sir,  we're  exactly  sixteen  miles 
from  Ballytrain — that  bridge  is  the  mark. 
It's  a  fine  country,  sir,  fi'om  this  to  that " 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,"  replied  the 
stranger,  '■  I  ask  it  as  a  particular  favor  that 
you  will  not  open  your  hjjs  to  me  until  we 
reach  the  to^vn,  unless  I  ask  you  a  question. 
On  that  condition  I  wdl  give  you  a  half-a- 
crown  wlien  we  get  there." 

The  fellow  put  his  hand  to  his  lips,  to  hint 
that  he  was  mute,  and  nodded,  but  spoke 
not  a  word,  and  the  coach  proceeded  in  si- 
lence. 

To  those  who  have  a  temj^erament  fraught 
with  poetry  or  feeling,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  to  pass,  of  a  calm,  delightful 
spring  night,  under  a  clear,  starry  sky,  and 
a  bright  moon,  through  a  country  eminently 
picturesque  and  beautiful,  must  be  one  of 
those  enjoyments  which  fill  the  heart  with  a 
memory  that  lasts  forever.  But  when  we 
supjaose  that  a  person,  whose  soul  is  tend- 
erly alive  to  the  influence  of  local  afi'ections, 
and  who,  when  absent,  has  brooded  in  sor- 
row over  the  memory  of  his  native  hills  and 
valleys,  his  lakes  and  mountains — the  rivers, 
where  he  hunted  the  otter  and  snared  the 
trout,  and  who  has  never  revisited  them,  even 
in  his  di-eams,  without  such  strong  emotior.s 
as  caused  him  to  wake  with  his  eyelashes 
steei^ed  in  tears — when  such  a  jjerson,  ful'i  of 
enthusiastic  affection  and  a  strong  imagina- 
tion, returns  to  liis  native  place  after  a  long 
absence,  under  the  peculiar  circumstances 
which  we  are  describing,  we  need  not  feel 
surprised  that  the  heart  of  the  stranger  was 
filled  with  such  a  conflicting  tumult  of  feel- 


324 


WILLIAM    CARLETOX'S    WORKS. 


ings  and  recollections  as  it  is  utterly  im-  ! 
possible  to  portray.  | 

From  the  moment  the  coach  passed  the  j 
bridge  we  have  alluded  to,  every  hill,  and  : 
residence,  and  river,  and  lake,  and  meadow,  ■ 
was  familiar  to  him,  and  he  felt  such  an  in-  j 
dividual  love  and  affection  for  them,  as  if  i 
they  had  been  capable  of  welcoming  and  feel-  ' 
iug  the  presence  of  the  Ught-hearted  boy,  I 
whom  they  had  so  often  made  happy.  | 

In  the  gaiiish  eye  of  day,  the  contemplation  1 
of  this  exquisite  laudscajie  woidd  have  been 
neither  so  aiiecting  to  the  heart,  nor  so 
beautiful  to  the  eye.  He,  the  sti-anger,  had 
not  seen  it  for  years,  except  in  his  dreams,  ; 
and  now  he  saw  it  in  reality,  invested  with 
that  ideal  beautj'  in  which  fancy  had  adorned  ; 
it  in  those  visions  of  the  night.  The  river,  ; 
as  it  gleamed  dimly,  according  as  it  was  lit 
l)y  the  Ught  of  the  moon,  and  the  lake,  as  it 
shone  with  pale  but  visionary  beauty,  pos- 
sessed an  interest  which  the  hght  of  day 
would  never  have  given  them.  The  light, 
too,  which  lay  on  the  sleeping  groves,  and 
made  the  sohtary  church  sj'i^'es,  as  thej'  went 
along,  visible,  in  dim,  but  distant  beauty,  and 
the  clear  outUues  of  his  oim  mountains,  un- 
changed and  unchangeable — all,  all  crowded 
from  the  force  of  the  recollections  with 
which  they  were  associated,  upon  his  heart, 
nnd  he  laid  himself  back,  and,  for  some  min- 
utes, wept  tears  that  were  at  once  both 
sweet  and  bitter. 

In  proi^ortion  as  they  advanced  toward 
the  town  of  Ballytraiu,  the  stranger  imagined 
that  the  moon  shed  a  diviner  radiance  over 
the  surrovmding  country  ;  but  this  impres- 
sion was  occasioned  by  the  fact  that  its  aspect 
was  becommg,  every  mile  they  proceeded, 
better  and  better  known  to  liim.  At  length 
they  came  to  a  long  but  gradual  elevation  in 
the  road,  and  the  stranger  knew  that,  on 
reaching  its  eminence,  he  could  command  a 
distinct  view  of  the  magTiiftcent  valley  on 
which  his  native  parish  lay.  He  begged  of 
the  coachman  to  stojj  for  half  a  minute,  and 
the  latter  did  so.  The  scene  was  indeed 
imrivalled.  All  that  constitutes  a  rich  and 
cultivated  country,  with  bold  mountain 
scenery  in  the  distance,  lay  stretched  before 
him.  To  the  right  wound,  in  dim  but 
silver-Uke  beauty,  a  fine  river,  which  was 
lost  to  the  eye  for  a  cimsiderable  distance 
in  the  wood  of  Gallagh.  To  the  eye  of 
the  stranger,  every  scene  and  locahty  was 
distinct  beyond  belief,  simply  because  thej" 
were  ht  up,  not  only  by  the  pale  light  of 
the  moon,  but  by  the  purer  and  stronger 
light  of  his  own  early  afl'ections  and  mem- 
ory. 

Now  it  was,  indeed,  that  his  eye  caught  in, 
it  a  glance,  all  those  places  and  objects  that 


had-  held  their  gi'ound.so  strongly  and  finnly 
in  his  heart.  The  moon,  though  sinking,  waa 
brilliant,  and  the  cloutUess  expanse  of  heaven 
seemed  to  reflect  her  light,  whilst,  at  the 
same  time,  the  shadows  that  projected  from 
the  trees,  houses,  and  other  elevated  objects, 
were  dark  and  distmct  in  projjortion  to  the 
flood  of  mild  effulgence  which  poiu-ed  Hovra 
uj)ou  them  fi'om  the  firmament.  Let  not 
our  readers  hesitate'  to  believe  us  when  we 
say,  that  the  heart  of  the  stninger  felt 
touched  with  a  kind  of  melaucholj-  happiness 
as  he  passed  through  their  very  shadows — 
proceeding,  as  they  did,  fi-om  objects  that 
he  had  looked  upon  as  the  friends  of  his- 
youth,  before  hfe  had  opened  to  him  the 
dai'k  and  bhjtted  pages  of  sufferirjg  and  sor- 
row. There,  dimly  shining  to  the  light 
below  him,  was  the  transparent  river  iu 
which  he  had  taken  many  a  truant  phuige, 
and  a  little  further  on  he  could  see  without 
difficulty  the  white  cascade  tumbling  dovra 
the  precipice,  and  mark  its  dim  scintilla- 
tions, that  looked,  under  the  light  of  the 
moon,  like  masses  of  shivered  ice,  were  it 
not  that  such  a  notion  was  contradicted  by 
the  soft  dash  and  contiimous  miuinur  of  its 
waters. 

But  where  was  the  gi"ay  mill,  and  the 
large  white  dwelling  of  the  miller?  and  that 
new-looking  mansion  on  the  elevation — it 
was  not  there  in  liis  time,  nor  several  others 
that  he  saw  around  him  ;  and,  hold — what 
sacrilege  is  this  ?  The  coach  is  not  iipon  the 
OLD  I'oad — not  on  that  with  every  turn  and 
winding  of  wliich  the  light  foot  of  his  boy- 
hood was  so  familiar !  "What,  too !  the 
school-house  do's^Ti — its  very  foundations 
razed — its  light-heai'ted  pupils,  some  dead 
others  dispersed,  its  master  in  the  dust,  and 
its  din,  bustle,  and  monotonous  murmur^ 
all  banished  and  gone,  like  the  pageantrs*  ol 
a  di'eam.  Such,  however,  is  hfe  ;  and  he 
who,  ^u  returning  to  his  birthplace  after  an 
absence  of  many  years,  exjaects  to  find  either 
the  country  or  its  inhabitants  as  he  left 
them,  will  exj)erienee,  in  its  most  painful 
sense,  the  bitterness  of  disappointment. 
Let  eveiy  such  individual  prepare  himself 
for  the  consequences  of  death,  change,  and 
desolation. 

At  length  the  coach  drove  into  Ballj^train, 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  passengers  found 
themselves  ojjposite  to  the  sign  of  the  Mitre, 
which  swung  o^er  the  door  of  the  prmciiJid 
inn  of  that  remarkable  to^ni. 

'■  Sir,"  said  the  guai-d,  addressing  the 
stranger,  "I  think  I  have  kept  mj-  word." 

The  latter,  without  making  any  replj', 
dropped  five  shiUings  into  his  hand  ;  but,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  minutes — for  the  coach 
changed  horses  there — he  desired   him   to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


325 


call  the  waiter  or  laudionl,  or  auy  one  to 
wboiu  he  could  iiilrust  his  tiiuiks  until 
morning. 

"  You  are  goiu;.?  to  stoi)  in  the  '  Mithre,' 
sir,  of  course  ?  "  said  the  guard,  inquiruiglr. 

The  traveler  nodded  assent,  and,  having 
seen  his  luggage  taken  into  the  inn,  and 
looking,  for  a  moment,  at  the  town,  proceed- 
ed along  the  shadowy  side  of  the  main 
street,  and,  instead  of  seeking  his  bed,  had, 
in  a  shore  time,  altogether  vanished,  and  in 
a  manner  that  was  certainly  mysterious,  nor 
did  he  make  his  ajjjjeai'ance  again  until  noon 
on  the  following  day. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  here  that  he 
was  a  man  of  about  thirtj%  somewhat  above 
the  middle  size,  and,  although  not  clumsy, 
yet,  on  being  closely  scanned,  he  ajDpeared 
beyond  question  to  be  very  compact,  closely 
knit,  weU-j)roportioned,  and  muscular.  Of 
his  di'ess,  however,  we  must  say,  that  it  was 
somewhat  difficult  to  define,  or  rather  to 
infer  fi-om  it  whether  he  was  a  gentleman  or 
not,  or  to  what  rank  or  station  of  Ufe  he  be- 
longed. His  hair  was  black  and  curled  ;  his 
features  regular  ;  and  his  mouth  and  nose 
particularly  aristocratic ;  but  that  which 
constituted  the  most  striking  feature  of  his 
face  was  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  which  kindled 
or  became  mellow  according  to  the  emotions 
by  w  hich  he  happened  to  be  influenced. 

"  Mj'  good  lad,"  said  he  to  "  Boots,"  after 
his  return,  "will  you  send  me  the  land- 
lord ?  " 

■'I  can't,  SU-,"  replied  the  other,  "  he's  not 
at  home." 

"  Well,  then,  have  the  goodness  to  send 
me  the  waiter." 

"I  wUl,  sir,"  repHed  the  monkey,  leaving 
the  room  with  an  evident  feeUng  of  confi- 
dent alacrity. 

Almost  immediatelj'  a  good-looking  girl, 
with  Ii'ish  features,  brovAoi  hair,  and  pretty 
blue  eyes,  j)resented  herself. 

"  Well,  sii-V"  she  said,  in  an  interrogative 
tone. 

'■  ^Miy,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  believe  it  is 
impossible  to  come  at  any  member  of  this 
establishment  ;  I  wish  to  see  the  waiter." 

"  I'm  the  waiter,  sii',"  she  rephed,  with  an 
unconscious  face. 

"  The  deuce  you  are  !  "  he  exclaimed  ; 
"  however,"  he  added,  recovering  himself, 
"  I  cannot  possibly  wish  for  a  better.  It  is 
very  hkely  that  I  may  stop  with  j'ou  for 
some*  time — perhaps  a  few  months.  Will 
you  see  now  that  a  room  and  bed  are  pre- 
pared for  me,  and  that  mj'  ti'uuks  are  put 
into  my  own  apartment  ?  Get  a  lire  into  my 
sitting-room  and  bedchamber.  Let  my  bed 
be  well  aired  ;  and  see  that  everything  is 
done  cleanly  and  comfortably,  wiU  you  ?  " 


"  Sartinly,  su-,  an'  I  hope  we  won't  lave 
you  much  to  comjjlain  of.  As  for  the  sheets, 
wait  till  you  try  them.  The  wild  mj'rtles  ol 
Drumgau,  beyant  the  demesne  'ishout,  is 
foulded  in  them  ;  au'  if  the  smell  of  them 
won't  midie  you  think  yourself  in  Paradise, 
'tisn't  my  fault." 

The  stranger,  on  looking  at  her  somewhat 
more  closely,  saw  that  she  was  an  exceeding- 
ly neat,  tight,  clean-looking  young  w'oman, 
fair  and  youthful. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  the  capacitj'  of 
waiter,  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  she  repUed  ;  "about  six 
months." 

"  Do  you  never  keep  male  waiters  m  this 
estabhshment '?  "  he  inquiied. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  Paudeen  Gair  and  I  gen- 
erally act  week  about.  This  is  my  week,  su-, 
an'  he's  at  the  j^lough." 

"  And  where  have  you  been  at  service  be- 
fore you  came  here,  my  good  giii '? " 

"  In  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's,  sii"." 

The  stranger  could  not  prevent  himself 
fi'om  starting. 

"  In  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  !  "  he  exclaim- 
ed. "  And  pray  in  what  caj)acity  were  jou 
there  ?  " 

"  I  was  own  maid  to  Miss  Gourlay,  sir." 

"  To  Jliss  Gourlay !  and  how  did  you 
come  to  leave  your  situation  with  her?  " 

"  When  I  tiud  you  have  a  right  to  ask,  sir.'' 
she  repUed,  "  I  wUl  tell  you  ;  but  not  till 
then." 

"  I  stand  repinDved,  mj*  good  gui,"  he 
said  ;  "I  have  indeed  no  right  to  enter  into 
such  incjuii-ies  ;  but  I  trust  I  have  for  those 
that  are  more  to  the  purpose.  WTiat  have 
you  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  Fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  su',"  she  replied, 
with  a  pecuhar  smde,  "  and  a  fine  fat  buck 
from  the  deer-park." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  "  that  really  prom- 
ises well — iudeed  it  is  more  than  I  exjjected 
— you  had  no  quarrel,  I  hojje,  at  parting  ?  I 
beg  youi-  jjardou — a  fat  buck,  you  say. 
Come,  I  will  have  a  sUce  of  that." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  she  replied  ;  "  what  else 
would  you  wish  ?  " 

"  To  know,  my  dear,  whether  Sir  Thomas 
is  as  severe  ujDon  her  as — ahem  ! — anything 
at  all  you  like — I'm  not  particular — only 
don't  forget  a  shce  of  the  buck,  out  of  the 
haunch,  my  dear  ;  and,  whisper,  as  you  and 
I  are  Hkely  to  become  lietter  acquainted — all 
in  a  civil  way,  of  course — here  is  a  trifle  of 
earnest,  as  a  proof  that,  if  you  be  attentive,  I 
shall  not  be  migenerous." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  rephed,  shaking  her 
head,  and  hesitating  ;  "  you're  a  sly-looking 
gentleman — and,  if  I  thought  that  you  had 
any " 


326 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Design,  you  would  say,"  he  rej^lied  ;  "  no 
— none,  at  any  rate,  that  is  improper  ;  it  is 
offered  in  a  spirit  of  good-'nall  and  honor, 
and  in  such  you  may  fairly  accejjt  of  it.  So," 
lie  added,  as  he  dropped  the  money  into  her 
hand,  "  Su-  Thomas  insisted  that  you  should 
^o  ?     Hem  ! — hem  !  " 

The  girl  started  in  her  turn,  and  exclaim- 
ed, with  a  good  deal  of  surprise  : 

"  Sir  Thomas  insisted !  How  did  you 
come  to  know  that,  sif  ?  /  tould  you  no  such 
thing." 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  you — a — a — hem — 
did  you  not  say  something  to  that  effect  ?  Per- 
haps, however,"  he  added,  appi-ehensive  lest 
he  might  have  alarmed,  or  rather  excited  her 
suspicions — "  perhajDs  I  was  mistaken.  I 
only  imagined,  I  supjiose,  that  you  said  some- 
thing to  that  effect  ;  but  it  does  not  matter 
— I  have  no  intimacy  with  the  Gourlays,  I 
assure  you — I  tliiuk  that  is  what  you  call 
them — and  none  at  all  with  Sir  Thomas — is 
not  that  his  name  ?  Goodby  now  ;  I  shall 
take  a  walk  through  the  tovsTi — how  is  this 
you  name  it?  Bally  train,  I  think — and  re- 
turn at  five,  when  I  trust  you  wiU  have  din- 
ner ready." 

He  then  put  on  his  hat,  and  sauntered  out, 
ap25arently  to  view  the  town  and  its  environs, 
fully  satisfied  that,  in  consequence  of  his  hav- 
ing left  it  when  a  boy,  and  of  the  changes 
which  time  and  travel  had  wrought  in  his  ap- 
jiearauee,  no  living  individual  there  could 
possibly  recognize  him. 


CHAPTEEH. 

Tlie  Town  and  its  Inliabiiants. 

The  town  itself  contained  about  six  thou- 
sand inhabitants,  had  a  church,  a  chapel,  a 
meeting-house,  and  also  a  place  of  worship 
for  those  who  belonged  to  the  Methodist 
connection.  It  was  nearly  half  a  mile  long, 
lay  nearly  due  nortli  and  south,  and  ran  up 
an  elevation  or  slij^ht  hill,  and  down  again 
on  the  other  side,  where  it  tapered  away  into 
a  string  of  cabins.  It  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  say  that  it  contained  a  main  street,  three 
or  four  with  less  pretensions,  together  with 
a  tribe  of  those  vile  alleys  which  consist  of  a 
double  row  of  beggarly  cabins,  or  huts,  fac- 
ing each  other,  and  lying  so  closely,  that  a 
tall  man  might  almost  stand  with  a  foot  on 
the  threshold  of  each,  or  if  in  the  middle, 
that  is  half-way  between  them,  he  might, 
were  he  so  inclined,  and  with(3ut  mo\'ing  to 
either  side,  shake  hands  with  the  inhabitants 
on  his  right  and  left.  To  the  left,  as  you 
went  up  fi-om  the  north,  and  nearly  adjoin- 


ing the  cathedral  church,  which  faced  you, 
stood  a  bishop's  palace,  behind  which  lay  u 
magnificent  demesne.  At  that  time,  it  is  but 
just  to  say  that  the  chimneys  of  this  princely 
residence  were  never  smokeless,  nor  its  sa- 
loons silent  and  deserted  as  they  are  now, 
and  have  been  for  years.  No,  the  din  of  in- 
dustry was  then  incessant  iu  and  about  the 
offices  of  that  palace,  and  the  song  of  many 
a  light  heart  and  happy  spirit  rang  sweetly 
in  the  vallej'S,  on  the  plains  and  hUls,  and 
over  the  meadows  of  that  beautiful  demesne, 
with  its  noble  deer-j^ark  stretching  up  to  the 
heathy  hiUs  behind  it.  Man.y  a  time,  when 
a  school-boy,  have  we  mounted  the  demesne 
wall  in  questifin,  and  contemplated  its  mead- 
ows, waving  under  the  sunny  breeze,  togeth- 
er with  the  long  strings  of  hapjiy  mowers, 
the  harmonious  swing  of  whose  scythes,  as- 
sociated with  tlie  cheerful  noise  of  theu-  whet- 
ting, caused  the  very  heai-t  within  us  to 
kindle  with  such  a  sense  of  jiure  and  early 
I  enjoyment  as  does  yet,  and  ever  wll,  consti- 
[  tute  a  portion  of  our  best  and  hapjjiest  re- 
collections. 

At  the  period  of  which  we  write  it  mattered 
little  whether  the  jirelate  who  possessed  it 
resided  at  home  or  not.     If  he  did  not,  his; 
!  famOj'  generally  did  ;  but,  at  all  events,  dur- 
I  ing  their  absence,  or  during  then-  residence, 
I  constant  employment  was  given,  every  work- 
ing-day in  the  year,  to  at  least  one  hundred 
happy  and  contented  poor  from  a  neighbor- 
ing and  dependent  village,  everj'  one  of  whom 
was  of  the  Roman  Catholic  creed. 

I  have  stood,  not  long  ago,  upon  abeautiul 
elevation  in  that  demesne,  and,  on  looking 
aroiuid  me,  I  saw  nothing  but  a  deserted  tmd 
gloomy  country.  The  happy  village  was  gone 
— razed  to  the  very  foundations — the  de- 
mesne was  a  solitude — the  songs  of  the 
reapers  and  mowers  had  vanished,  as  it  were, 
into  the  recesses  of  memory,  and  thf;  niagniti- 
cent  palace,  duU  and  lonely,  lay  as  if  it  were 
situated  in  some  land  of  the  defid,  where 
human  voice  or  footsteij  had  not  been  heard 
for  years. 

The  stranger,  who  had  gone  out  to  view 
the  town,  found,  dining  that  siu-vey.  Utile  of 
this  absence  of  employment,  and  its  conse- 
quent destitution,  to  disturb  him.  Many 
things,  it  is  true,  both  in  the  town  and  sub- 
lu'bs,  were  liable  to  objection. 

Abundance  tliere  was  ;  but,  in  too  many 
instances,  he  could  see,  at  a  glance,  that  it 
was  accomijanied  by  unclean  and  slovenly 
habits,  and  that  the  processes  of  husbandry 
and  tillage  were  disfigiu-ed  by  old  usages, 
that  were  not  only  painful  to  contemjjlate, 
but  disgraceful  to  civilization. 

The  stranger  was  proceeding  down  the 
town,  when  he  came  in  contact  with  a  ragged, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


327 


dissipated-looking  youn";  man,  wlio  had,  how- 
ever, about  him  the  evidences  of  having  seen 
better  days.  The  latter  touched  his  hat  to 
him,  and  observed,  "You  seem  to  be  exam- 
ining our  town,  sir  ?  " 

"  Pray,  what  is  your  name  \  "  inquired  the 
stranger,  without  seeming  to  notice  the 
question. 

"Why,  for  the  present,  sir,"  he  replied,  "I 
beg  to  insinuate  that  I  am  rather  imder  a 
cloud  ;  and,  if  you  have  no  objection,  would 
prefer  to  remain  anonymous,  or  to  preserve  my 
incog n ill),  as  they  say,  for  some  time  longer." 

"  Have  you  no  aliaa,  by  which  you  may  be 
known  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,  an  alias  I  have,"  replied 
the  other  ;  "  for  as  to  passing  through  life,  in 
the  broad,  anonymous  sense,  without  some 
token  to  distinguish  you  by,  the  thing,  to  a 
man  like  me,  is  impossible.  I  am  conse- 
quently known  as  Frank  Fenton,  a  name  I 
borrowed  from  a  former  friend  of  mine,  an 
old  sohool-fellow,  who,  while  he  lived,  was, 
like  myself,  a  bit  of  an  original  in  his  way. 
How  do  you  like  oiu"  town,  sir?  "  he  added, 
changing  the  subject. 

"I  have  seen  too  little  of  it,"  replied  the 
stranger,  "  to  judge.  Is  this  your  native 
town,  jNIi'.  Fenton '?  "  he  added. 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  my  native  town,"  replied 
Fenton  ;  "  but  I  have  resided  here  from  hand 
to  mouth  long  enough  to  know  almost  every 
individual  in  the  barony  at  large." 

During  this  dialogue,  the  stranger  eyed 
Fenton,  as  he  called  himself,  very  closely  ;  in 
fact,  he  watched  every  feature  of  his  with  a 
degree  of  curiosity  and  doubt  that  was  ex- 
ceedingly singular. 

Have  you,  sir,  been  here  before  ?  "  asked 
Fenton  ;  "  or  is  this  your  first  visit  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  first  visit,"  rejslied  the  other  ; 
"  but  it  is  likely  I  shall  reside  here  for  some 
months." 

"  For  the  benefit  of  your  health,  I  jjre- 
sume  ?  "  asked  modest  Frank. 

"My  good  friend,"  replied  the  stranger, 
"I  wish  to  make  an  observation.  It  is  pos- 
siljle,  I  say,  that  I  may  remain  here  for  some 
months  ;  now,  pray,  attend,  and  mark  me — 
whenever  you  and  I  chance,  on  any  future 
occasion,  to  meet,  it  is  to  be  understood 
between  us  that  you  are  to  answer  me  in  any- 
thing I  ask,  which  you  know,  and  I  to  answer 
you  in  nothing,  unless  I  wish  it." 

"  Tliank  you,  sir,"  he  rejilied,  with  a  low 
and  not  ungraceful  bow  ;  "  tint's  a  compli- 
ment all  to  the  one  side,  like  Clogher."  * 

"  Very  well,"   returned  the  stranger  ;  "  I 


*  The  proverb  is  pretty  general  thioushout  Ty- 
rone. The  town  of  Clogher  consists  of  only  a  sinjjle 
utring  of  houses. 


have  something  to  add,  in  order  to  make 
this  arrangement  more  palatable  to  .you." 

"  Hold,  sir,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  before 
you  proceed  furtlier,  you  must  understand 
Hif.  I  shall  pledge  myself  under  no  terms — - 
and  I  care  not  what  they  may  be — to  answer 
any  question  that  may  throw  light  upon  my 
own  personal  identity,  or  past  history." 

"That  win  not  be  necessary,"  replied  the 
stranger. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  asked  Fenton, 
starting  ;  "do  you  mean  to  hint  that  you 
know  me  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  other  ;  "  how  could 
I  know  a  man  whom  I  never  saw  before  ? 
No  ;  it  is  merely  concerning  the  local  history 
of  Ballytrain  and  its  inhabitants  that  I  am 
speaking." 

There  was  a  slight  degree  of  dry  irony, 
however,  on  his  face,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  in  the  mean  time, 
I  don't  see  why  I  am  to  comp)ly  with  a  con- 
dition so  dictatorially  laid  do^^Ti  by  a  person 
of  whom  I  know  nothmg." 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,"  said  oiu*  strange 
friend,  "  that  you  are  evidently  a  lively  and 
intelligent  feUow,  not  badly  educated.  I 
think — and,  as  it  is  likely  that  you  have  no 
very  direct  connection  with  the  inhabitants 
of  the  town  and  surrounding  country,  I  take 
it  for  granted  that,  in  the  way  of  mere  amuse- 
ment, you  may  be  able  to " 

"  Hem  !  I  see — to  give  you  all  the  scandal 
of  the  place  for  miles  about ;  that  is  what 
you  would  say  ?  and  so  I  can.  But  suppose 
a  spark  of  the  gentleman  should — should — 
but  come,  hang  it,  that  is  gone,  hopelessly 
gone.     What  is  yoiu"  wish  ?  " 

"In  the  first  place,  to  see  you  better 
clothed.  Excuse  me — and,  if  I  offend  you, 
say  so — but  it  is  not  my  wish  to  say  anything 
that  might  occasion  you  pain.  Are  you  given 
to  liquor  ?  " 

"  Much  oftener  than  liquor  is  given  to  me, 
I  assure  you  ;  it  is  my  meat,  diink,  washing, 
and  lodging — without  it  I  must  die.  And, 
harkee,  now  ;  when  I  meet  a  man  I  like,  and 
who,  after  all,  has  a  touch  of  humanity  and 
truth  al)out  him,  to  such  a  man,  I  f\y,  I 
myself  am  iiU  truth,  at  whatever  cost  ;  but  to 
every  other — to  your  knave,  your  hypocrite, 
or  your  trimmer,  for  instance,  all  falsehood — . 
deep,  downright,  wanton  falsehood.  In  fact, 
I  would  scorn  to  throw  away  truth  upon  them. 

"  You  are  badly  dressed." 

"  Ah !  after  all,  how  little  is  known  of  the 
human  heart  and  character ! "  exclaimed 
Fenton.  "The  subject  of  dress  and  the  as- 
sociations connected  with  it  have  aU  been 
eftaced  from  my  mind  and  feelings  for  years. 
So  long  as  we  are  cajjable  of  looking  to  out 
dress,  there  is  always  a  sense  of  honor  and 


328 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIilCS. 


self-respect  left.  D^ess  I  never  think  of, 
unless  as  a  me\t^  cmimal  protection  against 
tne  elements." 

"  Well,  tbtrj,"  observed  the  other,  survey- 
HigthisuvJ'jrtvinate  wi-etch  with  compassion, 
"whether  all  perception  of  honor  and  self- 
respect  i'j  iost  in  you  I  care  not.  Here  are 
Ave  povjids  for  you  ;  that  is  to  say — and 
^ray  vjiderstand  me — I  commit  them  abso- 
fntei  i'  to  your  own  keejiing — your  own  hon- 
or. 701U'  seK-respect,  or  by  whatever  name 
v'j'i  are  pleased  to  call  it.  Purchase  plain 
■jlothes,  get  better  huen,  a  hat  and  shoes : 
when  this  is  done,  if  you  have  strength  of 
mind  and  resolution  of  character  to  do  it, 
come  to  me  at  the  head  inn,  where  I  stop, 
and  I  wiU  only  ask  you,  in  return,  to  tell  me 
anything  you  know  or  have  heard  about  such 
subjects  as  may  chance  to  occur  to  me  at 
the  moment." 

On  receiving  the  money,  the  poor  fellow 
fastened  his  eyes  on  it  with  such  an  expres- 
sion of  amazement  as  defies  descripition.  His 
physical  strength  and  constitution,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  hfe  he  led,  were  nearly 
gone — a  circumstance  which  did  not  escape 
the  keen  eye  of  the  stranger,  on  whose 
face  there  was  an  e^ddent  expression  of 
deep  compassion.  The  unfortunate  Frank 
Fentou  tremljled  fi-om  head  to  foot,  his  face 
became  deadly  jiale,  and  after  surveying  the 
notes  for  a  time,  he  held  them  out  to  the 
other,  exclaiming,  as  he  extended  his  hand — 

"  No,  no  !  have  it,  no  !  You  are  a  decent 
fellow,  and  I  will  not  imi^ose  upon  you. 
Take  back  yoiu-  money  ;  I  know  myself  too 
well  to  accept  of  it.  I  never  could  keep 
money,  and  I  wouldn't  have  a  shilling  of  this 
in  my  possession  at  the  expiration  of  forty- 
eight  hoiu's." 

"Even  so,"  replied  the  stranger,  "it  comes 
not  back  to  me  again.  Drink  it — eat  it — 
spend  it  is  you  may ;  but  I  rely  on  yom- 
own  honor,  uotwdthstanding  what  you  say, 
to  apply  it  to  a  better  pui-pose." 

"  Well,  now,  let  me  see,"  said  Fenton, 
musing,  and  as  if  in  a  kind  of  soliloquy ; 
"  you  are  a  good  fellow,  no  doubt  of  it — that 
is,  if  you  have  no  lurking,  dishonest  design 
in  all  this.  Let  me  see.  "WTiy,  now,  it  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  had  the  enormous 
Bum  of  five  shillings  in  my  possession,  much 
less  the  amount  of  the  national  debt,  which 
I  presiune  must  be  pretty  close  upon  five 
pounds ;  and  in  honest  bank  notes,  too. 
One,  two,  three — ha! — eh!  eh  I — oh  yes," 
he  proceeded,  evidently  struck  with  some 
discovery  that  astonished  him.  "  Ay  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  looking  keenly  at  a  certain  name 
that  happened  to  be  written  upon  one  of  the 
notes  ;  '•  well,  it  is  all  right !  Thank  you,  su" ; 
I  will  keep  the  money." 


CHAPTEE   m. 

Pmiden  Gail's  Rf:ce!pt  how  to  make  a  Bad  Dinnei 
a  Good  One — the  Stranger  finds  Fenton  as  mys. 
terious  as  Himself. 

The  stranger,  on  reaching  the  inn,  had 
not  long  to  wait  for  dinner,  which,  to  liis 
disapj)ointment,  was  auytliing  but  what 
he  had  been  taught  to  expect.  The  fau' 
"waiter"  had  led  his  imagination  a  very 
ludicrous  dance,  indeed,  having,  as  Shak- 
speare  says,  kept  the  word  of  promise  to  his 
ear,  but  broken  it  to  his  hojie,  and,  what 
was  still  worse,  to  his  appetite.  On  sitting 
down,  he  found  before  him  two  excellent 
salt  heiTings  to  begin  with  ;  and  on  ringing 
the  bell  to  inquire  why  he  was  jsrovided  with 
such  a  dainty,  the  male  waiter  himself,  who 
had  finished  the  field  he  had  been  jiloughing, 
made  his  appearance,  after  a  delay  of  about 
five  minutes,  ven'  cooUy  wijjing  his  mouth, 
for  he  had  been  at  dinner. 

"  Are  you  the  waiter '?  "  asked  the  stran- 
ger, shai-jjly. 

"  No,  sir,  I'm  not  the  waiter,  myself  ;  but 
I  and  Peggy  Moylan  is." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  come  when  I  rang 
for  you  at  first  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  finishin'  my  dinner,  sir,"  re- 
jslied  the  other,  pviUing  a  bone  of  a  herring 
from  between  his  teeth,  then  going  over  and 
dehberately  thi'owmg  it  into  the  fire. 

The  stranger  was  silent  wilh  astonish- 
ment, and,  in  tnith,  felt  a  stronger  inclina- 
tion to  laugh  than  to  scold  him.  This  fel- 
low, thought  he,  is  cleai-ly  an  original  ;  I 
must  draw  him  out  a  little. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  proceeded,  "was  I  served 
v^ith  a  pair  of  d — d  salt  heiTings,  as  a  part 
of  my  dinner  ?  " 

"'Whist,  sir,"  replied  the  fellow,  "don't 
curse  anything  that  God — blessed  be  his 
name — has  made  :  it's  not  right,  it's  sinful." 

"  But  why  was  I  seiTed  witli  two  salt  her- 
rings, I  ask  again  ?  " 

"  Why  wor  you  sarved  -n-ith  them? — Why, 
wasn't  it  what  we  had  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Was  I  not  promised  venison  ?  " 

"  "VMio  promised  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  That  female  waiter  of  yours." 

"  Peggy  Moylan  ?  Well,  then,  I  teU  yoii 
the  fau't  wasn't  hers.  We  had  a  party  o' 
gintlemen  out  here  last  week,  and  the  soit.~. 
droji  of  it  they  left  behind  them.  Devil  i 
drojj  of  venison  there  is  in  the  house  now. 
You're  an  Englislunan,  at  any  rate,  sir,  I 
think  by  youi'  discourse  ?  " 

"  Was  I  not  promised  jsart  of  a  fat  buck 
from  the  demesne  adjoining,  and  where  is 
it  ■?  I  thought  I  was  to  have  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl." 


Lie  HAH  Y 
'   THE 
L'NIVERSny  OF  ILLINOK 


LIFTING  THE  COVER,  A  PAUl  OF  ENORMOUS  LEGS,  WITH  SPURS  ON    THEM  AN   IN 

AT   FULL   LENGTH,    TOWARD   THE   GUEST,    AS   IF   THE   OLD   COCK — FOR   SUCH   IT  WA 

HIMSELF  TO  THE  LAST. — Block  BaTouet^  Page  329. 


WERE  PRi 
WERE   DETERMINED   TO   DEFEND 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


329 


"  Well,  and  haven't  you  fish  ?  "  repUed  the 
fellow.  "  ^Miat  do  you  call  them  !  "  he  added, 
pomtinp  to  the  heiTings ;  "an'  as  to  a  fat 
Ijuck,  faith,  it  isn't  part  of  one,  but  a  whole 
one  you  have.  What  do  you  call  that  ? " 
He  lifted  an  old  battered  tin  cover,  and  dis- 
covered a  rabbit,  gathered  \ip  as  if  it  were 
in  the  act  of  starting  for  its  buiTow.  "  You 
see,  Peggv^  sii-,  always  keeps  her  word  ;  for 
it  was  a  buck  rabbit  she  meant.  Well,  now, 
there's  the  fish  and  the  flesh  ;  and  here,"  he 
proceeded,  uncovering  another  dish,  "is  the 
fowl." 

On  hfting  the  cover,  a  pair  of  enormous 
legs,  with  spurs  ou  them  an  inch. and  a  half 
long,  were  projected  at  full  length  toward 
the  guest,  as  if  the  old  cock — for  such  it  was 
— were  determined  to  defend  himself  to  the 
last. 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  all  I  can  say 
is,  that  I  have  got  a  very  bad  dinner." 

"Well,  an'  what  sujjpose'?  Sure  it  has 
been  many  a  betther  man's  case.  However, 
you  have  one  remedy  ;  always  ait  the  more 
of  it — that's  the  sure  card  ;  ever  and  always 
when  you  have  a  bad  dinner,  ait,  I  say,  the 
more  of  it.  I  don't  think,  sii-,  beggin'  your 
pardon,  that  you've  seen  much  of  the  world 
yet  " 

"  'Why  do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  the  other, 
who  could  with  difficulty  restrain  his  mu-th 
at  the  fellow's  cool  self-sufficiency  and  as- 
siu-ance. 

"  Because,  sir,  no  man  that  has  seen  the 
world,  and  knows  its  ujjs  and  dowTis,  would 
comphdu  of  sich  a  ilinner  as  that.  Do  you 
wish  for  any  hquor  ?  But  maybe  you  don't. 
It's  not  every  one  carries  a  full  purse  these 
times  ;  so,  at  any  rate,  have  the  sense  not  to 
go  bej'ant  your  manes,  or  whatsomever  al- 
lowance you  get." 

"  Allowance  !  what  do  you  mean  by  allow- 
ance ■? " 

"I  mane,"  he  rejilied,  "that  there's  not 
such  a  crew  of  barefaced  liars  on  the  airth  as 
you  English  travellers,  as  they  call  you. 
What  do  you  think,  but  one  of  them  had  the 
imperance  to  tell  me  that  he  was  allowed  a 
guinea  a-day  to  live  on  !  Troth,  I  crossed 
myself,  and  bid  him  go  about  his  business, 
an'  tJiat  I  didn't  think  the  house  or  jjlace  was 
safe  while  he  w:is  in  it — for  it's  I  that  has  the 
mortal  hatred  of  a  hai\" 

"  What  licjuor  have  you  got  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  No — if  there's  one  thing  on  au-th  that  I 
hate  worse  than  another,  it's  a  man  that 
.shuffles — that  won't  tell  the  truth,  or  give 
you  a  straight  answer.  We  have  plenty  o' 
liquor  in  the  house — more  than  you'll  use, 
at  any  rate." 

"  Bjt  what  descriptions?  How  many 
kinds  '!  for  instrjice " 


I  "  Kinds  enough,  for  that  matther — all  sorts 
and  sizes  of  liquor." 

"  Have  you  any  mne  ?  " 

"  Wine  !  Well,  now,  let  me  speak  to  you 
as  a  friend  ;  sure,  't  is  n't  wine  you'd  be 
thinking  of  ?  " 

"  But,  if  I  pay  for  it  ?  " 

"  Paj-  for  it — iij,  and  break  yourself — go 
beyaut  your  manes,  as  I  said.  No,  no — 111 
give  you  no  wine — it  would  be  only  aidin' 
you  m  extravagance,  an'  I  wouldn't  have  the 
sin  of  it  to  answer  for.  We  have  all  enough, 
and  too  much  to  answer  for,  God  knows." 

The  last  obseiTation  was  made  )<ullo  voce, 
and  with  the  serious  manner  of  a  man  who 
uttered  it  under  a  deej)  sense  of  reUgious 
truth. 

"  Well,"  rephed  the  stranger,  "  since  you 
won't  allow  me  ■nine,  have  you  no  cheaper 
liquor'?  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  dining  with- 
out something  stronger  than  water." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  yourself.  We 
have  good  jjorther." 

"Bring  me  a  bottle  of  it,  then." 

"It's  beautiful  on  draught." 

"  But  I  prefer  it  in  bottle." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  Lord  helj)  us!  how 
few  is  it  that  knows  what's  good  for  them  \ 
Will  you  give  up  your  own  -niU  for  wjuast, 
and  be  guided  by  a  ■wiser  man '?  for  health 
— an'  sure  health's  before  everything — for 
health,  ever  and  always  jarefer  draught 
porther." 

"  Wei],  then,  since  it  must  be  draught,  I 
shall  prefer  di-aught  ale." 

"  Rank  poison.  Troth,  somehow  I  feel  a 
hking  for  you,  an'  for  that  very  reason,  devil 
a  drop  of  draught  ale  I'U  allow  to  cross  your 
lijis.  Jist  be  guided  by  me,  an'  you'U  find 
that  your  health  an'  pocket  will  both  be  the 
betther  for  it.  Troth,  it's  fat  and  rosy  I'll 
have  you  in  no  time,  all  out,  if  you  stop  with 
us.  Now  ait  your  good  dinner,  and  I'll  bring 
you  the  porther  immediatelj'." 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  asked  the  stranger, 
"before  you  go." 

"I'll  tell  you  when  I  come  back — wait  till 
I  bring  you  the  porther,  first." 

In  the  course  of  about  fifteen  mortal 
minutes,  he  retmiied  with  a  quai't  of  porter 
in  his  hand,  exclaiming — 

"  Bad  luck  to  them  for  jsigs,  thej'  got  into 
the  garden,  and  I  had  to  di-ive  them  out,  and 
cut  a  lump  of  a  bush  to  stoj}  the  gajj  ■wid  ; 
however,  I  think  they  won't  go  back  that  way 
again.  My  name  you  want  ?  Why,  then, 
my  name  is  Paudeen  Gair — that  is,  Sharpe, 
sir ;  but,  m  troth,  it  is  n't  Shaiije  by  name 
and  Sharpe  by  natiu-e  wid  me,  although  you'd 
get  them  that  'ud  say  otherwise." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  asked 
the  other. 


330 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"I've  been  laboriu'  for  tlie master  goin'  on 
fourteen  3'e!irs ;  but  I'm  only  about  twelve 
months  attendin'  table." 

"How  long  has  youi- feUow-servant — Peg- 
gy, I  think,  you  call  her — been  here  ?  " 

"  Not  long." 

"  Where  had  she  been  before,  do  you 
know." 

'    "Do  I  know,  is  it?     Maj'be  'tis  you  may 
say  that." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  don't  understand 
you." 

"I  know  that  well  enough,  and  it  is  n't 
my  intention  you  should." 

"  In  what  fauiilj'  was  she  at  sei-vice." 

"Whisper;  in  a  bad  family,  wid  one  ex- 
cej)tion.  God  protect  livr,  the  darlin' !  Amin  ! 
A  winra  yecUh  ! — an'  may  the  curse  that's 
banging  over  him  never  faU  upon  her  this 
day !  " 

A  kind  and  complacent  sjiirit  beamed  in 
the  fine  eyes  of  the  stranger,  as  the  waiter 
uttei-ed  these  benevolent  invocations ;  and, 
putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  said, 

"  My  good  friend  Paudeen,  I  am  richer 
than  yoii  are  disposed  to  give  me  credit  for  ; 
I  see  you  are  a  good-hearted  feUow,  and 
here's  a  crown  for  you." 

"  No  !  consumin'  to  the  farden,  till  I  know 
whether  you're  able  to  afford  it  or  not.  It's 
always  them  that  has  least  of  it,  unfortu- 
nately, that's  readiest  to  give  it.  I  have  known 
manj'  a  foolish  creature  to  do  what  you  are 
doing,  when,  if  the  truth  was  known,  they 
could  badly  spare  it ;  but,  at  any  rate,  wait 
till  I  deserve  it ;  for,  upon  my  reputaytion, 
I  won't  finger  a  testher  of  it  sooner." 

He  then  withdrew,  and  left  the  other  to 
finish  his  dinner  as  best  he  might. 

For  the  next  thi-ee  or  four  days  the  stran- 
ger confined  himself  mostly  to  his  room, 
unless  about  dusk,  when  he  glided  out  very 
quietly,  and  disapjjeared  rather  like  a  spirit 
than  anything  else  ;  for,  in  point  of  fact,  no 
one  could  tell  what  had  become  of  him,  or 
where  he  could  have  concealed  himself,  dur- 
ing these  brief  but  mysterious  absences. 
Paudeen  Gair  and  Peggy  obsen'ed  that  he 
wi'ote  at  least  three  or  four  letters  every  day, 
and  knew  that  he  must  have  put  them  into 
the  post-office  with  his  own  hands,  inasmuch 
us  no  j)erson  connected  with  the  inn  had 
been  employed  for  that  pui-pose. 

On  the  fourth  day,  after  breakfast,  and  as 
Pat  Sharpe — by  which  version  of  his  name 
he  was  sometimes  addressed — was  about  to 
take  away  the  things,  his  guest  entered  into 
conversation  with  him  as  follows  : 

"  Paudeen,  my  good  fi'iend,  can  you  tell 
me  where  the  wild,  ragged  fellow,  called 
Fenton,  could  be  foimd  ?  " 

"  I   can,    sir.      Fenton  ?     Begorra,    you'd 


hardly  know  him  if  you  seen  him  ;  he's  as 
smooth  as  a  new  pin — has  a  plain,  daicent 
suit  o'  clothes  on  him.  It's  whispered  about 
among  us  this  long  time,  that,  if  he  had  his 
rights,  he'd  be  entitled  to  a  great  p)roperty; 
and  some  j^eople  say  now  that  he  has  come 
into  a  part  of  it." 

"And  pray,  what  else  do  they  say  oi 
him?" 

"Why,  then,  I  heard  Father  M'Mahon 
himself  say  that  he  had  great  leamin',  an' 
must  a'  had  fine  broughten-uj),  an'  could  act 
the  real  gintleman  whenever  he  wished." 

"  Is  it  known  who  he  is,  or  whether  he  is 
a  native  of  this  neighborhood  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  he  doesn't  belong  to  this  neigh- 
borhood ;  an'  the  truth  is,  that  nobody  here 
that  ever  I  heard  of  knows  anything  at  aU, 
barrin'  guesswork,  about  the  unfortunate 
poor  creature.  If  ever  he  was  a  gintleman," 
exclaimed  the  kind-hearted  waiter,  "  he's 
surely  to  be  pitied,  when  one  sees  the  dtate 
he's  Ijrought  to." 

"  Well,  Paudeen,  will  yoii  fetch  him  to 
me,  if  you  know  where  he  is  ?  Say  I  wish 
to  see  him." 

"\\Tiat  name,  if  you  plaise?"  asked  the 
waiter,  with  assumed  indifference  ;  for  the 
truth  was,  that  the  whole  establishment  felt 
a  very  natiu-al  curiosity  to  know  who  the 
stranger  was. 

"  Never  mind  the  name,  Paudeen,  but  say 
as  I  desii'e  you." 

Paudeen  had  no  sooner  disajijieared  than 
the  anonymous  gentleman  went  to  one  of  liis 
trunks,  and,  pulling  out  a  very  small  minia- 
ture, sui-veyed  it  for  nearly  half  a  minute  ; 
he  then  looked  into  the  fire,  and  seemed  ab- 
sorbed in  long  and  deep  reflection.  At 
length,  after  once  more  gazing  closely  and 
earnestly  at  it,  he  broke  involimtarily  into 
the  following  soliloquy : 

"I  know,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  resem- 
blances are  often  deceitful,  and  not  to  be  de- 
pended upon.  In  this  case,  however,  tliere  is 
scarcely  a  trace  that  could  constitute  any 
particiilar  peculiaritj-— a  peculiarity  which, 
if  it  existed,  would  strengthen — I  know  not 
whether  to  say — my  suspicions  or  my  hopes. 
The  early  disapjiearance  of  that  poor  boy, 
without  the  existence  of  a  single  vestige  by 
which  he  could  be  traced,  resembles  one  of 
those  mysteries  that  are  found  only  in  ro- 
mances. The  general  opinion  is,  that  he  has 
been  made  away  -nith,  and  is  long  dead  ;  yet 
of  late,  a  different  impression  has  gone 
abroad,  although  we  know  not  exactly  how 
it  has  originated." 

He  then  paced,  with  a  countenance  of 
gloom,  uncertainty,  and  deep  anxiety, 
thi-ough  the  room,  and  after  a  Little  time, 
proceeded : 


THE  BLACK  BAROIJET. 


331 


"  I  shall,  at  all  events,  enter  into  conversa- 
tion with  this  i^ersou,  after  which  I  will  make 
inquiries  concerniucf  the  gentry  and  nohUity 
of  the  neighborhood,  when  I  tliiuk  I  shall  be 
able  to  observe  whether  he  wUl  pass  the 
Gourlay  family  over,  or  betray  any  conscious- 
ness of  a  particular  knowledge  of  theu-  past 
or  2)resent  circumstances.  'Tis  true,  he  may 
overreach  me  ;  but  if  he  does,  I  cannot  helj) 
it.  Yet,  after  all,"  he  pi'oceeded,  "if  he 
should  prove  to  be  the  jjersou  I  seek,  every- 
thing may  go  well ;  I  certainly  obseiTed 
faint  traces  of  an  honorable  feeling  about 
him  when  I  gave  him  the  money,  which, 
notwithstantling  his  indigence  and  dissipa- 
tion, he  for  a  time  refused  to  take." 

He  then  resumed  his  seat,  and  seemed 
once  more  buried  in  thought  and  abstrac- 
tion. 

Our  friend  Paudeen  was  not  long  in  find- 
ing the  unfortunate  object  of  the  stranger's 
contemplation  and  interest.  On  meeting 
him,  he  perceived  that  he  was  shghtly  affect- 
ed with  liquor,  as  indeed  was  the  case  gen- 
erally whenever  he  could  procure  it. 

"  Misther  Penton,"  said  Paudeen,  "there's 
a  daicent  person  in  oxu-  house  that  wishes  to 
see  you." 

"  Who  do  you  call  a  decent  person,  you 
bog-trotting  Ganymede  ?  "  replied  the  other. 

"  Why,  a  daicent  tradesm.an,  I  think,  from 
— thin  sorra  one  of  me  knows  whether  I 
ought  to  say  fi'om  Dublin  or  London." 

"  What  trade,  Ganymede  ?  " 

"  Troth,  that's  more  than  I  can  tell ;  but  I 
know  that  he  wants  you,  for  he  sent  me  to 
bring  you  to  him." 

"  Well,  Ganymede,  I  shall  see  your  trades- 
man," he  rej^lied.  "  Come,  I  shall  go  to 
him." 

On  reaching  the  inn,  Paudeen,  in  order  to 
discharge  the  commission  intnisted  to  him 
fully,  ushered  Penton  upstairs,  and  into  the 
stranger's  sitting-room.  "  ^^^lat's  this?" 
exclaimed  Penton.  "  Why,  you  have  brought 
me  to  the  wrong  room,  you  blundering  vil- 
lain. I  thought  you  were  conducting  me  to 
some  worthy  tradesman.  You  have  mistaken 
the  room,  you  blockhead  ;  this  is  a  gentle- 
man. How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  I  hope  you 
will  excuse  this  intrusion  ;  it  is  quite  unin- 
tentional on  my  part ;  yet  I  am  glad  to  see 
you-" 

"  There  is  no  mistake  at  all  in  it,"  rejjlied 
the  other,  laughing.  "That  wiU  do,  Pau- 
deen," he  added — "thank  you." 

"Faix,"  said  Paudeen  to  himself,  when  de- 
scending the  stairs,  "  I'm  afeard  that's  no 
tradesman — whatever  he  is.  He  took  on 
him  a  look  like  a  lord  when  that  unfortunate 
Penton  weiit  into  the  room.  Troth,  I'm 
fau'ly  puzzled,  at  any  rate  !  " 


"Take  a  esat,  Mr.  Penton,"  said  the 
stranger,  handma;  him  a  chair,  and  address- 
ing him  in  terms  of  respect.  » 

"  Thank,  you,  sir, '  re2>lied  the  other,  put- 
ting, at  the  same  time,  a  certain  degree  of 
restraint  upon  his  manner,  for  he  felt  con- 
scious of  being  slightly  infiuenced  by  liquor. 

"Well,"  continued  the  stranger,  "I  am 
glad  to  see  that  you  have  improved  your  ap- 
pearance." 

"  Ay,  certainly,  sir,  as  far  a,^  f'lur  pounds 
— or,  I  should  rather  say,  three  pounds  went, 
I  did  something  for  the  outer  mon." 

"  Why  not  the  five  ?  "  asked  the  other.  "I 
wished  you  to  make  yourself  as  comfortable 
as  possible,  and  did  not  imagine  ;5'oa  "ould 
have  done  it  for  less." 

"  No,  sir,  not  properly,  according  ^o  the 
standard  of  a  gentleman  ;  but  I  assure  you, 
that,  if  I  were  in  a  state  of  utter  and  absolute 
starvation,  I  would  not  part  with  one  of  tiie 
notes  you  so  generously  gave  me,  scai'cely 
to  save  my  life." 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger,  with  a  good 
deal  of  surprise.  "  And  pray,  why  not,  may 
I  ask?" 

"Simi^ly,"  said  Penton,  "because  I  have 
taken  a  fancy  for  it  beyond  its  value.  I  shall 
retain  it  as  pocket-money.  Like  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield's  daughters,  I  shall  always  keep 
it  about  me  ;  and  then,  Uke  them  also,  I  will 
never  want  money." 

"  That  is  a  strange  whim,"  observed  the 
other,  "and  rather  an  unaccountable  one, 
besides." 

"  Not  in  the  slightest  degree,"  rejilied 
Penton,  "  if  you  knew  as  much  as  I  do  ;  but, 
at  all  events,  just  imagine  that  I  am  both 
capricious  and  eccentric  ;  so  don't  be  sur- 
prised at  anything  I  say  or  do." 

"  Neither  shall  I,"  replied  "  the  anony- 
mous." "However,  to  come  to  other  mat- 
ters, i^ray  what  kind  of  a  tovra  is  this  of 
Ballytraiu  ?  " 

"It  is  by  no  means  a  bad  town,"  rejjlied 
Penton,  "  as  towns  and  times  go.  It  has  a 
market-house,  a  gaol,  a  church,  as  you  have 
seen — a  Roman  Catholic  chajjel,  and  a  place 
of  worship  for  the  Presbyterian  and  Metho- 
dist. It  has,  besides,  that  characteristic 
locality,  either  of  Enghsh  legislation  or  Ii-ish 
crimes — or,  perhaps,  of  both — a  gallows- 
green.  It  has  a  luibhc  punq"),  tliat  has  been 
pei-mitted  to  rmi  dry,  and  public  stocks  for 
limbs  like  those  of  your  humble  servant,  that 
are  permitted  to  stand  (the  stocks  I  mean) 
as  a  libel  upon  the  inofl:"ensive  morals  of  the 
toAvn." 

"How  are  commercial  matters  in  it?" 

"  Tolerable.  Our  shopkeepers  arc  all  very 
fair  as  shopkeepers.  But,  talking  of  that, 
perhaps  you   are   not  aware   of  a  singuhu; 


332 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


custom  "wliicli  even  I — for  I  am  not  a  native 
of  this  i^lace — have  seen  in  it  ?  " 

"Wliat  may  it  have  been?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"  Whj',  it  was  tliis  :  Of  a  fair  or  market- 
day,"  he  proceeded,  "  there  Uved  a  certain 
shopkeeper  here,  who  is  some  time  dead — 
and  I  meutiou  this  to  show  you  how  the  laws 
were  respected  in  this  country ;  this  shop- 
keeper, sir,  of  a  fair  or  maiket-day  had  a  post 
tliat  ran  from  his  counter  to  the  ceihug  ;  to 
this  post  was  attached  a  single  handcuii)  and 
it  always  happened  that,  when  any  person 
was  caught  in  the  act  of  committing  a  theft 
in  his  shoj),  one  arm  of  the  oifender  was 
stretched  up  to  this  handcuff,  into  which  the 
wrist  was  locked  ;  and,  as  the  handcuff  was 
movable,  so  that  it  might  be  raised  up  or 
down,  according  to  the  height  of  the  culprit, 
it  was  generally  fastened  so  that  the  latter  was 
■  forced  to  stand  ujion  the  tojj  of  his  toes  so 
long  as  was  agreeable  to  the  shopkeeper  of 
whom  I  speak." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say,"  replied  his 
companion,  who,  by  the  way,  had  witnessed 
the  circumstances  ten  times  for  Fenton's 
once,  "  that  such  an  outrage  upon  the  right 
of  the  subject,  and  such  a  contempt  for  the 
administration  of  law  and  justice,  coidd  act- 
ually occur  in  a  Christian  and  civilized  coun- 
try?" 

"  I  state  to  you  a  fact,  sir,"  repUed  Fen- 
ton,  "which  I  have  witnessed  with  my  own 
eyes  ;  but  we  have  still  stranger  and  worse 
usages  in  this  locality." 

"  WTiat  description  of  gentry  and  landed 
proprietors  have  you  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ?  " 

"  Hum  !  as  to  that,  there  are  some  good, 
more  bad,  and  many  indifferent,  among 
fliem.  Their  great  fault  ui  general  is,  that 
'hey  are  incajaable  of  sympathizmg,  as  they 
lught,  with  their  dependents.  The  pride  of 
^lass,  and  the  influence  of  creed  besides,  are 
too  frequently  impediments,  not  only  to  the 
progress  of  their  owii  independence,  but  to  the 
imjjrovemeut  of  their  tenantry.  Then,  many 
of  them  employ  servile,  plausible,  and  un- 
principled agents,  who,  provided  they  wring 
the  rent,  by  every  species  of  severity  and 
oppression,  out  of  the  people,  are  considered 
by  their  employers  valuable  and  honest  ser- 
vants, faithfully  devoted  to  their  interests  ; 
whilst  the  fact  on  the  other  side  is,  that  the 
unfortimate  tenantry  are  every  day  so  rapidly 
retrograding  fi'om  inosperity,  that  most  of 
the  neglected  and  ojipressed  who  possess 
means  to  leave  the  country  emigTate  to 
j^m  erica." 

"Why,  Fenton,  I  did  not  think  that  you 
looked  so  deeply  into  the  state  and  condition 
©f  the  coimtry.     Have  you  no  good  speci- 


mens of  chai'acfcer  in  or  about  the  town  it- 
self?" 

"  Unquestionably,  sir.  Look  out  now  from 
tliis  wiudow,"  he  proceeded,  and  he  went  to 
it  as  he  spoke,  accompanied  by  the  stranger  ; 
"  do  you  see,"  he  added,  "  that  unostenta- 
tious sliof),  -nith  the  name  of  James  Trimble 
over  the  door  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  other,  "I  see  it 
most  distinctly." 

"  Well,  sh",  in  that  shop  lives  a  man  who  is 
ten  times  a  greater  benefactor  to  this  town 
and  neighborhood  than  is  the  honorable  and 
right  reverend  the  lordly  prelate,  whose 
silent  and  untenanted  palace  stands  immedi- 
ately behind  us.  In  every  position  in  which 
you  find  him,  this  admirable  but  unassum- 
ing man  is  always  the  friend  of  the  poor. 
When  an  industrious  family,  who  find  that 
they  cannot  wring  iudejjendence,  by  hard 
and  honest  labor,  out  of  the  farms  or  other 
little  tenements  which  they  hold,  have  re- 
solved to  seek  it  in  a  more  jarosperous 
country,  America,  the  first  man  to  whom 
they  ajiply,  if  deficient  in  means  to  accom- 
plish theii'  purpose,  is  James  Trimble.  In 
him  they  find  a  friend,  if  he  knows,  as  he 
usually  does,  that  they  have  passed  through 
hfe  with  a  character  of  worth  and  hereditaiy 
integrity.  If  they  want  a  j^ortion  of  their 
outfit,  and  possess  not  means  to  jirocure  it, 
ui  kiud-heai'ted  James  Trimble  they  are  cer- 
tain to  And  a  friend,  who  will  supply  their 
necessities  upon  the  strength  of  their  bare 
promise  to  repay  him.  Honor,  then — honor, 
sii',  I  say  again,  to  the  imexamjjled  faith, 
truth,  and  high  2">rmciple  of  the  industrious 
Irish  peasant,  who,  in  no  instance,  even  al- 
though the  broad  Atlantic  has  been  placed 
between  them,  has  been  known  to  defraud 
James  Trimble  of  a  single  shdlmg.  Li  all 
parochiid  and  pubhc  meetings — in  every 
position  where  his  influence  can  be  used — he 
is  uniformly  the  friend  of  the  i:)oor,  whUst 
his  high  but  unassuming  sense  of  honor,  his 
successful  industry,  and  his  firm,  unshrink- 
ing indejjendence,  make  him  equally  ajipre- 
ciated  and  respected  by  the  rich  and  poor.  Li 
fact,  it  is  such  men  as  this  who  are  the  most 
unostentatious  but  practical  benefactors  to 
the  lower  and  middle  classes." 

He  had  proceeded  thus  far,  when  a  car- 
riage-and-four  came  dashing  iip  tJie  street, 
and  stojjped  at  the  very  shop  which  be- 
longed to  the  subject  of  Fenton's  eulogium. 
Both  went  to  the  window  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  looked  out. 

"Pray,  whose  carriage  is  that?"  asked 
the  stranger,  fastening  his  eyes,  with  a  look 
of  intense  sci-utiuy,  upon  Fenton's  face. 

"That,  SU-,"  he  replied,  "is  the  carriage 
of  Sk-  Thomas  Gom-laj'.'' 


THE  BLACK  J3AR0XET. 


333 


As  lie  spoke,  the  door  of  it  was  o^jened, 
and  a  lady  of  siu'passing  elegance  and 
beauty  stepped  out  of  it,  and  entered  the 
shop  of  the  benevolent  James  Trimble. 

"  Pray,  who  is  that  chiirmiag  girl  ?  "  asked 
the  stranger  again. 

To  this  interrogatory,  however,  he  re- 
ceived no  reply.  Poor  Fenton  tottered  over 
to  a  chair,  became  pale  as  death,  and  trem- 
bled with  such  violence  that  he  was  incapa- 
ble, for  the  time,  of  utteruig  a  single  word. 

"  Do  you  know,  or  have  you  ever  known, 
this  family  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

After  a  pause  of  more  than  a  minute, 
during  which  the  emotion  subsided,  he 
replied : 

"  I  have  already  said  that  I  could  not — " 
he  paused.  "  I  am  not  well,"  said  he  ;  "I 
am  quite  feeble — in  fact,  not  in  a  condition 
to  answer  anything.  Do  not,  therefore, 
ask  me — for  the  present,  at  least." 

Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed 
before  he  succeeded  in  mastering  this  sin- 
gular attack.  At  length  he  rose,  and  pla- 
cing his  chair  somewhat  further  back  fi'om 
the  window,  continued  to  look  out  in  silence, 
not  so  much  from  love  of  silence,  as  ap- 
parently from  inabihty  to  speak.  The  stran- 
ger, in  the  mean  time,  eyed  him  keenly  ; 
and  as  he  examined  his  features  from  time 
to  time,  it  might  be  observed  that  an  ex- 
pression of  satisfaction,  if  not  almost  of 
certainty,  settled  upon  his  own  countenance. 
In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  sound  of  the 
carriage-wheels  was  heard  on  its  return,  and 
Fenton,  who  seemed  to  dread  also  a  return  of 
liis  illness,  said : 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  sir,  be  good  enough 
to  raise  the  window  and  let  in  air.  Thank 
you,  sir." 

The  carriage,  on  this  occasion,  was  pro- 
ceeding more  slowly  than  before — in  fact, 
owing  to  a  slight  acclivity  in  that  part  of 
the  street,  the  horses  were  leisurely  walking 
past  the  inn  window  at  the  moment  the 
stranger  raised  it.  The  noise  of  the  ascending 
sash  reached  jMiss  Gourlay  (for  it  was  she), 
who,  on  looking  up,  crimsoned  deeply,  and, 
with  one  long  taper  finger  on  her  lips,  as  if 
to  intimate  caution  and  silence,  bowed  to 
the  stranger.  The  latter,  who  had  presence 
of  mind  enough  to  observe  the  hint,  did 
not  bow  in  return,  and  consequently  declined 
to  approjmate  the  comi^Ument  to  himself. 
Fenton  now  sui"veyed  his  companion  with 
an  ajipearance  of  as  mvich  interest  and  curi- 
osity as  the  other  had  bestowed  on  him. 
He  felt,  however,  as  if  his  jihysical  powers 
were  wholly  j)rosti'ated. 

"  I  am  very  weak,"  said  he,  bitterly,  "and 
neai-  the  close  of  my  brief  and  luihappy  day. 
I  have,  however,  one  cure — get  me  drink — 


di'ink,  I  say ;  that  is  what  will  rerive  me.. 
Sir,  my  Hfe,  for  the  last  fourteen  years,  has 
been  a  battle  against  thought ;  and  without 
di'ink  I  should  be  a  madman — a  madman  ! 
oh,  God  ! " 

The  other  remonstrated  with  him  in  vain  ; 
but  he  was  inexorable,  and  began  to  get  fierce 
and  frantic.  At  length,  it  occurred  to  him, 
that  perhaps  the  influence  of  liquor  might 
render  this  strange  iudiridual  more  com- 
municative, and  that  by  this  means  he  might 
succeed  in  relieving  himself  of  his  doubts — 
for  he  still  had  doubts  touching  Fenton's 
identity.  In  this,  hov.'ever,  he  was  disap- 
25ointed,  as  a  circumstance  occuiTed  which 
prevented  him  from  then  gratifying  Fenton's 
wish,  or  wiiminET  him  into  confidence. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

An  Anonymous  Letter — Lucy  Oourlay  avows  a  pre^ 
nious  AtUichment. 

Whilst  Fenton  was  thus  sketching  for  the 
stranger  a  few  of  the  public  characters  of 
Ballytrain,  a  scene,  which  we  must  iuteiTupt 
them  to  deGcribe,  was  taking  place  in  the 
coftee-room  of  the  "Mitre."  As  everything, 
however,  has  an  origin,  it  is  necessary,  be- 
fore we  raise  the  curtain,  which,  for  the 
present,  excludes  us  fi'om  that  scene,  to  en- 
able the  reader  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  cause  of  it.  That  morning,  after  break- 
fast. Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  went  to  his  study, 
where,  as  usual,  he  began  to  read  his  letters 
and  endorse  them — for  he  happened  to  be 
one  of  those  orderly  and  exact  men  who 
cannot  bear  to  see  even  a  trifle  out  of  its 
place.  Having  despatched  three  or  four,  he 
took  up  one — the  last — and  on  ojjening  it 
read,  much  to  hi.^  astonishment  and  dismay, 
as  follows ; 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay, — There  is  an  ad- 
venturer in  disguise  near  you.  Beware  of 
your  daughter,  and  watch  her  well,  other- 
wise she  may  give  you  the  sUp.  I  write 
this,  that  you  may  prevent  her  fi'om  throw- 
ing herself  awaj-  upon  an  impostor  and 
profhgate.  I  am  a  friend  to  her,  but  none  to 
you;  and  it  is  on  her  accoimt,  as  well  as  for 
the  sake  of  another,  that  you  are  now 
warned." 

On  perusing  this  uncomfortable  docu- 
ment, his  whole  frame  became  moved  with 
a  most  vehement  fit  of  indignation.  He 
rose  fi-om  his  seat,  and  began  to  traverse 
the  floor  with  lengthy  and  solemn  strides, 
as  a  man  usually  does  who  knows  not  exactly 
on  whom  to  vent  his  rage.     There  hung  a 


334 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


large  mirror  before  him,  and,  as  he  ap- 
proached it  from  time  to  time,  he  coiild  not 
helj)  being  stiniek  by  the  rejsnlsive  expres- 
sion of  his  own  featuies.  He  was  a  tall, 
weighty  man,  of  large  bones  and  muscles  ; 
his  complexion  was  sallow,  on  a  black 
ground  ;  his  face  firm,  but  angular  ;  and  his 
forehead,  wliich  was  low,  projected  a  good 
deal  over  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  in  one  of 
which  there  was  a  fearful  squint.  His  ej"e- 
brows,  which  met,  were  black,  fierce-looking, 
and  bushy,  and,  when  agitated,  as  now, 
with  joassion,  they  jJi'esented,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  his  hard,  irascible  lijDS,  short 
iiTegular  teeth  and  whole  complexion,  an 
expression  singularly  stern  and  maUgnant. 

On  looking  at  his  own  image,  he  could 
not  helj)  feeling  the  conviction,  that  the  vis- 
age which  presented  itself  to  him  was  not 
such  a  one  as  was  calculated  to  diminish  the 
unpopularity  which  accomj)anied  him  wher- 
ever he  went,  and  the  obloquy  which  hvmg 
over  his  name. 

Sii-  Thomas  Gourlay,  however,  although 
an  exceedingly  forbidding  and  ugly  man, 
was  neither  a  fool  nor  novice  in  the  ways  of 
the  world.  No  man  could  look  upon  his 
plotting  forehead,  and  sunken  eyes  closely 
placed,  without  feeling  at  once  that  he  was 
naturallj-  cunning  and  circnmventive.  Nor 
was  this  aU  ;  along  with  being  deep  and 
designing,  he  was  also  subject  to  sudden 
bursts  of  passion,  which,  although  usual  in 
such  a  temperament,  did  not  suddenly  pass 
awaj'.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  some- 
times at  once  so  tempestuous  and  abiding, 
that  he  had  been  rendered  ill  by  their  fury, 
and  forced  to  take  to  his  bed  for  days  to- 
gether. On  the  present  occasion,  a  consid- 
erable portion  of  his  indignation  was  caused 
by  the  fact,  that  he  knew  not  the  individual 
against  whom  to  direct  it.  His  daughter, 
as  a  daucjhter,  had  been  to  him  an  object  of 
perfect  indifference,  from  the  day  of  her 
birth  ujj  to  that  moment ;  that  is  to  say,  he 
was  utterly  devoid  of  all  ]xr»oiial  love  and 
tenderness  for  her,  whilst,  at  the  same  time, 
he  experienced,  in  its  full  force,  a  cold,  con- 
ventional ambition,  which,  although  without 
honor,  principle,  or  affection,  yet  occasioned 
him  to  devote  all  his  efforts  and  energies  to 
her  proper  establishment  in  the  world.  In 
her  early  youth,  for  instance,  she  had  suf- 
fered much  fi'om  delicate  health,  so  much, 
indeed,  that  she  was  more  than  once  on  the 
very  verge  of  death  ;  yet,  on  no  occasion, 
was  he  ever  known  to  manifest  the  slightest 
parental  soitow  for  her  iUness.  Society, 
however,  is  fiUed  with  such  fathers,  and  with 
too  many  mothers  of  a  like  stamj).  So  far, 
however,  as  Lucy  Gourlay  was  concerned, 
this  proud,  imi)rincipled  spirit  of  the  world 


supplied  to  her,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least, 
the  possession  of  that  which  affection  ought 
to  have  given.  Her  education  was  attended 
to  Tvith  the  most  soUcitous  anxiety — not  in 
order  to  furnish  her  mind  with  that  healthy 
description  of  knowledge  which  strengthens 
principle  and  elevates  the  heart,  but  that 
she  might  become  a  perfect  mistress  of  aU 
the  necessary  and  fashionable  accomphsh- 
nients,  and  shine,  at  a  future  day,  an  object 
of  attraction  on  that  account.  A  long  and 
expensive  array  of  masters,  mistresses,  and 
finishers,  from  almost  every  climate  and 
counti-y  of  Europe,  were  engaged  in  her 
education,  and  the  consequence  was,  that 
few  young  persons  of  her  age  and  sex  were 
more  higlily  accomplished.  If  his  daughter's 
head  ached,  her  father  never  suffered  that 
circumstance  to  distiu-b  the  cold,  stem  tenor 
of  his  ambitious  way  ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
two  or  three  of  the  most  eminent  j)hysicians 
were  sent  for,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
then  there  were  nothing  but  consulta- 
tions until  she  recovered.  Had  she  died, 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  would  not  have  shed 
one  tear,  but  he  would  have  had  all  the 
pom}?  and  ceremony  due  to  her  station  in 
Ufe  solemnly  ^jaraded  at  her  funeral,  and  it 
is  very  Ukely  that  one  or  other  of  our  emi- 
nent countrymen,  Hogan  or  M'Dowall,  had 
they  then  existed,  would  have  been  engaged 
to  erect  her  a  monument. 

And  yet  the  feeling  which  he  experienced, 
and  which  regTilated  his  hfe,  was,  after  all, 
but  a  poor  pitiful  parody  uijon  true  ambi- 
tion. The  latter  is  a  great  and  glorious 
piriuciple,  because,  where  it  exists,  it  never 
fails  to  expand  the  heart,  and  to  prompt  it 
to  the  performance  of  all  those  actions  that 
elevate  our  condition  and  dignify  our  nature. 
Had  he  exjaerienced  anything  like  such  a 
feeling  as  this,  or  even  the  beautiful  instincts 
of  j)arental  affection,  he  would  not  have  neg- 
lected, as  he  did,  the  inciilcation  of  all  those 
virtues  and  princijiles  which  render  educa- 
tion valuable,  and  prevent  it  fi-om  degen- 
erating into  an  empty  parade  of  mere  accom- 
Ijlishments. 

It  is  true,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  enjoyed 
the  reputation  of  being  an  admirable  father, 
and,  indeed,  from  mere  worldly  jjriucijile  he 
was  so,  and  we  presume  gave  himself  credit 
for  being  so.  In  the  mean  time,  our  readers 
are  to  learn  that  earth  scarcely  contained  a 
man  who  possessed  a  greedier  or  more  ra- 
j)acious  spirit  ;  and,  if  ever  the  demon  of 
envy,  especially  with  respect  to  the  j^osses- 
sion  of  wealth  and  property,  tortured  the 
soul  of  a  human  being,  it  did  that  of  our 
baronet.  His  whole  spirit,  in  fact,  was  dark, 
mean,  and  intensely  selfish  ;  and  for  this 
reason,  it  was  a  fearful  thing  for  any  one  to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


333 


stand  in  his  way  when  iu  the  execution  of 
his  sordid  projects,  much  less  to  attempt  his 
defeat  in  their  attainment.  Reckless  and 
unscrupulous,  he  left  no  means  uuattempted, 
however  odious  and  wicked,  to  crash  those 
who  offended  him,  or  such  as  stood  in  the 
tvay  of  his  love  of  wealth  and  ambition. 

For  some  minutes  after  the  perusal  of  the 
auonj'mous  letter,  one  woidd  have  imagined 
that  the  image  which  met  his  gaze,  from 
time  to  time,  in  the  looking-glass,  was  that 
of  his  worst  and  deadliest  enemy,  so  fierce 
and  menacing  were  the  glances  which  he 
cast  on  it  as  he  paced  the  floor.  At  length 
he  took  up  the  document,  and,  having  read 
it  again,  exclaimed : 

"PerhajDS,  after  all,  I'm  augry  to  no  pur- 
pose ;  certainly  to  no  purpose,  in  one  sense, 
I  am,  inasmuch  as  I  know  not  who  this 
anonymous  person  is.  But  stay,  let  me  he 
cautious — w  there  such  a  person  '?  May  this 
communication  not  be  a  false  one — written 
to  mislead  or  provoke  me  ?  Lucy  knows 
that  I  am  determined  she  shall  marry  Lord 
Dunroe,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  she  enter- 
tains any  peculiar  objection  to  him.  In  the 
mean  time,  I  ^^ill  have  some  conversation 
with  her,  iu  order  to  ascertain  what  her 
present  and  immediate  feeling  on  the  sub- 
ject is.  It  is  right  that  I  should  see  my 
way  in  this." 

He  accordingly  rang  the  bell,  when  a 
well-powdered  footman,  in  rich  livery,  en- 
tered. 

"  Let  jMiss  Gourlay  understand  that  I 
wish  to  see  her." 

This  he  uttered  in  a  loud,  sharp  tone  of 
voice,  for  it  was  in  such  he  uniformly  ad- 
dressed his  dependents. 

The  lackey  bowed  and  withdrew,  and,  in 
the  course  oi  a  few  minutes,  his  daugliter 
entered  the  studj',  and  stood  before  him. 
At  the  first  glance,  she  saw  that  something 
had  discomj^osed  him,  and  felt  a  kind  of  in- 
stinctive impression  that  it  was  more  or  less 
connected  with  herself. 

Seldom,  indeed,  was  such  a  contrast  be- 
tween man  and  woman  ever  witnessed,  as 
that  which  presented  itself  on  this  occasion. 
There  stood  the  large,  ungaiulj-,  almost  mis- 
shajjen  father,  with  a  countenance  distorted, 
by  the  consequences  of  iU-supjsressed  pas- 
sion, into  a  deeper  defonuity — a  deformity 
that  was  rendered  ludicrously  hideous,  by  a 
squint  that  gave,  as  we  have  said,  to  one  of 
his  eyes,  as  he  looked  at  her,  the  almost  lit- 
eral exj)ression  of  a  dagger.  Before  him, 
on  the  other  hand,  stood  a  girl,  whose  stat-  1 
ui'e  was  above  the  middle  height,  with  a 
form  that  breathed  of  elegance,  ease,  and 
that  exquisite  grace  which  marks  everj'  look, 
and  word,  and  motion  of  the  high-minded  , 


and  accomplished  lady.  Lideed,  one  r^ould 
imagine  that  her  appearance  would  have 
soothed  and  tranquillized  the  anger  of  any 
parent  capaljle  of  feeling  that  glowing  and 
prideful  tenderness,  with  which  such  an  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  creature  was  calculated 
to  iiU  a  ijareuts  heart.  Lucy  Gourlay  was  a 
dark  beauty — a  bnanette  so  richly  tinted, 
that  the  glow  of  her  cheek  was  only  sur- 
passed bj'  the  flashing  brilliancy  of  her 
large,  dark  eyes,  that  seemed,  in  those 
glorious  manifestations,  to  kindle  with  in- 
spiration. Her  forehead  was  eminently  in- 
tellectual, and  her  general  tempei'ament — 
Celtic  by  the  mother's  side — was  remarkable 
for  those  fascinating  transitions  of  spirit 
which  jsassed  over  her  countenance  like  the 
gloom  and  sunshine  of  the  early  summer. 
Nothing  coidd  be  more  delightful,  nor,  at 
the  same  time,  more  dangerous,  than  to 
watch  that  countenance  whilst  moving  under 
the  influence  of  melancholy,  and  to  observe 
how  quickly  the  depths  of  feeling,  or  the 
impulses  of  tenderness,  threw  their  deh- 
cious  shadows  into  its  expression — unless, 
indeed,  to  watch  the  same  face  when  ht  up 
by  humor,  and  animated  into  radiance  by 
mirth.  Such  is  a  faint  outhne  of  Lucy 
Gourlay,  who,  whether  in  shadow  or  whether 
in  hght,  was  equally  captivating  and  in-e- 
sistible. 

On  entering  the  room,  her  father,  incapa- 
ble of  apiDreciating  even  the  natui-al  grace.s 
and  beauty  of  her  person,  looked  at  her 
with  a  gaze  of  sternness  and  inquiry  for 
some  moments,  but  seemed  at  a  loss  in  what 
terms  to  address  her.  She,  however,  spoke 
first,  simply  saj-ing : 

"  Has  anything  discomposed  you,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  discomjjosed.  Miss  Gourlay  " 
— for  he  seldom  addressed  her  as  Lucy — 
"  and  I  wish  to  have  some  serious  conversa- 
tion with  you.     Praj'  be  seated." 

Lucy  sat. 

"  I  trust.  Miss  Gourlay,"  he  firoceeded,  in  a 
style  partly  interrogatory  and  partly  didactic 
—  "I  trust  you  are  perfectly  sensible  that  a 
child  like  you  owes  fuU  and  unUmited  obedi- 
ence to  her  parents." 

"  So  long,  at  least,  sir,  as  her  parents  ex- 
act no  duties  from  her  that  are  either  un- 
reasonable or  unjust,  or  calculated  to  de- 
stroy her  own  happiness.  With  these  limi- 
tations, I  reply  in  the  affirmative." 

"AgirlUke  you,  ]Miss  Gourlay,  has  no 
right  to  make  exceptions.  Your  want  of 
experience,  which  is  only  another  name  for 
your  ignorance  of  hfe,  renders  you  incom- 
petent to  form  an  estimate  of  what  consti- 
tutes, or  may  constitute,  your  happiness." 

"Happiness! — iu  what  .sense,  sir?" 

"In  any  sense,  madam." 


336 


WILLIAM  CABLET  ON 'S   WORKS. 


"  Madam  !  "  she  rejolied,  with  much  feel- 
ing. "  Dear  paj^a — if  j'oii  will  allow  me  to 
call  3-011  so — why  address  me  in  a  tone  of 
such  coldness,  if  iwt  of  severity  ?  All  I  ask 
of  you  is,  that,  when  you  do  honor  me  by  an 
interview,  you  will  remember  that  I  am  your 
daughter,  and  not  speak  to  me  as  you  would 
to  an  litter  stranger." 

"  The  tone  which  I  may  assume  toward 
Tou,  Miss  Goui'lay,  must  be  regulated  by 
your  own  obedience." 

"  But  in  what  have  I  ever  failed  in  obedi- 
ence to  you,  my  dear  paj)a  ?  " 

"Perhaps  you  comjitliment  your  obedience 
prematurely,  Lucy — it  has  never  yet  been 
seriouslj'  tested." 

Her  beautiful  face  crimsoned  at  this  as- 
sertion ;  for  i^-.he  well  knew  that  many  a 
severe  imjjosition  had  been  placed  upon  her 
during  girlhood,  and  that,  had  she  been  any 
other  girl  than  she  was,  her  verj^  youth 
would  have  been  forced  into  opposition  to 
commands  that  originated  in  whim,  cajsrice, 
and  selfishness.  Even  when  countenanced, 
however,  by  the  authority  of  her  other 
parent,  and  absolutely  urged  against  com- 
pliance with  injunctions  that  were  often 
cruel  and  oiajDressive,  she  pi-eferred,  at  any 
risk,  to  accommodate  herself  to  them  rather 
than  become  the  cause  of  estrangement  or 
ill-feeling  between  him  and  her  mother,  or 
her  mother's  friends.  Such  a  charge  as  this, 
then,  was  not  only  ungenerous,  but,  as  he 
must  have  well  known,  utterly  unfounded. 

"  I  do  not  wish,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  to  make 
any  allusion  to  the  past,  unless  simply  to 
say,  that,  if  severe  and  trying  instances  of 
obedience  have  been  exacted  from  me,  under 
very  peculiar  circumstances,  I  trust  I  have 
not  been  found  Avanting  in  my  duty  to  you." 

"  That  obedience.  Miss  Gourlay,  which  is 
reluctantly  given,  had  better  been  forgot- 
ten." 

"  You  have  forced  me  to  remember  it  in 
my  own  defence,  papa  ;  but  I  am  not  con- 
scious that  it  was  reluctant." 

"You  contradict  me,  madam." 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  only  take  the  hberty  of  set- 
ting you  right.  My  obedience,  if  you  recol- 
lect, was  cheerful  ;  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
occasion  ill-will  between  you  and  mamma — 
my  dear  mamma." 

"  I  believe  you  considered  that  you  had 
only  one  parent.  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  That  loved  me,  sir,  j'ou  woiild  add. 
But,  papa,  why  shoiild  there  be  such  a  dia- 
logue as  this  between  you  and  your  daugh- 
ter— ^yoiu'  orjjhan  daughter,  and  your  only 
child  ?  It  is  not  natural.  Something,  I  see, 
has  discomjiosed  your  temper ;  I  am  igno- 
rant of  it." 

'•  I  made  you  aware,  some  time  ago,  that 


the  Earl  of  CuUamore  and  I  had  entered 
into  a  matrimonial  arrangement  between  you 
and  his  son.  Lord  Dunroe." 

A  deadly  paleness  settled  upon  her  coun- 
tenance at  these  words — a  paleness  the  more 
obvious,  as  it  contrasted  so  strongly  with 
the  previous  rich  hiie  of  her  complexion, 
which  had  been  ah'eady  heightened  by  the 
wanton  harslmess  of  her  father's  manner. 
The  baronet's  eyes,  or  rather  his  eye,  was 
fixed  upon  her  with  a  severity  which  this 
incident  rapidly  increased. 

"  You  grow  pale.  Miss  Gourlay ;  and 
there  seems  to  be  something  in  this  allusion 
to  L'ord  Dunroe  that  is  jminful  to  you.  Ho\a 
is  this,  madam  ?  I  do  not  understand  it." 

"I  am,  indeed,  pale,  and  \  feel  that  I  am  : 
for  what  is  there  that  could  drive  the  hue  ol 
modesty  from  the  cheek  of  a  daughtei, 
sooner  than  the  fact  of  her  own  father  pur- 
posing to  unite  her  to  a  i^rofligate  ?  You  sel 
dom  jest,  papa ;  but  I  hope  you  do  so  now." 

"  I  am  not  disjjosed  to  make  a  jest  of  your 
happiness,  Miss  Goiu'lay." 

"  Nor  of  my  misery,  papa.  You  surely 
cannot  but  know — nay,  you  cannot  but  feel — 
that  a  marriage  between  me  and  Lord  Dun- 
roe is  impossible.  His  profligacj'  is  so  gross, 
that  his  very  name  is  indeUcate  in  the 
mouth  of  a  modest  woman.  And  is  this  the 
man  to  whom  you  would  unite  your  only 
child  and  daughter?  But  I  trust  you  still 
jest,  sir.  As  a  man,  and  a  gentleman,  much 
less  as  a  jsarent,  you  would  not  think  seri  • 
ously  of  making  such  a  proposal  to  me  ?  " 

"  All  veiy  line  sentiment — very  fine  stujT 
and  nonsense,  madam  ;  the  young  man  is  .-i 
little  wild — somewhat  lavish  in  exjjendi^ 
tui-e — and  for  the  present  not  very  select  ivi 
the  company  he  keeps  ;  but  he  is  no  fool,  as> 
they  say,  and  we  all  know  how  marriage  re- 
forms a  man,  and  thorouglily  sobers  him 
down." 

"  Often  at  the  expense,  pajia,"  she  replied 
with  tears,  "of  many  a  broken  heart.  That 
surely,  is  not  a  hajspy  argimient ;  for,  ■gev- 
ha2)s,  after  all,  I  should,  hke  others,  become 
but  a  victim  to  my  ineflectuiil  efforts  at  his 
reformation." 

"  There  is  one  thing.  Miss  Gomiay,  you 
are  certain  to  become,  and  that  is,  Countess 
of  Cullamore,  at  his  father's  death.  Remem- 
ber this  ;  and  remember  also,  that,  victim  or 
no  victim,  I  am  determined  you  shall  marry 
him.  Yes,  you  ^hall  marry  him,"  he  added, 
stamping  with  vehemence,  "  or  be  turned  a 
beggar  upon  the  world.  Become  a  victim, 
indeed !  Begone,  madam,  to  your  room, 
and  prepare  for  that  obedience  which  your 
mother  never  taught  you." 

She  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  with  a  gi'aceful 
inclination  of  her  head,  silently  withdrew. 


'ITIE  BLACK  BARONET. 


33, 


Tliis  dialogue  caused  both  fcitlier  and 
daugliter  much  pain.  Certain  portions  of 
it,  esjjeoially  near  the  close,  were  calculated 
to  force  ujiou  the  memorj'  of  each,  analogies 
that  were  as  distressing  to  the  warm-liearted 
girl,  as  they  were  embarrassing  to  her  pareni. 
The  trutli  was,  that  her  mother,  then  a  year 
dead,  had  indeed  become  a  victim  to  the 
moral  profligacy  of  a  man  in  whose  charac- 
ter there  existed  nothing  whatsoever  to  com- 
pensate her  for  the  utter  absence  of  do- 
mestic afl'ectiou  in  all  its  phases.  His 
princij^al  vices,  so  far  as  they  alfepted  the 
peace  of  his  family,  were  a  brutal  temper, 
and  a  most  scandalous  dishonesty  in  pecu- 
niary transactions,  especially  in  his  inter- 
course with  his  own  tenantry  and  tradesmen. 
Of  moral  oljligatiou  he  seemed  to  possess  no 
sense  or  impressicm  whatever.  A  single  day 
never  occurred  in  which  he  was  not  gijilty 
of  some  most  dishonorable  violation  of  his 
word  to  the  f)oor,  and  those  who  were  de- 
pendent on  him.  Dl-temper  therefore 
toward  herself,  and  the  necessity  of  con- 
stantly witnessing  a  series  of  vile  and  un- 
manly fi'auds  upon  a  miserable  scale,  to- 
gether with  her  incessant  eiforts  to  instil 
into  his  mind  some  slight  princifile  of  com- 
mon integrity,  had,  during  an  unhappy  life, 
so  completely  harrassed  a  mind  naturallj' 
pure  and  gentle,  and  a  constitution  never 
strong,  that,  as  her  daughter  hinted,  and  as  | 
eveiy  one  intimate  with  the  family  knew,  j 
she  liter.illy  fell  a  victim  to  the  vices  we  have  \ 
named,  and  the  incessant  anxiety  they  occa- 
sioned her.  These  analogies,  then,  when 
unconsciously  alluded  to  by  his  daughter, 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes,  and  he  felt  that 
the  very  grief  she  evinced  was  an  indirect 
reproach  to  himself. 

■'  Now,"  he  exclaimed,  after  she  had  gone, 
"  it  is  clear,  I  think,  that  the  girl  entertains 
something  hiore  than  a  mere  moral  objec- 
tion to  this  match.  I  would  have  taxed  her 
with  some  previous  engagement,  but  that  I 
fear  it  would  be  premature  to  do  so  at  pres- 
ent. Dunroe  is  wild,  no  doubt  of  it ;  but  I 
cannot  believe  that  women,  who  are  natui-- 
aliy  vain  and  fond  of  display,  feel  so  much 
alarm  at  this  as  they  pretend.  I  never  did 
myself  care  much  about  the  sex,  and  seldom 
had  an  ojiportunity  of  studying  their  gene- 
i-al  character,  or  testing  their  principles ; 
but  still  I  incline  to  the  ojsinion,  that,  where 
tliere  is  nol  a  previous  engagement,  rank 
and  v^ealth  wiU,  for  the  most  jsart,  outweigh 
every  other  considerati<ra.  In  the  meantime 
I  wU  ride  into  BaUytrain,  and  reconnoitre  a 
little.  Perhaps  the  contents  of  this  commu- 
nication are  true — pcrliaps  not  ;  but,  at  all 
events,  it  can  be  no  harm  to  look  about  me 
iu  a  ((uiet  way.'' 


j      He  then  read  the  letter  a  third  time — ex 
!  amiued  the  handwriting  closely — locked  it 
!  in  a  jirivate  drawer — rang  the  bell — ordered 
his  horse — and  in  a  few  minutes  was  about 
'  to  proceed  to  the  "  Mitre  "  inn,  in  order  to 
make  secret  inquiries  after  such  jjersons  as 
he  miglit  find  located  in  that  or  the  other 
i  establishments  of  the  town.      At  this  mo- 
j  meut,  his  daughter  once  more  entered  the 
I  ajjartment,  her  face  glowing  with  deep  agita- 
I  tion,  and  her  large,  mellow  eyes  lit  up  witli 
j  a  fixed,  and,  if  one  could  judge,  a  lofty  pur- 
pose.    Her  reception,  we  need  hardly  say, 
I  was  severe  and  harsh. 

"  How,  madam,"  he  exclaimed,  "  did  I  not 
!  order  you  to  your  room  ?     Do  you  return  to 
bandy  uudutiful  hints  and  arguments  with 
!  me  ?  " 

I  "Father,"  said  she,  "I  am  not  ignorant, 
alas  !  of  your  stern  and  indomitable  charac- 
ter ;  but,  ujjou  the  subject  of  forced  and  un- 
suitable matches,  I  may  and  I  do  appeal 
directly  to  the  experience  of  your  own  mar- 
ried life,  and  of  that  of  my  beloved  motlier. 
She  was,  unhappily  for  herself — " 

"And  for  me,  Mss  Gourlay." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so  ;  but  if  ever  woman 
was  quahtied  to  make  a  man  happy,  she  was. 
At  all  events,  sir,  mihappily  she  was  forced 
into  marriage  with  you,  and  you  deliberately 
took  to  your-  bosom  a  reluctant  Inide.  She 
possessed  extraordinary  beauty,  and  a  large 
fortune.  I,  however,  am  not  alj-nit  to  enter 
into  your  heart,  or  analj'ze  its  nintivi's  ;  it  is 
enough  to  say  that,  although  she  liad  no 
i:)revious  engagement  or  atiection  for  any 
other,  she  was  literally  dragged  bj'  the  force 
of  parental  authority  into  a  union  with  you. 
The  consequence  was,  that  her  whole  life, 
owing  to — to — the  unsuitableness  of  your 
tempers,  and  the  strongly-contrasted  mate- 
rials which  formed  your  characters,  Avas  one 
of  almost  unexamjiled  suffering  and  sorrow 
With  this  example  before  my  eyes,  and  wth 
the  memoiT  of  it  brooding  over  and  darken- 
ing your  own  heart — ye.s,  papa — my  dear 
papa,  let  me  call  you  with  the  full  and  most 
distressing  recollections  connected  with  it 
strong  upon  both  of  us,  let  me  entreat  and 
implore  that  you  mil  not  urge  nor  force  me 
into  a  union  mth  this  hateful  and  repulsive 
profligate.  I  go  ujjou  my  knees  to  you,  and 
entreat,  as  you  regard  my  happiness,  my 
honor,  and  my  future  peace  of  mind,  that 
you  will  not  attemiit  to  unite  me  to  this 
most  unprincipled  and  dishonorable  young 
man." 

Her  father's  brow  grew  black  as  a  thun- 
der-cloud ;  the  veins  of  his  temples  swelled 
up,  as  if  they  had  been  filled  with  ink. 
and,  after  a  few  hasty  strides  tlirough 
the   study,    he    turned    upon    her    such   a 


iJ38 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


look  of  fury  as  we  need  not  attempt  to 
describe. 

"  Miss  Gourlay,"  said  lie,  in  a  voice  dread- 
fully deep  and  stem,  "  tliere  is  not  an  allu- 
sion made  iu  that  uudutiful  harangue — for  so 
I  must  cull  it — that  does  not  determine  me 
to  accomplish  my  pui-pose  in  eft'ectiDg  this 
union.  If  yoru"  mother  was  unhappy,  the 
fault  lay  in  her  own  weak  and  morbid  tem- 
per. As  for  me,  I  now  tell  you,  once  for  all, 
that  your  destiny  is  either  beggary  or  a  cor- 
onet ;  on  that  I  am  resolved !  " 

She  stood  before  him  like  one  who  had 
drawn  strength  fi'om  the  full  knowledge  of 
her  fate.  Her  face,  it  is  tme,  had  become 
pale,  but  it  was  the  paleness  of  a  calm  but 
lofty  spirit,  and  she  replied,  vrith  a  full  and 
clear  voice : 

"  I  said,  sir — for  I  had  her  own  sacred  as- 
surance for  it — that  my  mother,  when  she 
mai-ried  you,  had  no  previous  engagement ; 
it  is  not  so  with  your  daughter — my  affec- 
tions are  Used  ujjon  another." 

There  are  some  natures  so  essentially 
tyrannical,  and  to  whom  resistance  is  a  mat- 
ter of  such  extraordinary  novelty,  that  its 
manifestation  absolutely  surprises  them  out 
of  their  natural  character.  In  this  manner 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  was  affected.  Instead 
of  flying  into  a  fresh  hurricane  of  rage,  he 
felt  so  comjjletely  astounded,  that  he  was 
only  capable  of  turning  round  to  her,  and 
a.sking,  in  a  voice  unusually  calm  : 

"  Pi'ay  name  him,  Miss  Goiu'lay." 

"  In  that,  sir,  you  wiU  excuse  me — for  the 
present.  The  day  may  come,  and  I  trust 
soon  ^vill,  when  I  can  do  so  with  honor. 
And  now,  sir,  having  considered  it  my  duty 
not  to  conceal  this  fact  from  your  knowledge, 
I  will,  with  your  permission,  withdraw  to 
my  own  apartment." 

She  paid  him,  with  her  o^Ti  j^eculiar 
gi-aee,  the  usual  obeisance,  and  left  the  room. 
The  stern  and  overbearing  Sii'  Thomas  Gour- 
lay now  felt  himself  so  completely  taken 
aback  by  her  exti-aordinary  candor  and  firm- 
ness, that  he  was  only  able  to  stand  and  look 
after  her  iu  silent  amazement. 

"  Well !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  reason  to 
thank  her  for  this  imj)ortant  piece  of  infor- 
mation. She  has  herself  admitted  a  previous 
attachment.  So  far  my  doubts  are  cleai-ed 
up,  and  I  feel  perfectly  certain  that  the  an- 
on^Tuous  information  is  connect.  It  now  re- 
mains for  me  to  find  out  who  the  object  of 
this  attachment  is.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
is  in  the  neighborhood  ;  and,  if  so,  I  shall 
know  how  to  manage  him." 

He  then  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  into 
Ballj-train,  with  what  purpose  it  is  now  un- 
necessary, we  trust,  to  trouble  tlie  reader  at 
further  leustli. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Sir  Thomas  Gonrlnyfaih  in  Umnaskinr/  the  Strange) 
— MysteriouH  Couduol  of  Fcnlon. 

When  Sir  Thomas  Goui-lay,  after  the  delay 
of  better  than  an  hour  in  town,  entered  the 
coffee-room  of  the  "  Mitre,"  he  was  immedi- 
ately attended  by  the  landlord  himself. 

"  Who  is  this  new  guest  you  have  got, 
landlord?"  inquired  the  baronet.  "They 
tell  me  he  is  a  veiy  mysterious  gentleman, 
and  that  no  one  can  discover  his  name.  Do 
you  know  anything  about  him  ?  " 

"  De'il  a  syllable,  Sir  Tammas,"  replied  the 
landlord,  who  was  a  northern.  "  How  ir  you, 
(Jounsellor  Crackenfudge  ?  "  he  added,  speak- 
ing to  a  person  who  jjassed  U2:)stairs.  "  There 
he  goes,"  ijroeeeded  Jack  the  landlord — "a 
nice  boy.  But  do  you  know,  Sir  Tammas, 
why  he  changed  his  name  to  Cracken- 
fudge ?  " 

Sir  Thomas's  face  at  this  moment  had 
gi'OWTi  frightful.  TiTiile  the  landlord  was 
siseaking,  the  bai'onet,  attracted  by  the  noise 
of  a  carriage  passing,  turned  to  observe  it, 
just  at  the  moment  when  his  daughter  was 
bowing  so  significantly  to  the  stranger  iu  the 
window  over  them,  as  we  have  before  stated. 
Here  was  a  new  light  thrown  upon  the  mys- 
tery or  mysteries  hy  which  he  felt  himself 
surrounded  on  all  hands.  The  strange  guest 
in  the  Mitre  inn,  was  tlien,  beyond  question, 
the  very  individual ;  Jluded  to  in  the  anony- 
mous letter.  The  baronet's  face  had,  in  the 
scowl  of  wrath,  got  black,  as  mine  host  was 
speaking.  This  exjiression,  however,  gradu- 
ally diminished  in  the  darkness  of  that  wrath- 
ful shadow  which  lay  over  it.  After  a  severe 
internal  struggle  with  his  tremendous  pas- 
sions, he  at  length  seemed  to  cool  down. 
His  face  became  totally  changed  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  of  silence  and  .struggle,  it  jDass- 
ed  from  the  blackness  of  almost  ungovern- 
able rage  to  a  paUid  hue,  that  might  not  un- 
aptly be  compai'ed  to  the  summit  of  a  volca- 
no covered  with  snow,  when  al)out  to  jiroject 
its  most  awful  and  formidable  eruptions. 

The  landlord,  while  jiutting  the  question 
to  the  baronet,  turned  his  sliaii^,  i>icrcing 
eyes  upon  him,  and,  at  a  single  glance,  per- 
ceived that  something  had  unusually  moved 
him. 

"Sir  Tammas,"  said  he,  "there  is  no  use 
in  denyin'  it,  now — the  blood's  disturbed  in 
you." 

"  Give  your  guest  my  compliments — Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  "s  comphments  —  and  1 
should  feel  obliged  by  a  short  interview." 

On  going  up.  Jack  found  the  sti-angcr  and 
Fenton  as  vre  have  already  descaibed  them. 

"  Sir,"   said  he,    addi-essing  the  former. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


339 


"  tlsere's  a  gentleman  below  who  wishes  to 
know  who  you  ir." 

"Who  I  am  .'"  returned  the  other,  quite 
unmoved  ;  "  and,  pray  who  may  Ae  be  ?  " 

"  Sir  Tammas  Gourlaj' ;  an'  all  tell  you 
■what,  if  you  don't  wish  to  see  him,  why  don't 
see  him.  A'U  take  him  the  message,  an'  if 
there's  anything  about  you  that  you  don't 
wish  to  be  known  or  heard,  make  him  keep 
his  distance.  He's  this  minute  in  a  de'il  of 
a  passion  about  something,  an'  was  comin'  uj) 
as  if  he'd  ait  you  without  salt,  but  a'  would 
n't  allow  it  ;  so,  if  you  don't  wish  to  see  him, 
a'm  the  boy  won't  be  afeard  to  say  so.  He's 
not  coming  as  a  friend,  a'  can  tell  you." 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  in  the  house, 
then  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  with  a  good  deal 
of  surprise.  He  then  paused  for  some  time, 
and,  during  this  pause,  he  very  naturally  con- 
cluded that  the  baronet  had  witnessed  his 
daughter's  bow,  so  cautiously  and  significant- 
ly made  to  himself  as  she  passed.  Whilst  he 
turned  over  these  matters  in  his  mind,  the 
landlord  addressed  Fenton  as  follows  : 

"  You  can  go  to  another  room,  Teuton. 
A'm  glad  to  see  you  in  a  decent  suit  of 
clothes,  any  way — a'  hope  you'll  take  your- 
self up,  and  avoid  drink  and  low  comioany  ; 
for  de'il  a  haet  good  ever  the  same  two 
brought  anybody  ;  but,  before  you  go,  a'll 
give  you  a  gless  o'  grog  to  drink  the  Glorious 
Memory.  Come,  now,  tramj),  like  a  good 
fellow." 

"  I  have  a  particular  wish,"  said  the  stran- 
ger, "  that  Mr.  Fenton  should  remain  ;  and 
say  to  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  that  I  am  ready  to 
see  him." 

"A'  say,  then,"  said  Jack,  in  a  friendly 
whisper,  "  be  on  your  edge  mth  him,  for,  if 
he  finds  you  saft,  the  very  de'il  won't  stand 
him." 

"  The  gentleman,  Su"  Tammas,"  said  Jack, 
on  going  down  staii-s,  "  will  be  glad  to  see 
you.     He's  overhead." 

Fenton,  himself,  on  hearing  that  Sir  Thom- 
as was  about  to  come  up,  prepared  to  de- 
2:)ai't ;  but  the  other  besought  him  so  earnest- 
ly to  stay,  that  he  consented,  although  with 
evident  reluctance.  He  brought  his  chair 
over  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  as  if  he  wished 
to  be  as  much  out  of  the  way  as  possible,  or, 
it  may  be,  as  far  from  Sir  Thomas's  eye,  as 
the  size  of  the  ajjai-tment  would  permit.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  Sir  Thomas  entered,  and 
brought  liis  ungainly  person  nearly  to  the 
centre  of  the  room  before  he  spoke.  At 
length  he  did  so,  but  took  care  not  to  ac- 
company his  words  with  that  coiu'tesy  of 
manner,  or  those  rules  of  good-breedmg, 
wliich  ever  prevail  among  gentlemen,  wheth- 
er as  friends  or  foes.  After  standing  for  a 
moment,  he  glanced  from  the  one  to  the  other, 


his  face  still  hideously  pale  ;  and  ultimately, 
fixing  his  eye  upon  the  stranger,  he  viewed 
him  from  head  to  foot,  and  again  from  foot 
to  head,  with  a  look  of  such  contemptuous 
curiosity,  as  certainly  was  strongly  calculated 
to  excite  the  stranger's  indignation.  Find- 
ing the  baronet  spoke  Viox,  the  other  did. 

"  To  what  am  I  to  attribute  the  honor  of 
this  visit,  sir  ?  " 

Sir  Thomas  even  then  did  not  speak,  but 
still  kept  looking  at  him  with  the  expression 
we  have  described.    At  length  he  did  speak : 

"  You  have  been  residing  for  some  time  in' 
our  neighborhood,  sir  ?  "  The  stranger  sim- 
ply bo  i\  ed. 

"  May  I  ask  how  long '? " 

"I  have  the  honor,  Ibeheve,  of  addressing 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  ?  " 

"Yes,  j^ou  have  that  honor." 

"And  may  I  beg  to  know  his  object  in 
paying  me  this  unceremonious  visit,  in  which 
he  does  not  condescend  either  to  announce 
himself,  or  to  observe  the  usual  rules  of  good- 
breeding  ?  " 

"From  my  rank  and  known  position  in 
this  part  of  the  country,  and  in  my  cajiacity 
also  as  a  magistrate,  sir,"  replied  the  baronet, 
"I'm  entitled  to  make  such  inquiries  as  I 
may  deem  necessary  fi'om  those  who  appear 
here  under  suspicious  circumstances" 

"  Perhajos  j'ou  may  think  so,  but  I  am  of 
oj^inion,  sir,  that  you  would  consult  the 
honor  of  the  rank  and  position  you  allude  to 
much  more  effectually,  by  letting  such  in- 
quiries fall  within  the  j^roper  province  of  the 
executive  officers  of  law,  whenever  you  think 
there  is  a  necessity  for  it." 

"  Excuse  me,  but,  in  that  manner,  I  shall 
foUow  my  own  judgment,  not  yours." 

"And  under  what  circumstances  of  sus- 
picion do  you  deem  me  to  stand  at  pres- 
ent?" 

"Very  strong  circumstances.  You  have 
been  now  living  here  nearly  a  week,  in  a 
privacy  which  no  gentleman  would  ever  think 
of  observing.  You  have  hemmed  yourself  in 
by  a  mystery,  sii- ;  you  have  studiously  con- 
cealed your  name — yoiu'  connections — and 
defaced  every  mark  by  which  you  could  be 
known  or  traced.  This,  sir,  is  not  the  con- 
duct of  a  gentleman  ;  and  ai'gues  either  actual 
or  premeditated  guilt." 

"  You  seem  heated,  sir,  and  you  also  rea- 
son in  resentment,  whatever  may  have  oc- 
casioned it.  And  so  a  gentleman  is  not  to 
make  an  excursion  to  a  country  town  in  a 
quiet  way — jDerhaps  to  recruit  his  health, 
perhaps  to  relax  his  mind,  perhaps  to  gratify 
a  whim — but  he  must  be  pounced  upon  by 
some  outrageous  disj^enser  of  magisterial 
justice,  who  thinks,  that,  because  he  wishes 
to  live  quietly  and  unkno^vn,  he  must  be  some 


340 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


(Hitthroat  or  raw-bead-and-bloody-bones  com- 
ing to  eat  half  the  couutry  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say,  sir,  tliat  is  all  verj'  fine,  and 
very  humorous  ;  but  when  these  mysterious 
vagabonds — " 

The  eye  of  the  stranger  blazed  ;  lightning 
ifself,  iu  fact,  was  not  quicker  than  the  fire 
which  gleamed  from  it,  as  the  baronet  ut- 
tered the  last  words.  He  walked  over  de- 
liberately, but  with  a  step  replete  with  energy 
and  determination  : 

"  How,  sir,"  said  he,  "  do  you  dai-e  to  ap- 
ply such  an  exjn-ession  to  me?" 

The  baronet's  eye  quailed.  He  paused  a 
moment,  during  which  he  could  perceive 
that  the  stranger  had  a  siiirit  not  to  be  tam- 
pered with. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  not  exactly  to  you, 
but  when  persons  such  as  you  come  in  this 
skulking  way,  probably  for  the  purjjose  of 
insinuating  themselves  into  famiUes  of 
rank — " 

"  Have  I,  sir,  attempted  to  insinuate  my- 
Kelf  into  yours  ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  inter- 
ruj)ting  him. 

"  When  such  persons  come  under  cu-cum- 
stances  of  strong  suspicion,"  said  the  other, 
\vithout  reiJlying  to  him,  "  it  is  the  business 
of  every  gentleman  in  the  country  to  keep  a 
vigilant  eye  upon  them." 

"I  shall  hold  myself  accountable  to  no 
such  gentleman,"  replied  the  stranger  ;  "  but 
will  consider  everj'  man,  no  matter  what  his 
rank  or  character  may  be,  as  unwai-rantably 
impertinent,  who  arrogantly  attempts  to  in- 
trude himself  in  aftairs  that  don't — "  he  was 
about  to  add,  "  that  don't  concern  him," 
when  he  paused,  and  added,  "  into  any  man's 
affairs.  Every  man  has  a  right  to  travel  in- 
cognito, and  to  live  incognito,  if  he  chooses  ; 
and,  on  that  account,  sir,  so  long  as  I  wish 
to  maintain  mine,  I  shall  allow  no  man  to  as- 
sume the  right  of  penetrating  it.  If  this  has 
been  the  object  of  your  visit,  you  will  much 
oblige  me  by  relinqviishing  the  one,  and 
putting  an  end  to  the  other,  as  soon  as  may 
be." 

"  As  a  magistrate,  sir,  I  demand  to  know 
your  name,"  said  the  baronet,  who  thought 
that,  in  the  stranger's  momentary  hesitation, 
he  had  obsei'ved  symptoms  of  yielding. 

"As  an  uidepeudent  man,  sir,  and  a  gen- 
tleman, I  shall  not  answer  such  a  question." 

"You  brave  me,  sir — you  defy  me?"  con- 
tinued the  other,  his  face  still  pale,  but  bale- 
ful in  its  expression. 

"  Yes,  su',"  repUed  the  other,  "  I  brave  you 
— I  defy  you." 

"  Veiy  weU,  sir,"  returned  the  baronet — 
"remember  these  words." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  forgetting  any- 
thing that  a  man  of  spirit  ought  to  remem- 


ber," said  the  other.  "I  have  the  honor  ol 
wishing  you  a  good-morning." 

The  baronet  withdrew  in  a  passion  that 
had  risen  to  red  heat,  and  was  jjroceeding  to 
mount  his  horse  at  the  door,  when  Counsel- 
lor Crackenfudge,  who  had  followed  him 
downstaii's,  thus  addressed  him  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir  Thomas  ;  I  hap- 
pened to  be  sitting  iu  the  back-room  while 
you  were  Sfieaking  to  that  strange  fellow 
above  ;  I  j)ledge  j-ou  my  honor  I  did  not  lis- 
ten ;  but  I  could  not  help  overhearing,  you 
know.  Well,  Sir  Thomas,  I  can  tell  you 
something  about  him." 

"  How ! "  said  the  baronet,  whose  eye 
gleamed  with  delight.  "  Can  you,  in  truth, 
tell  me  anything  about  him,  Mr.  Cracken- 
fudge? You  will  oblige  me  veiy  much  if 
you  do." 

"I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  him,  Sir 
Thomas,"  rephed  the  worthy  counsellor ; 
"and  that  is,  that  I  know  he  has  paid  many 
secret  visits  to  Mr.  Birncy  the  attorney." 

"  To  Birney !  "  exclaimed  the  other  ;  and, 
as  he  spoke,  he  seemed  actually  to  stagger 
back  a  stej}  or  two,  whilst  the  jsaleness  of  his 
complexion  increased  to  a  hue  that  was 
ghastly — "  to  Bimey  ! — to  my  blackest  and 
bitterest  enemy — to  the  man  who,  I  susjiect, 
has  important  family  documents  of  mine  ir 
his  possession.  Thanks,  even  for  this,  Crac- 
kenfudge— you  are  looking  to  become  of  the 
jseace.  Hearken  now  ;  aid  me  in  ferreting 
out  this  lurking  scoimdrel,  and  I  shall  not 
forget  your  wishes."  He  then  rode  home- 
wards. 

The  stranger,  during  this  stormy  clialogTie 
with  Sir  Thomas  Goiulay,  turned  his  eye, 
from  time  to  time,  toward  Teuton,  who  ap- 
jieared  to  have  lost  consciousness  itself  so 
long  as  the  baronet  was  in  the  room.  On  the 
departure,  however,  of  that  gentleman,  he 
went  over  to  him,  and  said  : 

"  Why,  Fenton,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

Fenton  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of  great 
distress,  from  which  the  perspiration  was 
pouring,  but  seemed  utterly  luiable  to  speak. 


CHAPTEE  YE. 

Extraordinary    Scene    hitween    Fenton    imd    the 
SlraiKjer. 

The  character  of  Fenton  was  one  that  pre- 
sented an  extraordinary  variety  of  phases. 
With  the  exception  of  the  firmness  and  jjerti- 
nacity  with  which  he  kept  the  mysterious 
secret  o*  his  origin  and  identity — that  is.  if 
he  himself  knew  them,  he  was  never  known 
to  maintain  the  same  moral  temperament  foj 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


341 


a  week  together.  Never  did  there  exist  a 
being  EO  capricious  and  unstable.  At  one 
time,  you  found  him  all  ingenuousness  and 
candor ;  at  another,  no  eartiily  power  could 
extort  a  syllable  of  truth  from  his  lijjs.  For 
whole  days,  if  not  for  weeks  together,  he 
dealt  in  nothing  but  the  wildest  fiction,  and 
the  most  extraordinary  and  grotesque  rodo- 
montade. The  consequence  was,  that  no 
reliance  could  be  placed  on  anything  he  said 
or  asserted.  And  yet^which  appeai-ed  to 
be  rather  unaccountable  in  such  a  character 
— it  could  be  frequently  observed  that  he 
was  subject  to  occasional  j)eriods  of  the 
deepest  dejection.  During  those  painful 
and  gloomy  visitations,  he  avoided  all  inter- 
course with  his  fellow-men,  took  to  wander- 
ing through  the  country — rarely  spoke  to 
anybody,  whether  stranger  or  acquaintance, 
but  maintained  the  strictest  and  most  extra- 
ordinaiy  silence.  If  he  passed  a  house  at 
meal-time  he  entered,  and,  without  either 
preface  or  apology,  quietly  sat  dovsni  and 
joined  them.  To  this  fi-eedom  on  his  jiart, 
in  a  country  so  hosjoitable  as  Ireland  in  the 
days  of  her  iiros^^erity  was,  and  could  afford 
to  be,  no  one  ever  thought  of  objecting. 

"It  was,"  observed  the  people,  "only  the 
poor  young  gentleman  who  is  not  right  in  the 
head." 

So  that  the  very  malady  which  they  im- 
puted to  him  was  only  a  j)assport  to  their 
kmdness  and  compassion.  Fenton  had  no 
fixed  residence,  nor  any  available  means  of 
support,  save  the  compassionate  and  generous 
interest  which  the  inhabitants  of  Ballytrain 
took  in  him,  in  consequence  of  those  gentle- 
manly manners  which  he  could  assume 
whenever  he  wished,  and  the  desolate  j)osition 
in  which  some  unknown  train  of  cii'cum- 
stances  had  unfortunately  jslaced  him. 

When  laboring  under  these  depressing 
moods  to  which  we  have  alluded,  his  memory 
seemed  filled  with  i-ecoUections  that,  so  far  as 
appearances  went,  absolutely  stupefied  his 
heart  by  the  heaviness  of  the  sufl'ering  they 
occasioned  it ;  and,  when  that  heart,  there- 
fore, sank  as  far  as  its  powers  of  endurance 
could  withstand  this  depression,  he  uniformly 
had  recoui'se  to  the  dangerous  relief  afforded 
by  indulgence  in  the  fierj'  stimulant  of  liquor, 
to  which  he  was  at  all  times  addicted. 

Such  is  a  slightly  detailed  sketch  of  an 
individual  whose  fate  is  deeply  involved  in 
the  incidents  and  progress  of  our  narrative. 

The  hori-or  which  we  have  described  as 
having  fallen  upon  this  unfortunate  young 
man,  dui'ii=g  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  stormy 
interview  w  ith  the  stranger,  so  far  from  sub- 
siding, as  might  be  supposed,  after  his  de- 
parture, assumed  the  shape  of  sometliing 
bordering  on   insanity.     On  looking  at  his 


companion,  the  wild  but  deep  exjjression  of 
his  eyes  began  to  change  into  one  of  absolute 
frenzy,  a  circumstance  which  could  not  escajie 
the  stranger's  observation,  and  which,  placed 
as  he  was  iu  the  pursuit  of  an  important 
secret,  awoke  a  still  deeper  interest,  whilst  at 
the  same  time  it  occasioned  him  much  pain. 

"  Mi\  Fenton,"  said  he,  "I  certainly  have 
no  wish,  by  any  j)i'oceeding  incompatible 
with  an  ungentlemauly  feeling  of  imjJertinent 
curiosity,  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
cause  of  this  unusual  excitement,  which  the 
ajjjoearance  of  Miss  Gourlay  and  her  father 
seems  to  jiroduce  upon  you,  unless  in  so  far 
as  its  disclosure,  in  honorable  confidence, 
might  enable  me,  as  a  person  sincerely  your 
friend,  to  allay  or  remove  it." 

"  Suppose,  sir,  you  are  mistaken  ?  "  rejilied 
the  other.  "  Do  you  not  know  that  there 
are  memories  arising  from  association,  that 
are  touched  and  kindled  into  great  pain,  by- 
objects  that  are  by  no  means  the  direct  cause 
of  them,  or  the  cause  of  them  in  any  sense  ?  " 

"  I  admit  the  truth  of  what  you  say,  Mr. 
Fenton  ;  but  we  can  only  draw  oui-  first  in- 
ferences from  appearances.  It  is  not  fi-om 
any  idle  or  iDrurient  desii-e  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  cause  of  your  emotion  that 
I  speak,  but  simply  from  a  wish  to  serve  you, 
if  you  will  ijermit  me.  It  is  distressing  to 
witness  what  you  suffer. " 

"  I  have  experienced,"  said  Fenton,  whose 
excitement  seemed  not  only  to  rise  as  he 
proceeded,  but  in  a  considerable  degree  to 
give  that  fervor  and  elevation  to  his  language, 
which  excitement  often  gives  ;  "  yes,  sir,"  he 
proceeded,  his  ej'es  kindhng  almost  into  furj-, 
"  I  have  experienced  much  treacherous  and 
malignant  symijathy,  under  the  guise  of  pre- 
tended friendship — sympathy  !  why  do  I  say 
sjTiipathy  ?  Persecution — vengeance.  Yes, 
sir,  till  I  have  become  mad — or — or  neaiiy 
so.  No,"  he  added,  "  I  am  not  mcud — I  newi^ 
was  mad — but  I  understand  your  object — ■ 
avavmt,  sir — begone — or  I  shall  thi'ow  you 
out  of  the  window." 

"  Be  calm,  Mr.  Fenton — be  calm,"  replied 
the  stranger,  "  and  collect  yourself.  I  am, 
indeed,  sincerely  your  friend." 

"Who  told  you,  sir,  that  I  was  mad  ?" 

"I  never  said  so,  Mr.  Fenton." 

"  It  matters  not,  sir — you  are  a  traitor — 
and  as  such  I  denounce  you.  This  room  is 
mine,  sir,  and  I  shall  forthwith  exp)el  you 
from  it^ — "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  started  ujJ, 
and  sprung  at  the  stranger,  who,  on  seeing 
him  rise  for  the  purjjose,  instantly  rang  the 
bell.  The  waiter  immediately  entered,  and 
found  the  latter  holding  poor  Fenton  by  the 
two  wrists,  and  with  such  a  tremendous 
grasji  as  made  him  feel  like  an  infant,  iu 
point  of  strength,  in  his  hands. 


342 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"This  is  unmeaniujT  violence,  sir,"  ex- 
claimed the  latter,  calmly  but  firmly,  "  unless 
you  explain  yourself,  and  give  a  reason  for 
it.  If  you  ai'e  moved  by  any  jseculiar  cause 
of  horror,  or  apprehension,  or  danger,  why 
not  enable  me  to  understand  it,  in  order 
that  you  may  feel  assured  of  my  anxious  dis- 
position to  assist  you  ?  " 

"Gintlemen,"  exclaimed  Paudeen,  "what 
in  the  name  of  Pether  White  and  Billy 
Neelins  is  the  reason  of  this  ?  But  I  needn't 
ax — it's  one  of  Jlr.  Feuton's  tantrams — an' 
the  occasion  of  it  was,  lying  snug  and  warm 
this  momin',  in  one  of  Andy  Trimble's  whis- 
key barrels.  For  shame,  Sir.  Fenton,  you 
they  say  a  gintleman  born,  and  to  thi-ate  one 
of  your  own  rank — a  gintleman  that  be- 
friended you  as  he  did,  and  jnit  a  daieiut 
shoot  of  clo'es  on  your  miserable  carcase  ; 
when  you  know  that  before  he  did  it,  if  the 
wind  was  blowing  from  the  thirty-two  j^oints 
of  the  comisass,  you  had  an  openin'  for 
every  jjoint,  if  they  wor  double  the  number. 
Troth,  now,  you're  ongrateful,  an'  if  God 
hasn't  said  it,  you'll  thravel  fi-om  an  oupeui- 
tent  death-bed  yet.  Be  quiet,  will  you,  or 
my  sinful  sowl  to  gloiy,  but  I'll  bundle  you 
downstairs '? " 

"He' will  be  qiiiet,  Pat,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  In  truth,  after  all,  this  is  a  mere  physical 
malady,  Mi-.  Fenton,  and  will  pass  away  im- 
mediately, if  you  will  only  sit  down  and  col- 
lect yourself  a  little." 

Fenton,  howevei",  made  another  unavail- 
able attemjDt  at  struggle,  and  found  that  he 
was  only  exhausting  himself  to  no  purpose. 
All  at  once,  or  rather  following  up  his  pre- 
vious su.spieions,  he  seemed  to  look  ujion  the 
powerful  individual  who  held  him,  as  a  per- 
son who  had  become  suddenly  invested  with 
a  new  character  that  increased  his  terrors  ; 
and  yet,  if  we  may  say  so,  almost  forced  him 
into  an  anxiety  to  suppress  their  manifes- 
tation. His  Umbs,  however,  began  to  trem- 
ble excessively  ;  his  eyes  absolutely  dilated, 
and  became  filled  by  a  sense  of  terror, 
nearly  as  wild  as  despair  itself.  The  tran- 
sitions of  his  temper,  however,  like  those  of 
his  general  conduct,  supei-vened  upon  each 
other  with  remarkable  rapidity,  and,  as  it 
were,  the  result  of  quick,  warm,  and  incon- 
siderate impulses. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed  at  length,  "  I  will 
be  quiet,  I  am,  I  assure  you,  perfectly  harm- 
less ;  but,  at  the  same  time,"  he  added, 
sitting  do\vn,  "I  know  that  the  whole  dia- 
logue between  you  and  that  awful-looking 
man,  was  a  plot  laid  for  me.  Why  else 
did  you  insist  on  my  being  present  at  it  ? 
This  accounts  for  your  giving  me  a  paltry  sum 
of  money,  too — it  does,  sir — and  for  your 
spurious  and  dishonest  humanity  in  wishing 


to  see  me  well  clothed.  Yes,  1  jjerceive  it  all ; 
but,  let  what  may  happen,  I  will  not  wear 
these  clothes  any  longer.  They  are  not  the 
ofi'ering  of  a  generous  heai't,  but  the  fraudu- 
lent pretext  for  insinuating  yoiu'self  uito  my 
confidence,  in  order  to — to — yes,  but  I  shall 
not  say  it — it  is  enough  that  I  know  you,  sir 
— that  I  see  thi'ough,  and  penetrate  your 
designs." 

He  was  about  to  put  his  threat  viiih  re- 
spect to  the  clothes' into  instant  execution, 
when  the  stranger,  once  more  seizing  him, 
exclaimed  :  "  You  must  j)romise,  Tsli:  Fenton, 
before  you  leave  mj'  grasp,  that  you  will 
make  no  further  attemiDt  to  tear  off  jour 
di-ess.  I  insist  on  this  ;  "  and  as  he  sjsoke 
he  fixed  his  eye  sternly  and  commandiugly 
on  that  of  Fenton. 

"  I  will  not  attemjjt  it,"  rejslied  the  latter  ; 
"I  promise  it,  on  the  word  of  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  There,  then,"  said  the  stranger.  "  Keep 
yourself  quiet,  and,  mark  me,  I  shall  expect 
that  you  will  not  violate  that  word,  nor 
yield  to  these  weak  and  silly  jDaroxysms." 

Fenton  merely  nodded  submissively,  and 
the  other  j)roceeded,  stiU  with  a  view  of 
sounding  him  :  "  You  say  you  know  me  ; 
if  so,  who  and  what  am  I  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  speak  at  further 
length,"  rej)lied  Fenton;  "lam  cpiite  ex- 
hausted, and  I  know  not  what  I  said." 

He  appeared  now  somewhat  calmer,  or, 
at  least,  affected  to  be  so.  By  his  manner, 
however,  it  would  appear  that  some  j^ecuhar 
opinion  or  aj^iirehension,  with  reference  ei- 
ther to  the  baronet  or  the  stranger,  seemed  as 
if  confirmed,  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  acting 
under  one  of  his  rajsid  transitions,  he  spoke 
and  looked  like  a  man  who  was  influenced 
by  new  motives.  He  then  withdrew  in  a 
mood  somewhat  between  sullenness  and 
regret. 

When  the  stranger  was  left  to  himself,  he 
paced  the  room  some  time  in  a  state  of  much 
anxiety,  if  not  distress.  At  length  he  sat 
down,  and,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
exclaimed  unconsciously  aloud  : 

"  Alas !  I  fear  this  search  is  vain.  Th& 
faint  traces  of  imaginary  resemblance,  which 
I  thought  I  had  discovered  in  this  young 
man's  featurefj,  are  visible  no  longer.  It  is 
true,  this  portrait,"  looking  once  more  at 
the  miniature,  "  was  taken  when  the  origi- 
nal was  only  a  elidd  of  five  years  ;  but  still  it 
was  remarked  that  the  family  resemblances 
were,  fi'om  childhood  up,  both  strong  and 
striking.  Then,  this  unfortunate  person  is 
perfectly  inscrutable,  and  not  to  bemimaged 
by  any  ordinary  ijrocedure  at  present  in- 
telligiljle  to  me.  Yet,  after  all,  as  f;u-  as  I 
have   been   able   to   conjectvue,    there  is   a 


TEL   BLACK  BARONET. 


3^3 


strong  similai'ity  in  tlie  cases.  The  feeling 
among  the  people  here  is,  that  he  is  a  geu- 
tlem/iu  by  birth  :  but  this  may  proceed  from 
the  air  and  manners  vrhieh  he  can  assume 
when  he  pleases-.  I  would  mention  my 
whole  design  and  object  at  hazard,  but 
tliis  would  be  running  an  unnecessary 
risk  by  intrasting  my  secret  to  him  ;  and, 
although  it  is  e%'ident  that  he  can  preserve 
his  o^^^l,  it  does  not  necessarily  follow  that 
he  would  keejj  mine.  However,  I  must  only 
persevere  and  bide  my  time,  as  the  Scotch 
say." 

He  again  rose,  and.  pacing  the  apartment 
once  more,  his  features  assumed  a  still  deep- 
er expression  of  inward  agitation. 

"  And,  again,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  unfor- 
tunate rencounter  !  Great  Heavens,  what  if 
I  stand  here  a  miu'derei",  -with  the  blood  of  a 
fellow-creature,  hurried,  I  feai-,  in  the  vei-y 
midst  of  his  jirofligacy.  into  eternity  !  The 
thought  is  insujjportable  ;  and  I  know  not, 
unless  I  can  strictly  jjreserve  my  incognito, 
whether  I  am  at  this  moment  liable,  if  appre- 
hended, to  jaay  the  p)enalty  which  the  law  ex- 
acts. The  only  consolation  that  remains  for 
me  is,  that  the  act  was  not  of  my  seeking,  but 
arrogantly  and  imperioush' forced  upon  me." 


CHAPTKR  TO.. 

The    Baronet  attempts  by  FaheTiood  to  urge  his 
Daughter  into  an  Avowal  of  her  Lover'n  Name. 

Sir  Thoius  Gouklay,  after  his  unpleas- 
ant interview  with  the  stranger,  rode  easily 
home,  meditatiug  upon  some  feasible  plan 
by  which  he  hoped  to  succeed  in  entrapping 
his  daughter  into  the  avowal  of  her  lover's 
name,  for  he  had  no  doubt  whatsoever  that 
the  gentleman  at  the  inn  and  he  were  one 
and  the  same  individual.  For  this  jiurpose, 
he  determined  to  put  on  a  cheerful  face,  and 
assume,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  an  air  of  un- 
common satisfaction.  Now  this  was  a  task 
of  no  ordinaiy  difficulty  for  Sir  Thomas  to 
encounter.  The  expression  of  all  the  fiercer 
and  darker  passions  was  natur.il  to  such  a 
coimtenauce  as  his ;  but  even  to  imagine 
such  a  one  ht  up  with  mirth,  was  to  conceive 
an  image  so  gi-otesque  and  ridiculous,  that 
the  fu'mest  gravity  must  give  way  before  it. 
His  frov.'n  was  a  thing  perfectly  inteUigilile, 
but  to  witness  his  smile,  or  rather  his  etibrt 
at  one,  was  to  witness  an  unnatural  pheno- 
menon of  the  most  awful  kind,  and  little 
short  of  a  prodigy.  If  one  oould  suppose  the 
Sim  giving  a  melancholy  and  lugubrious  gi-in 
lurough  the  darkness  of  a  total  eclipse,  they 
might  form  some  conception  of  the  jocidar 


solemnity  which  threw  its  deep  but  comic 
shadow  over  his  visage.  One  might  expect 
the  whole  machinery  of  the  face,  with  as 
much  probability  as  that  of  a  mill,  to  change 
its  habitual  motions,  and  turn  in  an  opposite 
direction.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  a  genend 
breaking  up  of  the  countenance  was  about 
to  take  place,  and  that  the  several  feattu'es, 
like  a  crew  of  thieves  and  vagabonds  tlj'ing 
fi'om  the  officers  of  justice,  were  all  determin- 
ed to  provide  for  themselves. 

Lucy  saw  at  a  glance  that  her  father  was 
about  to  get  into  one  of  those  tender  and 
complacent  moods  which  were  few  and  far 
between,  and,  made  wise  by  experience,  she 
very  properly  conjectiu-ed,  from  his  appear- 
ance, that  some  deep  design  was  couce.iled 
imder  it.  Anxious,  therefore,  to  avoid  a 
prolonged  diidogue,  and  feehng,  Ijesides,  her 
natural  candor  and  invincible  love  of  truth  to 
a  certain  extent  outrarred  by  this  treacherous 
assumption  of,  cordiahty,  she  resolved  to 
commence  the  conversation. 

"  Has  anything  agreeable  happened, 
papa  ? " 

"  Agreeable,  Lucy,  ahem  ! — why,  yes — 
somethuig  agreeable  has  happened.  Now, 
Lucy,  poor  fooHsh  girl,  would  it  not  have 
been  better  to  have  placed  coniidence  in  me 
with  respect  to  this  lover  of  yours  ?  ^^'ho  can 
feel  the  same  interest  in  vour  hajipiness  thav 
I  do?" 

"  None,  certainly,  sir ;  unlesg  some  on^ 
whose  happiness  may  probably  depend  on 
mine." 

"  Yes,  yoiir  lover — weU,  that  now  is  a 
natui-al  enough  distinction  ;  but  stOl,  you 
foolish,  naughty  girl,  don't  you  know  that 
you  are  to  iuherit  my  wealth  and  projierty, 
and  that  they  will  make  you  happy  '?  You 
sill}'  thing,  there's  a  truth  for  you." 

"  Were  you  yourself  haj)py,  papa,  when 
we  separated  this  morning  ?  Are  you  happy 
this  moment  ?  Ai-e  you  generally  happy  ? 
Is  there  no  rankling  anxiety — no  project  of 
ambition — no  bitter  recollection  cori'oding 
j'our  heart  ?  Does  the  untimely  loss  of  my 
young  brother,  who  would  have  represented 
and  sustained  your  name,  never  press 
heavily  ujjon  it?  I  ask  again,  pajia,  are  you 
generally  happy  ?  Yet  you  are  in  jDossession 
of  all  the  wealth  and  lu'opertv  j'ou  sjjeak 
of." 

"Tut,  nonsense,  silly  child!     Nothmg  is  • 
more  ridiculous  than  to  henr  a  girl  like  you, 
that  ought  to  have  no  will  but  mine,  reason- 
ing hke  a  jJhUosopher." 

"But,  dear  pajja,"  proceeded  Lucy,  "if 
you  should  persist  in  mai-iwing  me  to  a  jn'of- 
ligate.  merely  bccaupe  he  is  a  uolileman — 
oh,  how  often  is  that  honorable  name  pros- 
tituted ! — and  couiJ  give  me  a  title,   don  t 


344 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


yon  see  how  wi-etched  I  should  be,  and  how 
jomisletely  your  wealth  and  property  would 
fail  to  secure  my  happiness '? " 

"Veiy  weU  argued,  Lucy,  only  that  j'ou 
go  upon  wrong  principles.  To  be  sure,  I 
know  that  young  ladies — that  is,  wn/  young 
and  inesj)erienced  ladies,  somewhat  like 
yourself,  Lucy — have,  or  jsretend  to  have — 
poor  fools — a  horror  of  marrying  those  they 
don't  love  ;  and  I  am  awai-e,  besides,  that  a 
man  miglit  as  well  attempt  to  make  a  stream 
I'un  up  hiU  as  combat  them  upon  this  topic. 
As  for  me,  in  spite  of  all  my  wealth  and 
property — I  say  this  iu  deference  to  you — I 
am  really  very  happy  this  moment." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  papa.  May  I 
ask,  what  has  contributed  to  make  you  so  ?  " 

"  I  shall  mention  that  presently  ;  but,  in 
t)ie  mean  time,  my  theory  on  this  subject  is, 
that,  instead  of  marrying  for  love,  I  would 
recommend  only  such  persons  to  contract 
matrimony  as  entertain  a  kind  of  lurking 
aversion  for  each  other.  Let  the  pai'ties 
commence  with,  say,  a  tolerably  strong  stock 
of  honest  hatred  on  both  sides.  Very  well  ; 
they  are  united.  At  first,  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  heroic  grief,  and  much  exquisite 
martyrdom  on  the  piart  of  the  lady,  whilst 
the  gentleman  is  at  once,  if  I  may  say  so,  in- 
dift'erent  and  indipfnant.  By  and  by,  however, 
they  become  tired  of  this.  The  husband, 
who,  as  well  as  the  wife,  we  shah  suppose, 
has  a  strong  sjiice  of  the  devil  in  him,  begms 
to  entertain  a  kind  of  diabohcal  sjnupathy  for 
the  lire  and  temper  she  disf)lays  ;  while  she, 
on  the  other  hand,  comes  by  degrees  to 
admii-e  in  him  that  which  she  is  conscious  of 
possessing  herself,  that  is  to  say,  a  sharp 
tongue  and  an  energetic  temperament.  In 
this  way,  Lucy,  they  go  on,  imtil  habit  has 
become  a  second  nature  to  them.  The 
appetite  for  strife  has  been  happily  created. 
At  length,  thej*  find  themselves  so  completely 
captivated  by  it  that  it  becomes  the  charm 
of  their  existence.  Thenceforth  a  bewitch- 
ing and  discordant  harmony  prevails  between 
them,  and  they  entertain  a  kind  of  hostile 
affection  for  each  other  that  is  desperately 
deUghtful." 

"Why,  you  are  quite  a  painter,  papa; 
your  picture  is  admirable  ;  aU  it  wants  is 
truth  and  nature." 

"Thank  you,  Lucy;  you  are  quite  com- 
plimentary, and  have  made  an  artist  of  me, 
as  artists  now  go.  But  is  not  this  much 
more  agreeable  and  animated  than  the  sweet 
dalhance  of  a  sugar-plum  life,  or  the  dull, 
monotonous  existence  reseuroling  a  Dutch 
canal,  wliich  we  term  connubial  hajJi^i- 
ness  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,  papa,  suppose  you  were  to 
Leai-  me  tlu'oujjh ?  " 


"  Very  well,"  he  replied  ;  "I  wilL" 

"  I  do  not  believe,  su',  that  life  caji  present 
us  with  anything  more  beautiful  and  delight- 
ful than  the  union  of  tv,  o  hearts,  two  minds, 
two  souls,  in  pure  and  mutual  ali'ection, 
when  that  ali'ection  is  founded  upon  some- 
thing more  durable  than  mere  beauty  or 
personal  attraction — that  is,  when  it  is  based 
iipon  esteem,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  object  we  love." 

"  Yes,  Lucy ;  but  remember  there  are 
such  things  as  deceit,  dissimulation,  and 
hypocrisy  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  and  goodness,  and  candor,  and 
honor,  smd  tnitli,  and  fidelity,  pajia  ;  do  you 
remember  IImI?  When  two  beings,  con- 
scious, I  say,  of  each  other's  ^ii'tues— each 
others  failings,  if  you  will — are  tmited  in 
the  bonds  of  true  and  pure  affection,  how 
could  it  hapjien  that  marriage,  which  is  only 
the  baptism  of  love  upon  the  altar  of  the 
heart,  should  take  awaj'  any  of  the  tender- 
ness of  this  attachment,  especiiJly  when  we 
reflect  that  its  very  emotions  are  hajjpiness  ? 
Granting  that  love,  in  its  romantic  and  ideal 
sense,  may  disaj^pear  after  maiTiage,  I  have 
heard,  and  I  beheve,  that  it  assumes  a  holier 
and  still  more  tender  spirit,  and  reappeai's 
under  the  sweeter  and  more  beautiful  form 
of  domestic  affection.  The  veiy  conscious- 
ness, I  should  sujipose,  that  our  destinies, 
our  hopes,  oiu'  objects,  our  cares — in  short, 
our  joys  and  sorrows,  are  identical  and  mu- 
tual, to  be  shared  ■^"ith  and  by  each  other, 
and  that  aU  those  delightful  interchanges  of 
a  thousand  nameless  offices  of  tenderness 
that  spring  uj?  from  the  on-going  business 
of  our  own  peculiar  hfe — these  ;done,  I  can 
very  well  imagine,  would  constitute  an  en- 
joyment far  higher,  purer,  holier,  than  mere 
romantic  love.  Then,  papa,  siu-elj'  we  are 
not  to  hve  solely  for  ourselves.  There  ai-e 
the  miseries  and  wants  of  others  to  be  les- 
sened or  relieved,  calamity  to  be  mitigated, 
the  i^ale  and  throbbing  brow  of  sickness  to 
be  cooled,  the  heart  of  the  jjoor  and  neglect- 
ed to  be  sustained  and  cheered,  and  the 
limbs  of  the  wearj'  to  be  clothed  and  rested. 
Why,  papa,"  she  i)roceeded,  her  dark  ej'e 
kindluig  at  the  noble  picture  of  hvnnan  duty 
she  had  drawn,  "when  we  take  into  contem- 
plation the  delightful  impression  of  two  jjer- 
sous  going  thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  hfe, 
joining  in  the  discharge  of  their  necessary 
duties,  assisting  their  fellow-creatures,  and 
diffusing  goocl  wherever  they  go — each 
strengthening  and  reflecting  the  virtues  of 
the  other,  may  we  not  well  ask  how  they 
could  look  upon  each  other  without  feeling 
the  highest  and  noblest  sjiirit  of  tenderness, 
affection,  and  esteem  ?  " 

"O  yes,  I  was  right,  Lucy  ;  all  romance. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


345 


oil  iniayination,  al!  bonej'jjot,  with  a  streai 
of  l.rci;.-le  here  and  there  for  the  shadiug," 
and,  as  he  spoke,  he  committed  another  fel- 
ony in  tlie  disguise  of  a  horse-laugh,  which, 
hoviever,  came  only  from  the  jaws  out. 

"liyt,  papa,"  she  proceeded,  anxious  to 
change  the  aul)ject  and  curtail  the  interview, 
"  as  I  said,  I  trust  something  agreeable  has 
hripjjened ;  you  seem  in  unusually  good 
sjiirits." 

"  AMiy,  yes,  Luej',"  he  replied,  setting  his 
eyes  upon  her  with  an  expression  of  good- 
humor  that  made  her  tremble — "yes,  I  was 
in  BaUytraui,  and  had  an  interview  with  a 
friend  of  yoiu's,  who  is  stopijing  in  the 
'!Mitre.'  But,  my  dear,  surely  that  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  all  at  once  grow  so 
pale !  I  ahnost  think  that  you  have  con- 
tracted a  habit  of  becoming  jiale.  I  observed 
it  this  morning — I  observe  it  now  ;  but,  after 
all,  perhajjs  it  is  only  a  new  method  of 
blushing — the  blush  reversed — that  is  to 
3ay,  blushing  backwards.  Come,  you  foohsh 
girl,  don't  be  alai-raed  ;  your  lover  had  more 
sense  than  you  have,  and  knew  when  and 
where  to  place  confidence." 

He  rose  up  now,  and*  having  taken  a  turn 
or  two  across  the  room,  apjiroached  her,  and 
in  deep,  earnest,  and  what  he  intended  to 
be,  and  was,  an  impressive  and  startHug 
voice,  added  : 

"Yes,  Miss  Gourlay,  he  has  told  me  aU." 

Lucy  looked  at  him,  unmoved  as  to  the 
information,  for  she  knew  it  was  false  ;  but 
she  left  him  nothing  to  complaui  of  with  re- 
gard to  her  jialeness  now.  In  fact,  she 
blushed  deeply  at  the  falsehood  he  attempted 
to  impose  upon  her.  The  whole  tenor  and 
spirit  of  the  conversation  was  instantly 
changed,  and  assumed  for  a  moment  a  pain- 
ful and  disagreeable  formality. 

"To  whom  do  you  allude,  su'?"  she 
asked. 

"  To  the  gentleman,  madam,  to  whom  you 
bowed  so  gi-aciously,  and,  let  me  add,  signi- 
ticautly,  to-day." 

"  And  may  I  beg  to  know,  sir,  what  he  has 
told  you?" 

"  Have  I  not  ah'eady  said  that  he  has  told 
me  alll  Yes,  madam,  I  have  said  ao,  I 
think.  But  come,  Lucy,"  he  added,  affecting 
toi^lax,  "be  a  good  girl ;  as  you  said,  yom-- 
self,  it  should  not  be  sir  and  madam  between 
you  and  me.  You  ai-e  all  I  have  in  the  world 
— my  only  child,  and  if  I  appear  harsh  to 
you,  it  is  only  because  I  love  and  am  anxious 
to  make  you  happy.  Come,  my  dear  chdd, 
put  confidence  in  me,  and  rely  upon  my  af- 
fection and  generosity." 

Lucy  was  staggered  for  a  moment,  but 
only  for  a  moment,  for  she  thoroughly  un- 
derstood him. 


"But,  pajia,  if  the  gentleman  you  allude 
to  hax  (old  i/(ju  all,  what  is  there  left  for  me 
to  confide  to  you  ?  " 

"  \Mjy,  the  tnith  is,  Lucy,  I  was  ansioriH 
to  test  his  sincerity,  and  to  have  your  ver- 
sion as  well  as  his.  He  appears,  certainly, 
to  be  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor." 

"And  if  he  be  a  man  of  honor,  jwpa,  how 
can  you  rerjuii-e  such  a  test '? " 

"I  said,  observe,  that  he  o/7^)mr.s-  to  be 
such; 'but,  you  know,  a  man  may  be  mis- 
taken in  the  estimate  he  forms  of  another  in 
a  first  interview.  Come,  Lucy,  do  something 
to  make  me  your  friend." 

"  ily  friend  !  "  she  replied,  whilst  the  tears 
rose  to  her  eyes.  "  Alas,  papa,  must  I  hear 
such  language  as  this  from  a  father "s  hps  ? 
Should  anything  be  necessary  to  make  that 
father  the  friend  of  his  only  chLid  ?  I  know 
not  how  to  reply  to  you,  sir ;  yoti  have 
placed  me  in  a  position  of  almost  unexampled 
distress  and  j^ain.  I  cannot,  without  an  ap- 
parent want  of  respect  and  duty,  give  exj)res- 
sion  to  what  I  know  and  feel." 

"  Why  not,  you  foolLsh  girl,  especially 
when  you  see  me  in  such  good-humor? 
Take  courage.  You  will  find  me  more  in- 
dulgent than  you  imagine.  Imitate  your 
lover  yonder." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  sparkled 
through  her  tears  with  shame,  but  not 
merely  ^vith  shame,  for  her  heart  was  filled 
with  such  an  indignant  and  oppressive  sense 
of  his  falsehood  as  caused  her  to  weep  and 
sob  aloud  for  two  or  three  minutes. 

"  Come,  my  dear  child,  I  repeat — imitate 
your  lover  yonder.  Confess  ;  but  don't  weep 
thus.     Surely  I  am  not  harsh  to  you  now  ?  " 

"  Papa,"  she  replied  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  the  confidence  which  you  solicit,  it  is  not 
in  my  power  to  bestow.  Do  not,  therefore, 
press  me  on  this  subject.  It  is  enough  that 
I  have  already  confessed  to  you  that  my  af- 
fections are  engaged.  I  vnll  now  add  what 
perhaps  I  ought  to  have  added  before,  that 
this  was  with  the  sanction  of  my  dear 
mamma.  Indeed,  I  would  have  said  so,  but 
that  I  was  reluctant  to  occasion  reflections 
from  you  incompatible  with  mj"  ali'ection  for 
her  memorj-." 

"  Your  mother,  madam,"  he  added,  his  face 
blackenuig  into  the  hue  of  his  natural  tem- 
per, "  was  always  a  poor,  weak-minded  wo- 
man. She  was  foolish,  madam,  and  indis- 
creet, and  has  made  you  wicked — trained 
you  up  to  In'pocrisy,  falsehood,  and  dis- 
obedience. Yes,  madam,  and  in  every  in- 
stance where  j'ou  go  contrary  to  711  y  wiU, 
you  act  upon  h'r  principles.  Why  do  you 
not  respect  truth.  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"Alas,  sir  !  "  she  replied,  stung  and  shock- 
ed   by   his   immauly  reflections  upon   the 


346 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


memory  of  Ler  mother,  wliilst  lier  tears 
burst  out  afresh,  "I  am  this  moment  weep- 
ing for  my  father's  disregard  of  it." 

"  How,  madam  !  I  am  a  liar,  am  I?  Oh, 
dutiful  daughter ! " 

"  Mamma,  sir,  was  all  truth,  all  goodness, 
all  aft'ectiou.  She  was  at  onee  an  angel  and 
a  martyr,  and  I  will  not  hear-  her  blessed 
memon'  insulted  by  the  very  man  who, 
above  all  others,  ought  to  protect  and  revere 
it.  I  am  not,  papa,  to  be  intimidated  by 
looks.  If  it  be  our  duty  to  defend  the  ab- 
sent, is  it  not  ten  thousand  times  more  so 
to  defend  the  dead  ?  Shall  a  daughter  hear 
with  acquiescence  the  memory  of  a  mother, 
who  would  have  died  for  her,  loaded  with 
obloquy  and  falsehood  ?  No,  sir  !  Menace 
and  abuse  myself  as  much  as  you  wish,  but 
I  tell  you,  that  while  I  have  life  and  the 
jjower  of  speech,  I  will  fling  back,  even  into 
a  father's  face,  the  falsehoods — the  gi'oss 
and  unmanly  falsehooils  —with  which  he  in- 
sults her  tomb,  and  calumniates  her  memory 
and  her  virtues.  Do  not  blame  me,  sir,  for 
this  language  ;  I  would  be  glad  to  honor  you 
if  I  could  ;  I  beseech  30U,  my  father,  enable 
me  to  do  so." 

"  I  see  you  take  a  peculiar — a  wanton 
pleasure  in  calling  me  a  liar." 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not  call  you  a  liar  ;  but  I 
know  you  regard  truth  no  farther  than  it 
sei-ves  your  own  purposes.  Have  you  not 
told  me  just  now,  that  the  gentleman  in  the 
Mitre  Lm  has  made  certain  disclosures  to 
you  concerning  himself  and  me  '?  And  now, 
father,  I  ask  you,  is  there  one  word  of  truth 
in  this  assertion  ?  You  know  there  is  not. 
Have  you  not  sought  my  confidence  by  a 
series  of  false  pretences,  and  a  relation  of 
circumstances  that  were  utterly  without 
fomidation  ?  All  this,  however,  though  in- 
exj)ressibly  j^ainful  to  me  as  your  daughter, 
I  could  overlook  without  one  word  of  reply  ; 
but  I  never  will  allow  you  to  cast  foul  and 
cowardly  reproach  ujion  the  memory  of  the 
best  of  mothers — upon  the  memory  of  a  wife 
of  whom,  father,  you  were  unworthy,  and 
whom,  to  my  own  knowledge,  your  harsh- 
ness and  severity  hurried  into  a  jjremature 
grave.  Oh,  never  did  woman  pay  so  dread- 
ful a  penalty  for  suflering  herself  to  be 
forced  into  marriage  with  a  man  slie  could 
not  love,  and  wlio  was  imworthy  of  her  affec- 
tion !  That,  sir,  was  the  only  action  of  her 
life  in  which  her  daughter  cannot,  iviU  not, 
imitate  her." 

She  rose  to  retire,  but  her  father,  now 
having  relapsed  into  all  his  dark  vehemence 
of  temper,  exclaimed — 

"Now  mark  me,  madam,  before  you  go. 
I  s:!y  you  shall  slecjj  under  lock  and  key  this 
night.     I  tell  you  that  I  shall  use  the  most 


rigorous  measures  with  you,  the  severest, 
the  harshest,  that  I  can  de%ise,  or  I  shall 
break  that  stubliorn  ^vill  of  yours.  Do  not 
imagine  for  one  moment  that  you  shall  over^ 
come  me,  or  triumph  in  your  disobedience. 
No,  sooner  than  you  should,  I  would  break 
yoiu-  spirit — I  would  break  youi-  heart." 

"Be  it  so,  sir.  I  am  ready  to  suffer  any- 
thing, pro\'ided  only  you  will  forbear  to  in- 
sult the  memory  of  my  mother." 

With  these  words  she  sought  her  own 
room,  where  she  indulged  in  a  long  fit  of 
bitter  grief. 

Sir  i?homas  Goruiay,  in  these  painful  con 
tests  of  temper  with  his  candid  and  high- 
minded  daughter,  was  by  no  means  so  cool 
and  able  as  when  engaged  in  simdar  cxerei- 
tations  with  strangers.  The  disadvantage 
against  him  in  his  broils  v.-ith  Lucy,  arose 
from  the  fa^t  that  he  had  nothing  in  thi« 
respect  to  conceal  fi"om  her.  He  felt  that 
his  uatm-al  temper  and  disposition  were 
known,  and  that  the  assumption  of  any  and 
ever}'  false  as23ect  of  character,  must  neces- 
sarily be  seen  through  by  her,  and  his  hy- 
pocrisy detected  and  understood.  Not  so, 
however,  with  strangV>rs.  When  maiicsuvring 
with  them,  he  could  play,  if  not  a  deeper,  at 
least  a  safer  game ;  and  of  this  he  him.self 
was  iserfeetly  conscious.  H.ad  his  heart  been 
capable  of  any  noble  or  dignitied  emotion, 
he  must  necessarilj'  have  admired  the  great- 
ness of  his  daughter's  mind,  her  indomitable 
love  of  tiiith,  and  the  beautifid  and  uud^-ing 
tenderness  with  which  her  aft'ectiou  brooded 
over  the  memory  of  her  mother.  Selfish- 
ness, however,  and  that  low  ambition  which 
places  human  haj^jjiness  in  the  enjoyment 
of  wealth,  and  honors,  and  empty  titles,  had 
so  completely  blinded  him  to  the  virtues  of 
his  daughter,  and  to  the  sacred  character  of 
his  owTi  duties  as  a  father,  bound  by  the 
first  principles  of  nature  to  promote  her 
happiness,  without  cori-upting  her  vii'tues, 
or  weakening  her  moral  impressions — we 
say  these  things  had  so  blinded  him,  and 
hardened  his  heart  against  all  the  purer 
duties  and  resjionsibilities  of  life,  that  he 
looked  upon  his  daughter  as  a  hardened, 
disobedient  girl,  dead  to  the  influence  of  his 
own  good — the  ambition  of  the  world — and 
insensible  to  the  dignified  position  which 
awaited  her  among  the  votaries  of  rank  and 
fashion.  But,  alas,  i:>oor  man  !  how  little 
did  he  know  of  the  healthy  and  substantial 
A-irtues  which  confer  upon  those  whose 
station  lies  in  middle  and  in  humble  life,  a 
benevolent  and  hearty  consciousness  of  pure 
enjoyment,  immeasuralily  superior  to  the 
hollow  forms  of  life  and  conduct  in  aristo- 
cratic circles,  which,  like  the  tempting  fiiiit 
of  the  Dead  Sea,  seem  beautiful  to  the  ej'e, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


347 


but  are  notlimg  more,  wlien  tested  by  the 
common  process  of  liumauity,  than  ashes 
and  bitterness  to  the  taste.  We  do  not  now 
speak  of  a  whole  class,  for  wherever  human 
nature  is,  it  will  have  its  virtues  as  well  as 
its  vices  ;  but  we  talk  of  the  system,  which 
caimot  be  one  of  much  hajjpiness  or  gen- 
erous feeling,  so  long  as  it  separates  itself 
from  the  general  sympathies  of  mankind. 


CHAPTEE  \T[I. 

The  Fortuiie-Teller — An  Egiiicocal  Prediction. 

The  stranger's  appearance  at  the  "Mitre," 
and  the  incident  which  occurred  there,  were 
in  a  peculiar  degree  mortifpng  to  the  Black 
Baronet,  for  so  he  was  generally  called.  At 
this  j)recise  period  he  had  projected  the 
close  of  the  negotiation  with  respect  to  the 
contemplated  marriage  between  Lucy  and 
Lord  Dunroe.  Lord  Cullamore,  whose  resi- 
dence was  only  a  few  miles  from  Red  Hall, 
had  been  for  soma  time  in  delicate  health, 
but  he  was  now  sufficiently  recovered  to 
enter  upon  the  negotiation  proposed,  to 
which,  v/er3  it  not  for  ceni'tain  rea.sons  that 
will  subsequently  appear,  he  had,  in  truth, 
no  great  rehsh  ;  and  this,  principally  on 
Lucy  Gourlay's  account,  and  with  a  view  to 
her  future  happiness,  which  he  did  not  think 
had  any  gi-eat  chance  of  being  promoted  by 
a  matrimonial  alliance  with  his  son. 

Not  many  minutes  after  the  interview  be- 
tween Lucy  and  her  father,  a  Uveried  ser- 
vant an-ived,  bearing  a  letter  in  reply  to  one 
from  Sir  Thomas,  to  the  following  effect : 

"My  Dear  Gouklay, — I  have  got  much 
stronger  within  the  last  fortnight ;  that  is, 
so  far  as  my  mere  bodily  health  is  concerned. 
As  I  shall  proceed  to  London  in  a  day  or 
two,  it  is  perhaps  better  that  I  should  see 
you  ujDon  the  subject  of  this  union,  between 
your  daughter  and  my  son,  especially  as  you 
seem  to  wish  it  so  anxiously.  To  teU  you 
the  truth,  I  fear  very  much  that  you  are, 
contrary  to  remonstrance,  and  with  your 
eyes  open  to  the  conseqvieuces,  precijsitating 
your  charming  and  admirable  Lucy  uj)on 
wi-etchedness  and  disconsolation  for  the  re- 
mamder  of  her  life  ;  and  I  can  tell  her,  and 
would  if  I  were  allowed,  that  the  coronet  of 
a  countess,  however  higlily  either  she  or  you 
may  appreciate  it,  will  be  found  but  a  poor 
substitute  for  the  want  of  that  attection  and 
esteem,  upon  which  only  can  be  founded 
domestic  hapjiiness  and  contentment. 
"  Ever,  my  dear  Gourlay,  faithfidly  yours, 

"  GULL,\M0RE." 


The  bai'on^t's  face,  after  having  perused 
this  ej)istle,  brightened  up  as  much  as  any 
.face  of  such  sombre  and  repulsive  expres- 
sion could  be  supposed  to  do ;  but,  again, 
upon  taking  into  consideration  what  he 
looked  upon  as  the  unjustifiable  obstinacy  of 
his  daughter,  it  became  once  more  stem  and 
overshaclowed.  He  grou^nd  his  teeth  with 
vexation  as  he  paced  to  and  fi'o  the  room,  as 
was  his  custom  when  in  a  state  of  agitation 
or  anger.  After  some  minutes,  during 
which  his  passion  seemed  only  to  uicrease, 
he  went  to  her  ajjartment,  and,  thrusting  in 
his  head  to  ascertain  that  she  was  safe,  he 
deliberately  locked  the  door,  and,  putting 
the  key  in  his  pocket,  once  more  ordered 
his  horse,  and  proceeded  to  Glenshee  Castle, 
the  princely  residence  of  his  fiiend,  Lord 
CuUamore. 

None  of  our  readers,  we  presume,  would 
feel  disposed  to  charge  our  hardened  baro- 
net with  any  teudenoj'  to  superstition.  That 
he  felt  its  influence,  however,  was  a  fact ; 
for  it  may  have  been  observed  that  there  is 
a  class  of  minds  which,  whilst  they  reject 
all  moral  control  when  any  legitimate  bar- 
rier stands  between  them  and  the  gratifica- 
tion of  their  evil  jsassions  or  designs,  are 
yet  suscep)tible  of  the  effects  which  are  said 
to  proceed  from  such  slight  and  trivial  inci- 
dents as  are  supjjosed  to  be  invested  with  a 
mysterious  and  significant  influence  ujion 
the  actions  of  indi\iduals.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, those  who  possess  the  strongest  pas- 
sions that  are  endowed  ■with  the  strongest 
prineijjles,  unless  when  it  liapjiens  that  these 
passions  are  kept  in  subjection  by  religion 
or  reason.  In  fact,  the  very  reverse  of  the 
jaroposition  in  general  holds  true  ;  and,  in- 
deed. Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  was  a  strong  and 
stai'tling  proof  of  this.  In  his  case,  how- 
ever, it  might  be  accounted  for  by  the  in- 
fluence over  his  mind,  when  young,  of  a 
superstitious  nurse  named  Jennie  Corbet, 
who  was  a  stout  believer  in  all  the  super- 
stitious lore  which  at  that  time  constituted 
a  kind  of  social  and  popular  creed  through- 
out the  counti-y.  It  was  not  that  the  rea- 
son of  Sir  Thomas  was  at  all  convinced  by,  or 
yielded  anj'  assent  to,  such  legends,  but 
a  habit  of  belief  in  them,  which  he  was 
never  able  properly  to  throw  oft^  had  been 
created,  which,  left  behind  it  a  lingering 
impression  resulting  from  their  exhibition, 
which,  in  spite  of  aU  his  efforts,  clung  to 
him  through  life. 

Another  peculiarity  of  his  we  may  as  well 
mention  here,  which  related  to  his  bearing 
while  on  horseliack.  It  had  been  shrewdly 
observed  by  the  people,  that,  whilst  in  the 
act  of  concocting  any  plan,  or  projecting  any 
scheme,  he  uniformly  rode  at  an  easy,  slow, 


348 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


and  tbouglitful  jjace  ;  but,  when  under  tlie 
inilueuce  of  bis  aoigry  passions,  lie  dashed 
along  •\\-ith  a  fiuy  and  vehemence  of  sjieed 
that  startled  those  whom  he  met,  and 
caused  them  to  pause  and  look  after  him 
with  wonder. 

The  distance  between  Red  Hall  and  Glen- 
shee  Castle  was  not  more  than  four  miles  ; 
the  estates  of  both  proprietors  Ijing,  in  fact, 
together.  The  day  was  calm,  mild,  and 
breathed  of  the  fragi-ant  and  oi^ening  odors 
of  spring.  Sir  Thomas  had  neai'ly  measured 
half  the  distance  at  a  very  slow  pace,  for,  in 
truth,  he  was  then  silently  rehearsing  his 
part  in  the  interview  which  was  about  to  take 
place  between  him  and  his  noble  friend.  The 
day,  though  calm,  as  we  said,  was  ueveithe- 
less  without  sunshine,  and,  consequently,  that 
joyous  and  exljilarating  spirit  of  warmth  and 
light  which  the  vernal  sun  floods  down  upon 
all  nature,  rendering  earth  and  air  choral 
with  music,  was  not  felt  so  powerfully.  On 
the  contrary,  the  silence  and  gloom  were 
somewhat  imusual,  considering  the  mildness 
which  prevailed.  Every  one,  however,  has 
experienced  the  influence  of  such  days — an 
influence  which,  notwithstanding  the  calm 
and  genial  character  of  the  day  itself,  is  felt 
to  be  depressing,  and  at  variance  with  cheer- 
fulness and  good  sj)ii'its. 

Be  this  as  it  may.  Sir  Thomas  was  proceed- 
ing leisurelj'  along,  when  a  turn  of  the  road 
brought  him  at  once  upon  the  brow  of  the 
small  valley  from  which  the  I'esidence  of  the 
CuUamore  family  had  its  name — Glenshee, 
or,  in  English,  the  Glen  of  the  Fairies.  Its 
sides  were  wild,  abrupt,  and  precijjitous,  and 
partially  covered  with  copise-Wood,  as  was  the 
little  brawling  stream  which  ran  through  it, 
and  of  which  the  eye  of  the  sjiectator  could 
only  catch  occasional  glimpses  from  among 
the  hazel,  dogberry,  and  white  thorn,  with 
which  it  was  here  and  there  covered.  In  the 
bottom,  there  was  a  small,  but  beautiful 
gi-een  car^sct,  nearly,  if  not  altogether  circular, 
about  a  hundred  yards  in  diameter,  in  the 
centre  of  which  stood  one  of  those  fairy  rings 
that  gave  its  name  and  character  to  the  glen. 
The  place  was,  at  all  times,  wild,  and  so  soli- 
tary Th;it,  after  dusk,  few  persons  in  the 
neighborhood  wished  to  pass  it  alone.  On 
the  day  in  question,  its  appearance  was  still 
and  impressive,  and,  owing  to  the  gloom 
which  prevailed,  it  presented  a  lonely  and 
desolate  aspect,  calculated,  certainly,  in  some 
degree,  to  inspire  a  weak  mind  with  some- 
thing of  that  superstitious  feeling  which  was 
occasioned  by  its  supernatiu'al  reputatioii. 
We  said  that  the  baronet  came  to  a  winding 
part  of  the  road  which  brought  this  wild  and 
startling  spot  before  him,  and  just  at  the 
same  moment  he  was  confionted  by  an  object 


quite  as  wild  and  as  startUng.  This  was  no 
other  than  a  celebrated  fortune-teller  of  that 
day,  named  Ginty  Cooper,  a  middle-aged 
sibyl,  who  enjoyed  a  very  wide  reputatioii  for 
her  extraordiuaiy  insight  into  futurity,  as 
well  as  for  ijerforming  a  variety  of  cures  upon 
both  men  and  cattle,  by  her  acquaintance,  it 
was  supposed,  with  fairy  lore,  the  Uifluence 
of  charms,  and  the  secret  properties  of  certain 
herbs  with  which,  if  you  believed  her,  she 
had  been  made  acquainted  by  the  Dainhe 
Shee,  or  good  people  themselves. 

The  baronet's  first  feeling  was  one  of  an- 
noyance and  vexation,  and  for  what  cause, 
the  reader  vnli  soon  understand. 

"  Curse  this  ill-looking  wretch,"  he  ex- 
claimed mentally  ;  she  is  the  first  individual 
I  have  met  since  I  left  home.  It  is  not  that 
I  regard  the  matter  a  feather,  but,  somehow, 
I  don't  wish  that  a  woman — especially  such  a 
blasted  looking  sibyl  as  this — should  be  the 
first  person  I  meet  when  going  on  any  busi 
ness  of  importance."  Indeed,  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served here,  that  some  of  Gint_y's  predictions 
and  cures  were  such  as,  smong  an  ignorant 
and  credulous  jieople,  strorigiy  impressed  by 
the  superstitious  of  the  day,  and  who  placed 
impUcit  reliance  upon  her proplistic  and  sana- 
tive faculties,  were  certainly  calculated  to  add 
very  much  to  her  peculiar  influence  over 
them,  originating,  as  they  beheved,  in  her 
communion  with  suiiernatural  powers.  Her 
appearance,  too,  was  strikingly  calculated  to 
sustain  the  extraordinary  reputation  which 
she  bore,  yet  it  was  such  as  we  feel  it  to  be 
almost  imi^ossible  to  describe.  Her  face  was 
thin,  and  superuatui-aUy  pale,  and  her  features 
had  a  death-like  composure,  an  almost  awful 
rigidity,  that  induced  the  spectator  to 
imagine  that  she  had  just  risen  from  the 
gTave.  Her  thin  hps  were  repulsively  white, 
and  her  teeth  so  much  whiter  that  they 
almost  tiUed  you  with  fear  ;  but  it  was  in  her 
eye  that  the  symbol  of  her  in-ophetic  jwwer 
might  be  said  to  lie.  It  was  ■nild,  gray,  and 
almost  transparent,  and  whenever  she  was, 
or  ajipeared  to  be,  in  a  thoughtful  mood,  or 
engaged  in  the  contemplation  of  futurity,  it 
kept  perjietually  scintillating,  or  shifting,  as 
it  were,  between  two  jn'oximate  objects,  to 
which  she  seemed  to  look  as  if  they  had 
been  in  the  far  distance  of  sjiace — that  is,  it 
turned  from  one  to  another  with  a  quivering 
raj)idity  which  the  eye  of  the  spectator  was 
unaJjle  to  follow.  And  yet  it  was  erideut  on 
reflection,  that  in  her  youth  she  must  have 
been  not  only  good-looking,  but  handsome. 
This  quick  and  unnatural  motion  of  the  ej^e 
was  extremely  mid  and  startling,  and  when 
contrasted  ^vith  the  white  and  death-like 
character  of  her  teeth,  and  the  moveless  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance,  was  in  atlimra- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


S49 


ble  keeping  with  the  supernatural  quahties 
attributed  to  her.  She  wore  no  bonnet,  but 
her  white  death-bed  Hke  cap  was  tied  round 
her  head  by  a  band  of  clean  linen,  and  came 
under  her  cliin,  as  in  the  case  of  a  corpse, 
thus  making  her  apjaear  as  if  she  purposely 
assumed  the  startling  habiliments  of  the 
grave.  As  for  the  outlines  of  her  general 
person,  they  afforded  evident  i^roof — thin 
and  emaciated  as  siie  then  was — that  her 
figure  in  early  life  must  have  been  remark- 
able for  great  neatness  and  symmetry.  She 
iuhabited  a  solit;u-y  cottage  in  the  glen,  a 
fact  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  people,  com- 
jjleted  the  wild  preatige  of  her  character. 

"  You  acciu-sed  hag,"  said  the  baronet, 
whose  vexation  at  meeting  her  was  for  the 
moment  bej'ond  anj'  superstitious  impression 
which  he  felt,  "what  brought  you  liere? 
Wliat  devil  sent  you  across  my  piath  now  ? 
Who  are  you.  or  what  are  you,  for  you  look 
like  a  libel  on  Immanity  ?  " 

"  If  I  don't,"  she  replied,  bitterly,  "  I  know 
who  does.  There  is  not  much  beauty  between 
us,  Thomas  Gourlay." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  Thomas  Gourlay, 
you  sorceress  ?  " 

"You'll  come  to  know  that  some  day 
before  you  die,  Thomas ;  perhaps  sooner 
than  you  can  think  or  dream  of" 

"  How  can  you  tell  that,  you  irreverent 
old  viper  ?  " 

"I  could  tell  you  much  more  than  that, 
Thomas,"  she  replied  sho^nng  her  corpse- 
like teeth  with  a  ghastly  smile  of  mocking 
bitterness  that  was  fearful. 

The  Black  Baronet,  in  spite  of  himself, 
began  to  feel  somewhat  uneasy,  for,  in  fact, 
there  apjieared  such  a  wdld  but  confident 
significance  in  her  manner  and  language  that 
he  deemed  it  wiser  to  change  his  tactics  with 
the  woman,  and  soothe  her  a  little  if  he 
could.  In  truth,  her  words  agitated  him  so 
much  that  he  unconsciously  pulled  out  of  his 
waistcoat  f)ocket  the  key  of  Lucy's  room, 
and  began  to  dangle  with  it  as  he  contem- 
plated her  with  something  lilje  alarm. 

"  My  poor  woman,  you  must  be  raving," 
he  replied.  "  What  could  a  destitute  creature 
like  you  know  about  ?)!)/ affairs?  I  don't 
remember  that  I  ever  saw  you  before." 

"  That's  not  the  question,  Thomas  Gourlay, 
but  the  question  is,  what  have  you  done  with 
the  cliilil  of  your  eldest  brother,  the  lawful 
£eir  of  the  projjerty  and  title  that  you  now 
bear,  and  bear  unjustly." 

He  was  much  startled  by  this  allusion,  for 
although  aware  that  the  disapjjearance  of  the 
child  in  question  had  been  for  many  long 
years  well  known,  yet,  involved,  as  it  was,  in 
xmaccouutable  mystery,  stiU  the  circumstance 
had  never  been  forKotteu. 


"  That's  an  old  story,  my  good  woman," 
he  replied.  "  You  don't  charge  me,  I  hope, 
as  some  have  done,  with  making  away  with 
him  ?  You  might  as  well  charge  me  with 
kidnapping  my  own  son,  you  foolish  woman, 
who,  you  know,  I  suppose,  disappeared  very 
soon  after  the  other." 

"I  know  he  did,"  she  replied;  "but 
neither  I  nor  any  one  else  ever  charged  you 
with  that  act ;  and  I  know  there  are  a  great 
many  of  opinion -that  both  acts  were  com- 
mitted by  some  common  enemy  to  your 
house,  who  wished,  for  some  unknown  cause 
of  hatred,  to  extinguish  your  whole  family. 
That  is,  indeed,  the  best  defence  you  have 
for  the  disappearance  of  your  brotlie.rx  son  ; 
but,  mark  me,  Thomas  Gourlay — that  defence 
will  not  pass  with  God,  with  me,  iiw  with 
your  o^vn  heart.  I  have  my  own  opinion 
upon  that  subject,  as  well  as  upon  many 
others.  You  may  ask  your  own  conscience, 
Thomas  Gourlay,  but  he'U  be  a  close  friend 
of  yours  that  will  ever  hear  its  answer." 

"  And  is  this  all  youhad  to  say  to  me,  you 
ill-thinking  old  vermin  ? "  he  rephed,  again 
losing  his  temper. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "I  wish  to  tell  your 
fortune  ;  and  you  will  do  well  to  listen  to  me." 

"  Well,"  said  he,  in  a  milder  tone,  putting 
at  the  same  time  the  key  of  Lucy's  door 
again  into  his  pocket,  without  being  in  the 
slightest  degree  conscious  of  it,  "  if  you  are, 
I  suppose  I  iiust  cross  your  hand  with  silver 
as  usual  ;  take  this." 

"l\o."  she  rephed,  drawing  back  wth 
another  ghastly  smile,  the  meaning  of  which 
was  to  him  utterly  undefinable,  "  from  your 
hand  nothing  in  the  shape  of  money  will  ever 
pass  into  mine ;  but  listen  " — she  looked  at 
him  for  some  moments,  during  which  she 
paused,  and  then  added — "  I  will  not  do  it, 
I  am  not  able  to  render  good  for  evil,  j'et ; 
I  will  suffer  you  to  run  your  course.  I  am 
well  aware  that  neither  warning  nor  truth 
would  have  any  effect  upon  you,  luiless  to 
enable  you  to  prepare  and  sharpen  your 
plans  with  more  ingenious  villany.  But  you 
have  a  daughter  ;  I  will  sjJeak  to  you  about 
her." 

"  Do,"  said  the  baronet ;  "  Imt  why  not 
take  the  silver  ?  " 

"  You  will  know  that  one  day  before  you 
die,  too,"  said  she,  "  and  I  don't  think  it  will 
smooth  your  death-bed  pillow." 

"AVhy,  you  are  a  very  mysterious  old 
lady." 

"I'll  now  give  joxi  a  proof  of  that.  You 
locked  in  your  daughter  before  you  left 
home." 

Sir  Thomas  could  not  for  his  life  prevent 
himself  from  starting  so  visibly  that  she 
obsei-ved  it  at  once. 


350 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"No  such  thing,"  he  repHed,  affecting  a 
composure  which  he  certaiuly  did  not  feel ; 
"jou  are  an  impostor,  and  I  now  see  that 
you  know  nothing." 

"  What  I  say  is  true,"  she  repHed,  solemn- 
ly, "  and  you  liave  stated,  Thomas  Gourlaj"^, 
v.'hat  j'ou  know  to  be  a  falsehood  ;  I  would 
be  glad  to  discover  you  uttering  truth  unless 
with  some  evil  intention.  But  now  for  your 
daughter  ;  you  wish  to  hear  her  fate  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do  ;  but  then  you  know 
nothing.  You  charge  me  with  falsehood, 
but  it  is  yourself  that  are  the  har." 

She  waved  her  hand  indignantly. 

"  Will  my  daughter's  husband  be  a  man  of 
title  ? "  he  asked,  his  mind  jjassing  to  the 
great  and  engrossing  object  of  his  ambition. 

"He  will  be  a  man  of  title,"  she  rei^hed, 
"and  he  ^vill  make  her  a  countess." 

"You  must  take  money,"  said  he,  thrust- 
ing his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  once  more 
pulling  out  his  purse — "  that  is  worth  some- 
thing, sui'ely." 

She  waved  her  hand  again,  with  a  gesture 
of  rejjulse  still  more  indignant  and  fi-ightful 
thaii  before,  and  the  bitter  smUe  she  gave 
while  doing  it  again  displayed  her  corpse- 
like teeth  in  a  manner  that  was  calculated  to 
excite  horror  itself. 

"Very  well,"  rej^lied  the  baronet  ;  "I'v^aU 
not  press  you,  only  don't  make  such  cm'sed 
fi'iglitful  grimaces.  But  with  respect  to  my 
daughter,  will  the  marriage  be  with  her  own 
consent  ?  " 

"  With  her  own  consent — it  wlU  be  the 
dearest  wish  of  her  heart." 

"  Could  you  name  her  husband  ?  " 

"  I  could  and  will.  Lord  Dimroe  wiU  be 
the  man,  and  he  will  make  her  Countess  of 
Cullamore." 

"  Well,  now,"  replied  the  other,  "I  believe 
you  can  speali  truth,  and  are  somewhat  ac- 
quainted ^^•itll  the  future.  The  giii  certainly 
is  attached  to  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
the  union  wiU  be,  as  you  say,  a  hapf)y  one." 

"You  know  in  your  soul,"  she  repHed, 
"  that  she  detests  him  ;  and  you  know  she 
would  sacrifice  her  life  this  moment  sooner 
than  marrj-  him." 

"What,  then,  do  you  mean?"  he  asked, 
"  and  why  do  you  thus  contradict  yourself  ?  " 

"  Good-by,  Thomas  Gourlay,"  she  replied. 
"  So  fiu-  as  regai-ds  either  the  past  or  the 
future,  you  wiU  hear  nothing  further  fi'om 
me  to-day  ;  but,  mark  me,  we  shaU  meet 
again — and  we  have  met  before." 

"  That,  certainly,  is  not  true,"  he  said, 
"  unless  it  might  be  accidentallj'  on  the  high- 
way ;  but,  until  this  moment,  my  good 
woman,  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  your 
face  in  my  life." 

She  looked  toward  the  sky,   and   jiointiug 


her  long,  skinny  finger  upwards,  said,  "How 
wOl  you  be  j)repared  to  rendei  an  account 
of  all  your  deeds  and  iniquitigs  before  Him 
who  win  judge  you  there  !  " 

There  was  a  terrible  calmness,  a  dreadful 
solemnity  on  her  white,  ghastly  features  as 
she  spoke,  and  pointed  to  the  sky,  aftei 
which  she  passed  on  in  silence  and  took  no 
fmther  notice  of  the  Black  Baronet. 

It  is  very  diiKcult  to  describe  the  singular 
vai-ietj'  of  sensations  which  her  conversation, 
extraordinary,  wUd,  and  mysterious  as  it  was, 
caused  this  remai'kable  man  to  experience. 
He  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  One  thing 
was  certain,  however,  and  he  could  not  help 
admitting  it  to  himself,  that,  during  their 
short  and  singular  dialogue,  she  had,  he 
knew  not  how,  obtained  and  exercised  an 
extraordinary  ascendency  over  him.  He 
looked  after  her,  but  she  was  j^ioceeding 
calmly  along,  precisely  as  if  they  had  not 
spoken. 

"  She  is  certainly  the  greatest  mystery  in 
the  shape  of  woman,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
he  proceeded,  "  that  I  have  ever  yet  met — 
that  is,  if  she  be  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood — 
for  to  me  she  seems  to  belong  more  to 
death  and  its  awful  accessories,  than  to  life 
and  its  natural  reality.  How  in  the  devil's 
name  could  she  have  known  that  I  locked 
that  obstinate  and  undutiful  girl  vp  ? " 
This  is  altogether  iuexpheable,  upon  princi- 
2)les  affecting  only  the  ordinary  powers  of 
common  humanity.  Then  she  affirmed, 
prophesied,  or  what  \o\\  will,  that  Lucy  and 
Dunroe  win  be  married — willingly  and  hap- 
pily !  That  certainly  is  strange,  and  as 
agreeable  as  strange  ;  but  I  wiU  doubt  noth- 
ing after  the  incident  of  the  locking  u}^,  so 
strangely  revealed  to  me  too,  at  a  moment 
when,  perhaps,  no  human  being  knew  it  but 
Lucy  imd  myself.  And,  what  is  stranger 
stiU,  she  knows  the  state  of  the  girl's  af- 
fections, and  that  she  at  present  detests  Dmi- 
roe.  Yet,  stay,  have  I  not  seen  her  some- 
where before  ?  She  said  so  herself.  There 
is  a  faint  iuq^ression  on  me  that  her  face  is 
not  altogether  unfamili;u'  to  me,  but  I  can- 
not recfdl  either  time  or  place,  and  perhaps 
the  impression  is  a  wrong  one." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Candoi-  and  Dissiimilalion. 

Glexshee  C.\stle  was  built  by  the  father 
of  the  then  Lord  Cullamore,  at  a  cost  of 
upwards  of  one  hundretl  thousand  jjoimds. 
Its  general  effect  and  situation  were  beau- 
tiful,   imposing,    and    pictui-esque    in    the 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


351 


extreme.  Its  north  and  east  sides,  being 
the  luiucipal  fronts,  contained  the  state 
apartuieuts,  while  the  other  sides,  for  the 
building  was  a  i^aiMllelogram,  contained  the 
oflices,  and  were  overshadowed,  or  nearly 
altogether  concealed,  by  trees  of  a  most 
luxuriant  growth.  Li  the  east  fi-out  stood  a 
magnLBceut  circular  tower,  in  tine  propor- 
tion with  it ;  whilst  an  octagon  one,  of  pro- 
portions somewhat  iiiferior,  terminated  the 
northern  angle.  The  fi'ont,  again,  on  the 
north,  extending  from  the  last  mentioned 
tower,  was  connected  ■^ith  a  fine  Gcrthic 
chapel,  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  its 
stained  windows,  supervening  buttresses,  and 
a  belfry  at  its  western  extremity.  On  the 
north  front,  which  was  the  entrance,  rose  a 
l^orch  leading  into  a  vestibule,  and  fi'om 
thence  into  the  magnificent  hall.  From  this 
sprung  a  noble  stone  staircase,  with  two  i)i- 
feiior  flights  that  led  to  a  corridor,  which 
communicated  with  a  gorgeous  suit  of  bed- 
chambers. The  grand  hall  communicated 
on  the  western  side  with  those  rooms  that 
were  apjDropriated  to  the  servants,  and  those 
on  the  opposite,  with  the  state  apartments, 
■which  were  of  magnificent  size  and  propor- 
tions, having  all  the  wood-work  of  Irish  oak, 
exquisitely  polished.  The  gardens  were  in 
equal  taste,  and  admirably  kept.  The  plea- 
siu'e  grormds  were  ornamented  with  some  of 
the  nu'est  exotics.  On  each  side  of  the  av- 
enue, as  you  ap2:)roached  the  castle,  stood  a 
range  of  noble  elms,  beeches,  and  oaks  in- 
termingled ;  and,  as  j'ou  reached  the  gi'and 
entrance,  you  caught  a  \iew  of  the  demesne 
and  deer-park,  which  were,  and  ai-e,  among 
the  finest  in  the  kingdom.  There  was  also 
visible,  from  the  steps  of  the  hall  and  front 
window,  the  bends  of  a  sweet,  and  winding 
river  near  the  centre  of  the  demesne, 
spanned  by  three  or  four  hght  and  elegant 
ai'ches,  that  connected  the  latter  and  the 
deer-park  with  each  other.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, was  so  striking  in  the  whole  limdscape 
as  the  gigantic  size  and  venerable  appeai'- 
ance  of  the  wood,  which  covered  a  large 
portion  of  the  demesne,  and  the  patriarchal 
majesty  of  those  immense  trees,  which  stood 
separated  from  the  mass  of  forest,  singly  or 
in  groujos,  in  different  parts  of  it.  The 
evening  summer's  deep  Ught,  something  be- 
tween gold  and  puii^le,  as  it  poured  its  mellow 
radiance  ujjou  the  green  openings  between 
these  noble  trees,  or  the  evening  smoke,  as 
it  arose  at  the  same  hour  fi'om  the  chimneys 
of  the  keepers'  houses  among  their  branches, 
were  sights  worth  a  whole  gallery  of  modem 
art. 

As  the  baronet  approached  the  castle,  he 
thought  again  of  the  woman  and  her  prophe- 
cies, ;ind  yielded  to  their  influence,  in  so  far 


as  they  assui'ed  him  that  his  daughter  was 
destined  to  become  the  proud  mistress  of  all 
the  magnificence  by  which  he  was  surround- 
ed. The  sun  had  now  shone  forth,  and  as 
its  clear  Ught  feU  ujaon  the  house,  its  beauti- 
ful pleasure-grounds,  its  ornamented  lawns, 
and  its  stately  avenues,  he  felt  that  there  was 
something  worth  making  a  struggle  for,  even 
at  the  expense  of  conscience,  wdien  he  con- 
templated, with  the  cnxvings  of  an  ambitious 
heart,  the  spirit  of  rich  and  deep  repose  in 
which  the  whole  gorgeous  spectacle  lay. 

On  reaching  the  haU  he  rang,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  admitted  to  his  fiiend,  Lord 
CuUamore. 

Lord  CuUamore  was  remarkable  for  that 
venerable  dignitj'  and  graceful  ease,  which, 
after  aU,  can  onh'  result  from  early  and  con- 
stant intercourse  with  poUshed  and  aristo- 
cratic society.  This  jserson  was  somewhat 
above  the  midcUe  size,  his  eye  clear  and  sig- 
nificant, his  features  exj)ressive,  and  singu- 
larly iniUcative  of  what  he  felt  or  said.  In 
fact,  he  ajjpeared  to  be  an  intelligent,  candid 
man,  who,  in  addition  to  that  air  bestowed 
upon  him  by  his  rank  and  i:)osition,  and 
which  could  never  for  a  moment  be  mistak- 
en, was  altogether  one  of  the  best  specimens 
of  his  class.  He  had  neither  those  assump- 
tions of  hateful  condescension,  nor  that  eter- 
nal consciousness  of  his  high  bu'th,  which 
too  frequently  degrade  and  disgrace  the  com- 
monplace and  vulgar  nobleman  ;  especially 
wlien  he  makes  the  ijri-v'ileges  of  his  class  an 
oifence  and  an  oppression  to  his  inferiors,  or 
considers  it  a  crime  to  feel  or  express  those 
noble  symirathies,  which,  as  a  first  principle, 
ought  to  bind  him  to  that  class  by  whom  he 
Uves,  and  who  constitute  the  great  mass  of 
humanity,  from  whose  toil  and  laljor  originate 
the  happiness  of  his  order.  "^^Tien  in  con- 
versation, the  natural  animation  of  his  lord- 
ship's countenance  was  checked,  not  only  by 
a  polite  and  complacent  sense  of  what  was 
due  to  those  with  whom  he  spoke,  and  a  sin- 
cere anxiety  to  put  them  at  their  ease,  but 
evidently  by  an  expression  that  seemed  the 
exponent  of  some  undi'siilged  and  corroding 
sorrow.  We  may  add,  that  he  was  affection- 
ate, generous,  indolent ;  not  difficult  to  be 
managed  vchen  he  had  no  strong  puiisose  to 
stimulate  him  ;  keen  of  observation,  but  not 
prone  to  suspicion  ;  consequently  often  cre- 
dulous, and  easily  imposed  upon  ;  but,  hav- 
ing once  detected  fraud  or  want  of  candor, 
the  discovery  was  certain  forever  to  deprive 
the  offending  party  of  his  esteem — no  mat- 
ter what  their  rank  or  condition  tu  Ufe  might 
be. 

We  need  scarcelj'  say,  therefore,  that  thia 
amiable  nobleman,  possessing  as  he  did  all 
the  high  honor  and  integrity  by  which  his 


WILLIAM  CARL  ETON'S  WORKS. 


whole  life  was  regulated,  (with  one  solitaiy 
exception,  for  which  his  heart  jiaid  a  severe 
penalty,)  carried  along  with  bim,  in  his  old 
age,  that  respect,  reverence,  and  afl'ectiou,  to 
which  the  dignified  simplicity  of  his  life  en- 
titled him.  He  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  few 
noblemen  whose  virtues  gave  to  the  aristo- 
cratic si^irit,  true  grace  and  appropriate  dig- 
nity, instead  of  degrading  it,  as  too  many  of 
his  caate  do,  by  pride,  arrogance,  and  selfish- 
ness. 

Sir  Thomas  Goiu'lay,  on  entering  the  mag- 
nificent library  to  which  he  was  conducted, 
found  his  lordship  in  the  act  of  attaching  his 
signature  to  some  papers.  The  latter  receiv- 
ed him  kindly  and  graciously,  and  shook 
hands  with  him,  but  without  rising,  for  which 
he  apologized. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  strong,  Sir  Thomas,"  he 
added  ;  "  for  although  this  last  attack  has  left 
me,  yet  I  feel  that  it  has  taken  a  considerable 
portion  of  my  strength  along  with  it.  I  am, 
however,  free  from  pain  and  complaint,  and 
my  health  is  gradually  imj^roving." 

"  But,  my  lord,  do  you  think  you  will  be 
able  to  encounter  the  fatigtie  and  difficulties 
of  a  joiu'ney  to  London  ?  "  repUed  the  other. 
"  Will  you  have  strength  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so  ;  travelling  by  sea  always  agi-eed 
with  and  invigorated  my  constitution.  The 
weather,  too,  is  fine,  and  I  will  take  the  long 
voyage.  Besides,  it  is  indispensable  that  I 
should  go.  This  wild  son  of  mine  has  had  a 
duel  witli  some  one  in  a  shooting  gallery — has 
been  severely  hit — and  is  very  ill ;  but,  at  the 
sime  time,  out  of  danger." 

"  A  duel !  Good  her.vens  !  My  lord,  how 
did  it  happen  ?  "  asked  the  baronet. 

"I  am  not  exactly  aware  of  all  the  particu- 
lars ;  but  I  think  they  cannot  be  creditable 
to  the  parties,  or  to  Dunroe,  at  least ;  for 
one  of  his  friends  has  so  far  overshot  the 
mark  as  to  write  to  me,  for  my  satisfaction, 
that  they  have  succeeded  in  keeping  the  af- 
fair out  of  the  papers.  Now,  there  must  be 
something  wrong  when  my  son's  fiiends  are 
anxious  to  avoid  ijublieity  in  the  matter. 
The  conduct  of  that  young  man,  my  dear  Sir 
Thomas,  is  a  source  of  great  affliction  to  me; 
and  I  tremble  for  the  happiness  of  your 
daughter,  should  they  be  united." 

"  You  are  too  severe  on  Dunroe,  my  lord," 
replied  the  baronet.  "  It  is  better  for  a  man 
to  sow  his  wild  oats  in  season  than  out  of  sea- 
son. Besides,  you  know  the  jsroverb,  'A 
reformed  rake,'  etc." 

"The  poimlarity  of  a  proverb,  my  good 
friend,  is  no  proof  of  its  truth  ;  and,  besides, 
I  should  wish  to  jJace  a  hope  of  my  son's  re- 
formation upon  something  firmer  and  more 
solid  than  the  strength  of  an  old  adage." 

"But  you  know,  my   lord,"   replied  the 


other,  "that  the  instances  of  post-matrimo- 
nial reformation,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  from 
youthful  folly,  are  sufficient  to  justify  the  pro- 
verb. I  am  quite  certain,  that,  if  Lord  Dun- 
roe were  united  to  a  virtuous  and  sensible 
wife,  he  wouM  settle  down  into  the  character 
of  a  steady,  honorable,  and  independent 
man.  I  could  prove  this  by  many  instances, 
even  within  your  knowledge  and  mine.  "Why, 
then,  exclude  his  lordshiji  from  the  benefit 
of  a  contingency,  to  speak  the  least,  which 
we  know  falls  out  happily  in  so  many  in- 
stances ?  " 

"  You  mean  you  could  prove  the  proba- 
bility of  it,  my  dear  baronet ;  for,  at  present, 
t'.ie  case  is  not  suseeistible  of  proof.  What 
you  say  may  be  true  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  may  not ;  and,  in  the  event  of  his 
marrying  withoiit  the  post-matrimonial  re- 
formation you  speak  of,  what  becomes  of  your 
daughter's  hapjiiness  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  know  generous  Dunroe  so  well, 
my  lord,  that  I  would  not,  even  as  Lucy's 
father,  hesitate  a  moment  to  run  the  risk." 

"  But  what  says  Lucy  herself?  And  how 
does  she  stand  ail'ected  toward  him  ?  For 
that  is  the  main  point.  This  matter,  you 
know,  was  spoken  over  some  few  years  ago, 
and  conditionally  approved  of  by  us  both ; 
but  my  son  was  then  very  young,  and  had 
not  j)lunged  into  that  course  of  unjustifiable 
extravagance  and  profligacy  which,  to  my 
cost,  has  disgraced  his  latter  years.  I  scorn 
to  veil  his  conduct,  baronet,  for  it  would  be 
dishonorable  under  the  circumstances  be- 
tween us,  and  I  trust  j'ou  wUl  be  equally 
candid  m  detailing  to  me  the  sentiments  of 
your  daughter  on  the  subject." 

"  My  lord,  I  shall  imquestionably  do  so  ; 
but  Lucy,  you  must  know,  is  a  girl  of  a  very 
peculiar  disposition.  She  i}ossesses,  in  fact,  a 
good  deal  of  her  unworthy  father's  determi- 
nation and  obstinacy.  Urge  her  with  too 
much  vehemence,  and  she  \\"iU  resist ;  try  to 
accelerate  her  jiace,  and  she  will  stand  still ; 
but  leave  her  to  herself,  to  the  natur:il  and 
reasonable  suggestions  of  her  excellent 
sense,  and  you  will  get  her  to  do  any- 
thing." 

"  That  is  but  a  verj'  indifferent  character 
you  bestow  uj)on  your  daughter,  Sir  Tho- 
mas," rei^lied  his  lordship.  "  I  trust  she 
deserves  a  better  one  at  your  hands." 

"  l^Tiy,  my  lord,"  rephed  the  baronet, 
smiling  after  his  ovax  peculiar  fashion,  that 
is  to  say,  with  a  kind  of  bitter  sarcasm,  "  I 
have  as  good  a  right,  I  think,  to  exaggerate 
the  failings  of  my  daughter  as  you  have  to 
magnify  those  of  your  son.  But  a  truce  to 
this,  and  to  be  serious  :  I  know  the  girl ; 
you  know,  besides,  something  about  women 
yourself,  my  lord,  and  I  need  not  say  that 


LISftARV 

.'  THE 

L'NIVERSny  OF  ILKNOIS 


JUDGE  Tou  thxre  f~p.  360.  ^^ 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


353 


it  is  unwise  to  rely  upon  the  moods  and  med- 
itations of  a  yoimg  lady  before  marriage. 
Upon  the  prospect  of  suc-h  an  imi^ortant 
change  in  their  position,  the  best  of  them 
will  assume  a  great  deal.  The  period  con- 
stitutes the  last  limited  portion  of  their 
freedom  ;  and,  of  course,  all  the  caprices  of 
the  heart,  and  all  the  giddy  ebullitions  of 
gratified  vanity,  manifest  themselves  so 
strangely,  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to 
understand  them,  or  know  their  wishes. 
Under  such  circumstances,  my  lord,  they 
will,  in  the  verj-  levity  of  dehght,  frequently 
say  'no,'  when  they  mean  'yes,'  and  vice 
versa." 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  repilied  his  lordship,  grave- 
ly, "  marriage,  instead  of  being  the  close, 
should  be  the  commencement,  of  their  hap- 
jsiness.  No  woman,  however,  of  sense, 
whether  before  marriage  or  after  it,  is  diffi- 
cult to  be  understood.  Uj)on  a  subject  of 
such  importance — one  that  involves  the 
happiness  of  her  future  life — no  female  pos- 
sessing truth  and  principle  would,  for  one 
moment,  suffer  a  misconception  to  exist. 
Now  your  daughter,  my  favorite  Lucy,  is  a 
gu'l  of  fine  sense  and  high  feeling,  and  I  am 
at  a  loss,  Sir  Thomas,  I  assiu'e  you,  to  recon- 
cile either  one  or  the  other  with  your  meta- 
jjhysics.  If  Jliss  Gourlay  sat  for  the  dis- 
agreeable 2)icture  you  have  just  di'awn,  she 
must  be  a  great  hj-pocrite,  or  you  have 
grossly  misrepresented  her,  which  I  conceive 
it  is  not  now  your  interest  or  your  wish  to 
do." 

"  But,  my  lord,  I  was  speaking  of  the  sex 
in  general." 

"  But,  sir,"  replied  his  lordship  with  dig- 
nity, "  we  are  here  to  speak  of  your  daugh- 
ter." 

Our  readers  may  perceive  that  the  wily 
baronet  was  beating  about  the  bush,  and 
attempting  to  impose  upon  his  lordship  bj' 
vague  disquisitions.  He  was  jserfectly  aware 
of  Lord  Cullamore's  indomitable  love  of 
truth,  and  he  consequently  feared  to  treat 
him  with  a  direct  imposition,  taking  it  for 
granted  that,  if  he  had,  an  interview  of  ten 
muiutes  between  Lucy  and  his  lordship 
might  lead  to  an  exposure  of  his  duplicity 
and  falsehood.  He  felt  himself  in  a  painful 
and  distressing  dilemma.  Aware  that,  if  the 
exceUeut  peer  had  the  sUghtest  knowledge 
of  Lucy's  loathing  horror  of  his  son,  he 
would  never  lend  his  sanction  to  the  mar- 
riage, the  baronet  knew  not  whether  to  tiun 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  or,  in  other 
words,  whether  to  relj'  on  truth  or  falsehood. 
At  length,  he  began  to  calculate  upon  the 
possiViUity  of  his  daughter's  ultimate  acqui- 
escence, upon  the  force  of  liis  own  unbend- 
ing character,  her  isolated  position,  without 


any  one  to  encourage  or  abet  her  in  what 
he  looked  upon  as  her  disobedience,  conse- 
quently' his  complete  control  over  her  ;  hav- 
ing summoned  up  all  those  points  together, 
he  resolved  to  beat  about  a  httle  longer, 
but,  at  all  events,  to  keep  the  peer  in  the 
dark,  and,  if  pressed,  to  hazard  the  false- 
hood. He  replied,  however,  to  his  lord- 
ship's last  observation  : 

"  I  assm-e  you,  my  lord,  I  thought  not  of 
mj'  daughter  while  I  drew  the  i^icture." 

"  Well,  then,"  rephed  his  lordship,  smil- 
ing, "  all  I  have  to  saj-  is,  that  you  are  very 
eloquent  in  generalities — generalities,  too, 
my  fiiend,  that  do  not  bear  upon  the  ques- 
tion. In  one  word,  is  Miss  Gourlay  inclined 
to  this  marriage  ?  and  I  beseech  you,  my 
dear  baronet,  no  more  of  these  generali- 
ties." 

"  She  is  as  much  so,  my  lord,"  replied  the 
other,  "  as  nineteen  women  out  of  every 
twenty  are  in  general.  But  it  is  not  to  be 
expected,  I  repeat,  that  a  delicately-minded 
and  modest  young  creature  wiU  at  once  step 
forward  unabashed  and  exclaim,  '  Yes,  paj^a, 
I  will  marrj'  him.'  I  protest,  my  lord,  it 
would  requu-e  the  desperate  heroism  of  an 
old  maid  on  the  last  legs  of  hope,  or  the  har- 
dihood of  a  widow  of  three  husbands,  to  go 
through  such  an  oixleal.  We  conse(jueutly 
must  make  allowance  for  those  delicate  and 
blushing  evasions  which,  after  all,  only  mask 
compliance." 

By  this  reply  the  baronet  hoped  to  be 
able  to  satisfy  his  friend,  without  plunging 
into  the  ojjen  falsehood.  The  old  nobleman, 
however,  looked  keenlj'  at  him,  and  asked  a 
question  which  23enetrated  like  a  dagger  into 
the  lying  soul  within  him. 

"  She  consents,  then,  in  the  ordinary 
way '? " 

"  She  does,  my  lord." 

"WeU,"  replied  the  peer,  "that,  as  the 
world  goes,  is,  perhaps,  as  much  as  can  be 
expected  at  present.  You  have  not,  I  dare 
say,  attempted  to  force  her  very  much  on 
the  subject,  and  the  poor  girl  has  no  mother. 
Under  such  circumstances,  the  deUcacy  of  a 
young  lady  is  certainly  entitled  to  a  manly 
forbearance.  Have  you  alluded  to  Dunroe's 
want  of  morals  ?  " 

"  Your  oj)inion  of  his  lordship  and  mine 
differ  on  this  point  considerablj',  mj'  lord," 
rephed  the  baronet.  "  Yon  judge  him  with 
the  severity  of  a  father,  I  with  the  modera^ 
tion  of  a  friend.  I  have  certainly  made  no 
allusion  to  his  morals." 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  are  aware,  that  it  is 
your  duty  to  do  so  ;  as  a  father,  that  it  is  a 
most  solemn  and  indispensable  duty  ?  " 

The  soul  of  Su-  Thomas  Gourlay  writhed 
within  him  like  a  wounded  serpent,  at  the 


354 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


calm  but  noble  truth  contained  in  this 
apophthegm.  He  was  not,  however,  to  be 
caught ;  the  subtlety  of  his  invention  enabled 
him  to  escape  on  that  occasion  at  least. 

"It  has  this  moment  occuiTed  to  me,  my 
lord,  with  reference  to  this  very  point,  that 
it  may  be  possible,  and  by  no  means  imi^rob- 
able — at  least  I  for  one  anxiously  hope  it — 
that  the  recent  iUness  of  my  Lord  Dunroe 
may  have  given  him  time  to  reflect  upon  his 
escapades  and  foUies,  and  that  he  will  rejoin 
society  a  wiser  and  a  better  man.  Under 
these  expectations,  I  appeal  to  your  own 
good  sense,  my  lord,  whether  it  would  be 
wise  or  prudent  by  at  present  alluding — es- 
pecially if  it  be  rendered  unnecessary  by  his 
reformation — to  his  want  of  morals,  in  any 
conversation  I  may  hold  with  my  daughter, 
and  thereby  dejjrive  him  of  her  j)ersonal  re- 
spect and  esteem,  the  only  basis  upon  which 
ti'ue  affection  and  domestic  haiDpiness  can 
safely  rest.  Let  us  therefore  wait,  my  lord. 
Perhaps  the  loss  of  some  of  his  hot  blood 
may  have  cooled  him.  Perhaps,  after  all,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "we  may  have  reason  to 
thank  his  phlebotomist." 

The  peer  saw  Sir  Thomas's  play,  and, 
giving  him  another  keen  glance,  replied : 

"  I  never  deiseuded  much  ujwn  a  dramatic 
repentance,  my  dear  baronet.  Many  a  reso- 
lution of  amendment  has  been  made  on  the 
sick  bed  ;  but  we  know  in  general  how  they 
are  kept,  esisecially  by  the  young.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  our  discussion  has  been  long 
enough,  and  sufficiently  ineffectual.  My  im- 
pression is,  that  Miss  Gourlay  is  disinclined 
to  the  alliance.  In  truth,  I  dare  say  she  is 
as  well  acquaintej  "^.ith  liis  moral  reputation 
as  we  are — perhaps  better.  Dunroe's  con- 
duct has  been  too  often  discussed  in  fashion- 
able hfe  to  be  a  secret  to  her,  or  any  one  else 
who  has  access  to  it.  If  she  reject  him  from 
a  principle  of  virtuous  delicacy  and  honor, 
she  deserves  a  better  fate  than  ever  to  call 
him  husband.  But  perhaps  she  may  have 
some  other  attachment  ?  " 

"My  lord,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  rising,  "I 
think  I  can  perceive  on  which  side  the  disiu- 
chnation  lies.  You  have — and  pray  excuse 
me  for  saying  so — studiously  thi;own,  during 
the  i^resent  conference,  every  possible  ob- 
struction in  the  way  of  an  arrangement  on 
this  subject.  If  your  lordship  is  determined 
that  the  alliance  between  our  families  shall 
nol  take  place,  I  pray  j'ou  to  saj*  so.  Upou 
your  own  showing,  my  daughter  will  have 
little  that  she  ought  to  regret  in  escaping 
Dunroe." 

"And  Dunroe  would  have  much  to  be 
thaukfid  to  God  for  in  securing  your  daugh- 
ter. But,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  I  wiU  be 
candid  and  open  with  you.     Pray  observe, 


sir,  that,  dimng  this  whole  discussion,  con^ 
ference,  or  what  you  will,  I  did  not  get  out 
of  you  a  single  direct  answer,  and  that  upon 
a  subject  invobing  the  life-long  happiness  of 
your  only  child.  I  tell  you,  baronet,  that 
your  indirectness  of  jDui-pose,  and — you  ■will 
excuse  me,  too,  for  what  I  am  about  to  say, 
the  importance  of  the  subject  justifies  me — 
yoiu'  evasions  have  excited  my  suspicions, 
and  my  j)resent  impression  is,  that  Miss 
Gourlay  is  averse  to  a  matrimonial  imion 
wth  my  son  ;  that  she  has  heard  reports  of 
his  character  which  have  justly  alarmed  her 
high-minded  sense  of  delicacy  and  honor  ; 
and  that  you,  her  parent,  are  forcing  her  into 
a  marriage  which  she  detests.  Look  into 
your  own  heart,  Sir  Thomas,  and  see  whether 
you  are  not  willing  to  risk  her  i;)eace  of  mind 
for  the  miserable  ambition  of  seeing  her  one 
day  a  countess.  Alas  !  my  friend,"  he  con- 
tinued, "Jhere  is  no  talisman  in  the  coronet 
of  a  countess  to  stay  the  progress  of  sorrow, 
or  check  the  decline  of  a  Ijreaking  heart.  If 
Miss  Gourlay  be,  as  I  fear  she  is,  averse  to 
this  union,  do  not  sacrifice  her  to  ambition 
and  a  profligate.  She  is  too  j^reeious  a  trea- 
sure to  be  thrown  away  upon  two  objects  so 
utterly  worthless.  Her  soul  is  too  pure  to 
be  allied  to  contamination — her  heart  too 
noble,  too  good,  too  generous,  to  be  broken 
by  unavailing  grief  and  a  rei^entance  that 
wiU  probably  come  too  late." 

"If  I  assure  you,  m.j  lord,  that  she  is  not 
averse  to  the  match — nay  " — and  here  this 
false  man  consoled  his  conscience  by  falling 
back  upon  the  jDrophecy  of  Ginty  Coojjer — 
"  if  I  assure  you  that  she  nnll  marrj'  Dunroe 
willingly — nay,  with  delight,  will  your  lord- 
ship then  rest  satisfied  ?  " 

"  I  must  depend  upon  your  word.  Sir 
Thomas ;  am  I  not  in  conversation  with  a 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  my  lord,  I  assure  you  that  it 
is  so.  Your  lordshii^  wiU  find,  when  the 
time  comes,  that  my  daughter  is  not  only 
not  indisi^osed  to  this  union,  but  al>solutely 
anxious  to  become  your  daughter-in-law  " — 
bad  as  he  was,  he  could  not  force  himself  to 
say,  in  so  many  jslain  words,  "  the  wife  of 
yovu"  son."  "  But,  my  lord,"  he  jiroceeded, 
"  if  you  will  j)ermit  me  to  make  a  single  ob- 
servation, I  will  thank  you,  and  I  trust  you 
will  excuse  me  besides." 

"  Unquestionably,  Sir  Thomas." 

"Well,  then,  my  lord,  what  I  have  ob- 
served during  oui-  conversation,  with  great 
pain,  is,  that  you  seem  to  entertain — pardon 
me,  I  speak  in  good  feeling,  I  assure  your 
lordship — that  you  seem,  I  say,  to  entertain 
a  very  unkind  and  anything  but  a  parental 
feeling  for  your  son.  What,  after  all,  do  his 
wild  eccentricities  amount  to  more  than  the 


THE  BLACK  BAIiONET. 


35a 


fi-eedom  and  indulgence  in  those  easy  habits 
of  Hfe  which  liis  wealth  and  station  hold  out 
to  him  with  "Teater  temptation  than  thej-  do 
to  others?  I  cannot,  my  lord,  in  fact,  see 
anything  so  monstrous  in  the  conduct  of  a 
young  nobleman  like  him,  to  justifj',  on  the 
part  of  yoiu'  lordship,  laugaiage  so  severe, 
and,  j)ai-don  me,  so  jirejudicial  to  his  char- 
acter. Excuse  me,  my  lord,  if  I  have  taken 
a  hberty  to  which  I  am  in  nowise  entitled." 

Socrates  himself  could  scarceh'  have  as- 
sumed a  tone  more  moral,  or  a  look  of  gi-eater 
sincerity,  or  more  anxious  interest,  than  did 
the  Black  Baronet  whilst  he  uttered  these 
words. 

The  peer  rose  up,  and  his  eye  and  whole 
person  were  marked  by  an  exjjression  and  an 
air  of  the  liighest  dignity,  not  mimingled 
with  deep  and  obvious  feeling. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  said  he,  "  j-ou 
seem  to  forget  the  object  of  our  conference, 
and  our  resjjgctive  j^ositions." 

"My  Lord,'  exclaimed  the  other,  in  a  de- 
precating tone,  "I  meant  no  offence,  upon 
my  honor." 

"I  have  taken  none,"  replied  hislordshijJ  ; 
"  but  I  must  teach  you  to  understand  me. 
Whatever  my  son's  conduct  may  be,  one 
thing  is  evident,  that  you  are  his  apologist ; 
now,  as  a  moral  man,  anxious  for  the  hajjpi- 
ness  of  your  child,  I  tell  you  that  j-ou  ought 
to  have  exchanged  jiositions  with  me  ;  it  is 
you  who,  when  about  to  intrust  your  daugh- 
ter to  him  for  Ufe,  ought  to  have  investigated 
his  moral  character  and  habits,  and  mani- 
fested an  anxiety  to  satisfy  yourself  whether 
they  were  such  as  would  reflect  lionor  ujjon 
her,  and  secure  her  j^eace  of  mind  and  tran- 
quillity in  the  married  state.  You  say,  too, 
that  I  do  not  sjDeak  of  mj'  son  in  a  kind  or 
parental  feehng  ;  but  do  you  imagine,  sir, 
that,  engaged  as  I  am  here,  in  a  confidential 
and  important  conference,  the  result  of  which 
may  involve  the  happiness  or  misery  of  two 
persons  so  dear  to  us  both,  I  would  be  justi- 
fied in  withholduig  the  ti-uth,  or  lending 
myself  to  a  coiuvse  of  dishonorable  de- 
cejDtion  ?  " 

He  sat  down  again,  and  seemed  deeply 
affected. 

"  God  knows."  he  said,  "  that  I  love  that 
wild  and  unthinking  young  man,  perhaps 
more  than  I  ought ;  but  do  you  imagine,  sir, 
that,  because  I  have  spoken  of  him  with  the 
freedom  necessaiy  and  due  to  the  impor- 
tance and  solemnity  of  our  object  in  meeting, 
I  could  or  would  utter  such  sentiments  to  the 
world  at  large?  I  pray  you,  sir,  then,  to 
make  and  observe  the  distinction  ;  and,  in- 
stead of  assaiUng  me  for  want  of  aft'ection  as 
a  parent,  to  thank  me  for  the  candor  with 
which  I  have  spoken." 


The  bai-onet  felt  subdued  ;  it  is  evident 
that  his  mind  was  too  coarse  and  selfish  to 
understand  the  delicacy,  the  truth,  and  high, 
conscientious  feehng  with  which  Lord  CuUa- 
more  conducted  his  pai't  of  this  negotiation. 
"My  lord," said  the  baronet,  who  thought 
of  another  jjoint  on  which  to  fall  back,  "  there 
is  one  circumstance,  one  important  fact, 
which  we  have  both  unaccountably  over- 
looked, and  which,  after  all,  holds  out  a 
greater  jsromise  of  domestic  hajipiness  be- 
tween these  young  persons  than  anything  we 
have  thought  of.  His  lord  .ship  is  attached  to 
my  daughter.  Now,  where  there  is  love,  my 
lord,  there  is  every  chance  and  prospect  of 
hapjiiness  in  the  married  life." 

"  Yes,  if  it  be  mutual.  Sir  Thomas  ;  everj'- 
thing  dejjends  on  that.  I  am  glad,  howe^■er, 
you  mentioned  it.  There  is  some  hojse  left 
still ;  but  alas,  alas  !  what  is  even  love  when 
ojiposed  to  selfishness  and  ambition  ?  I  could 

— I   mj-self  coiild "  he   seemed   deejjly 

moved,  and  jiaused  for  some  time,  as  if  un- 
wiUing  to  trust  himself  with  sjseech.  "  Yes, 
I  am  glad  you  mentioned  it,  and  I  thank  you. 
Sir  Thomas,  I  thank  you.  I  should  wish  to 
see  these  two  young  peoj^le  happy.  I  believe 
he  is  attached  to  yonr  daughter,  and  I  will 
now  mention  a  fact  which  certainly  jiroves  it. 
The  gentleman  with  whom  he  fought  that 
unfortunate  duel  was  forced  into  it  by  Dun-i 
roe,  in  consequence  of  his  having  jsaid  some 
marked  attentions  to  Miss  Gourlay,  when  she 
and  her  mother  were  in  Paris,  some  few 
months  before  Lady  Gourlay 's  decease.  I 
did  not  wish  to  mention  this  before,  out  of 
respect  for  your  daughter  ;  but  I  do  so  now, 
confidentially,  of  course,  in  consequence  of 
the  turn  our  conversation  has  taken." 

Something  on  the  moment  seemed  to  strike 
the  baronet,  who  started,  for  he  was  un- 
c[uestionably  an  able  hand  at  i^utting  scat- 
tered facts  and  circumstances  together,  and 
weaving  a  significant  conclusion  from  them. 

"That,  my  lord,  at  all  events,"  said  the 
coarse-minded  man,  after  having  recovered 
himself,  "that  is  gratifying." 

"  '\^^lat !  "  exclaimed  Loi'd  CuUamore,  "  to 
make  your  daughter  the  cause  and  subject  of 
a  duel,  an  intemperate  brawl  in  a  shooting 
gallery.  The  only  hope  I  have  is,  that  I  trust 
she  was  not  named." 

"But,  my  lord,  it  is,  after  all,  a  proof  of 
his  affection  for  hei\" 

His  lordship  smiled  sarcastically,  and 
looked  at  him  with  something  like  amaze- 
ment, if  not  with  contempt ;  but  did  not  deign 
to  reply. 

"And  now,  my  lord,"  continued  the  baro- 
net, "  what  is  to  be  the  result  of  our  confer- 
ence ?  My  daughter  vrill  have  all  my  landed 
property  at  my  death,  and  a  large  marriage- 


356 


WILLI  AM  CARLETOX'S  WORKS. 


poiiion  besides,  now  in  the  funds.  I  am  ap- 
pai'eutly  the  last  of  my  race.  The  disappear- 
ance and  death — I  take  it  for  granted,  as 
they  have  never  since  been  heard  of — of  my 
brother  Sir  Edward's  heir,  and  very  soon 
after  of  my  own,  have  left  me  without  a  hojie 
of  jjerpetuatuig  my  name  ;  I  shall  settle  my 
estates  upon  Lucy." 

His  lordship  appeared  abstracted  for  a  few 
moments.  "  Your  brother  and  you,"  he  ob- 
served, "  were  on  terms  of  bitter  hostility,  in 
consequence  of  what  you  considered  an  lui- 
equal  marriage  on  his  part,  and  I  candidly 
assiu'C  you,  Sii-  Thomas,  that,  were  it  not  for 
the  mysterious  disappearance  of  your  own 
son,  so  soon  after  the  disapjjearance  of  his, 
it  would  have  been  diflicult  to  relieve  you 
from  dark  and  terrible  suspicions  on  the 
subject.  As  it  is,  the  people,  I  beUeve, 
criminate  you  still ;  but  that  is  nothmg  ;  my 
ojjiuion  is,  that  the  same  enemy  jjerpetrated 
the  double  crime.  Alas  !  the  worst  and  bit- 
terest of  all  private  feuds  are  the  domestic. 
There  is  my  own  brother  ;  in  a  moment  of 
passion  and  jealousy  he  challenged  me  to 
single  combat  ;  I  had  sense  to  resist  his  im- 
petuosit}'.  He  got  a  foreign  ajipointmeut, 
and  there  has  been  a  gulf  like  that  of  the 
grave  between  him  and  Ins,  and  me  and  mine, 
ever  since." 

"  Nothing,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir  Thomas, 
his  countenance,  as  he  sjioke,  becoming 
black  with  suppressed  rage,  "vvdll  ever  re- 
move the  impression  from  my  mind,  that  the 
disappearance  or  murder  of  my  son  was  not 
a  diabolical  act  of  retaliation  committed  un- 
der the  suspicion  that  I  was  privj'  to  the  re- 
moval or  death,  as  the  case  may  be,  of  my 
brother's  heir  ;  and  while  I  have  life  I  will 
persist  in  charging  Lady  Goiu'lay,  as  I  must 
call  her  so,  with  the  crime." 

"In  that  imjjression,"  replied  his  lordship, 
"  you  stand  alone.  Lady  Gourlay,  that  ami- 
able, mild,  afitctionate,  and  heart-broken 
woman,  is  utterly  incapable  of  that,  or  any 
act  of  cruelty  whatsoever.  A  woman  who  is 
the  source  of  happiness,  kindness,  relief,  and 
su25l5ort,  to  so  many  sf  her  humble  and  dis- 
tressed fellow-creatures,  is  not  hkely  to  com- 
mit or  become  accessory  in  any  way  to  such 
a  detestable  and  unnatural  crime.  Her  ^vhole 
life  and  conduct  render  such  a  sujjjjosition 
monstrous  and  incredible." 

Both,  after  he  had  closed  his  observations, 
muaed  for  some  time,  when  the  baronet, 
rismg  and  pac?:ig  to  and  fro,  as  was  liis  cus- 
tom, at  length  asked — "  Well,  my  lord,  what 
say  you  ?  Are  we  never  to  come  to  a  con- 
clusion ?  " 

"  My  determination  is  simply  this,  my 
dear  bai-onet, — that,  if  you  and  Miss  Gour- 
lay are  satisfied  to  take  Lord  Dunroe,  with 


all  his  imperfections  on  his  head,  I  shall 
give  no  opposition.  She  will,  unless  he 
amends  and  reforms,  take  him,  I  grant  you, 
at  her  peril ;  but  be  it  so.  If  the  union,  as 
you  say,  will  be  the  result  of  mutual  attach- 
ment, in  Gods  name  let  them  maiTv.  It  ia 
possible,  we  iu-e  assured,  that  the  '  unbe- 
lieving husband  may  be  saved  by  the  be- 
lieving wife.'" 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied,  my  lord,  with  this 
arrangement ;  it  is  fair,  and  just,  and  honor- 
able, and  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  abide  by 
it.  "When  does  your  lordship  propose  to  re- 
turn to  us  ?  " 

"I  am  tu-ed  of  pubUc  life,  my  dear 
baronet.  My  daughter,  Lady  Emily,  vvho, 
you  know,  has  chiefly  resided  with  her 
maiden  aunt,  hopes  to  succeed  in  prevailing 
on  her  to  accompany  us  to  Glcn.shee  Castle, 
to  spend  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  ^^sit 
some  of  the  beautiful  sceneiy  of  this  un- 
known land  of  ours.  Something,  as  to  time, 
depends  upon  Dunroe's  convalescence.  My 
stay  in  England,  however,  will  be  as  short 
as  I  can  make  it.  I  am  getting  too  old  for 
the  exhausting  din  and  bustle  of  society  ;  and 
what  I  want  now,  is  quiet  repose,  time  to 
reflect  upon  my  past  life,  and  to  prcjsare 
myself,  as  well  as  I  can,  for  a  new  change. 
Of  coiu-se,  we  will  be  both  cjuaUlied  to  re- 
sume the  subject  of  this  marriage  after  my 
return,  and,  until  then,  farewell,  my  dear 
baronet.  But  mai'k  me — no  force,  no  vio- 
lence." 

Sir  Thomas,  as  he  shook  hands  with  him, 
laughed — "  None  will  be  uecessaiy,  niv  lord, 
I  assure  you — I  pledge  you  mv  honor  for 
that." 

The  worthy  baronet,  on  mounting  his 
horse,  paced  him  slowly  out  of  the  grounds, 
as  was  his  custom  when  in  deei?  meditation. 

"If  I  don't  mistake,"  thought  he,  "I  have 
a  clew  to  this  same  mysterious  gentleman  in 
the  inn.  Ho  has  seen  and  become  ac- 
quainted with  Lucy  in  Paris,  under  sanction 
of  her  weak-minded  and  foolish  mother. 
T'ne  girl  herself  admitted  that  her  engage- 
ment to  him  was  with  her  consent.  Dimroe, 
already  aware  of  his  attentions  to  her,  be- 
comes jealous,  and  on  meeting  him  in  Lon- 
don quarrels  with  him,  that  is  to  say,  forces 
him,  I  should  think,  into  one  ; — not  that  the 
feUow  seems  at  all  to  be  a  cowai'd  either, — but 
why  the  devil  did  not  the  hot-headed  young 
scoundrel  take  steadier  aim,  and  send  the 
bullet  through  his  heart  or  brain  ?  Had  he 
pinked  him,  it  would  have  saved  me  much 
vexation  and  trouble." 

He  then  passed  to  another  ti-am  of  thought. 
"  Thomas  Gourlay, — plain  Thomas  Goiuiay 
— what  the  de\il  could  the  corpse-like  hag 
mean  by  that?    Is  it  possible  that  this  in-- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


357 


snne  scoundrel  will  come  to  light  in  spite  of 
me  ?  Would  to  Heaven  that  I  could  ascer- 
tain his  whereabouts,  and  get  him  into  my 
power  once  more.  I  would  take  care  to 
put  him  in  a  place  of  safety."  He  then 
touched  his  horse  with  the  spurs,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  Eed  Hall  at  a  quicker  pace. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  Family  Dialoijue — and  a  Secret  nearly  Discovered. 

OuE  scene  must  necessarily  change  to  a 
kind  of  inn  or  low  tavern,  or,  as  they  are 
usually  denominated,  eating-houses,  in  Little 
Maiy  street,  on  the  north  side  of  the  good 
city  of  Dubhu.  These  eating-houses  were 
remarkable  for  the  extreme  neatness  and 
cleanliness  with  which  they  were  kept,  and 
the  vv'ouderful  order  and  regularity  with 
which  they  were  conducted.  For  instance, 
a  lap  of  beef  is  hung  fi-oin  an  ii'on  hook  on 
the  door-post,  which,  if  it  be  in  the  glorious 
heat  of  summer,  is  half  black  with  files,  but 
that  AviJl  not  prevent  it  fi'om  leaving  upon 
your  coat  a  deep  and  healthy  streak  of  some- 
thing between  gi-ease  and  tallow  as  you 
necessarily  brush  against  it — first,  on  your 
going  in,  and  seconclly,  on  your  coming  out. 

The  evening  was  tolerably  advanced,  and 
the  hour  of  dinner  long  past ;  but,  notwith- 
standing this,  there  were  several  persons  en- 
gaged in  disj)atching  the  beef  and  cabbage 
we  have  described.  Two  or  thi'ee  large 
county  Meath  farmers,  clad  in  immense 
frieze  jackets,  corduroy  knee-breeches,  thick 
woollen  stockings,  and  heavy  soled  shoes, 
were  not  so  much  eating  as  devouring  the 
viands  that  were  before  them  ;  whilst  in  an- 
other part  of  the  rooms  sat  two  or  three 
meagre-looking  scriveners'  clerks,  rather  out 
at  elbows,  and  remarkable  for  an  appearance 
of  something  that  might,  without  much  difiS- 
culty,  be  interpreted  into  habits  that  could 
not  be  reconciled  with  sobriety. 

As  there  is  not  much,  however,  that  is 
either  pictui-e.sque  or  agreeable  in  the  de- 
scription of  such  an  estabUshment,  we  shall 
jjass  into  an  inner  room,  Avhere  those  who 
wished  for  privacy  and  additional  comfort 
might  be  entertained  on  terms  somewhat 
more  expensive.  We  accordingly  beg  our 
readers  to  accompany  us  uj)  a  creaking  pair 
of  stall's  to  a  small  backroom  on  the  iirst 
floor,  famished  with  an  old,  round  oak  table, 
with  tiuTied  legs,  four  or  five  old-fashioned 
chairs,  a  few  wood-cuts,  daubed  with  green 
and  yeUow,  representing  the  four  seasons,  a 
Christmas  cai'ol,  together  with  that  mii-acle 


of  ingenuity,  a  reed  in  a  bottle,  which  stood 
on  the  chimney-piece. 

Li  this  room,  'with  liquor  before  them, 
which  was  procured  from  a  neighboring 
public  house — for,  in  establishments  of  this 
kind,  they  ai'e  not  j)ermitted  to  keep  liquor 
for  sale — sat  three  persons,  two  men  and  a 
woman.  One  of  the  men  seemed,  at  first 
gkmce,  rather  good-looking,  was  near  or 
about  fifty,  stout,  big-boued,  and  apparently 
very  powerful  as  regai-ded  personal  strength. 
He  was  respectably  enough  dressed,  and,  as 
we  said,  unless  when  it  hapjjened  that  he  feU. 
into  a  mood  of  thoughtfulness,  which  he  did 
repeatedly,  had  an  appearance  of  fi-ankness 
and  sinipHcity  which  at  once  secui'ed  instant 
and  unhesitating  good  will.  When,  however, 
after  jiutting  the  tumbler  to  his  hps,  and 
gulping  down  a  portion  of  it,  and  then  re- 
placing the  liquor  on  the  table,  he  folded 
his  arms  and  knitted  liis  brows,  in  an  instant 
the  expression  of  oj)euness  and  good  humor 
changed  into  one  of  deep  and  deadly  mahg- 
nity. 

The  features  of  the  elder  person  exliibited 
a  comic  contrast  between  nature  and  habit 
— between  an  expression  of  good  humor, 
broad  and  legible,  which  no  one  could  mis- 
take for  a  moment,  and  an  affectation  of 
consequence,  self-importance,  and  mock  he- 
roic dignity  that  were  irresistible.  He  was 
a  piedagogue. 

The  woman  who  accompanied  them  we 
need  not  describe,  havuig  alreadj'  made  the 
reader  acquainted  with  her  in  the  person  of 
the  female  fortune-teller,  who  held  the  mys- 
terious dialogue  -nith  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
on  his  way  to  Lord  CuUamore's. 

"  This  liquor,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
"  would  be  nothing  the  worse'  of  a  Uttle 
daicent  mellowness  and  flavor ;  but.  at  the 
same  time,  we  must  admit  that,  though 
sadly  deficient  in  a  spirit  of  exhilaration,  it 
beai-s  a  harmonious  reference  to  the  beauti- 
ful beef  and  cabbage  which  we  got  for  duiner. 
The  whole  of  them  are  what  I  designate  as 
sorry  specimens  of  metrojsolitan  luxury.  May 
I  never  translate  a  classic,  but  I  fear  I  shall 
soon  was  aegrotat — I  feel  something  like  a 
telegi'aphic  despatch  commencing  between 
my  head  and  my  stomach  ;  and  how  tho 
communication  may  terminate,  whether 
peaceably  or  otherwise,  would  require,  O 
divine  Jacinta !  your  tripotlial  powers  or 
prophecy  to  predict.  The  whiskey,  in  what- 
ever shape  or  under  whatever  disguise  yoii 
take  it,  is  richly  worthy  of  all  condemna- 
tion." 

"I  will  drink  no  more  of  it,  uncle,"  re^ 
plied  the  other  man  ;  "  it  would  soon  sicken 
me,  too.  This  shan't  pass  ;  it's  gross  im- 
position— and  that  is  a  bad  thing  to  practise- 


35S 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WOIiKS. 


in  this  world.  Ginty,  touch  the  bell,  will 
you  ? — we  will  make  them  get  us  better." 

A  smile  of  a  peculiar  nature  passed  over 
the  woman's  ghastly  features  as  she  looked 
with  significant  caution  at  her  brother,  for 
such  he  was. 

i'  "  Yes,  do  get  better  whiskey,"  she  said  ; 
*  "  it's  too  bad  that  we  should  make  my  uncle 
sick  from  mere  kindness." 

"  I  cannot  exactly  say  that  I  am  much  out 
of  order  as  yet,"  re25lied  the  schoolmaster, 
"  but,  as  they  say,  if  the  weather  has  not 
broken,  the  sky  is  getting  troubled  ;  I  hope 
it  is  only  a  false  alarm,  and  may  pass  away 
without  infliction.  If  there  is  any  of  the 
minor  miseries  of  life  more  trjdng  than 
another,  it  is  to  drink  liquor  that  fires  the 
blood,  splits  the  head,  but  basely  declines  to 
elevate  and  rejoice  the  heart.  O,  divine 
poteen  !  immortal  essence  of  the  hordcum 
beatum! — which  is  translated  holy  barley — 
what  drink,  liquor,  or  refreshment  can  be 
placed,  without  the  commission  of  some- 
thing like  small  sacrilege,  in  parallel  with 
thee  !  When  I  think  of  thy  soothing  and 
gradually  exhilarating  influence,  of  the  genial 
spirit  of  love  and  fi'iendship  which,  owing 
to  thee,  warms  the  heart  of  man,  and  not 
unfrequently  of  the  softer  sex  also  ;  when  I 
reflect  upon  the  cheerful  light  which  thou 
'dift'usest  by  gentle  degrees  throughout  the 
soul,  filling  it  with  generosity,  kindness,  and 
courage,  enabling  it  to  forget  care  and  cal- 
amity, and  all  the  various  ills  that  flesh  is 
lieir  to  ;  when  I  remember  too  that  thou 
dost  so  frequently  aid  the  inspiration  of  the 
bard,  the  eloquence  of  the  orator,  and  chang- 
est  the  modesty  of  the  diffident  lover  into 
that  easy  and  becoming  assurance  which  is 
so  grateful  to  women,  is  it  any  wonder  I 
should  feel  how  utterly  incapable  I  am,  with- 
out thy  own  assistance,  to  expound  thy  eulo- 
gium  as  I  ought !  Hand  that  tumbler  here, 
Charley, — bad  as  it  is,  there  is  no  use,  as 
the  proverb  says,  in  laving  one's  Hquor  be- 
liind  them.  We  will  presently  correct  it 
with  better  drink." 

Charley  Corbet,  for  such  was  the  name 
of  the  worthy  schoolmaster's  nephew,  laugh- 
ed heartily  at  the  eloquence  of  his  uncle, 
who,  he  could  perceive,  had  been  tampering 
a  little  with  something  stronger  than  water 
in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

"  What  can  keep  this  boy  ?  "  exclaimed 
Ginty  ;  "he  knew  we  were  waiting  for  him, 
and  he  ought  to  be  here  now." 

"The  j'outh  iiyill  come,"  said  the  school- 
master, "  and  a  hospitable  youth  he  is — me 
ipao  teste,  as  I  myself  can  bear  witness.  I 
was  in  his  apartments  in  the  Collegium 
Sandiv  Trinitatis,  as  they  say,  which  means 
the  blessed  union  of  dulness,  laziness,  and 


wealth,  for  which  the  same  divine  establish* 
ment  has  gained  au  ajsj^ropriate  and  just  , 
celebrity — I  say  I  was  in  his  apartments, 
where  I  found  himself  and  a  few  of  his 
brother  stvidents  engaged  in  the  agreeable 
relaxation  of  taking  a  hair  of  the  same  dog 
that  bit  them,  after  a  liberal  compotation  on 
the  preceding  night.  Tliird  place,  as  a 
scholar  I  Well !  who  may  he  thank  for  that, 
I  inten'ogate.  Not  one  Denis  O'Donegan  ! 
— O  no  ;  the  said  Denis  is  an  ignoramus, 
and  knows  nothing  of  the  classics.  Well, 
be  it  so.  All  I  say  is,  that  I  -nisli  I  had  one 
classical  lick  at  their  jjrovost,  I  would  let 
him  know  what  the  master  of  a  pkwiation 
aeminarii  *  could  do  when  brought  to  thi 
larned  scratch  ?  " 

"  How  does  Tom  look,  uncle  ? "  asked 
Corbet ;  "  we  can't  say  that  he  has  shown 
much  affection  for  his  friends  since  he  went 
to  college." 

"  How  could  you  expect  it,  Charley,  my 
worthy  nepoa  ? "  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"  These  sprigs  of  classicaUty,  when  once 
they  get  imder  the  wii]g  of  the  rvUrgium 
aforesaid,  which,  like  a  comfortable,  well- 
feathered  old  bird  of  the  stubble,  warms 
them  into  what  is  ten  times  better  than 
celebrity — videlicet,  snug  and  independent 
dulness — these  sjjrigs,  I  say,  especially,  when 
their  parents  or  instructors  happen  to  be 
poor,  fight  shy  of  the  fiieze  and  caubeen  at 
home,  and  avoid  the  lisk  of  resuscitating 
old  associations.  Tom,  Charley  looks — at 
least  he  did  when  I  saw  him  to-day — very 
like  a  lad  who  is  more  studious  of  the  bottle 
than  the  book  ;  but  I  will  not  prejudge  the 
youth,  for  I  remember  what  he  was  while 
under  my  tuition.  If  he  be  as  cunning  now 
and  assiduous  in  the  pirosecution  of  letters 
as  I  found  him — if  he  be  as  cunning,  as  rij)e 
at  fiction,  and  of  as  unembarrassed  brow  as 
he  was  in  his  schoolboj'  career,  he  will  either 
hang,  on  the  one  side,  or  rise  to  become 
lord  chancellor  or  a  bishop  on  the  other." 

"  He  will  be  neither  the  one  nor  the  other 
then,"  said  the  projjhetess,  "but  something 
better  both  for  himself  and  his  friends." 

"Is  this  by  way  of  the  oracular,  Ginty?" 

"You  may  take  it  so  if  you  like,"  replied 
the  female. 

"  And  does  the  learned  page  of  futurity 
present  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  certain 
wooden  engine,  to  which  is  attached  a  dang- 
ling rojje,  in  association  with  the  youth  ?  ioi 
in  my  mind  his  merits  are  as  likely  to  clevato 
him  to  the  one  as  to  the  other.  Howevei-, 
don't  look  like  the  pythoness  in  her  fui-y> 
Ginty  ;  a  joke  is  a  joke  ;  and  hei'e's  that  L4- 

*  Plantation  seminary — a  periphrasis  for  hedg<»' 
school. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


359 


m<iy  be  whatever  j'ou  wsh  him  !  Ay,  by  the 
bones  of  Maio,  this  hquor  is  pleasant  dis- 
cussion !  "  We  may  observe  here  that  they 
had  been  ah-eady  furnished  with  a  better 
description  of  tli-ink.  "  But  with  regard  to 
the  youth  in  question,  there  is  one  thing 
puzzles  me,  oh,  most  jDrojihetical  niece,  and 
that  is,  that  you  should  take  it  into  j'our  head 
to  effect  an  impossibility,  in  other  words,  to 
make  a  gentleman  of  him  ;  ex  quovis  ligno 
non  jit  Mercuriun,  is  a  good  ould  proverb." 

"  That  is  but  natural  in  her,  uncle,"  re^Dlied 
Corbet,  "  if  you  knew  ever3-thing  ;  but  for 
the  present  you  can't ;  nobody  knows  who 
he  is,  and  that  is  a  secret  that  must  be 
kept." 

"  Why,"  replied  the  pedagogue,  "  is  he 
not  a  slip  from  the  Black  B.ironet,  and  are 
not  you,  Giuty ?  " 

"Whether  the  child  i/ou  speak  of,"  she  re- 
plied, "  is  living  or  dead  is  what  nobody 
knows." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  know,"  said  Corbet, 
"  and  that  is,  that  I  could  scald  the  heart  and 
soul  in  the  Black  Baronet's  body  by  one 
word's  speaking,  if  I  wished  ;  only  the  time 
is  not  yet  come  ;  but  it  will  come,  and  that 
soon,  I  hope." 

"  Take  cure,  Charley,"  replied  the  master  ; 
"  no  vinlation  of  sacred  ties.  Is  not  the  said 
Baronet  j'our  foster-brother?  " 

"He  remembered  no  such  ties  when  he 
brought  shame  and  disgrace  on  our  family," 
replied  Corbet,  with  a  look  of  such  hatred 
and  malig-nitj'  as  could  rarelj'  be  seen  on  a 
human  countenance. 

"Then  why  did  you  Kve  with  him,  and  re- 
main in  his  confidence  so  long  ?  "  asked  his 
uncle. 

"  I  had  my  own  reasons  for  that — may  be 
they  will  be  known  soon,  and  may  be  they 
will  never  be  known,"  replied  his  nephew. 
"  Whisht !  there's  a  foot  on  the  stairs,"  he 
added  ;  "  it's  this  youth,  I'm  thinking." 

Almost  immediately  a  j'oung  man,  in  a 
coUege-gown  and  cajJ,  entered  the  room, 
apparently  the  worse  for  liquor,  and  ap- 
proaching the  schoolmaster,  who  sat  next 
him.  slapped  his  shoulder,  exclaiming  : 

"  Well,  my  jolly  old  pedagogue,  I  hope  you 
have  enjoyed  yourself  since  I  saw  you  last? 
Mr.  Corbet,  how  do  you  do  ?  And  Cassandi-a, 
my  darling  death-like  old  prophetess,  what 
have  you  to  predict  for  Ambro.se  Gray  ?  "  for 
such  was  the  name  by  which  he  went. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  Corbet,  "  and 
join  us  in  one  glass  of  launch." 

"I  will,  in  half-a-dozen,"  replied  the 
student ;  "  for  I  am  always  glad  to  see  my 
fi'iends." 

"  But  not  to  come  to  see  them,"  said  ]\Irs. 
Cooper.     "  However,  it  doesn't  matter  ;  we 


ai-e  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ambrose.  I  hope 
you  are  getting  on  well  at  college  ?  " 

"  Third  place,  eh,  my  old  grinder :  ara 
you  not  proud  of  me  ?  "  said  Ambrose,  ad- 
dressing the  schoolmaster. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Gray,  the  pride  ought  to  be 
on  the  other  side,"  replied  O'Donegan,  with 
an  afi'ectation  of  dignity  :  "  but  it  was  well, 
and  I  trust  j'ou  are  not  insensible  of  the 
early  indoctrination  you  received  at — whose 
hands  I  will  not  saj- ;  but  I  think  it  might 
be  guessed  notwithstanding." 

During  this  conversation,  the  eyes  of  the 
prophetess  were  tixed  uj^on  the  student,  with 
an  exjjression  of  the  deepest  and  most  in- 
tense interest.  His  personal  appearance  was 
indeed  j)eculiar  and  remarkable.  He  was 
about  the  middle  size,  somewhat  straggling 
and  bony  in  his  figure  ;  his  forehead  was 
neither  good  nor  bad,  but  the  general  con- 
tour of  his  face  contained  not  within  it  a 
single  feature  with  the  expression  of  which 
the  heart  of  the  spectator  could  harmonize. 
He  was  beetle-browed,  his  movith  dialiolically 
sensual,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  scarcely  an 
inch  asunder,  were  sharp  and  piercing,  and 
reminded  one  that  the  deep-seated  cunning 
which  lurked  in  them  was  a  thing  to  be 
guarded  against  and  avoided.  His  hands 
and  feet  were  large  and  coarse,  liis  whole 
figure  disagreeable  and  ungainly,  and  his 
voice  harsh  and  deep. 

The  fortune-teller,  as  we  have  said,  kepi 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  features,  with  a  look 
which  seemed  to  betray  no  individual  feel- 
ing beyond  that  of  some  extraordinary  and 
profound  interest.  She  appeared  like  one 
who  was  studying  his  character,  and  attempt- 
ing to  read  his  natural  disposition  in  his 
countenance,  manner,  and  conversation. 
Sometimes  her  eye  brightened  a  little,  and 
again  her  death-like  face  became  over- 
shadowed with  gloom,  reminding  one  of  that 
strange  darkness  which,  when  the  earth  is 
covered  with  snow,  falls  with  such  dismal 
effect  before  an  approaching  storm. 

"  I  gi'ant  you,  my  worthy  old  grinder,  that 
you  did  indoctrinate  me.  as  you  say,  to  some 
purpose  ;  but,  my  worthy  old  grinder,  again 
I  say  to  you,  that,  by  all  the  gerunds,  par- 
ticiples, and  roots  j'ou  ever  ground  in  your 
life,  it  was  my  own  giinding  that  got  me  the 
thu'd  place  in  the  scholarship." 

"  Well,  jMr.  Ambrose,"  rejoined  the  jjeda- 
gogue,  who  felt  disposed  to  draw  in  his 
horns  a  little,  "  one  thing  is  clear,  that, 
between  us  both,  we  did  it.  Wliat  bait, 
what  line,  what  calling,  or  profession  in  life, 
do  you  propose  to  yourself,  Mr.  Ambrose? 
Your  course  m  college  has  .been  brilliant  so 
far,  thanks  to — ahem — no  matter — you  have 
distinguished  yourself." 


360 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"I  Lave  carried  everytliing  before  me,"  re- 
plied Ambrose — "  but  what  theu  ?  Supisose, 
m.y  Avortby  old  magister,  that  I  miss  a 
feUowsLip — why,  what  remains,  but  to  sink 
down  into  a  resident  mastership,  and  grind 
blockheads  for  the  remainder  of  my  life  ? 
But  what  though  I  fail  in  science,  stiU,  most 
revered  and  learned  O'Douegan,  I  have  am- 
bition— ambition — and,  come  how  it  may,  I 
will  surge  up  out  of  obscurity,  my  old  buck. 
I  forgot  to  tell  you,  that  I  got  the  first  classi- 
cal premium  yestei'day,  and  that  I  am  con- 
sequently— no,  I  didn't  forget  to  tell  you, 
because  I  didn't  know  it  myself  w'hen  I  saw 
you  to-day.     Hip,  hip — hurra  ! " 

His  two  male  companions  filled  their 
glasses,  and  joined  him  heartily.  O'Donegan 
shook  him  by  the  hand,  so  did  Corbet,  and 
they  now  could  understand  tlie  cause  of  his 
very  natural  elevation  of  spirits. 

"  So  you  have  all  got  legacies,"  j)roceeded 
Mr.  Ambrose  ;  "  fifty  i:iounds  ajnece,  I  heai-, 
by  the  death  of  your  brother,  ilr.  Corbet, 
who  was  steward  to  Lady  Clourlay — I  am 
delighted  to  hear  it — hip,  hip,  hurra,  again. " 

"It's  tiiie  enough,' observed  the  prophet- 
ess, "  a  good,  kind-hearted  man  was  my  poor 
brother  Edward." 

"How  is  that  old  scoundrel  of  a  Black 
Baronet  in  your  neighborhood — Su'  Thomas 
— he  who  murdered  his  brother's  heu-  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  lir.  Ambrose,  don't  say 
so.  Don't  you  know  that  he  got  heavy 
damages  against  Captain  Furlong  for  using 
the  same  words  ?  " 

"He  be  hanged,"  said  the  tipsy  student ; 
"he  miu'dered  him  as  sure  as  I  sit  at  this 
table  ;  and  God  bless  the  worthy,  be  the 
same  man  or  woman,  who  left  liimself,  as  he 
left  his  brother's  \\idow,  without  an  heir  to 
his  ill-gotten  title  and  property." 

The  fortuue-teUer  rose  up,  and  entreated 
liim  not  to  speak  harshly  against  Sir  Thomas 
Goui'lay,  adding,  "  That,  perhaps,  he  was 
not  so  bad  as  the  f)eople  sujaposed  ;  but," 
she  added,  "  as  they — that  is,  she  and  her 
brother — happened  to  be  in  iovn\,  they  were 
anxious  to  see  him  (the  student)  ;  and,  in- 
deed, they  would  feel  obliged  if  he  came  with 
them  into  the  fi'ont  room  for  ten  minutes  or 
so,  as  they  wished  to  have  a  little  private  con- 
versation with  him." 

The  change  in  his  features  at  this  intima- 
tion was  indeed  surprising.  A  keen,  shai-p 
sense  of  self-jsossession,  an  instant  recollec- 
tion of  his  position  and  circumstances, 
banished  from  them,  almost  in  an  instant, 
the  somewhat  careless  and  tijisy  expression 
which  they  possessed  on  his  entrance. 

"Certainly,"  said  he.  "Mr.  O'Donegan, 
will  you  take  care  of  yourself  until  we 
return '? " 


"  No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  the  pedagogue, 
as  they  left  the  room,  "I  shall  not  forget 
myself,  no  more  than  that  the  image  and 
suiierscrij)tion  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  the 
Black  Baronet,  is  upon  your  diabolical  visage." 

Instead  of  ten  minutes,  the  conference 
between  the  parti'is  in  the  next  room  lasted' 
for  more  than  an  hour,  during  which  jieriod 
O'Donegan  did  not  omit  to  take  care  of  him- 
self, as  he  said.  The  worthy  pedagogue  was 
one  of  those  men,  who,  from  long  habit,  can 
never  become  ii^iny  beyond  a  certain  degree 
of  elevation,  after  which,  no  matter  what  may 
be  the  extent  of  their  indulgence,  nothing  in 
the  shape  of  liquor  can  affect  them.  When 
Gray  and  his  two  fi-iends  retmiied,  they 
found  consequently  nothing  but  empty 
bottles  before  them,  whilst  the  schoolmaster 
viewed  them  with  a  kind  of  indescribable 
steadiness  of  countenance,  which  could  not 
be  exactly  classed  with  either  diimkenness  or 
sobriety,  but  was  something  between  both. 
More  liquor,  however,  was  ordered  in.  but, 
in  the  meantime,  O'Donegan's  eyes  were 
fastened  uj)on  Mr.  Gray  with  a  degi'ee  of 
sui-prise,  which,  considering  the  change  in 
the  young  man's  apjaearance,  was  by  no 
means  extraordinary,  '\^'llatever  the  topic  of 
their  conversation  may  have  been,  it  is  not 
our  purpose  at  present  to  disclose  ;  but  one 
thing  is  certain,  that  the  transition  which 
took  place  in  Gray's  features,  as  well  as  in 
his  whole  manner,  was  remarkable  almost 
beyond  belief.  This,  as  we  have  said,  mani- 
fested itself  in  some  degree,  on  hearing  that 
Corbet  and  his  sister  had  something  to  say 
to  him  in  the  next  room.  Now,  however, 
the  change  was  decided  and  striking.  AH 
symptoms  of  tipsy  triumph,  ai'ising  from  his 
success  in  college,  had  comijletely  dis- 
apjseared,  and  were  rejjlaced  by  an  expres- 
sion of  seriousness  and  mingled  cunning, 
which  could  not  i3ossibly  escape  observation. 
There  was  a  coolness,  a  force  of  reflection,  a 
keen,  calm,  but  agitated  lustre  in  his  small 
eyes,  that  was  felt  by  the  schoolmaster  to  be 
exceedingly  disagreeable  to  contemjjlate.  In 
fact,  the  face  of  the  yomig  man  was,  in  a 
surprising  degree,  calculating  and  sinister. 
A  great  portion  of  its  vulgarity  was  gone,  and 
there  remained  something  behind  that 
seemed  to  partake  of  a  capacity  for  little  else 
than  intrigue,  dishonesty,  and  villany.  It 
was  one  of  those  countenances  on  which, 
when  moved  by  the  meditations  of  the  mind 
within,  nature  frequently  expresses  herself  as 
clearly  as  if  she  had  written  on  it,  in  legible 
characters,  "  Beware  of  this  man." 

After  a  Utile  time,  now  that  the  object  of 
this  mysterious  meeting  had  been  accom- 
plished, the  pai-ty  seijarated. 

We  mentioned  that  Corbet  and  Su-  Thomas 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


3G1 


I 


Gourlay  were  foster-brotLers — a  relation 
■which,  in  L'eland  and  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land, formed  the  basis  of  an  attachment,  on 
the  part  of  the  latter,  stronger,  in  many  in- 
stances, than  that  of  natui-e  itself.  Corbet's 
brother  stood  also  to  him  in  the  same  relation 
as  he  did  to  the  late  Sir  Edward  Goiu'lay, 
under  whom,  and  subsecjuentlj'  under  his 
widow,  he  held  the  situation  of  house-steward 
until  his  death.  Edward  Corbet,  for  his 
Christian  name  had  been  given  him  after 
that  of  his  master — his  mother  having  nursed 
both  brothers — was  apparently  a  mild, 
honest,  affectionate  man,  trustworthy  and 
resisectful,  as  far,  at  least,  as  ever  could  be 
discovered  to  the  contrary,  and,  consequently, 
never  very  deep  in  the  confidence  of  his 
brother  Charles,  who  was  a  great  favorite 
with  Sir  Thomas,  was  supposed  to  be  very 
deeply  in  his  secrets,  and  held  a  similar  situa- 
tion in  his  establishment.  It  was  kiio\vn,  or 
at  least  sujiposed,  that  his  bi'other  Edward, 
having  hved  since  his  youth  up  with  a  liberal 
and  affectionate  master,  must  have  saved  a 
good  deal  of  money;  and,  as  he  had  never 
married,  of  course  his  brother,  and  also  his 
sister — the  fortune-teUer — took  it  for  granted 
that,  being  his  nearest  relations,  whatever 
savings  he  had  jDut  together,  must,  after  his 
death,  necessarily  pass  into  their  hands.  He 
was  many  years  older  than  either,  and  as 
they  maintained  a  constant  and  deferential 
intercourse  vd'Oa.  him — studied  aU  his  habits 
and  peculiarities — and  sent  him,  fi-om  time 
to  time,  such  little  presents  as  they  thought 
might  be  agreeable  to  him,  the  consequence 
was,  that  they  maintained  theu'  place  in  his 
good  ojiinion,  so  far  at  least  as  to  prevent 
liim  fi'om  leaving  the  fi-uits  of  his  honest  and 
industrious  Hfe  to  absolute  strangers.  Not 
that  they  inherited  by  any  means  his  whole 
property,  such  as  it  was,  several  others  of  his 
relatives  received  more  or  less,  but  his  bro- 
ther, sister,  and  maternal  uncle — the  school- 
master— were  the  largest  inheritors. 

The  Ulness  of  Edward  Corbet  was  long 
and  tedious ;  but  Lady  Gourlaj'  allowed 
nothing  to  be  wanting  that  could  render  his 
bed  of  sickness  or  death  easy  and  tranquil, 
so  far  as  kindness,  attention,  and  the  minis- 
try of  mere  human  comforts  could  effect  it. 
During  his  illness,  his  brother  Charles  vis- 
ited him  several  times,  and  had  many  pri- 
vate conversations  with  him.  And  it  may  be 
necessai-y  to  state  here,  tliat,  although  these 
two  relatives  had  never  lived  ujion  cold  or 
imfrieudh'  terms,  yet  the  fact  was  that  Ed- 
ward felt  it  impossible  to  love  Chaiies  with 
the  fulness  of  a  brother's  affection.  The 
natural  disposition  of  the  latter,  under  the 
'.Vuise  of  an  apj)arently  good-humored  and 
fi'aak  demeanor,  was  in  reality  inscrutable. 


Though  capable,  as  we  said,  of  assuming  a 
very  difl'erent  character  whenever  it  suited 
his  piu-pose,  he  was  nevertheless  a  man 
whose  full  confidence  was  scarcely  ever  be- 
stowed upon  a  human  being.  Such  an  in- 
dividual neither  is  nor  can  be  reUshed  in 
society ;  but  it  is  precisely  persons  of  his 
stamp  who  are  calculated  to  win  their  way 
with  men  of  higher  and  more  influential  posi- 
tion in  life,  who,  when  moved  by  ambition, 
avarice,  or  any  other  of  the  darker  and  more 
dangerous  passions  of  our  nature,  feel  an 
inclination,  almost  instinctive,  to  take  such 
men  into  theii-  intrigues  and  deUberations. 
The  tyrant  and  opjiressor  discovers  the  dis- 
j)osition  and  character  of  his  slave  and  in- 
strument wth  as  much  sagacity  as  is  dis- 
p)layed  by  the  highlj-  bred  dog  that  scents 
out  the  game  of  which  the  sjsortsman  is  in 
pursuit.  In  this  respect,  however,  it  not 
unfrequentlj'  hapj^ens,  that  even  those  who 
are  most  confident  in  the  iienetration  with 
which  they  make  such  selections,  are  woe- 
fully mistaken  in  the  result. 

We  allude  particulaiiy  to  the  death  of 
Edward  Corbet,  at  tliis  stage  of  our  narra- 
tive, because,  fi'om  that  event,  the  train  of 
circumstances  which  principally  constitute 
the  body  of  oiu'  narrative  originated. 

His  brother  had  been  with  him  in  the 
early  part  of  the  day  on  which  he  breathed 
his  last.  On  aniviug  at  the  mansion  in 
Merrion  square,  he  met  Lady  Gourlay  on  the 
steps  of  the  hall  door,  about  to  enter  her 
carriage. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  come,  Corbet,"  she 
said.  "  Yoiu-  poor  brother  has  been  calling 
for  you — see  him  instantly — for  his  sands 
are  numbered.  The  doctor  tliinks  he  can- 
not pass  the  turn  of  the  day." 

"  God  bless  j'oiu"  ladyship,"  rejilied  Cor- 
bet, "  for  your  uncommon  kindness  and  at- 
tention to  him  during  his  long  and  severe 
illness.  All  that  could  be  done  for  a  person 
in  his  circumstances,  your  ladyship  did ; 
and  I  know  he  is  deeply  sensible  of  it,  my 
lady." 

"  It  was  only  my  duty,  Corbet,"  she  re- 
plied, "to  a  true-hearted  and  faithful  ser- 
vant, for  such  he  was  to  our  family.  I  could 
not  forget  the  esteem  in  which  his  master, 
my  dear  husband,  held  him,  nor  the  confi- 
dence whieli  he  never  failed,  and  justly,  to 
repose  in  him.  Go  immediately  to  him,  for 
he  has  expressed  much  anxiety  to  see  you." 

His  brother,  indeed,  found  him  hovering 
on  the  very  brink  of  the  grave.  What  their 
conversation  was,  we  know  not,  unless  in  so 
far  as  a  jjortion  of  it  at  least  may  be  inferred 
from  the  subsequent  circumstances  of  our 
storj-.  After  haring  spent  about  an  hour 
with  him,  his  brother,  who,  it  seems,  had 


362 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


some  pressiag  commissions  to  execute  for 
Sir  Tliomas,  was  obliged  to  leave  him  for  a 
time,  but  promised  to  return  as  soon  as  lie 
could  get  them  discharged.  In  the  mean- 
time, ijoor  Corbet  sank  rapidly  after  Charles's 
dejoarture,  and  begged,  with  a  degree  of 
anguish  that  was  pitiable,  to  see  Lady  Gour- 
lay,  as  he  had  something,  he  said,  of  the  ut^ 
most  importance  to  communicate  to  her. 
Lady  Gourlay,  however,  had  gone  out,  and 
none  of  the  familj'  could  give  any  opinion 
as  to  the  2>eriod  of  her  return  ;  whilst  the 
dying  man  soemcd  to  experience  a  feeUng 
that  amounted  almost  to  agony  at  her  ab- 
sence. In  this  state  he  remained  for  about 
three  hours,  when  at  length  she  returned, 
and  found  him  with  the  mild  and  ghastly 
impress  of  immediate  death  visible  in  his 
languid,  djing  eyes,  and  hollow  counte- 
nance. 

"  They  tell  me  you  wish  to  see  me,  Cor- 
bet," she  said.  "If  there  is  anything  that 
can  be  done  to  soothe  your  mind,  or  afford 
you  ease  and  comfort  in  your  departing 
hour,  mention  it,  and,  if  it  be  within  our 
power,  it  >i\\all  be  done." 

He  made  an  effort  to  Sf)eak,  but  his  voice 
■was  all  but  gone.  At  length,  after  several 
efforts,  he  was  able  to  make  her  understand 
that  he  wished  her  to  bend  down  her  head 
to  him  ;  she  did  so  ;  and  in  accents  that 
were  barelj',  and  not  without  one  or  two 
rej)etitions,  inteUigible,  he  was  able  to  say, 
"  Your  son  is  living,  and  Sir  Thomas 
knows " 

Lady  Gourlay  was  of  a  feminine,  gentle, 
and  quiet  disj)osition,  in  fact,  a  woman  from 
whose  character  one  might  expect,  uj^on  re- 
ceiving such  a  communication,  rather  an 
exliibition  of  that  wild  and  hysteric  ex- 
citement which  might  be  most  likelj'  to 
end  in  a  scream  or  a  fainting  fit.  Here, 
however,  the  instincts  of  the  defrauded 
heart  of  the  bereaved  and  sorrowing  mother 
were  called  into  instant  and  energetic  life. 
The  physical  system,  instead  of  becoming  re- 
laxed or  feeble,  grew  firm  and  vigorous,  and 
her  mind  collected  and  active.  She  saw, 
from  the  death-throes  of  the  man,  that  a 
single  moment  was  not  to  be  lost,  and  in- 
stantly, for  her  mouth  was  still  at  his  eai', 
asked,  in  a  distinct  and  eager  voice,  "Where, 
Corbet,  where  ?  for  God's  mercy,  where  ? 
and  what  does  Sir  Thomas  know '? " 

The  light  and  animation  of  life  were  fast 
fading  from  his  face  ;  he  attemjited  to  speak 
again,  but  voice  and  tongue  refused  to  dis- 
charge their  office — he  had  become  speech- 
less. Feeling  conscious,  however,  that  he 
could  not  any  longer  make  himself  under- 
stood by  words,  he  raised  his  feeble  hand, 
and  attempted  to   point  as  if  in  a  certain 


du-ection,  but  the  arm  fell  powerlessly  down 
— he  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  exjjired. 

Thus  far  only  can  we  i^roceed  at  present 
How  and  why  the  stranger  makes  his  ap- 
pearance at  Ballytrain,  and  whether  in  con- 
nection with  this  incident  or  not,  are  cir- 
cumstances which  we  will  know  in  due  time. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

The  Stranger's  Visit  to  Father  MaciTahon. 

The  stranger,  after  Fenton  had  gone,  be- 
gan to  feel  chat  it  was  imi^ossible  either  to 
wheedle  or  extort  any  information  whatso- 
ever, wLether  of  importance  or  otherwise, 
from  that  extraordinarj'  and  not  very  sane 
individual.  That,  however,  there  was  a 
deep  mystery  about  him,  be  it  what  it 
might,  he  could  not,  for  a  moment,  doubt ; 
and,  for  this  reason,  he  resolved  by  no  means 
to  relax  his  exertions,  or  suffer  Fenton,  if  he 
could  fairly  prevent  it,  to  shjD  through  his 
fingers.  His  unaccountable  conduct  and 
terror,  during,  as  well  as  after,  his  own 
angry  altercation  with  the  baronet,  went,  in 
his  opinion,  strongly  to  connect  him,  in  some 
manner,  with  that  unscrupulous  man.  But 
how  to  develop  the  nature  of  this  connection 
constituted  the  very  difficulty  which  not  only 
disappointed  but  mortified  him. 

"I  wUl  caU  upon  Biruej-,"  thought  he; 
"  he  is  acute  and  sensible,  and  probaljlj-, 
fi'om  his  greater  exjierieuce  of  life,  will  be 
able  to  throw  out  some  hint  that  may  be 
valuable,  and  enable  me  to  pi-oceed  with 
more  effect." 

We  have  already  said,  that  it  was  some- 
what difficult  to  commonplace  observers  to 
determine  his  (the  stranger's)  exact  jiosition 
in  societj^  by  a  first  glance  at  his  dress.  Tliis 
ambiguit}'  of  appearance,  if,  after  all,  it  could 
projieily  be  called  so,  was  assumed  for  the 
express  purpose  of  avoiding  observation  as 
much  as  possible.  The  fact,  however,  of 
finding  that  his  desire  to  remain  unnoticed 
had  been  not  merely  observed  and  commented 
on,  but  imputed  to  him  almost  as  a  crime, 
determined  him  no  longer  to  lie  perdu  in  his 
inn,  but  to  go  abroad,  and  appear  in  public 
like  another ;  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  his 
resolution  remained  fixed  as  ever,  for  various 
reasons,  to  conceal  his  name.  The  moment, 
therefore,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  this 
course,  that  assumed  restraint  of  manner 
and  consciousness  of  not  being  what  we  ap- 
pear to  be  were  completely  thrown  aside, 
and  the  transition  which  ensued  was  indeed 
extraordinary.  His  general  dej^ortment  be- 
came at  once  that  of  a  perfect  gentleman. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


363 


easy,  elegant,  if  not  absolutely  aristocratic  ; 
but  Tvlthoul  the  slightest  evidence  of  any- 
thing thiit  could  be  considered  supercilious 
or  ofl'''j!ci<'e.  His  dress  was  tastefully  within 
the  f.'Hiiion,  but  not  in  its  extreme,  and  his 
adtiiir-ible  figure  thus  displayed  to  the  best 
advantage  ;  whilst  his  whole  jierson  was  ut- 
terly free  from  every  symjitom  of  affectation 
or  foppery.  Nor  was  the  change  in  the  tone 
of  his  features  less  strikiug.  Their  style  of 
beauty  was  at  ouce  manly  and  intellectual, 
combining,  as  they  did,  an  expression  of 
great  sweetness,  ciJj\'ious  good  sense,  and 
remarkable  determination.  He  bore,  in  fact, 
the  asjiect  of  a  man  who  could  play  with  a 
child  on  the  green,  or  beard  a  lion  in  his 
lair. 

The  sagacity  of  the  Irish  peoj)le,  in  the  es- 
timate they  form  of  jjersonal  appe.arauce  and 
charactei-,  is,  indeed,  very  extraordinary-. 
Our  fi'iend,  the  stranger,  when  casting  his 
eye  over  the  towTi  of  Ballytrain,  on  his  way 
to  have  an  interview  with  Bimey,  who,  we 
may  as  well  obseiwe,  was  in  his  confidence, 
perceived  that  it  was  market-day.  As  he 
went  out  upon  the  street,  a  crowd  of  persons 
were  standing  opposite  the  inn  door,  where 
an  extensive  yarn  market,  in  these  good  old 
times,  was  always  held  ;  and  we  need  scarcely 
sny  that  his  gentlemanly  and  noble  figure, 
and  the  striking  elegance  of  his  manner,  at 
once  attracted  their  attention. 

"Well,"  said  one  of  them,  "there  goes  a 
real  gintleman,  begad,  at  any  rate." 

"Divil  a  lie  in  that,"  added  another; 
"  there's  no  mistakin'  the  true  blood." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  a  third.  "  Does  no- 
body know  him  ?  " 

"Troth,"  said  the  otlier,  " it  doesn't  sig- 
nify a  traneen  who  or  what  he  is  ;  whether 
he's  gentle  or  simple,  I  say  that  the  whole 
country  ought  to  put  their  heads  under  his 
feet." 

"  Why  so,  Jemmy  Trailcudgel  ?  "  asked  a 
fom-th ;  "  what  did  he  do  for  the  coun- 
thry  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  that,  Micky,"  replied  the 
other.  "The  Black  Baronet,  bad  luck  to 
him,  came  to  the  inn  where  he  stojjs,  and  in- 
sisted, right  or  wrong,  on  knowing  who  and 
what  he  was." 

"I  wouldn't  put*it  past  him,  the  turk  o' 
blazes  !     Well,  an'  what  happened  '? " 

"  Why,  the  gintleman  got  up,  and  tuck  a 
hoult  o'  the  black  villain  by  the  nose,  led 
him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  then  turned 
him  down  before  him,  and  made  his  feet 
right  and  left  jjlay  against  tlie  barrow  knight, 
Uke  the  tucks  of  a  cloth  mill,  until  he  thnin- 
dled  him  dane — I'm  not  so  sure  of  that, 
though — out  o'  the  hall  door." 

"  An'  for  that  same,  God  jirosper  him  ! 


Begad,  he's  a  buUy  gentleman,"  obsei-ved  a 
stout,  frieze-coated  fellow,  with  a  large 
bunch  of  green  linen  yarn  on  his  lusty  arm, 
"  he  is,  and  it's  in  him,  and  upon  him,  as 
every  one  that  has  eyes  to  see  may  know." 

The  oliject  of  their  praise,  on  entering  the 
office  of  liis  friend  Birney,  found  him  at  his 
de.sk;  with  jji-ofessional  papers  and  docu- 
ments before  him.  After  the  ordinary 
greetings  of  the  day,  and  an  accurate  ac- 
count of  the  bai'onet's  interview  with  him, 
the  stranger  uitroduced  the  topic  in  which 
he  felt  so  deej)  an  interest. 

"I  am  unfortunate,  Mi\  Birney,"  said  he  ; 
"  Fenton,  notwithstanding  his  eccentricity, 
insanity,  or  whatever  it  may  be  termed, 
seems  to  susjiect  my  design,  and  evades, 
with  singular  address,  every  attemjot,  on  my 
part,  to  get  anything  out  of  him.  Is  he  ab- 
solutely deranged,  think  you '?  For,  I  assure 
you,  I  have  just  now  had  a  scene  with  him, 
in  which  his  conduct  and  language  could 
proceed  from  nothing  short  of  actual  insan- 
ity. A  little  aft'ected  with  liquor  he  unques- 
tionably was,  when  he  came  in  first.  The 
appearance,  however,  of  Sir  Thomas  not  only 
reduced  him  to  a  state  of  sobriety,  but 
seemed  to  strike  him  with  a  degree  of  terror 
altogether  inexplicable." 

"How  was  that  ?  "  asked  Birney. 

The  stranger  accordingly  described  the 
scene  between  himself  and  Fenton,  with 
which  the  reader  is  acquainted. 

"  He  is  not  a  madman,  certainly,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,"  replied  Birney, 
after  a  f)ause  ;  "but,  I  think,  he  may  be  call- 
ed a  kind  of  lunatic,  certainly.  My  own  opin- 
ion is,  that,  whatever  insanity  he  may  be  oc- 
casionally afflicted  yii'Cix  results  more  from  an 
excessive  indulgence  in  liquor  than  from  any 
other  cause.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may, 
there  is  no  question  but  tliat  he  is  occasion- 
ally seized  with  fits  of  mental  aberration. 
From  what  you  tell  me,  and  his  exaggerated 
susjaicions  of  a  j^lot  between  you  and  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay,  I  think  it  most  probable 
that  he  is  your  man  stiU." 

"  I,  too,  think  it  j^robable,"  replied  the 
stranger ;  "  but,  alas,  I  think  it  possible  he 
may  not.  On  comparing  his  features  with 
the  miniature,  I  confess  I  cannot  now  trace 
the  resemblance  which  my  sanguine  imagi- 
nation— and  that  only,  I  fear — first  discov- 
ered." 

"  But,  consider,  sir,  that  that  miniature 
was  tsdien  when  the  original  of  it  was  only 
five  or  six  years  of  age  ;  and  you  will  also 
recollect  that  growth,  age,  education,  and 
l^eculiar  habits  of  life,  effect  the  most  extra- 
ordinary changes  in  the  features  of  the  sam« 
individual.  No,  sir,  I  would  not  advise  yo'i 
to  feel  disheartened  by  this." 


:;64 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  But,  can  you  fall  upon  no  hint  or  princi- 
ple, Mr.  Bimey,  by  which  I  might  succeed  in 
unlocking  the  secret  which  this  j'oung  man 
evidently  possesses  ?  " 

"All  I  can  recommend  to  you,  sir,  is  com- 
prised within  one  word — palienen.  Mark  him 
well ;  ingratiate  yourself  with  him  ;  treat 
him  with  kindness  ;  supply  Ms  wants  ;  and 
I  have  uo  douht  but  jou  may  ultimately  win 
upon  his  confidence." 

"  Is  there  no  sagacious  old  jierson  in  the 
neighborhood,  no  aenavhie  or  genealogist,  to 
whom  you  could  refer  me,  and  fi'om  whose 
memory  of  past  events  in  this  part  of  the 
country  I  might  be  able  to  gain  something 
to  guide  me  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  woman,"  replied  Bimey, 
"who,  were  she  tractable  as  to  the  j^ast  as 
she  is  communicative  of  the  future,  could  fur- 
nish you  more  details  of  family  history-  and 
hereditary  scandal  than  any  one  else  I  can 
think  of  just  now.  Some  of  her  predictions 
— for  she  is  a  fortune-teller — have  certainly 
been  amazing." 

"  The  result,  I  have  no  doubt,"  replied  the 
other,  "  of  jjersonal  acquaintance  with  pri- 
vate occurrences,  rendered  incredible  under 
ordinary  cii'cumstances,  in  consequence  of 
her  rapid  transitions  fi'om  place  to  jjlaee.  I 
shaU  certaiulj'  not  put  myself  under  the  guid- 
ance of  an  impostor,  Mr.  Birney." 

"In  this  case,  sir,  I  think  you  are  right ; 
for  it  has  been  generally  observed  that,  in  no 
instance,  has  she  ever  been  known  to  make 
any  reference  to  the  past  in  her  character  of 
fortime-teUer.  She  affects  to  hold  inter- 
coiu'se  with  the  fairies,  or  good  people,  as 
we  term  them,  and  insists  that  it  is  fi-om 
them  that  she  derives  the  faculty  of  a  proph- 
etess. She  also  works  extraordinary  cures 
by  similar  aid,  as  she  asserts.  The  common 
impression  is,  that  her  mind  is  burdened 
with  some  secret  guilt,  and  that  it  relieves 
her  to  contemplate  the  future,  as  it  regards 
temporal  fate,  b\it  that  she  dares  not  look 
back  into  the  past.  I  know  there  is  nothing 
more  certain  than  that,  when  asked  to  do  so, 
in  peculiar  moods  of  mind,  sne  manifests 
quite  as  much  of  the  maniac  as  poor  Fen- 
ton." 

"  Away  with  the  old  impostress  ! "  exclaim- 
ed the  stranger  ;  "  I  will  have  none  of  her ! 
Can  you  think  of  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  you  have  not  had  time  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  our  parish  priest  ?  " 
replied  Birney.  "  Since  '  Aroint  thee,  witch,' 
is  your  creed,  I  think  you  had  better  try 
him." 

"  Not  an  unnatural  transition,"  replied  the 
stranger,  smihng  ;  "  but  what  is  he  like  V 
Give  me  an  outline." 

"  He  IS  named  the  Uev.  Peter  M'Mahon, 


and  I  forewarn  you,  that  you  are  as  likely,  ii 
he  be  not  in  the  mood,  to  get  such  a  lecep- 
tion  as  you  may  not  rehsh.  He  is  sojiiewhat 
eccentric  and  original,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
his  secret  piety  and  stolen  benevolence  ai-e 
beyond  all  question.  With  his  Umited 
means,  the  good  he  does  is  incalculable.  He 
is,  in  fact,  simple,  kmd-hearted,  and  truly  re- 
Ugious.  In  addition  to  all,  he  is  a  consider- 
able bit  of  a  humorist ;  when  the  good  man's 
mind  is  easy,  his  humor  is  kindly,  rich,  and 
mellow ;  but,  when  anj-  way  in  dudgeon,  it  is 
comically  sarcastic."       • 

"I  must  see  this  man,"  said  the  stranger  ; 
"you  have  excited  my  curiosity.  By  all  ac- 
counts he  is  worth  a  visit." 

"He  is  more  likely  to  ser\'e  you  in  this 
matter  than  any  one  I  know,"  said  the  at- 
torney ;  "  or,  if  he  can't  himself,  perhaps  he 
may  find  out  those  that  can.  Very  little  has 
hapjiened  i)i  the  parish  within  the  last  thirty- 
five  3'ears  with  which  he  is  not  acquainted." 

"  I  like  the  man,"  replied  the  other,  "  from 
your  description  of  him." 

"  At  all  events,  you  would  if  you  knew 
him,"  rejihed  Birney.  "He  is  both  a  good 
priest  and  a  good  man." 

He  then  directed  him  to  the  worthy  clergy- 
man's I'esideiice,  which  was  not  more  than  a 
mile  and  a  halt  from  the  town,  and  the  stran- 
ger lost  little  time  in  reaching  it. 

On  approaching  the  house,  he  was  much 
struck  with  the  extraordinary  aii-  of  neatness, 
cleanliness,  and  comfort,  which  characterized 
not  only  the  house  itself,  but  everything 
abovit  it.  Abeautiful  garden  facing  the  south, 
stretched  down  to  the  left,  as  you  apjjroach- 
ed  the  elegant  little  whitewashed  dwelling, 
which,  placed  on  a  green  knoll,  literally 
shone  for  miles  over  the  beautiful  and  se- 
rene country  by  "vhich  it  was  siu-rounded. 
Below  it,  to  the  south,  between  firm  green 
banks  and  meadows,  wound  a  beautiful  river, 
and  to  the  north  rose  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque hills,  probably,  in  the  kingdom  ;  at 
the  hijj  of  which  was  a  gloomy,  j)recipiitous 
glen,  which,  for  \\ildness  and  solitary  gran- 
deur, is  unrivalled  by  anything  of  the  kind  we 
have  seen.  On  the  top  of  the  hill  is  a  cave, 
supposed  to  be  Druidical,  over  which  an  an- 
tiquarian would  dream  half  a  life  ;  and,  in- 
deed, this  is  not  to  h$  wondered  at,  inas- 
much as  he  would  find  there  some  of  the 
most  distinctly  traced  Ogham  characters  to 
be  met  with  in  any  part  of  the  kingdom. 

On  entering  the  house,  our  nameless 
ft-iend  foimd  the  good  jjriest  in  what  a  stran- 
ger might  be  apt  to  consider  a  towering 
passion. 

"You  lazy  bosthoon,"  said  he,  to  a  large, 
in  fact  to  a  huge  young  fellow,  a  sei-^-aut, 
"  was  it  to  allow  the  i?igs,  the  destructive 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


362 


vag.iboucls,  to  turn  up  my  beautiful  bit  of 
lawn  that  I  undertook  to  give  j'ou  house- 
room,  wages,  and  feeding — eh  ?  and  a  bit- 
tlier  business  to  me  the  same  feeding  is.  If 
you  were  a  fellow  that  knew  when  he  had 
enough,  I  could  bear  the  calamity  of  keeping 
you  at  all.  But  that's  a  subject,  God  help  you, 
and  God  helj)  me  too  that  has  to  sufl'er  for 
it,  on  which  your  ignorance  is  wonderful. 
To  know  when  to  stois  so  long  as  the  bles- 
sed victuals  is  before  you  is  a  point  of  jioUte 
knowledge  you  will  never  reach,  you  immac- 
ulate savage.  Not  a  limb  about  you  but 
you'd  give  six  holidays  to  out  of  the  seven, 
banin'  your  wah-us  teeth,  and,  if  God  or 
man  would  allow  you  the  fodder,  you'd  give 
us  an  elucidation  of  the  perpetual  motion.  Be 
off,  and  get  the  strongest  set  of  rings  that 
Jemmy  IM'Quade  can  make  for  those  dirty, 
grubliing  bastes  of  pigs.  The  Lord  knows 
I  don't  woudher  that  the  Jews  hated  the 
thieves,  for  sure  they  are  the  only  black- 
guM'd  animals  that  ever  committed  suicide, 
and  set  the  other  bastes  of  the  earth  such  an 
unchristian  example.  Not  that  a  slice  of 
ham  is  so  bad  a  thing  in  itseK,  especially 
when  it  is  followed  by  a  single  tumbler  of 
poteen  punch." 

"  Troth,  masther,  I  didn't  see  the  pigs,  or 
they'd  not  have  my  sanction  to  go  into  the 
la^ai." 

"  Not  a  thing  ever  you  see,  or  wish  to  see, 
baning  yoiu-  dirty  victuals." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  much 
amused  in  the  meantime,  but  with  everj' 
coirrtesy  of  manner,  "that  my  request  for  a 
short  interview  does  not  come  at  an  unsea- 
sonable hour  ?  " 

"And,  do  3'ou  hear  me,  you  bosthoon," 
proceeded  his  reverence — this,  however,  he 
uttered  »otlo  voce,  from  an  apprehension  lest 
the  stranger  should  hear  his  benevolent  pur- 
poses— "  did  you  give  the  half  ero\vn  to 
Widow  Magowran,  whose  chilih'en,  poor 
creatures,  are  lying  ill  of  fever '?  " 

Not  a  word  to  the  stranger,  who,  however, 
overheard  him. 

"  I  did,  plaise  yoiu-  reverence,"  replied  the 
huge  servant. 

"  WTiat  did  she  say,"  asked  the  other, 
"  when  you  slipised  it  to  her  ?  " 

"  She  said  nothing,  sir,  for  a  minute  or 
so,  but  dropped  on  her  knees,  and  the  tears 
came  from  her  eyes  in  such  a  way  that  I 
couldn't  help  letting  down  one  or  two  my- 
self. 'God  spai'e  him,'  she  then  said,  'for 
his  piet_y  and  ckarity  makes  him  a  blessin'  to 
the  parish.'  Thi-oth,  I  couldn't  helf)  lettin' 
down  a  tear  or  two  myseh." 

"  You  couldn't  now  '?  "  exclaimed  the  sim- 
ple-hearted priest ;  "  why,  then,  I  forgive  you 
the  pigs,  you  great,  good-natured  bosthoon." 


The  stranger  now  thought  that  he  might 
claim  some  notice  from  his  reverence. 

"I  tear,  sir,"  said  he 

"  And  whisper.  Mat,"  proceeded  the 
priest — pa'STUg  not  the  slightest  attention  to 
him,  "  did  you  bring  the  creel  of  turf  to 
poor  Barnej-  FarreU  and  his  family,  as  I  de- 
sired you  ?  " 

"  I  did,  your  reverence,  and  put  a  good 
hea]!  on  it  for  the  creatures." 

"  Well,  I  forgive  you  the  pigs  !  "  exclaimed 
the  benevolent  priest,  satisfied  that  his  23iou9 
injunctions  had  been  duly  observed,  and  ex- 
tending a  portion  of  his  good  feeling  to  the 
instrument ;  "  and  as  for  the  apjjetite  I 
spoke  of,  sure,  you  good-natured  giant  you, 
haven't  you  healtli,  exercise,  and  a  most  de- 
structive set  of  gi'inders  ?  and,  indeed,  the 
wonder  would  be  if  you  didn't  make  the  sor- 
row's havoc  at  a  square  of  bacon  ;  so  for 
heaping  the  creel  I  forgive  you  the  digestion 
and  the  pigs  both." 

"Will  you  permit  me?"  interjjosed  the 
stronger,  a  thu'd  time. 

"  But  listen  again,"  proceeded  his  rever- 
ence, "  did  you  bring  the  bread  and  broth 
to  the  poor  Caseys,  the  creatures  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Mat,  licking  his  lips,  as 
the  stranger  thought,  "  it  was  Kittj'  Kava- 
nagh  brought  that  ;  you  know  you  never 
trust  me  wid  the  vittles — ever  since " 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that 
notorious  fact.  There's  where  your  weak- 
ness is  strongest,  but,  indeed,  it  is  only  one 
of  them  ;  for  he  that  would  trust  you  ■with 
the  carriage  of  a  bottle  of  whiskey  might  be 
said  to  commit  a  gi'eat  oversight  of  judg- 
ment. With  regard  to  the  victuals,  I  once 
put  my  trust  in  God,  and  despatched  you, 
after  a  full  meal,  with  some  small  relief  to  a 
j)oor  famUy,  in  the  shape  of  corned  beef  and 
greens,  and  you  know  the  sequel,  that's 
enough.  Be  off  now,  and  get  the  rings 
made  as  I  desired  you." 

He  then  turned  to  the  stranger,  whom  he 
scanned  closely  ;  and  we  need  hardly  assure 
our  reader  that  the  other,  in  his  turn, 
marked  the  worthy  priest's  bearing,  manner, 
and  conversation  with  more  than  usual  curi- 
osity. The  harmless  passion  in  which  he 
found  him — his  simple  but  touching  benev- 
olence, added  to  the  genuine  benignity 
with  which  he  relaxed  his  anger  against 
Mat  Kuly,  the  gigantic  servant,  because  he 
told  him  that  he  had  put  a  heap  upon  the 
creel  of  turf  which  he  brought  to  poor  Bar- 
ney FarreU  and  his  family,  not  omitting  the 
teai-s  he  reiwesented  himself  to  have  shed 
fi'om  Chiistian  sympathy  with  Widow  Ma- 
gowi-an,  both  of  which  acts  were  inventions 
of  the  purest  water,  resorted  to  in  order  to 
soften  the  kind-heai'ted  priest ,   all  this,  we 


366 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


say,  added  to  what  he  had  heard  from  Bii-- 
ney,  deeply  interested  the  stranger  in  the 
character  of  Father  Peter.  Nor  was  he  less 
struck  by  his  appearance.  Father  MacMahon 
■was  a  round,  tight,  rosy-faced  little  man, 
■with  laughing  eyes,  full  of  good  nature,  and 
a  countenance  which  altogether  might  be 
termed  a  title-jsage  to  benevolence.  His 
lijjs  were  finely  cut,  and  his  well-formed 
mouth,  though  full  of  sweetness,  was  utterly 
free  from  every  indication  of  sensualitj'  or 
passion.  Indeed,  it  was  at  all  times  highly 
expressive  of  a  disposition  the  most  kind 
and  jilacable,  and  not  unfrequeutly  of  a 
comical  spirit,  that  blended  with  his  benev- 
olence to  a  degree  that  rendered  the  whole 
cast  of  his  features,  as  they  varied  ^ith  and 
responded  to  the  kindlj'  and  natural  impul- 
ses of  his  heart,  a  perfect  treat  to  look  upon. 
That  his  heart  and  soul  were  genuinely 
Irish,  might  easUy  be  perceived  by  the  light 
of  humor  which  beamed  with  such  signifi- 
cant contagion  fr-om  every  feature  of  his  face, 
as  well  as  by  the  tear  which  misery  and  des- 
titution and  sorrow  never  failed  to  bring  to 
liis  cheek,  thus  overshadowing  for  a  time,  if 
we  may  say  so,  the  whole  sunny  horizon  of 
his  countenance.  But  this  was  not  all ;  you 
might  read  there  a  spirit  of  kindly  sarcasm 
that  -,vas  in  complete  keejjiug  with  a  dispo- 
sition always  generous  and  affectionate, 
mostly  blunt  and  occasionally  caustic.  Noth- 
ing could  exceed  the  extreme  neatness  ■with 
which  he  attended  to  his  dress  and  person. 
In  this  point  he  was  scrupulously  exact  and 
careful ;  but  this  attention  to  the  minor 
morals  was  the  result  of  anything  but  per- 
sonal pride,  for  we  are  bound  to  say,  that, 
with  ail  his  amiable  eccentricities,  more  un- 
atfected  humility  never  dwelt  in  the  heart  of 
a  Christian  minister. 

He  had,  in  fact,  paid  little  or  no  attention 
to  the  stranger  until  Mat  Ruly  went  out ; 
when,  on  glancing  at  him  witli  more  atten- 
tion, he  perceived  at  once  that  he  was  evi- 
dently a  jjerson  of  no  ordinary  condition  in 
life. 

"I  have  to  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  he, 
"  for  seeming  to  neglect  you  as  I  did,  but  the 
truth  is,  I  was  in  a  white  heat  of  passion  with 
that  great  good-natured  colossus  of  mine. 
Mat  Ruly,  for,  indeed,  he  is  good-natured, 
and  that  I  can  teU  you  makes  me  overlook 
many  a  thing  in  him  that  I  would  not  other- 
wise pass  by.  All,  then,  sir,  did  you  ob- 
serve," he  added,  "  how  he  confessed  to 
heaping  the  creel  of  turf  for  the  Farrells, 
and  crying  with  poor  Widow  Magowi'au  ?  " 

The  stranger  could  have  told  him  that,  if 
he  had  seen  the  comical  wink  which  the 
aforesaid  Mat  had  given  to  one  of  the  ser- 
vant-maids, as  he  reported  his  own  sympathy 


and  benevolence  to  his  master,  he  might 
probably  have  somewhat  restricted  his  en- 
comium upon  him. 

"I  can't  say,  sir,"  he  replied,  "that  I  paid 
particular  attention  to  the  dialogue  between 
you." 

"Bless  me,"  exclaimed  Father  Peter, 
"what  am  I  about?  Walk  mto  the  parlor, 
sir.  A\Tiy  should  I  have  kejjt  you  standing 
here  so  long?  Pray,  take  a  seat,  sir.  You 
must  think  me  very  rude  and  foi-getful  of 
the  attention  due  to  a  gentleman  of  your  ap- 
pearance." 

"Not  at  aU,  sir," replied  the  other,  seating 
himself.  "  I  rather  think  you  v>'ere  better 
engaged  and  in  higher  duties  tlian  any  that 
are  likely  to  ai'ise  from  my  communication 
with  you." 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  the  priest,  smiling, 
"  that  you  know  is  j-et  to  be  determined  on  ; 
but  in  the  mane  time  I'll  be  hajDpy  to  hear 
your  business,  whatever  it  is  ;  and.  indeed, 
from  your  looks,  although  the  Lord  knows 
they're  often  treacherous,  I  teU  you  tJiat  if  I 
can  stretch  a  jjoint  to  sai^e  yon  I  will  ;  jjro- 
vided  always  that  I  can  do  so  ■with  a  good  con- 
science, and  provided  also  that  I  find  your 
character  and  conduct  entitle  you  to  it. 
So,  then,  I  saj-,  let  us  have  at  the  busi- 
ness you  spake  of,  and  to  follow  up  this 
Ijrojrosition  with  suitable  energy,  what's 
your  name  and  occujjation  ?  tor  there's 
nothing  hke  knowing  the  gi'ound  a  man 
stands  on.  I  know  you're  a  stranger  La 
this  neighborhood,  for  I  assure  you  there 
is  not  a  face  in  the  pai'ish  but  I  am  as  well 
acquainted  with  as  my  own,  and  indeed  a 
gi'eat  deal  betther,  in  regard  that  I  never 
shave  with  a  looking-glass.  I  tried  it  once 
or  twice  and  was  near  committing  suicide  in 
the  attempt." 

There  was  something  so  kind,  fr-ank,  yet 
withal  so  eccentric,  and,  as  it  would  seem, 
so  unconsciously  humorous  in  the  worthy 
father's  manner,  that  the  stranger,  whilst  he 
felt  embarrassed  by  the  good-natured  blunt- 
ness  of  his  interrogations,  could  not  help 
experiencing  a  sensation  that  was  equally 
novel  and  delightful,  arising  as  it  did  from 
the  candor  and  honesty  of  purpose  that  were 
so  evident  in  all  the  worthy  man  did  and 
said. 

"  I  should  never  have  sujoposed,  from  the 
remarkable  taste  of  yoiir  dress  and  your 
general  ajipearance,"  he  replied,  "  that  you 
make  your  toilet  ■without  a  looking-glass." 

"  It's  a  fact,  though  ;  neither  I  nor  my 
worthy  father  before  me  ever  troubled  one  ; 
we  left  them  to  the  girshas  and  the  -^vomen  ; 
habit  is  everything,  and  for  that  reason  I 
could  shave  as  well  at  midnight  as  .at  the 
hour  of  noon.    However,  let  us  pass  that  by. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


367 


thank  God  I  can  go  out  -ndtli  as  clane  a  face, 
and  I  trust  with  as  clear  a  conscience,  alwaj-s 
baiTing  the  passions  that  ilat  Euly  puts  me 
into,  as  some  of  my  neigrhbors  ;  yet,  God  for- 
give me,  why  should  I  boast  ?  for  I  know  and 
feel  that  I  faU  far  short  of  my  duty  in  every 
sense,  especially  when  I  reflect  how  much  of 
poverty  and  destitution  ai'e  scattered  through 
this  apparently  wealthy  jjarish.  God  for- 
give me,  then,  for  the  boast  I  made,  for  it 
was  both  wrong  and  sinful  !  " 

A  touch  of  feeling  which  it  would  be 
difficult  to  describe,  but  which  raised  him 
still  more  highly  in  the  estimation  of  the 
stranger,  here  passed  over  his  handsome  and 
benevolent  features,  but  after  it  had  passed 
away  he  returned  at  once  to  the  object  of  the 
stranger's  visit. 

"Vi'ell,"  said  he,  "to  pass  now  from  my 
omissions  and  deticiencies,  let  us  return  to 
the  point  we  were  talking  of ;  you  haven't 
told  me  your  name,  or  occujjation,  or  pro- 
fession, or  business  of  any  kind — that  is,  if 
you  have  any  ?  " 

"I  assure  you,  reverend  sir,"  replied  the 
other,  "  that  I  am  at  the  present  moment 
placed  in  such  a  position,  that  I  fear  it  is  out 
of  my  power  to  satisfy  you  in  any  of  these 
jjoints.  'WTiilst,  at  the  same  time,  I  confess 
that,  nameless  and  stranger  as  I  am,  I  feel 
anxious  to  receive  your  advice  and  assistance 
upon  a  matter  of  considerable — indeed  of 
the  deepest — importance  to  an  unfortunate 
and  heai't-brokeu  lady,  whose  only  son,  when 
but  six  years  of  age,  and  then  heir  to  a  large 
property,  disappeared  many  years  ago  in  a 
manner  so  mysterious,  that  no  trace,  until 
very  recently,  has  ever  been  found  of  him. 
Nor,  indeed,  has  she  found  any  clew  to  him 
j"et,  beyond  a  single  intimation  given  to  her 
by  her  house-steward — a  man  named  Corbet 
— who,  on  his  death-bed,  had  merely  breath 
to  say  that  '  your  son  Uves,  and  that  Sir 
Thomas — '  These,  su-,  were  the  man's  last 
words  ;  for,  alas !  unhapj)y  for  the  peace  of 
mind  of  this  excellent  lad}-,  he  expired  before 
he  eovdd  complete  the  sentence,  or  give  her 
the  information  for  which  her  heart  yearned. 
Now,  reverend  sir,"  he  added,  "I  told  you 
that  it  is  out  of  mj-  power,  for  more  than  one 
reason,  to  disclose  my  name  ;  but,  I  assure 
you,  that  the  fact  of  making  this  communi- 
cation to  you,  wliich  you  perceive  I  do 
fi-ankly  and  without  hesitation,  is  placing  a 
contidence  in  you,  though  a  personal  stranger 
to  me,  which  I  am  certain  you  will  respect." 

"  Me  a  stranger  !  "  exclaimed  the  priest, 
"  in  my  otnti  parish  where  I  have  lived  cu- 
rate and  parish  priest  for  close  upon  forty 
years  ;  hut  tut  I  this  is  a  good  joke.  AMiy,  I 
tell  you,  sir,  that  there  is  not  a  dog  in  the 
parish  but  knows  me,  with  the  exception  of 


a  vile  cur  belonging  to  Jemmy  M'Gurth, 
that  I  have  striven  to  coax  and  conciliate  a 
hundred  ways,  and  yet  I  never  pass  but  he's 
out  at  me.  Indeed,  he's  an  ungrateful 
creature,  and  a  mane  sconce  besides  ;  for  I 
tell  you,  that  when  leaving  home,  I  have 
often  put  bread  in  my  pocket,  and  on  going 
past  his  owner's  house,  I  would  throw  it  to 
him — now  not  a  lie  in  this — and  wliat  do 
you  think  the  nasty  vermin  would  do  ?  He'd 
ait  the  bread,  and  after  he  had  made  short 
work  of  it — for  he's  aquil  to  Isl^t  Kuly  in 
appetite — he'd  attack  me  as  fresh,  and  in- 
deed a  great  dale  fresher  in  regard  ^of  what 
he  had  got ;  ay,  and  with  more  bitterness,  if 
jjossible,  than  ever.  Now,  sir,  I  remember 
that  greedy  and  ungrateful  scrub  of  an  an- 
imal about  three  years  ago  ;  for  indeed  the 
ill  feehng  is  going  on  between  us  for  nearly 
seven — I  saj'  I  remember  him  in  the  dear 
year,  when  he  wasn't  able  to  bark  at  me  until 
he  staggered  over  and  put  liimself  against 
the  ditch  on  the  roadside,  and  then,  heaven 
knows,  worse  execution  of  the  kind  waa 
never  heard.  However,  there's  little  else 
than  ingratitude  in  this  world,  and  eaten 
bread,  hke  hunger,  is  soon  forgotten,  though 
far  seldoiner  by  dogs,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
than  by  man — a  circumstance  which  makes 
the  case  I  am  repeating  to  you  of  this  cur 
stiU  worse.  But,  indeed,  he  served  me 
right ;  for  bribery,  even  to  a  dog,  does  not 
deserve  to  pro-sj^er.  But  I  beg  your  pardon, 
SU",  for  obtruding  my  o'wn  little  grievances 
upon  a  stranger.  What  is  it  you  expect  me 
to  do  for  you  in  this  business  ?  You  allude, 
I  think,  to  Ladv'  Gourlay  ;  and,  in  trutli,  if  it 
was  in  my  j^ower  to  restore  her  son  to  her, 
that  good  and  charitable  lady  would  not  be 
long  without  him." 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  other.  "  She  is  under 
a  strong  impression,  in  consequence  of  the 
dnng  man's  allusion  to  the  boy's  imcle.  Sir 
Thomas,  'who,'  he  said,  'knows,'  that  he  is 
cognizant  of  the  f)osition — whatever  it  may 
be — in  which  her  unfortunate  sou  isjDlaced." 

"  Not  unlikely,  but  stUl  what  can  I  do  in 
this?" 

"I  am  scarcely  aware  of  that  myself,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "  but  I  may  say  that  it  was 
Blr.  Birney,  who,  under  the  circumstances 
of  peculiar  difficulty  in  which  I  am  placed, 
suggested  to  me  to  see  you,  and  who  justi- 
iied  me  besides  in  reposing  this  important 
confidence  in  you." 

"I  thank  111-.  Bimey,"  said  Father  Peter, 
"  and  you  may  rest  assured,  that  your  con- 
fidence A\dll  not  be  abused,  and  that  upon  a 
higher  principle,  I  trust,  than  my  friemlship 
for  that  worthy  and  estimable  gentleman 
I  wish  aU  in  his  du-tj'  roguish  profession 
were  like  him.      By  the  way,"  he  added,  ae 


368 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


if  struck  by  a  sudden  tliouglit,  "  perhaps 
you  are  the  worthy  gentleman  who  kicked 
the  Black  Baronet  downstairs  in  the  Jlitre 
inn?" 

"  No,"  he  repHed  ;  "  some  warm  words  we 
had,  which  indeed  for  one  reason  I  regret ; 
but  that  was  all.  Sir  Thomas,  sir,  I  believe, 
is  not  popvilar  in  the  neighborhood?  " 

"I  make  it  a  point,  my  friend,"  rej^lied 
the  priest,  "never  to  spake  ill  of  the  absent ; 
but  perhajjs  you  are  aware  that  his  only  son 
disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  the  other, 
and  that  he  charges  his  sister-in-law  as  the 
cause  of  it ;  so  that,  in  point  of  fact,  their 
suspicions  are  mutual." 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  the  other  ;  "  biit  I  wish 
to  direct  your  attention  to  another  fact,  or, 
rather,  to  another  individual,  who  seems  to 
me  to  be  involved  in  considerable  mystery." 

"And  loray,  who  is  that?"  replied  the 
priest.  "  Not  youi-self,  I  hojje  ;  for  in  truth, 
by  all  accounts,  you're  as  mysterious  as  e'er 
a  one  of  them." 

"  My  mystery  will  soon  disaj)pear,  I  trust," 
said  the  stranger,  smiling.  "  The  young 
man's  name  to  whom  I  allude  is  Fenton ; 
but  I  apjjeal  to  yourself,  reverend  sir, 
whether,  if  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  were  to 
become  aware  of  the  dying  man's  words, 
■with  which  I  have  just  made  you  acquainted, 
he  might  not  be  apt,  if  it  be  a  fact  that  he 
has  in  safe  and  secret  durance  his  brother's 
son,  and  the  heir  to  the  property  which  he 
himself  now  enjoys,  whether,  I  say,  he  might 
not  take  such  steps  as  would  probably  ren- 
der fi-uitless  everj-  seai'ch  that  could  be  made 
for  him  ?  " 

"You  needn't  fear  me,  sir,"  replied  his 
reverence  ;  "  if  you  can  keep  your  own  se- 
cret as  well  as  I  will,  it  won't  travel  far,  I 
can  tell  you.  But  what  about  this  unfortu- 
nate young  man,  Fenton  ?  I  think  I  certain- 
ly heard  the  people  say  from  time  to  time 
that  nobody  knows  anything  about  him, 
either  as  to  where  he  came  from  or  who 
he  is.  How  is  he  involved  in  this  affair, 
though  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  speak  with  any  certainty,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  often  feel  myself  impressed  -nith  strong 
suspicions,  that  he  is  the  very  individual  we 
are  seeking." 

"  But  upon  what  reasons  do  you  ground 
those  suspicions  ?  "  asked  'his  reverence. 

The  stranger  then  related  to  him  the  cir- 
cumstances in  connection  with  Fenton's 
mysterious  terror  of  Sir  Thomas  Goiu'lay, 
precisely  as  the  reader  is  already  acquainted 
with  them. 

"But,"  said  the  priest,  "can  you  believe 
now,  if  Sir  Thomas  was  the  kidnapper  in 
this  instance,  that  he  would  allow  unfortu- 


nate Fenton,  supposing  he  is  his  brother's 
heii-,  and  who,  they  say,  is  often  non  compos, 
to  remain  twenty-four  hours  at  large  ?  " 

"  Probably  not ;  but  you  know  he  may  be 
unaware  of  his  residence  so  near  him.  Sir 
Thomas,  hke  too  many  of  his  couutrjTnen, 
has  been  an  absentee  for  years,  and  is  only 
a  short  time  in  this  countiy,  and  still  a 
shorter  at  Red  Hall.  The  young  man  prob- 
ably is  at  large,  because  he  may  have  escaped. 
There  is  eridently  some  mysterious  relation 
between  Fenton  and  the  baronet,  but  what 
it  is  or  can  be  I  am  utterlj-  iiuable  to  trace. 
Fenton,  with  all  his  wild  eccentricity  or  in- 
sanity, is  cautious,  and  on  his  guard  against 
me  ;  and  I  find  it  impossible  to  get  anything 
out  of  him." 

The  worthy  priest  fell  into  a  mood  of  ap- 
parently deep  but  agreeable  reflection,  and 
the  stranger  felt  a  hope  that  he  had  fallen 
upon  some  jjlan,  or,  at  all  events,  that  he 
had  thought  of  or  recalled  to  memory  some 
old  recollection  that  might  jjrobably  be  of 
sei-viee  to  him. 

"  The  poor  fellow,  sir,"  said  he,  addi-essing 
the  other  with  singular  benignity,  "  is  an 
orphan  ;  his  mother  is  dead  more  than  twelve 
yeai's,  and  his  father,  the  idle  and  luifortu- 
nate  man,  never  has  been  of  the  shghtest 
use  to  him,  poor  creature." 

"  What,"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  with  an- 
imation, "you,  then,  know  his  father!  " 

"  Know  him  !  to  be  sure  I  do.  He  is,  or 
rather  he  was,  a  horse-jockey,  and  I  took 
the  poor  neglected  j'oung  lad  in  because  he 
had  no  one  to  look  after  him.  But  wasn't 
it  kind-hearted  of  the  creature  to  heap  the 
creel  of  turf  though,  and  shed  tears  for  poor 
Widow  Magowran  ?  In  truth,  I  won't  foiget 
either  of  these  two  acts  to  him.'' 

"  You  speak,  sir,  of  your  servant,  I  be- 
lieve ?  "  obsened  the  other,  with  something 
like  chagrin. 

"  In  truth,  there's  not  a  kind-hearted 
young  giant  alive  this  day.  Many  a  little 
bounty  that  I,  through  the  piety  and  hber- 
aUty  of  the  charitable,  am  enabled  to  dis- 
tribute among  my  jjoor,  and  often  send  to 
them  with  Mat ;  and  I  believe  there's  scarce- 
ly an  insfcince  of  the  kind  in  which  he  is 
the  bearer  of  it,  that  he  doesn't  shed  tears 
just  as  he  did  with  Widow  Magowi-an.  Sure 
I  have  it  from  his  own  lips." 

"I  have  httle  doubt  of  it,"  repUed  the 
stranger. 

"  And  one  day,"  proceeded  the  credulous, 
easy  man,  "  that  I  was  going  along  the 
Kace-road,  I  overtook  him  with  a  creel  of 
turf,  the  same  way,  on  his  back,  and  when  I 
looked  dowTi  fi-om  my  horse  into  the  creel, 
I  saw  with  astonishment  that  it  wasn't  more 
than  half  full.     '  Mat,'   said   I,  '  what's   the 


THE  BLACK  BAROYET. 


36& 


raison  of  this?  Didn't  I  desire  you  to  fill 
the  creel  to  the  toj),  fvud  above  it  ? ' 

"  'Troth,'  said  j)oor  Mat,  '  I  never  carried 
such  a  creelful  in  my  life  as  it  was  when  I 
left  home.' 

"  '  But  what  has  become  of  the  turf,  then  ?  ' 
I  asked. 

"He  gave  me  a  look  and  almost  began  to 
cry — '  Arra  now,  your  reverence,'  he  ref)lied, 
'  how  could  you  expict  me  to  have  the  heart 
to  refuse  a  few  sods  to  the  gi-eat  number  of 
poor  creatures  that  axed  me  for  them,  to 
laoil  their  i^ratees,  as  I  came  along  ?  I  hope, 
your  reverence,  I  am  not  so  hard-heai'ted  as 
all  that  comes  to.'  " 

"I  know,"  proceeded  the  priest,  "  that  it 
was  wrong  not  to  bi'ing  the  turf  to  its  des- 
tination ;  but,  you  see,  su-,  it  was  only  an 
error  of  judgment — although  the  head  was 
wrong,  the  heart  was  right — and  that's  a 
great  point." 

It  was  not  in  human  nature,  however,  to 
feel  annoyed  at  this  characteristic  ebullition. 
The  stranger's  chagrin  at  once  disappeared, 
and  as  he  was  in  no  particular  hurry,  and 
wished  to  see  as  much  of  the  j^riest  as 
possible,  he  resolved  to  give  him  his  own 
way. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait,  however.  After 
about  a  minute's  deep  thought,  he  expressed 
himself  as  follows — and  it  may  be  oTDsei-ved 
here,  once  for  all,  that  on  appiropriate  oc- 
casions his  conversation  could  rise  and  adapt 
itself  to  the  dignity  of  the  subject,  with  a 
great  deal  of  easy  j)owor,  if  not  of  eloquence  : 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  he,  "  you  ■«ill  plaise  to 
pay  attention  to  what  I  am  about  to  say  : 
Beware  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay — as  a  Chiis- 
tian  man,  it  is  my  duty  to  j'ut  you  on  your 
guard  ;  but  consider  that  j'ou  ask  me  to  in- 
volve myself  in  a  matter  of  deep  family  in- 
terest and  importance,  and  yet,  as  I  said, 
you  keep  yourself  wrapped  up  in  a  veil  of 
impenetrable  mysteiy.  Pray,  allow  me  to 
ask,  is  Mr.  Bimey  acquainted  with  your 
name  and  secret  ?  " 

"He  is,"  repHed  the  other,  "with  both." 

"Then,  in  that  case,"  said  the  worthy 
priest,  with  very  commendable  prudence, 
"  I  will  walk  over  with  you  to  his  house,  and 
if  he  assures  me  j)ersonally  that  you  are  a 
gentleman  in  whose  objects  I  may  and  ought 
to  feel  an  interest,  I  then  say,  that  I  shall  do 
what  I  can  for  you,  although  that  may  not 
be  mvich.  Perhaps  I  may  put  you  in  a 
proper  train  to  succeed.  I  will,  with  these 
conditions,  give  you  a  letter  to  an  old  man 
in  Dublin,  who  may  give  you,  on  this  very 
subject,  more  information  than  any  other 
person  I  know,  with  one  exception." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  replied  the  stranger,  get- 
ting on  his  legs,  "  I  am  quite  satisfied  with 


that  proposal,  and  I  feel  that  it  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  make  it." 

"  Yes,  but  you  won't  go,"  said  tte  priest, 
"  tiU  you  take  some  refreshment.  It's  now 
past  two  o'clock." 

"I  am  much  obhged  to  you, "  replied  the 
other,  "  but  I  never  lunch." 

"  Not  a  foot  you'll  stir  then  tiU  you  take 
something — I  don't  want  you  to  lunch — a 
bit  and  a  sup  just — come,  don't  refuse  now, 
for  I  say  you  must." 

The  other  smOed,  and  replied  :  "  But,  ] 
assure  you,  my  dear  sir,  I  couldn't — I  break- 
fasted late."  • 

"Not  a  matter  for  that,  you  niust  have 
something,  I  say — a  drop  of  dram  then — 
pvu'e  poteen — or  maybe  you'd  prefer  a  glass 
of  wine  ?  saj'  which,  for  you  must  taste 
either  the  one  or  the  other  " — and  as  he 
spoke,  with  a  good-humored  laugh,  he  de- 
hberately  locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key 
in  his  250cket.  "  It's  an  old  jiroverb,''  ho 
added,  "that  those  who  won't  take  are  never 
ready  to  give,  and  I'll  think  you  after  all  but 
a  poor-hearted  creature  if  you  refuse  it.  At 
any  rate,  consider  yourself  a  prisoner  until 
you  comjily." 

"Well,  then,"  repUed  our  strange  friend, 
stiU  smiling,  "  since  your  hospitalitj'  will 
force  me,  at  the  expense  of  my  liberty,  I 
think  I  must — a  glass  of  slieriy  then,  since 
you  are  so  kind." 

"  Ah,"  rephed  his  reverence,  "  I  see  you 
don't  know  what's  good — that's  the  stuff," 
he  added,  pointing  to  the  jjoteen,  "  that 
would  send  the  radical  heat  to  the  very  ends 
of  your  nails — I  never  take  more  than  a 
single  tumbler  after  my  dinner,  but  that's 
my  choice." 

The  stranger  then  joined  him  in  a  glass 
of  shen-y,  and  they  proceeded  to  Mi-.  Bimey 'a 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Griickenfudge  Outwitted  iy  Fe.nton — TJie  Baronet, 
Eiiruyed  at  His  Daughter's  Firmness,  strikes 
Ihi: 

Crackenfudge,  who  was  comiDletely  on  the 
alert  to  ascertain  if  possible  the  name  of  the 
stranger,  and  the  nature  of  his  business  in 
Ball^irain,  learned  that  Fenton  and  he  had 
had  three  or  four  jjrivate  intei"\iews,  and  he 
considered  it  very  likely  that  if  he  could 
throw  himself  in  that  wild  young  fellow's 
way,  without  any  appeai'ance  of  design,  lie 
might  be  able  to  extract  something  concern- 
ing the  other  out  of  him.  In  the  course,  then, 
of  tlu-ee  or  four  days  after  that  detailed  in 
our  last  chapter,  and  we  mention  this  par- 


370 


V;- ILL  I  AM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


f  icularly,  because  Father  M'Malion  was  ob- 
liged to  write  to  Dublin,  iu  order  to  make 
inquiries  toucliing  the  old  man's  residence 
to  whom  he  had  undertaken  to  give  the 
stranger  a  letter — in  the  course,  we  say,  of 
three  or  four  days  after  that  on  which  the 
worthy  priest  appears  in  our  pages,  it  occur- 
red that  Crackenfudge  met  the  redoubtable 
Fentou  in  his  usual  maudlin  state,  that  is  to 
say,  one  in  wliich  he  could  be  termed  neither 
diiink  nor  sober.  We  have  said  that  Fen- 
ton's  mind  was  changeful  and  unstable ; 
sometimes  evincing  extraordinary  quietness 
and  civility,  and  sontetimes  full  of  rant  and 
swagger,  to  which  we  may  add,  a  good  deal 
of  adroitness  and  tact.  In  his  most  degraded 
state  he  was  always  kno\\'u  to  claim  a  certain 
amount  of  resjject,  and  would  sc;u'cely  hold 
conversation  with  any  one  who  would  not 
call  him  Mr.  Fenton. 

On  meeting  Fenton,  the  worthy  candidate 
for  the  magistracy,  observing  the  condition 
he  was  in,  which  indeed  was  his  usual  one, 
took  it  for  gxanted  that  his  chance  was  good. 
He  accordingly  addressed  him  as  follows  : 

"Fenton,"  said  he,  "what's  the  news  in 
town  ?  " 

"To  whom  do  you  speak,  sirra?"  replied 
Fenton,  indignantly.  "  Take  off  your  hat, 
sir,  whenever  you  address  a  gentleman." 

"Every  one  knows  you're  a  gentleman, 
ill'.  Fenton,"  rephed  Crackenfudge  ;  "  and  as 
for  me,  a'd  be  sorry  to  address  you  as  any- 
thing else." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  return  the  compliment, 
then,"  said  Fenton  ;  "everyone  knows  you're 
anything  but  a  gentleman,  and  that's  the  dif- 
ference between  us.  What  jsiece  of  knavery 
have  you  on  the  anvil  now,  my  worthy  em- 
bryo magistrate  ?  " 

"  You're  severe  this  morning,  Mr.  Fenton  ; 
a'  don't  thiidc  a'  ever  deserved  tliat  at  your 
hands.  But  come,  j\ir.  Fenton,  let  us  be  on 
good  terms.  A'  acknowledge  you  are  a  gen- 
tleman, ]\Ir.  Fenton." 

"  Take  care,"  replied  Fenton,  "  and  don't 
overdo  the  thing  neither.  Whether  is  it  the 
knave  or  fool  predominates  in  you  to-day, 
Mr.  Crackenfudge?" 

"A'  hope  a'm  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other,"  rephed  the  embi'yo  magistrate.  "A' 
hope  a'm  not,  Mr.  Fenton." 

"I  believe,  however,  you  happen  to  be 
both,"  said  Fenton;  "that's  a  fact  as  well 
knovNTi,  my  good  fellow,  as  the  public  stocks 
tl-iere  below ;  and  if  Madam  Fame  reports 
aright,  it's  a  pity  you  should  be  long  out  of 
tliem.  Avaunt,  you  upstart !  Before  the 
close  of  your  life,  you  will  die  with  as  many 
aiiaites  as  e'er  a  thief  that  ever  swung  from  a 
gailows,  and  will  deserve  the  swing,  too,  bet- 
ter than  the  thief." 


"  A'  had  a  right  to  change  my  name,"  re- 
plied the  other,  "  when  a'  got  into  property. 
A'  was  ashamed  of  my  fiieuds,  because  there's 
a  great  many  of  them  poor. " 

"Invert  the  tables,  you  misbegotten  son  of 
an  elve,"  replied  Fenton  ;  "  'tis  they  that  are 
ashamed  of  you  ;  there  is  not  one  among  the 
humblest  of  them  but  would  blush  to  name 
you.  So  you  did  not  uncover,  as  I  desired 
you  ;  but  be  it  so.  You  wish  to  let  me,  sir, 
who  am  a  gentleman,  know,  and  to  force  me 
to  say,  that  there  is  a  knave  under  your  hat. 
But  come.  Mi'.  Crackenfudge,"  he  continued, 
at  once,  and  by  some  unaccountable  imjjulse, 
changing  his  manner,  "  come,  my  friend 
Crackenfudge,  you  must  overlook  my  satire. 
Thersites'  mood  has  past,  and  now  for  benev- 
olence and  fiiendship.  Give  us  your  honest 
hand,  and  bear  not  mahee  against  your  fiiend 
and  neighbor." 

"  You  must  have  your  o"\^ti  way,  Mr.  Fen- 
ton," said  Crackenfudge,  smiling,  or  assum- 
ing a  smile,  and  still  steady  as  a  sleuthhound 
to  his  purjjose. 

"  Where  now  are  you  bound  for,  oh,  benev- 
olent and  humane  Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"  A'  was  jist  thinking  of  asking  tliis  strange 
fellow " 

"  Eight,  O  Crackenfudgius  !  that  impostor 
is  a  fellow  ;  or  if  you  jjrefer  the  reverse  of  the 
proposition,  that  fellow  is  an  impostor.  I 
have  foimd  him  out." 

"  A'  hard,"  rejahed  Crackenfudge,  "  that  he 
and  you  were  on  rather  intimate  terms, 
and " 

"  And  so  as  being  my  companion,  you  con- 
sidered him  a  fellow.'  Proceed,  Ci-aekeu- 
fudgius." 

"  No,  not  at  all ;  a'  was  thinkin'  of  makin' 
his  acquaintance,  and  paying  some  attention 
to  him  ;  that  is,  if  a'  could  know  who  and 
what  he  is." 

"  And  thou  shalt  know,  my  worthy  mock 
magistrate.  I  am  in  a  communicative  humor 
to-day,  and  know  thou  shalt." 

"  And  what  may  his  name  be,  pray,  3Ir. 
Fenton  ?  "  with  a  pecuHar  emphasis  on  the 
Mr. 

"Caution,"  said  Fenton;  "don't  overdo 
the  thing,  I  say,  otherwise  I  am  silent  as  the 
grave.  Heigh-ho !  what  jjut  that  in  my, 
head  ?  Well,  sir,  you  shall  know  all  you  ^dsh 
to  know.  In  the  first  place,  as  to  his  name 
— it  is  Harry  Hedles.  He  was  clerk  to  a  tooth- 
brush-maker in  Loudon,  but  it  seems  he 
made  a  little  too  free  with  a  portion  of  the 
brush  money  :  he  accoi'dinglj'  brushed  off  to 
our  celebrated  Irish  metropolis,  ycleped 
Dublin,  where,  owing  to  a  tolerably  good 
manner,  a  smooth  English  accent,  and  a  tre- 
mendous stock  of  assurance,  he  insinuated 
himself  into  several  resijectable  families  as  a 


THE  BLACK   BARONET. 


371 


man  of  some  importance.  Among  otliers,  it 
is  said  that  he  has  engaged  the  affections  of 
.  a  beautiful  creature,  daughter  and  heiress  to 
an  Irish  baronet,  and  that  thej"  are  betrothed 
to  each  other.  But  as  to  the  name  or  resi- 
dence uf  the  baronet,  O  Crackeufudgius,  I  am 
not  in  a  condition  to  inform  you — for  this 
good  reason,  that  I  don't  know  either  my- 
self " 

"But  is  it  a  fair  question,  ]Mr.  Fenton,  to 
ask  how  you  became  acquainted  with  all 
tliis?" 

"How?"  exclaimed  Fenton,  with  a 
doughty  but  confident  swagger  ;  "  incredu- 
lous varlet,  do  you  doubt  the  authenticity  of 
my  information  ?  He  disclosed  to  me  eveiy 
word  of  it  himself,  and  sought  me  out  here 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  me  to  intluenee 
my  friends,  who,  you  distrustful  caitiff,  are 
persons  of  rank  and  consequence,  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  about  a  reconciliation 
between  him  and  old  Gruiwell,  the  tooth- 
brush man,  and  having  the  prosecution 
stopj)ed.  Avaunt !  now,  begone  !  This  is 
aU  the  information  I  can  afford  upon  the 
subject  of  that  stout  but  gentlemanly  im- 
postor." 

Crackenfudge,  we  should  have  said,  was 
on  horseback  during  the  previous  dialogue, 
And  no  sooner  had  Fenton  passed  on,  \vith  a 
look  of  the  most  dignified  self-consequence 
on  his  thin  and  wasted,  though  rather  hand- 
some features,  than  the  candidate  magistrate 
set  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  yn\ki  a  singularly 
awkward  wabbling  motion  of  his  feet  and 
legs  about  the  aAimal's  sides,  his  right  hand 
flourishing  his  whip  at  the  same  time  into 
circles  in  the  air,  he  approached  Red  Hall,  as 
if  he  brought  tidings  of  some  great  national 
victory. 

He  found  the  baronet  perusing  a  letter, 
who,  after  having  given  him  a  nod,  and 
pointing  to  a  chair,  without  spaaking,  read 
on,  with  an  expression  of  countenance  which 
almost  alanned  poor  Crackenfudge.  WTiat- 
ever  intelligence  the  letter  may  h;ive  con- 
tained, one  thing  seemed  obvious — that  it 
was  gaU  and  wormwood  to  his  heart.  His 
countenance,  naturally  more  than  ordinarily 
dark,  literally  blackened  with  rage  and  morti- 
fication, or  perhaps  with  both  ;  his  eyes 
ilaslied  fire,  and  seemed  as  about  to  project 
tliemselves  out  of  his  head,  and  poor  Cracken- 
fudge could  hear  most  distinctly  the  grind- 
ing of  his  teeth.  At  length  he  rose  up,  and 
strode,  as  was  his  custom,  through  the  room, 
moved  by  such  a  state  of  feeling  as  it  was 
awful  to  look  upon.  During  all  this  time  he 
never  seemed  to  notice  Ci'ackenfudge,  whose 
face,  on  the  other  hand,  formed  a  very  ludi- 
crous contrast  mth  that  of  the  baronet. 
There  was  at  any  time  very  little  meaning, 


to  an  ordinary  observer,  in  the  countenance 
of  this  anxious  candidate  for  the  magisterial 
bench,  but  it  was  not  without  cunning  ;  just 
as  in  the  case  of  a  certain  class  of  fools,  any 
one  may  recollect  that  anomalous  combina- 
tion of  the  latter  ■with  features  whose  blank- 
ness  betokens  the  natural  idiot  at  a  first 
glance.  Crackenfudge,  who,  on  this  occa- 
sion, felt  conscious  of  the  valuable  intel'ii- 
gence  he  was  about  to  communicate,  sat  with 
a  face  in  which  might  be  read,  as  far  at  least 
as  anything  could,  a  fidl  sense  of  the  vast 
inqDortanoe  with  which  he  was  charged,  and 
the  agreeable  surprise  which  he  must  neces- 
saiily  give  the  raging  baronet.  Not  that  the 
expression,  after  all,  could  reach  anything 
higher  than  that  union  of  stujiidity  and  as- 
surance which  may  so  frequently  be  read  in 
the  same  countenance. 

"A'  see.  Sir  Thomas,"  he  at  length  said, 
"  that  something  has  vexed  you,  and  a'm 
sorry  to  see  it." 

The  baronet  gave  him  a  look  of  such  fury, 
as  in  a  moment  banished  not  only  the  full- 
blown consciousness  of  the  imj)ortant  intelh- 
geuce  he  was  about  to  communicate,  but  its 
vei-y  expression  from  his  face,  which  waxed 
meaningless  and  cowardly-looking  as  ever. 

"A' hope,"  he  added,  in  an  apologetical 
tone,  "  that  a'  didn't  offend  you  by  my  obser- 
vation ;  at  least,  a'  didn't  intend  it." 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  baronet,  "  your  apology 
is  as  unseasonable  as  the  offence  for  which 
you  make  it.  You  see  in  what  a  state  of 
agitation  I  am,  and  yet,  seeing  this,  you  have 
the  presumption  to  annoy  me  by  your  imper- 
tinence.    I   have   ah-eady  told   you,    that  I 

would  help  you  to  tliis  d d  magistracy  ; 

although  it  is  a  shame,  before  God  and  man, 
to  put  such  a  creature  as  j'ou  are  upon  the 
bencli.  Don't  you  see,  sir,  that  I  am  not  in 
a  mood  to  be  spoken  to  ?  " 

Poor  Crackenfudge  was  silent ;  and,  ujaon 
remembering  his  previous  dialogue  with 
Fenton,  he  could  not  avoid  thinking  that  he 
was  treated  rather  rouglJy  between  them. 
The  baronet,  however,  still  moved  backwai-d 
and  foi'ward,  like  an  enraged  tiger  in  his 
cage,  -tvithout  any  further  notice  of  Cracken- 
fudge ;  who,  on  his  part,  felt  likely  to  ex- 
plode, unless  he  should  soon  disburden  him- 
self of  his  intelhgence.  Indeed,  so  confident 
did  he  feel  of  the  sedative  effect  it  would  and 
must  have  upon  the  disturbed  spirit  of  tliis 
dark  and  terrible  man,  that  he  resolved  to 
risk  an  experiment,  at  all  hazards,  after  his 
own  way.  He  accordingly  puckei-ed  his  face 
into  a  grin  that  was  rendered  melancholy  by 
the  terror  which  was  still  at  his  heart,  and, 
in  a  voice  that  had  one  of  the  most  comical 
quavers  imaginable,  be  said:  "Good  news 
Sir  Thomas." 


372 


^YILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Good  devil,  sir  !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"A'  mean  good  news,  Sir  Thomas.  The 
fellow  in  the  inn — a'  know  everything  about 
him." 

"  Eh  !  what  is  that  ?  I  beg  your  i^ardon, 
Crackenfudge ;  I  have  treated  you  discoui'- 
teously  and  badly — but  you  will  excuse  me. 
I  have  had  such  cause  for  excitement  as  is 
sufficient  to  drive  me  almo.st  mad.  What  is 
the  good  news  you  speak  of,  Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  who  the  fellow  iu  the  inn 
is,  Sir  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Not  I ;  but  I  wish  I  did." 

"  Well,  then,  a'  can  tell  you." 

Sir  Thomas  turned  abrujjtlj'  about,  and, 
fastening  his  dark  gleaming  eyes  upon  him, 
surveyed  him  with  an  expression  of  which  no 
language  could  give  an  adequate  description. 

"  Crackenfudge,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  con- 
densed into  tremendous  power  and  interest, 
"  keej)  me  not  a  moment  in  suspense — don't 
tamper  with  me,  sir — don't  attempt  to  play 
uj)on  me — don't  sell  your  intelligence,  nor 
make  a  bargain  for  it.  Curse  your  magis- 
tracy— have  I  not  ak-eady  told  you  that  I 
will  help  you  to  it  ?  What  is  the  intelli- 
gence— the  good  news  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"Why,  simply  this.  Sir  Thomas,"  replied 
the  other, — "  that  a"  know  who  and  what  the 
fellow  in  the  inn  is  ;  biit,  for  God's  sake.  Sir 
Thomas,  keep  your  temper  within  bounds, 
or  if  you  don't,  a'  must  only  go  honje  again, 
and  keep  my  secret  to  myself.  You  have 
treated  me  very  badly,  Sir  Thomas ;  you 
have  insulted  me.  Sir  Thomas ;  you  have 
grossly  offended  me.  Sir  Thomas,  in  your 
own  house,  too,  and  without  the  slightest 
provocation.  A'  have  told  you  that  a'  know 
everything  about  the  fellow  in  the  inn  ;  and 
now,  sir,  j'ou  may  thank  the  treatment  a'  re- 
ceived that  a'  simply  tell  you  that,  and  have 
the  honor  of  bidding  you  good  day." 

"  Crackenfudge,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  who 
in  an  instant  saw  his  error,  and  felt  in  all  its 
importance  the  value  of  the  intelligence  with 
which  the  other  was  charged,  "I  beg  your 
pardon  ;  but  you  may  easily  see  that  I  was 
not — that  I  am  not  myself." 

"You  pledge  your  honor,  Sir  Thomas, 
that  you  will  get  me  the  magistracy  ?  A' 
know  you  can  if  you  set  abont  it.  A' 
declare  to  God,  Sir  Thomas,  a'  will  never 
have  a  happy  day  unless  I'm  able  to  wi-ite 
J.  P.  after  my  name.  A  can  think  of  noth- 
ing else.  And,  Sir  Thomas,  listen  to  me  ; 
my  friends — a'  mean  my  relations — jjoor, 
honest,  contemptible  creatui-es,  are  all  angry 
wjth  me,  because  a'  changed  my  name  to 
Crackenfudge." 

"  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  history 
of  the  feUow  in  the  inn  ?  "  repUed  Sir  Thomas. 
"  With  respect  to  the  change  of  your  name. 


I  have  been  given  to  understand  that  your 
relations  have  been  considerably  reUevcd  bv 
it." 

"How,  Sir  Thomas?" 

"  Because  they  say  that  they  escape  the 
diisgi'ace  of  the  connection  ;  but,  as  for  my- 
self," added  the  Ijaronet,  with  a  peculiar 
sneer,  "I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  the  matter — one  way  or  other.  But 
let  it  pass,  however  ;  and  now  for  your  in- 
telligence." 

"  But  you  didn't  jiledge  your  honor  that 
you  would  get  me  the  magistracy." 

"If,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "the  information 
you  have  to  communicate  be  of  the  imjsor- 
tance  I  expect,  I  pledge  vay  honor,  that 
whatever  man  can  do  to  serve  you  in  that 
matter,  I  will.  You  know  I  cannot  make 
magistrates  at  my  will — I  am  not  the  lord 
chancellor." 

"  Well,  then.  Sir  Thomas,  to  make  short 
work  of  it,  the  fellow's  name  is  Harry  Hedles. 
He  was  clerk  to  the  firm  of  Grinwell  and 
Co.,  the  great  tooth-brush  manufacturers — 
absconded  with  some  of  their  cash,  came 
over  here,  and  smuggled  himself  m  the 
shape  of  a  gentleman,  into  respectable  fami- 
lies ;  and  a'm  jJositively  informed,  that  he 
has  succeeded  in  seducing  the  affections,  and 
becoming  engaged  to  the  daughter  and  heir- 
ess of  a  wealthy  baronet." 

The  look  which  Sir  Thomas  turned  upon 
Crackenfudge  made  the  cowardly  caitifi' 
tremble. 

"  Harkee,  Sir.  Crackenfudge,"  said  he ; 
"  did  you  hear  the  name  of  the  baronet,  or 
of  his  daughter  ?  " 

"  A'  did  not.  Sir  Thomas  ;  the  person  that 
told  me  was  ignorant  of  this  himself." 

'■  May  I  ask  who  your  informant  was,  Mr. 
Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"  Why,  Sir  Thomas,  a  half  mad  fellow, 
named  Fenton,  who  said  that  he  saw  this 
vagabond  at  an  establishment  in  England 
conducted  by  a  brother  of  this  GrinweU's." 

The  baronet  paused  for  a  moment,  but 
the  expression  wliich  took  jiossession  of  his 
features  was  one  of  the  most  intense  interest 
that  could  be  dej^icted  on  the  human  coun- 
tenance ;  he  fastened  his  eyes  upon  Cracken- 
fudge, as  if  he  would  have  read  the  very  soul 
within  him,  and  by  an  effort  restrained  him- 
self so  fai-  as  to  say,  with  forced  comijosure, 
"Pray,  Mr.  Crackenfudge,  what  kind  of  a 
person  is  this  Fenton,  whom  you  call  half 
mad,  and  fi'om  whom  you  had  this  informa- 
tion ?  " 

Crackenfudge  described  Fenton,  and  in- 
formed Sir  Thomas  that  in  the  opinion  of  the 
jDeople  he  was  descended  of  a  good  family, 
though  neglected  and  unfortunate.  "But," 
he  added,   "  as  to  who  he   really  is,  or  of 


THE  BLACK   BARONET. 


373 


what  faniOy,  no  one  can  get  out  of  him. 
He's  close  and  cuniiing." 

"Is  he  occasionally  uusettled  in  his  rea- 
son ?  "  asked  the  baronet,  with  assumed  in- 
difference. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  Sir  Thomas  ;  he'll  some- 
times pass  a  whole  week  or  fortnight  and 
never  open  his  Uj)s." 

The  baronet  apj^eared  to  be  divided  be- 
tween two  states  of  feeling  so  equally 
balanced  as  to  leave  him  almost  without  the 
power  of  utterance.  He  wallced,  he  paused, 
he  looked  at  Crackeufudge  as  if  he  would 
sjaeak,  then  resumed  his  step  with  a  hasty 
and  rapid  stride  that  betokened  the  depth  of 
what  he  felt. 

"  Well,  Crackenfudge,  he  said,  "  yom-  in- 
telligence, after  all,  is  but  mere  smoke.  I 
thought  the  fellow  in  the  inn  was  something 
beyond  the  rank  of  clerk  to  a  tooth-bmsh 
maker  ;  he  is  not  worth  our  talk,  neither  is 
that  madman  Fentou.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
am  much  obUged  to  you,  and  you  may  cal- 
culate ujion  my  ser^'ices  wherever  they  can 
be  made  available  to  your  interests.  I 
would  not  now  hui-ry  you  away  nor  request 
you  to  ciu'tail  j'oiu'  visit,  were  it  not  that  I 
expect  Lord  Cullamore  here  in  about  half 
an  hour,  or  perhajis  less,  and  I  wish  to  see 
Miss  Gourlay  j^renous  to  his  arrival." 

"But  you  won't  forget  the  magistracy, 
Sir  Thomas  ?  A'm  dreaming  of  it  every 
night.  A'  think  that  am  seated  upon  a 
bench  with  five  or  six  other  magistrates 
along  with  me,  and  you  can't  imagine  the 
satisfaction  I  feel  in  sending  those  poor  ver- 
min that  are  going  about  in  a  state  of  dis- 
loyalty and  starvation  to  the  stocks  or  the 
jail.  Oh,  authority  is  a  delightful  thing, 
Sir  Thomas,  especially  when  a  man  can  ex- 
ercise it  upon  the  vile  rubbish  that  consti- 
tutes the  paujier  j)opulation  of  the  comitry. 
You  know,  if  a'  were  a  magistrate,  Sir 
Thomas,  a'  would  fine  every  one — as  well  as 
my  own  tenants,  whom  I  do  tine — that  did 
not  take  oft'  their  hat  or  make  me  a  cour- 
tesy." 

"And  if  you  were  to  do  so,  Cracken- 
fudge," rephed  the  baronet,  with  a  grim,  sar- 
donic smde,  or  rather  a  sneer,  "I  assure 
you,  that  such  a  measure  would  become  a 
very  general  and  heavy  impost  upon  the 
country.  But  goodby,  now  ;  I- shall  remem- 
ber your  wishes  as  touching  the  magistracy. 
You  shall  have  J.  P.  after  your  name,  and 
be  at  liljerty  to  tine,  flog,  \m.i  in  the  stocks, 
and  send  to  prison  as  many  of  the  rubbish 
you  speak  of  as  you  wish." 

"  That  wiU  be  dehghtful,  Sir  Thomas.  A'U 
then  make  many  a  vagabond  that  despises 
and  laughs  at  me  suffer." 

"  In  that  case,  the  countrj"  at  large  wiU 


suffer  heavily ;  for  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Crackenfudge,  you  are  anything  but  a  fav- 
orite. Goodby,  now,  I  must  see  my  daugh- 
ter." And  so  he  nodded  the  embryo  magis- 
trate out. 

After  the  latter  had  taken  his  departure. 
Sir  Thomas  rubbed  his  hands,  with  a  strouj; 
turbid  gleam  of  ferocious  satisfaction,  that 
evidently  resulted  fi'om  the  communication 
that  Crackenfudge  had  made  to  him. 

"It  can  be  no  other,"  thought  he;  "his 
aUusiou  to  the  establishment  of  GrinweU  is 
a  strong  presumptive  proof  that  it  is  ;  but  he 
must  be  secured  forthwith,  and  that  with  all 
secrecy  and  dispatch,  taking  it  always  for 
granted  that  he  is  the  fugitive  for  whom  we 
have  been  seeking  so  long.  One  pioint, 
however,  in  ovu-  favor  is,  that  as  he  knows 
neither  his  real  name  nor  origin,  nor  even 
the  hand  which  guided  his  destiny,  he  can 
make  no  discovery  of  which  I  may  feel  ap- 
jjrehensive.  StiU  it  is  dangerous  that  he 
should  be  at  lai'ge,  for  it  is  impossible  to 
say  what  contingency  might  happen — what 
chance  would,  or  perhaps  early  recolleetiou 
might,  like  a  sjiark  of  light  to  a  train,  blow 
lip  in  a  moment  the  precaution  of  years.  As 
to  the  fellow  in  the  inn,  the  account  of  him 
may  be  true  enough,  for  maquestionably 
GrinwcU,  who  kej^t  the  asylum,  had  a  brother 
in  the  tooth-brush  business,  and  this  fact 
gives  the  story  something  like  probability, 
as  does  the  mystery  with  which  this  man 
wraps  himself  so  closely.  In  the  meantime, 
if  he  he  a  clerk,  he  is  certainly  an  impostor 
of  the  most  consummate  art,  for  assuredly 
so  gentlemanly  a  scoundrel  I  have  never  yet 
come  in  contact  with.  But,  good  heavens  ! 
if  such  a  rej^ort  should  have  gone  abroad 
concerning  that  stiti'-necked  and  obstinate 
gii'l,  her  reputation  and  prospects  in  life  are 
ruined  forever.  ^^Tjat  would  Dunroe  say 
if  he  heard  it '?  as  it  is  certain  he  wiU.  Then, 
again,  here  is  the  visit  from  this  conscien- 
tious old  blockhead.  Lord  Cullamore,  who 
won't  allow  me  to  manage  my  daughter  after 
mj'  o\\M  manner.  He  must  heai-  from  her 
ovi-n  lips,  forsooth,  how  she  rehshes  this 
union.  He  must  see  her,  he  says  ;  but,  if 
she  betrays  me  now  and  continues  restive,  I 
shall  make  her  feel  what  it  is  to  provoke 
me.  This  inteniew  will  ruin  me  with  old 
CuUamore  ;  but  in  the  meantime  I  must  see 
the  girl,  and  let  her  know  wiiat  the  conse- 
quences will  be  if  she  peaches  against  me." 

All  this,  of  coiu'se,  jjassed  through  his 
mind  briefly,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  accord- 
ing to  his  usual  habit.  After  a  few  minutes 
he  rang,  and  with  a  lowering  brow,  and  in  a 
stern  voice,  ordered  Miss  Gourlay  to  be  con- 
ducted to  him.  This  was  accordingly  done, 
her  maid  having  escoi-fed  her  to  the  Ubrarv 


374 


WILLIAM  CARLKTOIV'S  WORKS. 


door,  for  it  is  necessary  to  say  here,  that  she 
iiad  been  under  confinement  since  tlie  day 
of  her  father's  visit  to  Lord  Ciillamore. 

She  ajipeared  p;ile  and  dejected,  but  at 
the  same  time  evidently  sustained  by  serious 
composvire  and  firmness.  On  entering  the 
room,  iier  father  gazed  at  her  with  a  long, 
sa.u'ching  look,  that  seemed  as  if  he  wished 
to  ascertain,  from  her  manner,  whether  im- 
prisonment had  in  any  degree  tamed  her 
down  to  his  j)urposes.  He  saw,  indeed,  that 
she  was  somewhat  paler  than  usual,  but  he 
perceived  at  once  that  not  one  jot  of  her  res- 
olution had  abated.  After  an  effort,  he  en- 
deavored to  imitate  her  composiu'e,  and  in 
some  remote  degi-ee  the  calm  and  serene 
chgnity  of  her  manner.  Lucy,  who  consid- 
ered herself  a  prisoner,  stood  after  having 
entered  the  room,  as  if  in  obedience  to  her 
father's  wishes. 

"  Lucy,  be  seated,"  said  he  ;  and  whilst 
sj)eaking,  he  placed  himself  in  an  arm-chair, 
near  the  tu-e,  but  turned  toward  her,  and 
kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  her  counte- 
nance. "Luc}',"  he  proceeded,  "you  are  to 
receive  a  vi.sit  from  Lord  Cullamore,  by  and 
by,  and  it  rests  with  you  this  day  whether  I 
shall  stand  in  his  estimation  a  dishonored 
man  or  not." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  papa." 

"  You  soon  shall.  I  paid  him  a  visit,  as 
you  are  awai-e,  at  his  own  request,  a  few  days 
ago.  The  object  of  that  visit  was  to  discuss 
the  approaching  union  between  you  and  his 
son.  He  said  he  would  not  have  you  pressed 
against  your  inclinations,  and  expressed  an 
apprehension  that  the  match  was  not  exactly 
in  accordance  with  your  wishes.  Now,  mark 
me,  Lucy,  I  undertook,  uj^on  my  o-vvn  re- 
sponsibility, as  weU  as  upon  youi's,  to  assui-e 
him  that  it  had  your  fullest  concurrence,  and 
I  exjject  that  you  shall  bear  me  out  and  sus- 
tain me  in  this  assertion." 

"I  who  am  engaged  to  another?" 

"Yes,  but  clandestinely,  without  your 
father's  knowledge  or  approbation." 

"I  admit  my  error,  papa;  I  fuUy  and 
fi-eely  acknowledge  it,  and  the  only  atone- 
ment I  can  make  to  you  for  it  is,  to  assure 
you  that  although  I  am  not  likely  ever  to 
many  according  to  your  wishes,  yet  I  shall 
never  marry  against  them." 

"  Ha !  "  thought  the  baronet,  "  I  have 
brought  her  down  a  step  already." 

"Now,  Lucy,"  said  he,  "it  is  time  that 
this  undutiful  obstinacy  on  your  j)art  should 
cease.  It  is  time  you  should  look  to  and  re- 
sjject — j'es,  and  obej'  yoiu-  father's  -wishes. 
I  liave  already  told  you  that  I  have  impiressed 
Lord  Cullamore  with  a  belief  that  you  are  a 
fi'ee  and  consenting  party  to  this  marriage, 
and  I  trust  you  have  too  much  dehcacy  and 


self-respect  to  make  your-  father  a  liai,  fo* 
that  is  the  word.  I  admit  I  told  him  a  false- 
hood, but  I  did  so  for  the  honor  and  exalta- 
tion of  my  child.  You  wiU  not  betray  me, 
Lucy  ■? " 

"Father,"  said  she,  "I  regret  that  you 
make  these  toi-turing  communications  to  me. 
God  knows  I  wish  to  love  and  resf)ect  you, 
but  when,  under  solemn  circumstances,  you 
utter,  by  j'our  own  admission,  a  deliberate 
fiilsehood  to  a  man  of  the  p)urest  tiiith  and 
honor  ;  when  you  knowingly  and  wilfully 
mislead  him  for  selfish  and  ambitioiis  pur- 
poses ; — nay,  I  will  retract  these  words,  and 
suppose  it  is  from  an  anxiety  to  secure  mo 
rank  and  happiness, — I  say,  father,  when  you 
thus  forget  all  that  constitutes  the  integrity 
and  dignity  of  man,  and  stoop  to  the  diS' 
creditable  meanness  of  falsehood,  I  ask  you, 
is  it  manlj',  or  honorable,  or  aii'ectionate,  to 
involve  me  in  proceedings  so  utterly  shame- 
ful, and  to  ask  me  to  abet  you  in  such  a 
wanton  perversion  of  truth  ?  Sir,  there  are 
fathers — indeed,  I  believe,  most  fathers  liv- 
ing— who  would  rather  see  any  child  of 
theirs  stretched  and  shrouded  up  in  the 
gi-ave  than  know  them  to  be  guilty  of  such  a 
base  and  deliberate  violation  of  all  the  sacred 
princiijles  of  truth  as  this." 

"  You  \\t11  expose  me  then,  and  disgrace 
me  forever  with  this  cursed  conscientious  old 
blockhead?  I  teU.  you  that  he  doubts  my 
assertion  as  touching  your  consent,  and  is 
coming  to  hear  the  truth  from  yoiu-  own 
hps.  i5ut  heaiken,  girl,  betray  me  to  him, 
and  by  heavens  you  know  not  the  extent  to 
which  my  vengeance  wUl  carry  me." 

He  rose  up,  and  glared  at  her  in  a  manner 
that  made  her  apprehensive  for  her  personal 
safety. 

"Father,"  said  she,  gi-o%\-ing  pale,  for  the 
dialogue,  brief  as  it  was,  had  brought  the 
color  into  her  cheeks,  "  will  you  permit  me 
to  withdraw  ?  I  am  quite  unequal  to  these 
contests  of  temper  and  opinion  ;  permit  me, 
sir,  to  withdraw.  I  have  already  told  you, 
that  p)rovided  you  do  not  attempt  to  force 
me  into  a  marriage  contrary  to  my  wishes  I 
shaU  never  marry  contrary  to  yours." 

The  baronet  swore  a  deep  and  blasphe- 
mous oath  that  he  would  enter  into  no  such 
stipulation.  The  thing,  he  said,  was  an  eva- 
sion, an  act  of  moral  fraud  and  deceit  ujion 
her  iDart,  and  she  should  not  escape  fi-om 
him. 

"You  vidsh  to  gain  time,  madam,  to  work 
out  your  own  treacherous  j^urposes,  and  to 
defeat  my  intentions  -with  respect  to  you  ; 
but  it  shall  not  be.  You  must  see  Lord 
Cullamore  ;  you  must  corroborate  my  asser- 
tions to  him  ;  you  must  save  me  fi-om  shame 
imd  dishonor  or  di'ead  the  consequences.     A 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


37r. 


palti-y  sacrifice,  indee.l,  to  tell  a  fib  to  a 
doting  old  peer,  who  tliiuks  uo  one  in  the 
world  honest  or  honorable  but  himself  !  " 

"  Think  of  the  danger  of  what  you  ask," 
siie  replied  ;  "  think  of  the  deep  iniquity — 
the  horrible  guilt,  and  the  infamy  of  the 
crime  into  which  you  wisli  to  plunge  me. 
Reflect  that  you  are  breakmg  down  the  re- 
straints of  honor  and  conscience  in  my  heart ; 
that  you  are  defiling  mj^  soul  with  falsehood  ; 
and  that  if  I  yield  to  you  in  this,  every  sub- 
sequent temptation  will  beset  me  with  more 
success,  until  my  faith,  truth,  honor,  integ- 
rity, are  gone  forever — until  I  shall  be  lost. 
Is  there  uo  sense  of  rehgion,  father?  Is 
there  no  future  life  ?  Is  there  no  God — no 
judgment  ?  Father,  in  asking  me  to  abet 
your  falsehood,  and  sustain  you  in  your  de- 
ceit, you  transgress  the  hmits  of  parental 
authority,  and  the  first  principles  of  natural 
aflection.  You  pervert  them,  you  abuse 
them  ;  and,  I  must  say,  once  and  for  all,  that 
be  the  weight  of  your  vengeance  what  it  may, 
I  prefer  bearing  it  to  enduring  the  weight  of 
a  guUty  conscience." 

The  baronet  rose,  and  rushing  at  her, 
raised  his  open  hand  and  struck  her  rather 
severely  on  the  side  of  the  head.  She  felt, 
as  it  were,  stunned  for  a  little,  but  at  length 
she  rose  up,  and  said  :  "  Father,  this  is  the 
insanity  of  a  bad  ambition,  or  perhaps  of 
affection,  and  you  know  not  what  you  have 
done."  She  then  approached  him,  and 
thi'owing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  exclaim- 
ed :  "  Papa,  kiss  me  ;  and  I  shall  never  think 
of  it,  nor  allude  to  it ;"  as  she  spoke  the 
tears  fell  in  showers  from  her  eyes. 

"  No,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  I  repulse  you  ; 
I  throw  you  off  fi'om  me  now  and  forever." 

"  Be  calm,  jsapa  ;  comjjose  yourself,  my 
dear  papa.  I  shall  not  see  Lord  Cullamore  ; 
it  would  be  now  impossible  ;  I  covild  not  sus- 
tain an  interview  with  him.  You,  conse- 
quently, can  have  nothing  to  fear  ;  you  can 
say  I  am  ill,  and  that  will  be  truth  indeed." 

"  I  shall  never  relax  one  moment,"  he  re- 
plied, "  untd  I  either  subdue  you,  or  break 
your  obstinate  heart.  Come,  madam,"  said 
he,  "  I  will  conduct  you  to  your  apartment  " 

She  submissively  23receded  him,  until  he 
committed  her  once  more  to  the  surveillance 
of  the  maid  whom  he  had  engaged  and 
bribed  to  be  her  sentinel. 

It  is  unnecessai'v  to  say  that  the  visit  of 
tlie  honorable  old  nobleman  ended  in  noth- 
ing. Lucy  was  not  in  a  condition  to  see 
him  ;  and  as  her  father  at  all  risks  reiterated 
his  assertions  as  to  her  fi'ee  and  hearty  con- 
sent to  the  match,  Lord  Cullamore  went 
away,  now  perfectly  satisfied  that  if  his  son 
had  any  chance  of  l)eing  reclaimed  by  the 
influence  of  a  virtuous  wife,  it  must  be  bv 


his  union  with  Lucy.  The  noble  qualities 
and  amiable  disposition  of  this  excellent 
young  lady  were  so  well  known  that  only 
one  opinion  prevailed  with  respect  to  her 
Some  wondered,  indeed,  how  such  a  man 
could  be  father  to  such  a  daughter  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  virtues  of  the  mothsif 
were  remembered,  and  the  wonder  Avas  on:/ 
no  longer. 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

Tlie   Slranger's   Second  Vinit   to  Fnthn-  MMalion 
— Siimething  like  an  lilopement. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  the  stran- 
ger desired  Paudeen  Gaiv  to  take  a  place  for 
him  in  the  "  Fly,"  which  was  to  return  to 
Dublin  on  that  night.  He  had  been  fur- 
nished with  a  letter  from  Father  J\I'iIahon.  to 
whom  he  had,  in  Mr.  Birney's,  fully  dis- 
closed his  name  and  objects.  He  felt  anx- 
ious, however,  to  engage  some  trustworthy 
servant  or  attendant,  on  whose  integrity  he 
could  fuUy  relv,  knowing,  or  at  least  appre- 
hending, that  he  might  be  placed  in  circum- 
stances where  he  could  not  himself  act  open- 
ly and  freely  without  incurring  suspicion  or 
obsei-vation.  Paudeen,  however,  or,  as  we 
shall  call  him  in  future,  Pat  Sharjje,  had 
promised  to  procure  a  person  of  the  strictest 
honesty,  in  whom  every  confidence  could  he- 
l^laced.  This  man's  name,  or  rather  hi  ^ 
nickname,  was  Dandy  Dulcimer,  an  ejjithe" 
bestowed  upon  him  in  consequence  of  the 
easy  and  strolling  life  he  led,  supportin;r 
himself,  as  he  passed  from  place  to  place,  by 
his  performances  upon  that  simjjle  bu! 
jjleasing  instrument. 

"Pat,"  said  the  stranger  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  "have  you  succeeded  in  pro- 
curing me  this  cousin  of  yours?"  for  in  that 
relation  he  stood  to  Pat. 

"I  expect  him  here  every  minute,  sir," 
replied  Pat ;  "  and  there's  one  thing  I'll  lay 
down  my  life  on — you  may  trust  him  as  you 
would  any  one  of  the  twelve  apostles — bar- 
rmg  that  blackguard  Judas.  Take  St. 
Pether,  or  St.  Paul,  or  any  of  the  dacent 
ajjostles,  and  the  divil  a  one  of  them  hon- 
ester  than  Dandy.  Not  that  he's  a  saint 
like  them  either,  or  much  overburdened 
with  religion,  poor  fellow  ;  as  for  honesty 
and  truth — divil  a  greater  liar  ever  walked 
in  the  mane  time  ;  but,  by  truth,  I  mano 
truth  to  you,  and  to  any  one  that  employ  : 
him — augh,  by  my  soul,  he's  the  flower  of  a 
boy." 

"  He  won't  bring  his  dulcimer  with  hir.i, 
I  hope." 


370 


WILLlAIf  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  ^Vou't  he,  indeed  '?  Be  me  sowl,  sir,  you 
might  as  well  separate  sowl  and  body,  as 
take  Dandy  from  his  dulcimer.  Like  the 
iv/o  sides  of  a  scissors,  the  one's  of  no  use 
widout  the  other.  They  must  go  together, 
or  Dandy  could  never  cut  his  way  thi'ough 
the  Tvorld  by  any  chance.  Hello  !  here  he 
is.     I  hear  his  voice  in  the  hall  below." 

"  Bring  him  ujj,  Pat,"  said  the  stranger  ; 
•'  I  must  see  and  speak  to  him  ;  because  if  I 
feel  that  he  won't  suit  me,  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him." 

Dandy  immediately  entered,  with  his  dul- 
cimer slung  like  a  peddler's  bos  at  his  side, 
and  \Nitli  a  comic  movement  of  respect, 
which  no  presence  or  position  coidd  check, 
he  made  a  bow  to  the  stranger,  that  forced 
liim  to  smile  in  spite  of  himself. 

"You  seem  a  droll  fellow," said  the  stran- 
ger.    "  Ai-e  you  fond  of  tiiith  ?  " 

"Hem!  Why,  yes,  sir.  I  spare  it  as 
much  as  I  can.  I  don't  treat  it  as  an  every- 
day concern.  We  had  a  neighbor  once,  a 
widow  M'Cormick,  who  was  rather  penuri- 
ous, and  whenever  she  saw  her  servants  but- 
tering their  bread  too  thickly,  she  used  to 
wlxisper  to  them  in  a  confidential  way, 
'  A-hagur,  the  thinner  you  sjDread  it  the 
further  it  will  go.'  Hem  !  However,  I  must 
confess  that  once  or  twice  a  year  I  draw  on 
it  by  way  of  novelty,  that  is,  on  set  days  or 
bonfire  nights  ;  and  I  hojDe,  su",  you'U  admit 
that  that's  treating  it  with  respect." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  turn  musician  ?  " 
asked  the  other. 

"  Why,  sir,  I  was  alwixys  fond  of  a  jingle  ; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  would  rather 
have  the  same  jingle  in  my  jjurse  than  in 
)ny  instrument.  Divil  such  an  unmusical 
purse  ever  a  man  was  cursed  with  than  I 
liive  been  doomed  to  cai-ry  during  my  whole 
life." 

"  Then  it  was  a  natural  love  of  music  that 
sent  you  abroad  as  a  performer  ?  " 

"  Partly  only,  sir ;  for  there  were  three 
causes  went  to  it.  There  is  a  certain  man 
named  Dandy  Dulcimer,  that  I  had  a  very 
loving  regard  for,  and  I  thought  it  against 
his  aise  and  comfort  to  ask  him  to  strain  his 
poor  bones  by  hard  work.  I  accordingly 
substituted  pure  idleness  for  it,  which  is  a 
delightful  thing  in  its  way.  There,  sir,  is 
two  of  the  causes — love  of  melody  and  a 
strong  but  virtuous  disinclination  to  work. 

The  third "  but  here  he  paused  and  his 

face  darkened. 

"Well,"  inquired  the  stranger,  "  the  third? 
What  about  tlie  third?" 

Dandy  significantly  pointed  back  with  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder,  in  the  direction  of 
lied  Hall.  "It  was  hrmr  he  said;  "the 
Black  Bai'onet — or  rather  the  incarnate  divil." 


"That's  tmth,  at  all  events," observed Pal^ 
corroborating  the  incomplete  assertion. 

"  It  was  he,  sir,"  continued  Dandy,  "  that 
thrust  us  out  of  our  comfortable  farm — he 
best  knows  why  and  wherefore — and  like  a 
true  fi-iend  of  liberty,  he  set  us  at  large  from 
oui-  comfortable  place,  to  enjoy  it." 

"Well,"  repilied  the  stranger,  "if  that  be 
true  it  was  hard  ;  but  you  know  every  story 
has  two  sides  ;  or,  as  the  proverb  goes,  one 
story  is  well  until  the  other  is  told.  Let  us 
dismiss  this.  If  I  engage  you  to  attend  me, 
can  you  be  faithfid,  honest,  and  cautious?  " 

"To  an  honest  man,  sir,  I  can  ;  but  to  no 
other.  I  gi'ant  I  have  acted  the  knave  very 
often,  but  it  was  always  in  self-defence,  and 
toward  far  greater  knaves  than  myself.  An 
honest  man  did  once  ax  me  to  sei-ve  him 
in  an  honest  way ;  but  as  I  was  then  in  a 
roguish  state  of  mind  I  tould  him  I  couldn't 
conscientiouslj'  do  it." 

"  If  you  were  intrusted  with  a  secret,  for 
instance,  could  j-ou  undertake  to  keep  it?  " 

"  I  was  several  times  in  Dublin,  sii',  and  I 
saw  over  the  door  of  some  public  office  a 
big,  brazen  fellow,  with  the  world  on  his 
back  ;  and  you  know  that  fi'om  what  he 
seemed  to  suft'er  I  thought  he  looked  veiy 
like  a  man  that  was  keejDing  a  secret.  To 
tell  God's  truth,  sir,  I  never  like  a  burden  of 
any  kind  ;  and  whenever  I  can  get  a  man 
I  that  will  carry  a  share  of  it,  I " 

"  Tut !  your  honor,  never  mind  him,"  said 

:  Pat.      "  Wbat  the  deuce  are  you  at.  Dandy  ? 

j  Do  you  want  to  prevent  the  gintleman  fi'om 

engagin'  you  ?     Never  mind  him,  sir  ;  he's  as 

honest  as  the  sun." 

"  It  matters  not,  Pat,"  said  the  stranger; 

I  "  I  like  him.    Are  you  willing  to  take  service 

with  me  for  a  short  time,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  get  any  one  to  give  you  a 
caracther,  sir,  jjerhaps  I  might,"  replied 
Dandy. 

"  How,  siiTah !  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  said 
the  stranger. 

"  ^^^ly,  su-,  that  we  humble  folks  haven't 
all  the  dishonesty  to  ourselves.  I  think  our 
superiors  come  in  now  and  then  for  the 
Hon's  share  of  it.  There,  now,  is  the  Black 
Baronet." 

"  But  you  are  not  entering  the  service  of 
the  Black  Baronet." 

"  No  ;  but  the  ould  scoundrel  struck  his 
daughter  to-day,  because  she  wouldn't  con- 
sent to  marry  that  young  proliigate,  Loiii 
Dunroe  ;  and  has  her  locked  up  besides." 

The  stranger  had  been  standing  with  his 
Imck  to  the  tire,  when  the  Dandy  mentioned 
these  revolting  circumstances  ;  tor  the  ti-uth 
was,  that  Lucy's  maid  had  taken  upon  her 
the  office  of  that  female  virtue  called  curiosi- 
ty, and  by  the  aid  of  her  eye,  her  ear,  and 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


377 


an  open  tey-liole  was  able  to  commimicate 
to  one  01-  two  of  the  otlier  sen'ants,  iu  the 
strictest  confidence  of  course,  all  that  had  oc- 
cuiTed  during  the  inteiTiew  between  father 
ftud  daughter.  Now  it  so  hajipened,  that 
Dandy,  who  had  been  more  than  once,  in 
the  course  of  his  visits,  to  the  kitchen,  prom- 
ised, as  he  said,  to  mi'tamurphy  one  of  them 
into  jMrs.  Dulcimer,  alias  Murphy — that  be- 
ing his  real  name — was  accidentally  in  the 
kitchen  while  the  dialogue  lasted,  and  for 
some  time  afterwards  ;  and  as  the  esjaectant 
Mrs.  Dulcimer  was  one  of  the  first  to  whom 
the  secret  was  solemnly  confided,  we  need 
scarcely  say  that  it  was  instantly  transferred 
to  Dandj's  keej^ing,  who  mentioned  it  more 
from  honest  indignation  than  fi-om  any  oth- 
er motive. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  com- 
bination of  feehngs  that  might  be  read  in  the 
stranger's  fine  features — distress,  anger,  com- 
passion, love,  and  sorrow,  aU  straggled  for 
mastery.  He  sat  down,  and  there  was  an 
instant  pause  in  the  conversation  ;  for  both 
Dandy  and  his  relative  felt  that  he  was  not 
sufficiently  collected  to  proceed  with  it. 
They  consequently,  after  glancing  with  siu"- 
prise  at  each  other,  remained  sUent,  until 
the  sti'anger  should  resume  it.  At  length, 
after  a  struggle  that  was  evidently  a  severe 
one,  he  said, 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,  no  more  of  this 
buffoonery.  Will  you  take  sei-vice  with  me 
for  three  months,  since  I  am  ^vilhng  to  accept 
you  ?   Ay  or  no  ?  "         , 

"  As  wUling  as  the  flowers  of  May,  youi- 
honor  ;  and  I  ti-ust  you  ^^^ll  never  have  cause 
to  find  fault  with  me,  so  far  as  truth,  honesty, 
and  discretion  goes.  I  can  see  a  thing  and 
not  see  it.  I  can  hear  a  thing  and  not  hear 
it.  I  can  do  a  thing  and  not  do  it — but  it 
must  be  honest.  In  short,  sir,  if  you  have 
no  objection,  I'm  your  man.  I  like  your 
face,  sir  ;  there's  something  honorable  and 
manly  in  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  vrish  to  name  the 
amount  of  the  wages  you  expect.  If  so, 
speak." 

"  Di\Tl  a  wage  or  wages  111  name,  sir  ; 
that's  a  matter  I'll  lave  to  your  own  gen- 
erosity." 

"  Yeiy  well,  then  ;  I  start  by  the  '  Fly  '  to- 
night, and  you,  observe,  are  to  accompanj' 
me.  The  trunk  which  I  shall  bring  with  me 
is  ah-eady  packed,  so  that  you  wiU  have  very 
little  trouble." 

Dandy  iuid  his  relative  both  left  him,  and 
he,  with  a  view  of  allajing  the  agitation 
which  he  felt,  walked  toward  the  residence 
of  Father  M'Mahon.  who  had  promised,  if  he 
could,  to  fiu-ui.sh  him  ■nith  further  instruc- 
tions ere  he  should  start  for  the  metropolis. 


After  they  had  left  the  room,  our  fiieud 
Crackenfudge  peejjed  out  of  the  back  apart- 
ment, in  order  to  satisfy'  himself  that  the 
coast  was  clear ;  and  after  stretching  hi? 
neck  over  the  staii-s  to  ascertain  that  there 
was  no  one  in  the  hall,  he  tripped  down  as 
if  he  were  treatling  on  razors,  and  with 
a  face  brimful  of  importance  made  his  es- 
cajje  from  the  inn,  for,  in  truth,  the  mode 
of  his  disaijpeai'ing  could  be  termed  Uttle 
else. 

Now,  in  the  days  of  which  we  write,  it  so 
hapi^ened  that  there  was  a  vast  p)ortion  of 
bitter  rivalry  between  mail  coaches  and  theii- 
proprietors.  At  this  time  an  opijosition 
coach,  called  "  the  Flash  of  Lightning  " — to 
denominate,  we  presume,  the  s^seed  at  which 
it  went — ran  against  the  "Fly,"  to  the  mani- 
fest, and  fi-equently  to  the  actual,  danger  of 
the  then  reigning  monarch's  liege  and  loj-al 
subjects.  To  the  office  of  this  coach,  then, 
did  Crackenfudge  repair,  with  an  honorable 
intention  of  watching  the  motions  of  our 
friend  the  stranger,  prompted  thereto  by  two 
motives — tu'st,  a  cuiiosity  that  was  naturally 
prurient  and  mean  ;  secondly,  by  an  anxious 
wish  to  serve  Sir  Thomas  Gom-lay,  and,  if 
possible,  to  involve  himself  in  his  afiau-s, 
thus  rendeiing  his  interest  touching  the 
great  object  of  his  ambition — the  magistracy 
— a  matter  not  to  be  withheld.  He  instantly 
took  his  seat  for  Dublin — an  inside  seat — in 
order  to  conceal  himself  as  much  as  jjossible 
from  observation.  Having  ai-ranged  this  af- 
fair, he  rode  home  in  high  spirits,  and  made 
prejjarations  for  starting,  in  due  time,  by 
"  the  Flash  of  Lightning." 

The  stranger,  on  his  way  to  Father  M'Ma- 
hon's,  called  upon  his  fiiend  Bimey,  with 
whom  he  had  a  long  confidential  conversa- 
tion. They  had  ah'eady  determined,  if  the 
unfortunate  heir  of  Red  HaU  could  be  trac- 
ed, and  if  his  disappearance  could  be  brought 
home  to  the  baronet,  to  take  such  pubhc  or 
rather  legal  proceedings  as  they  might  be 
advised  to  bj'  competent  professional  adrice. 
Our  readers  may  already  guess,  however, 
that  the  stranger  was  iufiueueed  by  motives 
sufficiently  strong  and  decisive  to  prevent 
him,  above  all  men,  firora  ajjpeai-ing,  publicly 
or  at  all,  in  any  proceedings  that  might  be 
taken  against  the  baronet. 

On  arriring  at  Father  M'Mahon's,  he  found 
that  excellent  man  at  home  ;  and  it  was 
upon  this  occasion  that  he  observed  with 
more  attention  than  before  the  extraordinary 
neatness  of  his  dwelHug-house  and  premises. 
The  cleanliness,  the  order,  the  whiteness, 
the  striking  taste  disjjlayed,  the  variety  of 
culinai-y  utensils,  not  in  themselves  expensive, 
but  arranged  with  siuiarising  regulaiity,  con- 
stituting a  little  paradise  of  convenience  and 


378 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


comfort,  were  all  pprfectlj  deliglitful  to  con- 
template. The  hall-door  was  open,  and  when 
the  atrancjer  entered,  he  found  no  one  in  the 
kitchen,  for  it  is  necessary  to  say  here  that, 
in  this  neat  but  unassuming  abode  of  benev- 
olence and  goodness,  that  which  we  have 
termed  the  hall-door  led,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  the  beautiful  little  kitchen  we  have  just 
described.  The  stranger,  haraig  heard  voices 
in  conversation  with  the  priest,  resolved  to 
wait  a  Uttle  until  his  visitors  should  leave  him, 
as  he  felt  reluctant  to  intrude  uj)on  him 
while  engaged  \vith  his  jjarishioners.  He 
could  not  prevent  himself,  however,  fi'om 
overhearing  the  following  portion  of  their 
conversation. 

"And  it  was  yesterday  he  put  in  the  dis- 
traint ?  " 

"It  was,  your  reverence." 

"  Oh,  the  dirty  Turk  ;  not  a  landlord  at 
all  is  half  so  hard  to  ourselves  as  those  of 
om-  own  rehgiou  :  they'U  show  some  lenity 
to  a  Protestant,  and  I  don't  bl.ime  them  for 
that,  but  they  trample  those  belonging  to 
their  own  creed  under  theii-  inhuman  hoofs." 

"  How  much  is  it,  Nogher  ?  " 

"Only  nine  pounds,  your  reverence." 

"  Well,  then,  bring  me  a  stamp  in  the 
course  of  the  daj',  and  I'll  pass  mj'  bUl  to 
him  for  the  amoimt."'  | 

"  Troth,  sir,  wid  great  respect,  your  rev-  ' 
erence  will  do  no  such  thing.  However  I  ^ 
may  get  it  settled,  I  won't  lug  you  in  by  the  • 
head  and  shoulders.  You  have  done  more  [ 
of  that  kind  of  work  than  you  could  atford. 
No,  sir  ;  but  if  you  will  seud  Father  James 
up  to  my  j)oor  wife  and  daughter  that's  so  : 
ill  with  this  faver — that's  all  I  want."  I 

"  To  be  sure  he'U  go,  or  rather  I'll  go  my-  { 
self,  for  he  won't  be  home  till  after  station.  I 
Did  this  middleman  landlord  of  yoiu's  know  [ 
that  there  was  fever  in  your  family  when  he  [ 
sent  in  the  bailiffs  ?  "  \ 

"  To  do  him  justice,  sir,  he  did  not ;  but 
he  knows  it  since  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  yet  he  won't  take  them  off  unless  he  j 
gets  either  the  rent  or  security."  | 

"  Indeed,  and  the  hard-hearted  Turk  wQl 
have  the  security  ; — whis]>er, — call  down  to- 
morrow with  a  stamp,  and  I'll  jjut  my  name  ! 
on  it ;  and  let  these  men,  these  keepers,  go 
about  their  business.  My  goodness !  to 
think  of  having  two  strange  fellows  night 
and  day  in  a  sick  and  troubled  family  !  Oh, 
dear  me  !  one  half  the  world  doesn't  know 
how  the  other  lives.  If  many  of  the  rich 
and  wealthy,  IMichael,  could  witness  the 
scenes  that  I  wtness,  tlie  siglit  might  prob- 
ably soften  their  hearts.  Is  this  boy  your 
8on,  Nogher  ?  " 

"He  is,  sir." 

"  I  hope  you  are  gi"ring  him  a  good  edu- 


cation ;  and  I  hope,  besides,  that  he  ia  fl 
good  boy.  Do  you  attend  to  your  duty  re- 
gul;u-ly,  my  good  lad '? " 

"  I  do,  plaise  your  reverence."  j 

"  And  obey  your  p'U'ents  ?  " 

"  I  hoi^e  so,  sir." 

"  Indeed,"  said  his  father,  '•'  poor  Mick 
doesn't  lave  us  much  to  complain  of  in  that 
resj)ect ;  he's  a  very  good  boy  in  general, 
youi'  reverence." 

"  God  bless  you.  my  child, "  said  the 
priest,  solemnh',  jjlacing  his  hand  upon  the 
boy's  head,  who  was  sitting,  "  and  guide 
your  feet  in  the  jiaths  of  religion  and  vir- 
tue !  " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  poor  affectionate 
lad,  bursting  into  tears,  "  I  wish  you  would 
come  to  my  mother !  she  is  very  iU,  and  so 
is  my  sister." 

"  I  will  go,  my  child,  in  half-an-hour.  I 
see  you  are  a  good  youth,  and  full  of  affec- 
tion ;  I  will  go  almost  immediately.  Here, 
Mat  Pail_y,"  he  shouted,  raising  the  parlor 
window,  on  seeing  that  neat  bo_y  pass  ; — 
"  here,  you  colossus — you  gigantic  prototype 
of  grace  and  beauty  ; — I  say,  go  and  saddle 
Freney  the  Robber  immediately  ;  I  must 
attend  a  sick  call  without  delay,  ^"hat  do 
you  stare  and  gajje  for  ?  shut  that  fathozn- 
less  cleft  in  your  face,  and  be  off.  Now, 
Nogher,"  he  said,  once  more  addressing  the 
man,  "slip  down  to-morrow  with  the  stamp; 
or,  stay,  why  should  these  fellows  be  there 
two  hours,  and  the  house  and  the  family  as 
the}'  are  ?  Sit  do^Mi  here  for  a  few  miuutes. 
I'U  go  home  with  you  ;  we  can  get  the  stamp 
in  Ballytrain,  on  our  way, — ay,  and  draw  up 
the  bill  there  too  ; — indeed  we  can  and  we 
will  too  ;  so  not  a  syllable  against  it.  You 
know  I  must  have  my  will,  and  that  I'm  a 
raging  lion  when  opposed." 

"  God  bless  your  reverence,"  replied  the 
man,  moved  almost  to  tears  by  his  goodness  ; 
"  many  an  act  of  the  kind  your  poor  and 
struggling  parishioners  has  to  thank  yuu 
for." 

On  looking  into  the  kitchen,  for  the  par- 
lor door  was  open,  he  espied  the  stranger, 
whom  he  approached  with  evei'v  mark  of  the 
most  profound  respect,  but  still  with  perfect 
ease  and  independence. 

After  the  iii'st  salutations  were  over — 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  priest,  "  do  you  hold 
to  your  purpose  of  going  to  Dublin  V  " 

"I  go  this  night,"  rejilied  the  other; 
"  and,  except  through  the  old  man  to  whom 
you  are  so  kind  iis  to  give  me  the  letter,  I 
must  confess  1  have  but  slight  expectations 
of  success.  Unless  we  secure  this  unfortu- 
nate young  man,  that  is,  always  sujji^josing 
that  he  is  alive,  and  are  able  clearly  and 
without  Cjuestion  to  identifj-  his  person,  aK 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


379 


we  may  do  must  be  iii  vaiu,  and  tlie  baronet 
is  firm  in  both  title  and  estates." 

"That  is  evident,"  rephed  the  priest. 
"  Could  you  find  the  heir  aUve,  and  ideutify 
his  person,  of  coiu'se  your  battle  is  won. 
Well ;  if  there  be  anything  like  a  thread  to 
guide  you  tlu'ough  the  dilMculties  of  this 
liibjTinth,  I  have  placed  it  in  your  hands." 

"  I  am  sensible  of  your  good  wishes,  sir, 
and  I  thank  j'ou  very  much  for  the  interest 
you  have  so  kindly  taken  in  the  matter.  By 
the  way,  I  engaged  a  servant  to  accompany 
me — one  Dulcimer,  D.mdy  Dulcimer  ;  pray, 
what  kind  of  moral  character  does  he  bear  '? " 

"  Dandy  Dulcimer  !  "  exclaimed  the  firiest ; 
"  why,  the  thief  of  the  world  !  is  it  possible 
you  have  engaged  him  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  is  he  not  honest '?  "  asked  the 
other,  with  siu-prise. 

"  Honest !  "  rejjlied  the  priest ;  "  the  vaga- 
bond's as  honest  a  vagabond  as  ever  hved. 
You  may  trust  him  in  anything  and  every- 
thing. When  I  call  him  a  vagabond,  I  only 
mean  it  in  a  kind  and  familiar  sense  ;  and, 
by  the  way,  I  must  give  you  an  exi^lanation 
ujjon  the  subject  of  my  jiony.  You  must 
have  heard  me  call  him  '  Freney  the  Rob- 
ber '  a  few  minutes  ago.  Now,  not  another 
sense  did  I  give  him  that  name  in  but  in  an 
ironical  one,  just  like  hicu.t  a  non  liwendo, 
or,  in  other  words,  because  the  poor  creature 
is  strictly  honest  and  well  tempei-ed.  And, 
indeed,  there  are  some  animals  much  more 
moral  in  their  disposition  than  others. 
Home  are  kind,  affectionate,  benevolent,  and 
grateful  ;  and  some,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
thieving  robbers  and  murderers.  No,  sir,  I 
admit  that  I  was  wrong,  and,  so  to  speak,  I 
owe  Freney  an  apology  for  ha\ing  given 
him  a  bad  name  ;  but  then  again  I  have 
made  it  up  to  him  in  other  respects.  Now, 
you'll  scarcely  believe  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you,  although  you  may,  for  not  a  word 
of  lie  in  it.  When  Freney  sometimes  is 
turned  out  into  my  fields,  he  never  breaks 
boimds,  nor  covets,  so  to  speak,  his  neigh- 
bor's jjroperty,  but  confines  himself  strictly 
and  honestly  to  his  own  ;  and  I  can  tell  you  it's 
not  every  horse  would  do  that,  or  man  either. 
He  knows  my  voice,  too,  and,  what  is  more, 
my  veiy  foot,  for  he  will  whinny  when  he 
hears  it,  and  before  he  sees  me  at  all." 

"  Praj',"  said  the  stranger,  exceedingly 
amused  at  this  narrative,  "  how  does  your 
huge  servant  get  on  '?  " 

"  Is  it  MatRuly? — why,  sir,  the  p)oor  boy's 
as  kind-hearted  and  benevolent,  and  has  as 
sharp  an  appetite  as  ever.  He  told  me  that 
he  cried  yesterday  when  bringing  a  little 
asjistanee  to  a  poor  family  in  the  neighbor- 
liood.  But,  touching  this  matter  on  which 
you  are  engaged,  will  you  be  good  enough 


to  write  to  me  from  time  to  time  ?  for  I  shal) 
feel  anxious  to  hear  how  you  get  on." 

The  stranger  promised  to  do  so,  and  aftei 
having  received  two  letters  fi-om  him  thei/ 
shook  hands  and  separated. 

We  have  stated  before  that  Dandy  Dul- 
cimer had  a  sweetheart  in  the  service  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay.  Soon  after  the  intei-\-iew 
between  the  stranger  and  Dandy,  and  whUo 
the  former  had  gone  to  get  the  letters  from 
Father  M'Mahon,  this  same  sweetheart,  by 
name  Alley  Mahon,  came  to  have  a  word  or 
two  with  Paudeen  Gair,  or  Pat  Sharpe. 
When  Paudeen  saw  her,  he  imjjuted  the 
cause  of  her  visit  to  something  connected 
w'itli  Dandy  Dulcimer,  his  cousin ;  for,  as 
the  latter  had  disclosed  to  him  the  revelation 
which  Alley  had  made,  he  took  it  for  granted 
that  the  Dandy  had  communicated  to  her 
the  fact  of  his  being  about  to  accept  service 
with  the  stranger  at  the  inn,  and  to  proceed 
with  him  to  Dubhn.  And  such,  indeed, 
was  the  actual  truth.  Paudeen  had,  on  be- 
half of  Dandy,  all  but  arranged  the  matter 
with  the  stranger  a  couple  of  days  before, 
Dandy  being  a  consenting  i^arty,  so  that 
notliing  was  wanting  but  an  interview  be- 
tween the  latter  and  the  stranger,  in  order 
to  complete  the  negotiation. 

"Pat,"  said  AUej',  after  he  had  brought 
her  up  to  a  Uttle  back-room  on  the  second 
story,  "  I  know  that  your  familj-  ever  and 
always  has  been  an  honest  family,  and  that 
a  stain  of  thraiehery  or  disgrace  was  never 
\\\)0\\  one  of  their  name." 

"Thank  God,  and  you.  Alley ;  I  am  proud 
to  know  that  what  you  say  is  right  and 
true." 

"  Well,  then,"  she  replied,  "  it  is,  and 
every  one  knows  it.  Now,  then,  can  you 
keep  a  secret,  for  the  sake  of  truth  and  con- 
science, ay,  and  religion  ;  and  if  all  will  not 
do,  for  the  sake  of  her  that  paid  back  to 
your  family,  out  of  her  own  jn-ivate  purse, 
what  her  father  robbed  them  of?  " 

"By  all  that's  lovely,"  rephed  Pat,  "if 
there's  a  livin'  bein'  I'd  sacrifice  my  life  for, 
it's  her." 

"Listen  ;  I  want  you  to  secure 'two  seats 
in  the  'Fly,'  for  this  night ;  inside  seats,  or 
if  vou  can't  get  iusides,  then  outsides  wiU 
do.'" 

"  Stop  where  you  are,"  replied  Pat,  about 
to  start  downstairs  ;  "  the  thing  wUl  be 
done  in  five  minutes." 

"Are  you  mad,  Pat?"  said  she;  "take 
the  money  with  you  before  you  go." 

"  Begad,"  said  Pat,  "  my  heart  was  m  my 
mouth — here,  let  us  have  it.  And  so  the 
darling  young  lady  is  forced  to  fly  from  the 
tyrant  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Pat,"  said  Alice,  solemnly,  "  for  the 


380 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WOliKS. 


sake  of  the  living'  God,  don't  breathe  tliat 
you  kuow  anything  about  it ;  we  "re  lost  if 
you  do." 

"If  Dandy  was  here,  AUey,"  he  rephed, 
''■  I'd  make  him  swear  it  upon  your  hps  ;  but, 
liand  us  the  money,  for  there's  httle  time  to 
be  lost ;  I  hojie  all  the  seats  ai-n't  taken." 

He  was  just  in  time,  however  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  returned,  having  secured  for 
two  the  only  inside  seats  that  were  left  un- 
taken  at  the  moment,  although  there  were 
many  claimants  for  them  in  a  few  mmutes 
afterwards. 

"  Now,  Alley,"  said  he,  after  he  had  re- 
turned fi'om  the  coach-office,  which,  by  the 
waj',  was  connected  with  the  inn,  "what 
does  all  this  mane  ?  I  think  I  could  guess 
something  about  it.     A  runaway,  eh  '? " 

"  WTiat  do  you  mean  by  a  runaway  ?  "  she 
repUed ;  "of  course  she  is  running  away 
from  her  brute  of  a  father,  and  I  am  goin' 
with  her." 

"  But  isn't  she  goin'  wid  somebody  else  ?  " 
he  inquired. 

"No,"  repUed  Alley  ;  "I  know  where  she 
is  goin' ;  but  she  is  goin'  wid  nobody  but 
myself." 

"Ah,  Alley,"  rejjHed  Pat,  shrewdly,  "I 
see  she  has  kejit  you  in  the  dark  ;  but  I 
don't  blame  her.  Only,  if  you  can  keep  a 
secret,  so  can  I." 

"Pat,"  said  she,  "desire  the  coachman  to 
stop  at  the  white  gate,  where  two  faymales 
wUl  be  waitin'  for  it,  and  let  the  guard  come 
down  and  open  the  door  for  us  ;  so  that  we 
won't  have  occasion  to  sjJiike.  It's  aisy  to 
know  one's  voice,  Pat." 

"I'll  manage  it  all,"  said  Pat;  "make 
your  mind  aisy — and  what  is  more,  I'll  not 
breathe  a  syllable  to  mortual  man,  woman, 
or  child  about  it.  That  would  be  an  mi- 
gi'ateful  return  for  her  kindness  to  our 
family.  May  God  bless  her,  and  grant  her 
happiness,  and  that's  the  worst  I  wish  her." 

The  baronet,  in  the  course  of  that  evening, 
was  sitting  in  his  dining-room  alone,  a  bot- 
tle of  Madeira  before  him,  for  indeed  it  is 
necessai-y  to  say,  that  although  unsocial  and 
inhosi^itable,  he  nevertheless  indulged  pretty 
fi'eely  in  ■nine.  He  apijeared  moodj-,  and 
guljjed  down  the  Madeira  as  a  man  who 
wished  either  to  sustain  his  mind  against 
care,  or  absolutely  to  drown  memory,  and 
probably  the  force  of  conscience.  At  length, 
wth  a  flushed  face,  and  a  voice  made  more 
deep  and  stern  by  his  jjotations,  and  the 
reilections  they  excited,  he  rang  the  beU,  and 
in  a  moment  the  butler  appeared. 

"  Is  Gillespie  in  the  house,  Gibson  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Send  him  up." 

Li  a  few  minutes  Gillespie  entered  ;  and 


indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to  see  a  more 
ferocious-looking  niffian  than  this  scoundrel 
who  was  groom  to  tlie  baronet.  Fame,  or 
scandal,  or  truth,  as  the  case  may  be,  had 
settled  tlie  relations  between  Sir  Thomas  and 
him,  not  merely  as  those  of  master  and  ser 
vaut,  but  as  those  of  father  and  son.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  however,  the  similarity  of  iigure 
and  feature  was  so  extraordinary,  that  the 
inference  could  be  considered  by  no  means 
surprising. 

"Tom,"  said  the  baronet,  "I  suj^pose 
there  is  a  Bible  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  su',"  rejjhed  the  ruffian.  "I 
never  saw  any  one  in  use.  O,  yes.  Miss 
Gourlay  has  one." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  gloomy 
reflection,  "  I  forgot ;  she  is,  in  addition  to 
her  other  accomplishments,  a  Bible  readei-. 
Well,  stay  where  you  are  ;  I  shaU  get  it  mj'- 
self." 

He  accordingly  rose  and  proceeded  to 
Lucy's  chamber,  wliere,  after  having  been 
admitted,  he  found  the  book  he  sought,  and 
such  was  the  absence  of  mind,  occasioned  by 
the  apprehensions  he  felt,  that  he  brought 
awaj-  the  book,  and  forgot  to  lock  the  door. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  sternly,  when 
he  returned,  "  do  you  respect  this  book  ?  It 
is  the  Bible." 

"■  Why,  yes,  sii\  I  resjiect  every  book  that 
has  readin'  in  it — printed  readin'." 

"  But  this  is  the  Bible,  on  which  the 
Chiistian  religion  is  founded." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  doubt  that,"  repUed 
the  enlightened  master  of  horse  ;  "  but  I 
jjrefer  the  Seven  Champions  of  Christendom, 
or  the  History  of  Valentine  and  Orson,  or 
Fortunatus's  Purse." 

"  You  don't  relish  the  Bible,  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  I  never  read  a  line  of 
it — although  I  heard  a  great  deal  about 
it.  Isn't  that  the  book  the  parsons  preach 
fi'om '? '' 

"It  is,"  rejihed  the  baronet,  in  his  deep 
voice.  "This  book  is  the  source  and  origin 
and  history  of  the  revelation  of  God's  will  to 
man  ;  this  is  the  book  on  which  oaths  are 
taken,  and  when  taken  falsely,  the  falsehood 
is  perjuiy,  and  the  individuiil  so  perjuring 
himself  is  transported,  either  for  life  or  a 
term  of  years,  while  living  and  when  dead, 
Gillesijie — mark  me  well,  su- — when  dead, 
his  soul  goes  to  eternal  perdition  in  the 
flames  of  heU.  Would  .you  now,  knowing 
this — that  you  would  be  transported  in  this 
world,  and  damned  in  the  next — would  you. 
I  sav,  take  an  oath  upon  this  book  and  break 
it  ?  '■' 

"  No,  sii",  not  after  what  you  said." 

"  Well,  then,  I  am  a  magistrate,  and  I  msh 
to  admuiister  im  oath  to  you." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


381 


" Very  well,  sii',  I'll  swear  whatever  "\ou 
(ike.' 

"  Then  listen — take  the  book  in  youi-  right 
hand — vou  shall  swear  the  truth,  the  whole 
tiiith,  and  nothmg  but  the  truth,  so  helj) 
you  God  !  You  swear  to  execute  whatever 
duty  I  may  happen  to  require  at  your  hands, 
and  to  keeja  the  i^erformanee  of  that  duty  a 
secret  from  every  li^•i^.'g  mortal,  and  besides 
to  keep  secret  the  fact  that  I  am  in  any  way 
connected  with  it — you  swear  this  ?  " 

"I  do,  sir,"  rephed  the  other,  kissing  the 
book. 

The  bai'onet  paused  a  little. 

"Very  well,"  he  added,  "consider  yourself 
solemnly  sworn,  and  pray  recollect  that  if 
you  ^'iolate  this  oath — in  other  words,  if  you 
commit  peijury,  I  shall  have  you  transported 
as  sirre  as  your  name  is  Gillesj^ie." 

"  But  your  honor  has  swom  me  to  secrecy, 
and  yet  I  don't  know  the  secret." 

"  Neither  shall  you  for  twenty-four  hour's 
longer.  I  am  not  and  shall  not  be  in  a  con- 
dition to  mention  it  to  you  sooner,  but  I  put 
you  under  the  obligation  now,  in  order  that 
you  may  have  time  to  reflect  upon  its  impor- 
tance.    You  may  go." 

Gillespie  felt  exceedingly  puzzled  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  ser\-ices  about  to  be  required 
at  his  hands,  but  as  every  attempt  to  solve 
this  ditficulty  was  fruitless,  he  resolved  to 
await  the  event  .in  j)atience,  aware  that  the 
jjeriod  between  his  anxiety  on  the  subject 
and  a  knowledge  of  it  was  but  short. 

We  need  not  hesitate  to  assure  our  readers, 
that  if  Lucy  Gourlay  had  been  apprised,  or 
even  dreamt  for  a  moment,  that  the  stranger 
and  she  were  on  that  night  to  be  fellow-trav- 
ellers in  the  same  coach,  she  would  unques- 
tionably have  deferred  her  journey  to  the 
metrojDolis,  or,  in  other  words,  her  escape 
fi-om  the  senseless  tyranny  of  her  ambitious 
father.  Fate,  however,  is  fate,  and  it  is  pre- 
cisely the  occurrence  of  these  seemingly  inci- 
dental coincidences  that  in  fact,  as  well  as  in 
fiction,  constitutes  the  principal  interest  of 
those  circumstances  which  give  romance  to 
the  events  of  human  life  and  develop  its  char- 
acter. 

The  "  Fly  "  started  from  Ballytrain  at  the 
t:sual  hour-,  with  only  two  inside  passengers 
— to  -nit,  our  fiiend  the  stranger  and  a 
wealthy  stock- farmer  fi-oiu  the  same  parish. 
He  was  p.  hirge,  big-boned,  good-humored 
fellow,  dressed  in  a  strong  fi-ieze  outside  coat 
or  jock,  buckskin  breeches,  top-boots,  and  a 
hea^y  loaded  whip,  his  inseparable  companion 
wherever  he  went. 

The  coach,  on  arriring  at  the  white  gate, 
puUed  up,  and  two  females,  deeply  and 
closely  veiled,  took  their  seats  inside.  Of 
course,  the  natui-al  politeness  of  the  stranger 


prevented  him  from  obtnidiug  his  conversa- 
tion upon  ladies  with  whom  he  was  not  ac- 
quainted. Tlie  honest  farmer,  however,  felt 
no  such  scruples,  nor,  as  it  happened,  did 
one  at  least  of  the  lacUes  in  question. 

"This  is  a  nice  atfair,"  he  obser\-ed, 
"  about  the  Black  Baronet's  daughter." 

"  What  is  a  nice  aftair?  "  asked  our  fr-iend 
Alley,  for  she  it  was,  as  the  reader  of  course 
is  ah'eady  aware — "TMiat  is  a  nice  affair?" 

"  Why,  that  Miss  Gourlay,  thej'  say,  fell 
in  love  with  a  buttonmaker's  clerk  from  Lon- 
don, and  is  goiu'  to  marry  him  in  spite  of 
all  opposition." 

"  AVlio's  your  authority  for  that  ?  "  asked 
Alley  ;  "  but  whoever  is,  is  a  liar,  and  the 
truth  is  not  in  him — that's  what  I  say." 

"  Ay,  but  what  do  you  know  about  it  ?  " 
asked  the  grazier.  "  You're  not  in  j\Iisa 
Gourlay 's  saicrets — and  a  de\-ilish  handsome, 
gentlemanly  lookin'  fellow  they  say  the 
button-maker  is.  Faith,  I  can  tell  you,  I 
give  tooth-an-egg-credit.  The  fellow  ^^'ill 
get  a  dai'lin'  at  all  events — and  he'll  be  very 
bad  indeed,  if  he's  not  worth  a  shii^-load  of 
that  profligate  Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Well,"  replied  Alley,  "  I  agi-ee  with  you 
there,  at  all  events  ;  for  God  sees  that  the 
same  Lord  Dunroe  wll  make  the  cream  of  a 
bad  husband  to  whatsoever  poor  woman  will 
suffer  by  him.  A  bad  bargain  he  will  be  at 
best,  and  in  that  I  agi-ee  ■with  you." 

"So  far,  then,"  rejiUed  the  givazier,  "we 
do  agree  ;  an',  dang  my  buttons,  but  111 
lave  it  to  this  gentleman  if  it  wouldn't  be 
betther  for  Miss  Gourlay  to  marry  a  claicent 
button-maker  any  day,  than  such  a  hurler  as 
Dunroe.     "VMiat.do  you  say,  sir?" 

"But  who  is  this  button-maker,"  asked 
the  stranger,  "and  where  is  he  to  be 
found  ?  " 

Lucy,  on  recognizing  his  voice,  could 
scai'cely  jjrevent  her  emotion  from  becoming 
perceptible  ;  but  owing  to  the  darkness  of 
the  night,  and  the  folds  of  her  thick  veil,  her 
fellow-travellers  obseiwed  nothing. 

"  ^Miy,"  rephed  the  grazier,  who  had  eri- 
dently,  from  a  lapse  of  memory,  substituted 
one  species  of  manufacture  for  another  tiling, 
"  they  tell  me  he  is  stopping  in  the  head  inn 
in  BaUjirain  ;  an',  dang  my  buttons,  but  he 
must  be  a  fellow  of  mettle,  for  sure  didn't 
he  kick  that  tyrannical  ould  scoundrel,  the 
Black  Baronet,  down-stairs,  and  out  of  the 
hall-door,  when  he  came  to  buU^Tag  over 
him  about  his  daughter — the  darliu'  ?  " 

Lucy's  distress  was  here  incredible  ;  and 
had  not  her  self-command  and  tirmness  of 
character  been  indeed  unusual,  she  would 
have  felt  it  extremely  difficult  to  keep  her 
agitation  within  due  bounds. 

"  You  labor  under  a  mistake  there,"  rephed 


SS2 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


the  stranger  ;  "  I  happen  to  know  that  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  occurred.  Some  'warm  woi'ds 
passed  between  them,  but  no  blows.  A 
young  person  named  Fenton,  wliom  I  know, 
was  jsresent." 

"Why,"  observed  the  grazier,  "  that's  the 
young  fellow  that  goes  mad  betimes,  an'  a 
quare  chap  he  is,  by  all  accounts.  They  say 
he  went  mad  for  love." 

From  this  it  was  evident  that  rumor  had, 
as  usual,  assigTied  several  causes  for  Fenton's 
insanity. 

"Yes,  I  beUeve  so,"  replied  the  stranger. 

Alley,  who  thought  she  had  been  over- 
looked in  this  partial  dialogue,  determined 
to  sustain  her  part  in  the  conversation  with 
a  dignity  becoming  her  situation,  now  re- 
solved to  flourish  in  with  something  hko 
effect. 

"  They  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  said, 
"  that  calls  Miss  Gourlay's  sweetheart  a  but- 
ton-maker. Mi.ss  Goiu'lay's  not  the  stuff  to 
fall  in  love  wid  any  button-maker,  even  if  he 
made  buttons  of  goold  ;  an'  sure  they  say 
tliat  the  king  an'  queen,  and  the  whole  royal 
family  wears  golden  buttons." 

"I  think,  in  spaikingof  buttons,"  ob.served 
the  grazier,  with  a  grin,  "  that  you  might  lave 
the  queen  out." 

"  And  why  should  I  lave  the  queen  out  ?  " 
asked  Alley,  indignantly,  and  with  a  towering 
resolution  to  defend  the  j)rivileges  of  her 
sex.  "Wliy  ought  I  lave  the  queen  oiit,  I 
■say?" 

"  ^Tiy,"  repUed  the  grazier,  with  a  still 
broader  grin,  "  barring  she  wears  the 
breeches,  I  don't  know  ■what  occasion  she 
could  have  for  buttons." 

"  That  only  shows  your  ignorance,"  said 
Alley  ;  "  don't  you  know  that  all  ladies 
wear  habit-shirts,  and  that  habit-shirts  must 
have  buttons  ?  " 

"I  never  heard  of  a  shirt  havin' buttons 
anj^vhere  but  at  the  neck,"  replied  the 
grazier,  who  drew  the  inference  in  question 
from  his  own,  which  were  uiade  upon  a  very 
simijle  and  jirimitive  fashion. 

"  But  you  don't  know  either,"  resjsonded 
Alley,  launching  nobly  into  the  j)urest  fiction, 
from  an  impression  that  the  character  of  her 
mistress  required  it  for  her  defence,  "you 
don't  know  that  nobody  is  allowed  to  make 
buttons  for  the  c^ueen  but  a  knight  o'  the 
garther." 

"  Garther  !  "  exclaimed  the  grazier,  with 
astonishment.  "AMiy  what  the  dickens  has 
garthers  to  do  wid  buttons  ?  " 

"More  than  you  think,"  replied  the  re- 
doubtable ,\lley.  "  The  queen  wears  buttons 
to  her  garthers,  and  the  knight  o'  the  garther 
is  always  obliged  to  tiy  them  on  ;  but 
always,  of  coui-se,  afore  company." 


The  stranger  was  exceedingly  amused'  at 
this  bit  of  by -play  lietween  Alley  and  the 
honest  grazier,  anct  the  more  so  as  it  drew 
the  conversation  from  a  point  of  the  subject 
that  was  jsainfid  to  him  in  the  last  degi-ee, 
inasmuch  as  it  du-ectly  involved  the  chai-acter 
of  Miss  Goiu'lay. 

"How  do  you  know,  then,"  proceeded 
Alley,  tr;umj)hantly,  "  but  the  button-makec 
that  Miss  Gourlay  has  fallen  in  love  with  may 
be  a  knight  o'  the  garther  ?  " 

"Begad,  there  maybe  a  great  dale  in  that, 
too,"  replied  the  unsnsiiieious  grazier,  who 
never  dreamt  that  Alley's  knowledge  of  court 
etiquette  might  possibly  be  rather  limited, 
and  her  accounts  of  it  som.ewhat  apocryphal : 
— "  begad,  there  may.  '\Vell,"he  added,  with 
an  honest  and  earnest  tone  of  sincerity,  "for 
my  jjart,  and  from  all  ever  I  heard  of  that 
darliu'  of  a  beauty,  she  deserves  a  knight  o' 
the  shire,  let  alone  a  knight  o'  the  garther. 
They  say  the  good  she  does  among  the  jjoor 
and  destitute  since  they  came  home  is  un- 
tellaljle.  God  bless  her  !  And  that  she  may 
live  long  and  die  hapjay  is  the  worst  that  I 
or  anybody  that  kno«  s  her  mshes  her.  It's 
v.-ell  known  that  she  had  her  goodness  from 
her  angel  of  a  mother  at  all  events,  for  they 
say  that  such  another  womai!  for  charity  and 
kindness  to  the  poor  never  lived  ;  and  by  all 
.accounts  she  led  an  unhappy  and  miserable 
life  wid  her  Turk  of  a  husband,  who,  thej' 
f  ay,  broke  her  lieaii,  and  sent  her  to  an  earlj" 
grave." 

Alley  was  about  to  bear  fiery  and  vehement 
testimony  to  the  truth  of  all  this  ;  but  Lucy, 
whose  bosom  hea^■ed  up  strongly  two  or 
three  times  at  these  affecting  allusions  to  her 
beloved  mother,  and  \\\\o  almost  sobbed 
aloud,  not  merelj'  from  sorrow  but  distress, 
arising  from  the  whole  tenor  of  the  conver- 
sation, whispered  a  few  words  into  her  ear, 
and  she  was  instantly  silent.  The  farmer 
seemed  somewhat  startled  ;  for,  in  truth,  as 
we  have  said,  he  was  naturally  one  of  those 
men  who  wish  to  hear  themselves  talk.  In 
this  instance,  however,  he  found,  after  hav- 
ing made  three  or  four  collof|uir.l  attacks 
upon  the  stranger,  but  A\-it;hout  success,  that 
he  must  ojily  have  recourse  cither  to  sohlo- 
quy  or  silence.  He  accordingly  commenced 
to  hum  over  several  old  Irish  airs,  to  which 
he  ventured  to  join  the  words — at  first  in  a 
very  subdued  undertone.  'V\Tienever  the 
coach  stopped,  however,  to  change  horses, 
which  it  generally  did  at  some  jiublic  house 
or  inn,  the  stranger  could  observe  that  the 
gi-azicr  always  vrent  out,  and  on  his  return 
appeared  to  1)0  affected  vviih  a  still  stronger 
relish  for  melody.  By  degi'ees  he  proceeded 
from  a  tolerablj'  distinct  iindortone  to  raise 
his  voice  into  a   bolder  key,  when,  at  Last, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


383 


. throwing  aside  all  reserve,  he  commenced 
the  soiig  of  Cruwkaen  Lawn,  whicli  he  gave 
in  admii'able  style  and  spirit,  and  with  a  rich 
mellow  voice,  that  was  c:ilculated  to  render 
every  justice  to  that  fine  old  ;dr.  Li  this 
manner,  he  hterally  sang  his  way  until  with- 
in a  few  miles  of  the  metropolis.  He  was 
not,  however,  without  assistance,  during,  at 
least,  a  portion  of  the  jo  jrney.  Our  friend 
Dandy,  who  was  on  the  outside,  finding 
that  the  coach  came  to  a  level  space  on  the 
road,  placed  the  dulcimer  on  his  knees,  and 
commenced  an  accompaniment  on  that  in- 
sti-umeut,  which  produced  an  etifect  equally 
comic  and  agree  djle.  And  what  added  to 
the  humor  of  this  extraordinary  duet — if  we 
can  call  it  so  — was  the  delight  with  which 
each  intimated  his  siitisfaction  at  the  perfor- 
mance of  the  other,  as  well  as  with  the  terms 
in  which  it  was  expressed. 

"  Well  done.  Dandy !  dang  my  buttons, 
but  you  shine  upon  the  wires.  Ah,  thin, 
it's  you  that  is  and  ever  was  the  wiiy  lad — 
and  sure  that  was  v/liat  made  you  take  to 
the  dulcimer  of  course.  Dandy,  achorx, 
wlU  you  give  us,  '  Merrily  kissed  the 
Quaker  ? '  and  I  ask  it.  Dandy,  bekaise  we 
are  in  a  rehgious  way,  and  have  a  quakers' 
meetiu'  in  the  coa<;h." 

"  No,"  replied  Dandy  ;  "  but  I'll  give  yoa 
the  '  Bonny  brown  Girl,'  that's  worth  a 
thousand  of  it,  you  thief." 

"  Bnxvo,  Dandy,  and  so  it  is ;  and,  as  far 
as  I  can  see  in  the  dark,  dang  my  buttons, 
but  I  tliink  we  have  one  here,  too." 

"I  thank  you  for  the  compliment,  sir/' 
said  Alley,  appropriating  it  without  cere- 
mony to  herself.  "  I  feel  much  obhged  to 
you,  sir  ;  but  I'm  not  worthy  of  it." 

"My  darling,"  replied  the  jolly  farmer, 
"  you  had  betther  not  take  me  up  till  I  fall. 
How  do  you  know  it  was  for  you  it  was  in- 
tended ?  You're  not  the  only  ladij  in  the 
coach,  avoumeen." 

"And  you're  not  the  only  gintleman  in 
the  coach.  Jemmy  Doran,"  replied  Alley, 
indignantly.  "  I  know  you  well,  man  alive 
• — and  you  picked  uji  your  pohteness  from 
your  cattle,  I  sujjpose." 

"  A  better  chance  of  getting  it  from  them 
than  fi'om  you,"  replied  the  hasty  grazier. 
"But  I  tell  j'ou  at  once  to  take  it  aisj', 
nchora  ;  don't  get  on  &re,  or  you'll  bimi  the 
coach — the  compUment  was  not  intended 
for  you  at  all  events.  Come,  Dandv,  give 
us  the  '  Bonny  brown  Gu'l,'  and  I'U  help 
you,  as  well  as  I'm  able." 

In  «a  moment  the  dulcimer  was  at  woi'k 
on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  the  merrj'  far- 
mer, at  the  toj)  of  his  lungs,  lending  his 
assistance  inside. 

^Vhen  the  perfoi-mance  had  been  conclu- 


ded. Alley,  who  was  brimful  of  indignation 
at  the  slight  which  hatl  been  put  upon  her, 
said,  "  JNIany  thanks  to  you,  Misther  Doran, 
but  if  you  plaise  we'U  dispense  vidd 
your  music  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 
Remember  you're  not  among  your  own  bul- 
locks and  swine — and  that  this  roaring  and 
grunting  is  and  must  be  very  disagreeable 
to  pohte  company." 

"  Troth,  whoever  you  are,  you  have  the 
advantage  of  me,"  replied  the  good-natured 
farmer,  "  and  besides  I  believe  you're  right 
— I'm  afraid  I've  given  otHnce  ;  and  as  we 
have  gone  so  fcir — but  no,  dang  my  buttons, 
I  won't — I  was  going  to  try  '  Iviss  my  Lady,' 
along  wid  Dandy,  it  goes  beautiful  on  the 
dulcimer — but — but — ah,  not  half  so  well  as 
on  a  purty  jaair  of  lips.  Alley,  darlin',"  he 
proceeded  now,  evidently  in  a  maudlin  state, 
"I  never  lave  you,  but  I'm  in  a  hurry  home 
to  you,  for  it's  your  Uj)s  that's " 

"  It's  false,  Sir.  Doraa,"  exclaimed  Alley  ; 
"  how  dare  you,  su",  brmg  my  name,  or  my 
lips  either,  into  comparishment  wid  your- 
self '?  You  want  to  take  away  my  character, 
Mr.  Doran  ;  but  I  have  fiiends,  and  a  sti'ong 
faction  at  my  back,  that  will  make  you  suffer 
for  this. " 

The  farmer,  however,  who  was  elevated 
into  the  se-\-enth  heaven  of  domestic  affec- 
tion, paid  no  eai'thly  attention  to  her,  but 
turning  to  the  stranger  said  : 

"  Sir,  I've  the  best  wife  that  ever  faced 
the  sun " 

"  I,"  exclaimed  Alley,  "  am  not  to  be  in- 
sulted and  Cidumnied,  ay,  an'  backbitten  be- 
fore my  own  face,  Misther  Doran,  and  take 
my  word  you'll  hear  of  this  to  your  cost — 
I've  a  faction." 

"  Sir — gintleman — miss,  over  the  way 
there — for  throth,  for  aU  so  close  as  you're 
veiled,  you  haven't  a  manied  look — but  as 
I  was  saj-in',  we  fell  in  love  wid  one  another 
by  mistake — for  there  was  an  ould  match- 
maker, by  name  Biddlety  Girtha,  a  daugh- 
ter of  ould  Jemmy  Trailcudgel's — God  be 
good  to  him — father  of  the  present  strug- 
,glin'  poor  man  of  that  name — and  as  I  had 
hard  of  a  celebrated  beauty  that  lived  about 
twelve  or  fifteen  miles  down  the  country  that 
I  wished  to  coort — and  she,  on  the  other 
hand,  having  hard  of  a  veiy  fine,  handsome 
young  fellow  in  my  own  neighborhood — 
what  does  the  oidd  thief  do  but  brings  us 
together,  in  the  fiu'  of  Baltihoram,  and 
palms  her-  off  on  me  as  the  celebrated 
beauty,  and  palms  myself  on  her  as  the 
fine,  handsome  young  fellow  from  the  parish 
of  Ballj-train,  and,  as  I  snid,  so  we  fcU  in  love 
wid  one  another  by  mistake,  and  didn't  dis- 
cover the  iraposthure  that  the  ould  vagabond 
had    put    on   us    until  afther  the  marriagd, 


384 


WILLIAM  CARLETOX'S  WORKS. 


However,  I'm  not  sorrv'  for  it — she  turned 
out  a  good  wife  to  me,  at  all  events — for,  be- 
sides biingin'  me  a  stockin'  of  guineas,  she 
has  brought  me  twelve  of  as  fine  childre'  as 
you'd  see  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  ay,  or 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  either.  Bai-rin' 
that  she's  a  httle  hasty  in  the  temper — and 
sometimes — do  you  persave? — has  the  use 
of  her — there's  five  of  them  on  each  hand  at 
any  rate — do  you  undherstaud — I  say,  bar- 
rin'  that,  and  that  she  often  amuses  herself 
— ^just  when  she  has  nothing  else  to  do — 
and  by  way  of  keepin'  her  hand  in — I  say, 
sir,  and  you,  miss,  over  the  way — she  now 
and  then  amuses  herself  by  tumin'  up  the 
httle  finger  of  her  right  hand — but  what 
matter  for  aU  that — there's  no  one  widout 
their  httle  weeny  faihn's.  My  own  hair's  a 
little  sandy,  or  so — some  people  say  it's  red, 
but  I  think  myself  it's  only  a  little  sandy — 
as  I  said,  sir — so  out  of  love  and  affection 
for  the  best  of  wives,  I'll  give  you  her  favor- 
ite, the  'Red-haired  man's  vdie.'  Dandy, 
you  thief,  will  you  help  me  to  do  the  '  Ked- 
haired  man's  wife  ? ' " 

"Wid  pleasui-e,  Misther  Doran,"  rephed 
Dandy,  adjusting  his  dulcimer.  "Come  now, 
start,  and  I'm  wid  you." 

The  performance  was  scarcely  finishecl, 
when  a  sob  or  two  was  heard  from  AUey, 
who,  during  this  ebuUition  of  the  grazier's, 
had  been  nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  wai-m, 
as  Bums  says. 

"  I'm  not  -(vithout  fi'iends  and  protectors, 
Mr.  Doran — that  won't  see  me  rantinized  iii 
a  mail-coaeh,  and  mocked  and  made  little  of 
— whereof  I  have  a  strpng  back,  as  you'L 
soon  find,  and  a  faction  that  will  make  you 
sup  soiTow  yet." 

AU  this  vu-tuous  indignation  was  lost, 
however,  on  the  honest  grazier,  who  had 
scarcely  concluded  the  "  I'ed-haired  man's 
wife,"  ere  he  fell  fast  asleep,  in  wliich  state 
he  remained — having  simjily  changed  the 
style  and  character  of  his  melodj',  the  exe- 
cution of  the  Latter  Ijeing  equally  masterly — 
until  they  reached  the  hotel  at  which  the 
coach  always  stopped  in  the  metropolis. 

The  weather,  for  the  fortnight  preceding, 
had  been  genial,  mild,  and  beautifid.  For 
some  time  before  they  reached  the  city,  that 
gradual  withdrawing  of  darkness  began  to 
take  place,  which  resembles  the  disappear- 
ance of  sorrow  fi-ora  a  heavy  heart,  and  har- 
binges  to  the  world  the  return  of  cheerful- 
ness and  Ught.  The  dim,  spectral  paleness 
of  the  eastern  sky  by  degrees  received  a 
clearer  and  healthier  tinge,  just  as  the  wan 
cheek  of  an  invaUd  assumes  slowlj-,  but  cer- 
tainly, the  glow  of  returning  health.  Early 
as  it  was,  an  odd  individual  was  visible  here 
and  there,  and  it  may  be  observed,  that  at  a 


vei-j-  early  hour  every  person  -vi.sible  in  the 
streets  is  ehai-acterized  by  a  chilly  and  care- 
worn appearance,  looking,  with  scarcely  an 
exception,  both  solitary  and  sad,  just  as  if 
they  had  not  a  single  friend  on  eai-th,  but,  on 
the  contraiy,  were  striving  to  encoimter 
straggles  and  difficulties  which  they  were 
incompetent  to  meet. 

As  our  travellers  entered  the  citv-,  that  by- 
gone class  who,  as  guardians  of  tlie  night, 
were  appointed  to  preser\e  the  public  peace, 
eveiy  one  of  them  a  half  felon  and  whole  ac- 
comphce,  were  seen  to  pace  slowly  along, 
their  poles  under  their  left  arm,  their  hands 
mutually  thrust  into  the  capacious  cuffs  of 
their  watchcoats,  and  each  with  a  fi-owzy 
wooUen  nightcap  under  his  hat.  Here  and 
there  a  staggering  toper  might  be  seen  on  his 
way  home  from  the  tavern  brawl  or  the  mid- 
night debauch,  advfmcing,  or  attempting  to 
advance,  as  if  he  wanted  to  trace  Hogarth's 
line  of  beauty.  From  some  quarters  the 
wild  and  reckless  shriek  of  female  profligacy 
might  be  heard,  the  tong-je,  though  loaded 
with  blasphemies,  nearly  paralyzed  by  intoxi- 
cation. ■  Nor  can  we  close  here.  The  fashion- 
able caniage  made  its  appearance  fiUed  with 
beauty  shorn  of  its  chai  ms  by  a  more  refined 
dissipation — beauty,  no  longer  beautiful,  re- 
turning with  pale  cheeks,  languid  eyes,  and 
exhausted  fi-ame — after  having  breathed  a 
thickened  and  suffocating  atmosphere,  cal- 
culated to  sap  the  pliysicfd  health,  if  not  to 
disturb  the  pure  elements  of  moral  feeling, 
piinciple,  and  delicacy,  without  which  woman 
becomes- only  an  object  of  contempt. 

Up  tmtd  the  anivid  of  the  "  Fly  "  at  the 
hotel,  the  gi'ay  dusk  of  morning,  together 
with  the  thick  black  veil  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  added  to  that  natural  pohteness 
wliich  prevents  a  gentleman  fi'om  stai-ing  at 
a  lady  who  may  wish  to  avoid  observation — 
owing  to  these  causes,  we  say,  the  stranger 
had  neither  inchnation  nor  opportunity  to 
recognize  the  features  of  Lucy  Goiu-lay. 
'VNTien  the  coach  di-ew  up,  however,  with  that 
courtesy  and  attention  that  are  always  due  to 
the  sex,  and,  we  may  add,  that  ai-e  vciy  sel- 
dom omitted  with  a  pretty  travelling  com- 
panion, the  stranger  stepped  quickly  out  of 
it  in  order  to  offer  her  assistance,  which  was 
accepted  silently,  beuig  acknowledged  only 
by  a  graceful  inclination  of  the  head.  "N^licn, 
however,  on  leaving  the  darkness  of  tho 
vehicle  he  foimd  her  hand  and  ann  tremble,  • 
and  had  sufficient  light  to  recognize  her 
through  the  veil,  he  uttered  an  exclamation 
expressive  at  once  of  dehght,  wonder,  and 
curiosity. 

"  Good  God,  my  dear  Lucy,"  said  he  in  a 
low  whisper,  so  as  not  to  let  his  words  reach 
other  ears.  "  how  is  this  ?    In  heaven's  nonio. 


THE  BLACK  BAROXET. 


385 


how  does  it  happen  tliat  you  travel  by  a  com- 
!uou  night  coach,  and  ai'e  here  at  such  an 
hour  ■? '" 

She  likished  deeply,  and  as  she  spoke  he 
obsei-ved  that  her  voice  was  inlii-m  and 
ti'emulous :  '"It  is  most  unfortunate,"'  she 
rephed,  "  that  we  should  both  have  travelled 
io  the  same  conveyance.  I  request  you  will 
instantly  leave  me." 

"T\'hat !  leave  you  alone  and  unattended 
at  this  hoxu-  ?  " 

"I  am  not  unattended,"  she  rephed  :  "  that 
faithful  creatui-e.  though  somewhat  bluut  and 
uncouth  in  her  mtmnei-s,  is  all  tiiith  and  at- 
tachment, so  far  as  I  at  least  am  concerned. 
But  I  beg  you  will  immediately  withdraw. 
If  we  ai'e  seen  holding  couversntiou,  or  for  a 
moment  in  each  other's  society,  I  cannot  tell 
what  the  consequences  may  be  to  my  repu- 
tation." 

"  But.  my  dear  Lucy,"  replied  the  stranger, 
"  that  risk  mav  easily  be  avoided.  This  meet- 
ing seems  proWdentiiil— I  entreat  you,  let  us 
accept  it  as  such  and  avail  oui-selves  of  it." 

"  That  is."  she  replied,  whilst  lier  glorious 
dark  eye  kindled,  and  her  snowy  temples 
got  red  as  iii'e,  "  that  is.  that  I  should  elope 
ivith  you.  I  presume?  Sir-."  she  added,  "you 
ai-e  the  last  man  fi-om  whom  I  should  have 
expected  an  insult.  Ton  forget  yom-self,  imd 
you  forget  me." 

The  high  sense  of  honor  that  flashed  from 
that  glorious  eye.  and  which  made  itself  felt 
through  the  indignant  tones  of  her  voice,  j 
rebuked  him  at  once.  ! 

"I  have  erred."  said  he,  "but I  have  erred  \ 
fi-om  an  excess  of  afl'ection — will  you  not  ; 
pu-don  me  ? '' 

She  felt  the  difficulty  and  singular  distress 
of  her  position,  and  in  si^ite  of  her  firmness 
and  the  iinuatunil  h;u\sliness  of  her  father, 
she  almost  regi-etted  the  step  she  had  taken. 
As  it  was,  she  made  no  reply  to  the  stranger, 
but  seemed  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  bitter- 
ness and  affliction. 

'■  Let  me  press  you,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  tc  come  into  the  hotel :  you  require  both 
rest  and  refi-eshment — and  I  euti'eat  and  im- 
p>lore  you,  for  the  sake  both  of  my  happiness 
and  your  own,  to  grant  me  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  convei-sation."' 

"I  have  reconsidered  oui"  position,"  she 
rephed.  "  Alley  wQl  fetch  in  our  veiy  slight 
luggage  :  she  has  money,  too.  to  pay  the 
gu;u'd  and  driver — she  says  it  is  usual :  and 
I  feel  that  to  give  you  a  short  explanation 
now  may  possibly  enable  us  to  avoid  much 
future  embai'ftissment  and  misimdei-standing 
— Alley,  however,  must  accomp.any  us.  and 
be  present  in  the  room.  But  then."  she  ad- 
ded, starting,  "is  it  proper? — is  it  delicate? 
— no,  no,  I  cannot,  I  cannot :  it  might  com- 


promise me  with  the  world.  Leave  nie,  1 
entreat.  I  implore.  I  command  you.  I  ix.sk  it 
as  a  proof  of  yomr  love.  We  will.  I  mist, 
have  other  oppoi-tumties.  Let  us  trust,  too, 
to  time — let  us  trust  to  God — but  I  will  do 
nothing  wrong,  and  I  feel  that  this  wonld  be 
unworthy  of  my  mother's  daughter.'" 

"Well,"  replied  the  stranger,  "I  shall 
obey  you  as  a  proof  of  my  love  for  you  :  but 
will  you  not  allow  me  to  write  to  you '? — will 
you  not  give  me  your  address  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  retui-ued  :  "  and  I  enjoin  you, 
as  you  hope  that  we  shall  ever  be  liappy,  not 
to  attempt  to  triice  me.  I  a,sk  this  from  you 
.as  a  m:ui  of  honor.  Of  coiu'se  it  may  ot- 
perhaps  it  will  be  discovered  that  we  ti"av- 
eUed  in  the  same  coach.  The  accident  may 
be  misinterpreted.  My  father  may  seek  an 
exj^l.anation  from  you — he  may  ask  if  you 
know  where  I  am.  Should  I  have  placed 
the  knowledge  of  my  i-etreat  in  youi'  posses- 
sion, you  know  that,  as  a  m.an  of  honor,  you 
could  not  tell  him  a  falsehood.  Goodby," 
she  added,  "  we  may  meet  in  better  times, 
but  I  much  fe;u-  that  our  destinies  wiU  be 
se23arated  forever — Come.  Alley." 

Her  voice  softened  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words,  and  the  sh-anger  felt  the  influence  of 
her  ascendency  over  him  too  strouglv  to 
hesitate  in  manifesting  this  proof  of  his  obe- 
dience to  her  wishes. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Craekenfud/je  put  upon  a  Wronif  Scmt  —  Miss 
Gouriay  taka  Hejfiige  iritlt  an  Old  Friend. 

Ltttle  did  Liicy  dream  that  the  fact  of 
their  discovei-y  as  feUow-ti-avellers  would  ao 
soon  reach  her  father's  e:u-s.  and  that*  the 
provision  against  that  event,  and  the  infer- 
ences which  Ciilumuy  might  di-aw  horn  it,  as 
suggested  by  her  prudence  and  good  sense, 
shoidd  render  her  advice  to  the  stranger  so 
absolutely  necessaiy. 

Whilst  the  brief  dialogue  wliicli  we  have 
recited  at  the  close  of  the  last  chapter  took 
place,  another,  which  as  a  faithful  historian 
we  are  bound  to  detail,  was  proceeding  be- 
tween tlie  redoubtable  Crackenfudge  and 
our  facetious  finend.  Dandy  Dulcimer. 
Crackenfudge  in  follo\ving  the  stranger  to 
the  metropohs  by  the  Flash  of  Lightning,  in 
onler  to  w.atch  his  movements,  was  xitt«rly 
ignoKuit  that  Lucy  had  been  that  gentle- 
m.an's  feUow-timveller  in  the  Fly.  A  sti-ong 
opposition,  as  we  have  already  said,  existed 
between  the  two  coaches,  and  so  equal  was 
their   speed,    that   in    consequence    of    the 


386 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


mutual  delay  caused  by  changing  horses, 
they  frequently  passed  each  other  on  the 
road,  the  driver,  guard,  and  outside  passen- 
gers of  both  coaches  uniformly  gi-imacing  at 
each  other  amidst  a  storm  of  groans,  cheers, 
and  banter  on  both  sides.  So  equsil,  how- 
ever, were  their  relative  powers  of  progress, 
that  no  eft'ort  on  either  side  was  found  suffi- 
cient to  enable  any  one  of  them  to  claim  a 
victory.  On  the  contrary,  their  contests 
generally  ended  in  a  dead  heat,  or  something 
ve).y  nearly  apj^roaching  it.  On  the  night  in 
question  the  Fly  had  a  slight  advantage,  and 
but  a  slight  one.  Before  the  coachman  had 
time  to  descend  from  his  ample  seat,  the 
Flash  of  Lightning  came  dashing  in  at  a 
most  reckless  sjieed — the  unfortxmate  horses 
snorting  and  panting — steaming  with  smoke, 
which  rose  from  them  in  white  wreaths,  and 
streaming  in  such  a  manner  with  jjerspira- 
tion  that  it  was  painful  to  look  upon  them. 

Crackenfudge  was  one  of  the  first  out  of 
the  Flash  of  Lightning,  which,  we  should 
say,  drew  up  at  a  rival  establishment,  di- 
rectly opposite  that  which  patronized  the 
Fly.  He  lost  no  time  in  sending  in  his 
trank  by  "boots,"  or  some  other  of  those 
harpies  that  are  always  connected  with  large 
hotels  in  the  metropolis.  Having  aCv^om- 
plished  this,  he  set  himself,  but  quite  in  a 
careless  way,  to  watch  the  motions  of  the 
stranger.  For  this  purpose  he  availed  him- 
self of  a  position  from  whence  he  could  see 
without  being  himself  seen.  Judge,  then,  of 
his  surprise  on  ascertaining  that  the  female 
whom  he  saw  with  the  stranger  was  no  other 
than  Lucy  Gourlay,  and  in  conversation  with 
the  very  individual  with  whose  name,  mo- 
tions, and  projects  he  wished  so  anxiously 
to  become  acquamted.  If  he  watched  Miss 
Gourlay  and  her  companion  well,  however, 
he  himself  was  undergoing  quite  as  severe  a 
scrutiny.  Dandy  Dulcimer  having  observed 
him,  in  consequence  of  some  hints  that  he 
had  akeady  received  fi'om  a  source  with 
which  the  reader  may  become  ultimately  ac- 
quainted, approached,  and  putting  his  hand 
to  his  hat,  exclaimed  : 

"  Wliy,  then,  Counsellor  Crackenfudge,  is 
it  here  I  find  your  honor  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see  a'm  here.  Dandy,  my 
fine  fellow  ?  "  and  this  he  uttered  in  a  very 
agreeable  tone,  simply  because  he  felt  a  weak 
and  pitiable  ambition  to  be  addi-essed  by 
the  title  of  "  Your  honor." 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  Dandy  ?  "  asked 
Crackenfudge  ;  "  it  looks  very  odd  to  see 
Miss  Gourlaj-  in  conversiition  with  an  im- 
postor— a'  think  it's  an  elopement.  Dandy. 
And  pray  Dandy,  what  bix)ught  you  to 
town  ?  " 

"I   think   your   honor's   a  friend   to  Sir 


Thomas,   counsellor  ? "    replied  Dandy,  an. 
swering  by  another  question. 

"  A'  am.  Dandy,  a  stanch  fi'iend  to  Sir 
Thomas." 

"  Bekaise  I  know  that  if  you  aren't  a 
fiiend  of  his,  he  is  a  fi-iend  of  yovu-s.  I 
was  playin'  a  tune  the  other  day  in  the  hall, 
and  while  I  was  in  the  vei-y  middle  of  it  I 
heard  him  say — '  We  must  have  Counsellor 
Crackenfudge  on  the  bench  ; '  and  so  they 
had  a  long  palaver  about  you,  and  the  whole 
thing  ended  by  Sir  Thomas  getting  the 
tough  old  Captain  to  promise  you  his  su]> 
port,  with  some  great  man  that  they  called 
custoH  rascalorum." 

"  A'   am    obhged  to    Sir  Thomas,"    said 
Crackenfudge,  "  and  a'   know  he  is   a   true 
1  fi'iend  of  mine." 

I       "  Ay,  but  will  you  now  be  a  tiaie  friend  to 
j  }dm,  plaise  your  honor,  counsellor?" 
}       "  To  be  sure  I  wiU,  Dandy,  my  fine  fel- 
low." 

"  Well,  then,  listen — Sir  Thomas  got  me 
j)ut  into  this  strange  fellow's  sarvice,  in  or- 
dher  to  ah — ahem — whj',  you  see  in  ordher 
to  keep  an  eye  upon  him — and,  what  do 
you  think?  but  he's  jist  afther  tellin'  me 
that  he  doesn't  think  he'U  have  any  fui-ther 
occasion  for  my  sarvices." 

"  Well,  a'  think  that  looks  susi3icious — it's 
an  elopement,  there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

"I  thiok  so,  your  honor  ;  although  I  am 
myself  conq^letely  in  the  dark  about  it,  any 
farther  than  this,  counsellor — listen,  now — 
I  know  the  road  they're  goiu',  for  I  heard  it 
by  accident — they'll  be  off,  too,  immediately. 
Now,  if  your  honor  is  a  true  fiiend  to  Sir 
Thomas,  you'll  take  a  jjost  chaise  and  stai-t 
ofl'  a  little  before  them  upon  the  Naas  road. 
You  know  that  by  going  before  them,  they 
never  can  suspect  that  you're  followin"  them. 
I'll  remain  here  to  watch  their  motions,  and 
while  you  keej)  before  them,  I'll  keep  after 
them,  so  that  it  will  be  the  very  sorra  if  they 
escape  us  both.  Whisper,  counsellor,  your 
honor — I'm  in  Sir  Thomas's  pay.  Isn't  that 
enough  ?  but  I  want  assistance,  and  if  you're 
his  friend,  as  you  say,  you  will  be  guided  by 
me  and  sai-ve  him." 

Crackenfudge  felt  elated  ;  he  thought  of 
the  magistracy,  of  his  privilege  to  sit  on  the 
bench  in  all  the  plenitude  of  official  author- 
ity ;  he  reflected  that  he  could  commit 
mendicants,  impostors,  vagTauts,  and  vaga- 
bonds of  all  descriptions,  and  that  he  would 
be  entitled  to  the  solemn  and  reverentia.' 
designation  of  "  Your  worshijj."  Here,  then, 
was  an  opening.  The  very  object  for  which 
he  came  to  tovrai  was  accomplished — that  is 
to  say,  the  securing  to  himself  the  magistracy 
through  the  important  seiTices  rendered  to 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay. 


THE  BLACK  BAUONET. 


387 


It  ocCTUTed  to  him,  we  admit,  tli-it  as  it 
must  Lave  been  evidently  a  case  of  elojje- 
ment,  it  might  be  his  duty  to  have  the  par- 
ties iUTested,  until  at  least  tlie  parent  of  the 
lady  could  be  apprised  of  the  circumstances. 
There  was,  however,  about  Crackenfudge  a 
wholesome  regard  for  what  is  termed  a 
whole  sliin,  and  as  he  had  been,  through  the 
key-hole  of  the  Mitre  inn,  a  witness  of  cer- 
tain scintillations  and  flashes  that  Ut  up  the 
eye  of  this  most  mj'sterious  stranger,  he  did 
not  conceive  that  such  steps  and  his  own 
personal  safety  were  comijatible.  In  the 
meantime,  he  saw  that  there  was  an  au'  of 
sincerity  and  anxiety  about  Dandy  Dulcimer, 
which  he  could  imjjute  to  nothing  but  a  wish, 
if  possible,  to  make  a  lasting  friend  of  Sir 
Thomas,  by  enabling  him  to  trace  his  daugh- 
ter. 

Dandy's  plea  and  plan  both  succeeded, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  Cracken- 
fudge was  posting  at  an  easy  rate  toward 
the  to\vn  of  Naas.  Many  a  look  did  he  give 
out  of  the  chaise,  with  a  hope  of  being  able 
to  observe  the  vehicle  which  contained  those 
for  whom  he  was  on  the  watch,  but  in  vain. 
Nothing  of  the  kind  was  visible  ;  but  not- 
withstanding this  he  drove  on  to  the  town, 
where  he  ordered  breakfast  in  a  private 
room,  with  the  anxious  exjiectation  that  they 
might  soon  arrive.  At  length,  his  patience 
having  become  considei-ably  exhausted,  he 
determined  to  return  to  Dublin,  and  provi- 
ded he  met  them,  with  Dandy  in  j^ursuit,  to 
wheel  about  and  also  to  join  the  musician  in 
the  chase.  Having  settled  his  bill,  which  he 
did  not  do  without  half  an  hour's  wi-anghng 
with  the  waiter,  he  came  to  the  hall  door, 
from  which  a  chaise  with  close  Venetian 
bhnds  was  about  to  start,  and  into  which  he 
thought  the  figure  of  a  man  entered,  who 
very  much  resembled  that  of  Corbet,  Sir 
Thomas's  house  stewai'd  and  most  confiden- 
tial servant.  Of  this,  however,  he  could  not 
feel  quite  certain,  as  he  had  not  at  all  got  a 
glimjise  of  his  face.  On  inquiring,  he  found 
that  the  chaise  contained  another  man  also, 
who  was  so  Ul  as  not  to  be  able  to  leave  it. 
One  of  them,  however,  drank  some  spirits  in 
the  chaise,  and  got  a  bottle  of  it,  together 
with  some  provisions,  to  take  along  with 
them. 

So  far  had  Crackenfudge  been  most  ad- 
roitly thro^vn  off  the  trace  of  Miss  Gourlay 
and  the  stranger  ;  and  when  Dandy  joined 
his  master,  who,  fi-om  principles  of  delicacy 
and  respect  for  Lucy,  went  to  the  opposite 
inn,  he  candidly  told  him  of  the  hoax  he  had 
plaj-ed  off  on  the  embryo  magistrate. 

"  I  sent  him,  j'our  honor,  upon  what  they 
call  a  fool's  errand,  and  certain  I  am,  he  is 
the  very  boy  wiU  dehver  it — not  but  that  he's 


the  divil's  own  knave  on  the  other.  The 
truth  is,  sh,  it's  just  one  day  a  knave  and 
the  other  a  fool  with  him." 

The  stranger  paid  httle  attention  to  these 
observations,  but  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  state  of  sorrow  and  disajJi^oint- 
ment,  that  comjjletely  abstracted  him  from 
every  object  around  him. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  she  will 
not  even  allow  me  to  know  the  place  of  her 
retreat,  and  she  may  stand  in  need  of  aid 
and  support,  and  f)robably  of  protection,  a 
thousand  ways.  Would  to  heaven  I  knew 
how  to  trace  her,  and  become  acquainted 
with  her  residence,  and  that  more  for  her 
own  sake  than  for  mine  !  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sh',"  said  Dandy,  "I 
see  a  cousin  o'  mine  over  the  way  ;  would 
your  honor  give  me  a  couple  of  hours  to 
sjjend  wid  him  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  this — ■ 
God  knows  how  long." 

Well  might  Dandy  say  so — the  cousin  al- 
luded to  having  been  only  conceived  and 
brought  forth  from  his  own  o^vii  fertile  fancy 
at  the  moment,  or  rather,  while  his  master 
was  unconsciously  uttering  his  sohlocjuy. 
The  truth  was,  that  while  the  latter  spoke, 
Dandy,  whom  he  had  ordered  to  attend  him, 
without  well  knowing  why,  observed  a  hack- 
ney-coach draw  up  at  the  door  of  the  oppo- 
site hotel ;  but  this  fact  would  not  have  in 
any  j)articular  way  ai'rested  his  attention, 
had  he  not  seen  Alley  Mahon  giving  orders 
to  the  driver. 

"  You'll  give  me  a  coujale  of  hours,  your 
honor '? " 

"I'll  give  you  the  whole  day,  Dandy,  if 
you  wish.  I  shall  be  engaged,  and  will  not 
require  any  further  services  fi'om  you  until 
to-mon'ow." 

Dandy  looked  at  him  very  significantly, 
and  with  a  degree  of  assurance,  for  which 
we  can  certainlj'  offer  no  apologj',  puckered 
his  naturally  comic  face  into  a  most  myste- 
rious grin,  and  closing  one  eye,  or  in  other 
words,  giving  his  master  a  knowing  wink, 
said — 

"  Vei-y  well,  sir,  I  know  how  many  banes 
makes  five  at  any  rate — let  me  alone." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  varlet,"  said 
his  master,  "  by  that  impudent  wink  ?  " 

"  Wink  ?  "  replied  Dandy,  with  a  face  of 
admirable  composure.  "  Oh,  you  observed 
it,  then  ?  Sure,  God  help  me,  it's  a  wakeness 
I  have  in  one  of  my  eyes  ever  since  I  had 
the  small-pock." 

"  And  pray  which  eye  is  it  in  ?  "  asked  his 
master. 

"  In  the  left,  your  honor." 

"  But,  you  scoundi'el,  you  winked  at  me 
with  the  right." 

"  Troth,  sir,  maybe  I  did,  for  it  sometimea 


388 


WILLIAM  CAElETON'S   WORKS. 


passes  from  the  one  to  the  other  -n-id  me — 
but  not  often  indeed — it's  principally  in  my 
left." 

"  Very  ■well ;  but  in  speaking  to  me,  use 
no  such  grimaces  in  future  ;  and  now  go  see 
youi'  cousiu.  I  shall  sleejj  for  a  few  hours, 
for  I  feel  somewhat  jaded,  and  out  of  order 
on  many  accounts.  But  before  you  go,  Hst- 
en  to  me,  and  mark  me  well.  You  saw  me 
in  conversation  with  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

Dandy,  whose  perception  was  quick  as 
lightning,  had  his  linger  on  his  lips  imme- 
diately. "  I  understand  you,  sir,"  said  he  ; 
"  and  once  for  all,  sir,"  he  j)roceeded,  "  do 
you  listen  to  me.  You  may  lay  it  down  as 
one  of  the  ten  commandments,  that  any  se- 
cret you  may  plaise  to  trust  me  with,  wiU  be 
undher  a  tombstone.  I'm  not  the  stuff  that 
a  traitor  or  %'illain  is  made  of.  So,  once  for 
all,  your  honor,  mal:e  your  mind  aisy  on 
that  point." 

"It  will  be  your  own  interest  to  prove 
faithful,"  said  his  master.  "  Here  is  a 
month's  wages  for  you  in  advance." 

Dandy,  having  accejsted  the  money,  imme- 
diately proceeded  to  the  next  hackney  sta- 
tion, which  was  in  the  same  street,  where  he 
took  a  coach  by  the  hour  ;  and  having  got 
into  it,  ordered  the  driver  to  follow  that 
which  he  saw  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  hotel 
aforesaid. 

"  Folly  that  hackney,"  said  he  to  the  dri- 
ver, "  at  what  is  called  a  resi^ectful  distance, 
an'  you'll  be  no  loser  by  it." 

"Is  there  a  piece  of  fun  in  the  wind?" 
asked  the  driver,  vrith  a  knowing  griu. 

"Wlien  you  go  to  youi-  Padereens  to- 
night," replied  Dandy,  "  that  is,  in  case  you 
ever  trouble  them,  you  may  swear  it  on 
them." 

"  Wliish  !  More  power — I'm  the  boy  will 
rowl  you  on." 

"There,  they're  off,"  said  Dandy;  "but 
don't  be  in  a  hurry,  for  fi'aid  we  might  seem 
to  folly  them — only  for  j'our  hfe  and  sowl, 
and  as  you  hope  to  get  half-a-dozen  gaim- 
ticklers  when  we  come  come  Ijack — don't  let 
them  out  o'  sight.  By  the  rakes  o'  Midlow, 
this  jaunt  may  be  the  makin'  o'  you.  Says 
his  lordshij)  to  me,  'Dandy,'  says  he,  "  find 
out  where  she  goes  to,  and  you  and  every 
one  that  helps  you  to  do  so,  is  a  made 
man.' " 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  exclaimed  the  driver,  with 
glee,  "is  that  it?  Come,  then — here's  at  you 
— they're  off." 

It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock,  and  the  stran- 
ger requested  to  be  shown  to  a  bedroom,  to 
which  he  immediately  retired,  in  order  to 
gain  a  few  hours'  sleep,  after  the  fatigue  of 
his  journey  and  the  agitation  which  he  had 
Undergone. 


In  the  meantime,  as  Dandy  followed  Miss 
Goiu-lay,  so  shall  we  follow  him.  The  chase, 
we  must  admit,  was  conducted  with  singular 
judgment  and  discretion,  the  second  chaise 
jogging  on — but  that,  in  fact,  is  not  the 
term — we  should  rather  say  flogging  on, 
inasmuch  as  that  which  contained  the  fair 
fugitives  went  at  a  rate  of  most  luiusual 
sjaeed.  In  this  manner  they  proceeded,  un- 
til they  reached  a  veiy  pretty  cottage,  about 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  town  of 
Wicklow,  situated  some  fifty  or  sixty  yards 
in  fi'om  the  road  side.  Here  they  stopped  ; 
but  Dandy  desired  his  man  to  di-ive  slowly 
on.  It  was  e\ident  that  this  cottage  was  the 
destination  of  the  fugitives.  Dandy,  ha^dng 
turned  a  corner  of  the  road,  desired  the 
driver  to  stop  and  observe  wliether  they  en- 
tered or  not ;  and  the  latter  having  satisfied 
himself  that  they  did — 

"Now,"  said  Dandy,  "let  us  wait  where 
we  are  till  we  see  whether  the  chaise  returns 
or  not ;  if  it  does,  all's  right,  and  I  know 
what  I  know." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  empty  chaise  started 
once  more  for  Dulilin,  followed,  as  before, 
by  the  redoubtable  Dulcimer,  who  entered 
the  city  a  much  more  important  j^ersou  than 
when  he  left  it.  Ivnowledge,  as  Bacon  says, 
is  power. 

About  two  o'clock  the  stranger  was 
dressed,  had  brealcfasted,  and  ha^^ng  or- 
dered a  car,  proceeded  to  Constitution  Hill. 
As  he  went  up  the  sti-eet,  he  observed  the 
numbers  of  the  houses  as  well  as  he  could, 
for  some  had  numbers  and  some  had  not. 
Among  the  latter  was  that  he  sought  for, 
and  he  was  consequently  obliged  to  inquire. 
At  length  he  foixnd  it,  and  saw  by  a  glance 
that  it  was  one  of  those  low  lodging-houses 
to  which  country  folks  of  humble  rank — 
chapmen,  hawkers,  pedlers,  and  others  of  a 
similar  character — resort.  It  was  evident, 
also,  that  the  proprietor  dealt  in  huckstery, 
as  he  saw  a  shojD  in  which  there  was  bacon, 
mesU,  oats,  eggs,  potatoes,  bread,  and  such 
other  articles  as  are  usually  to  be  found  m 
small  establishments  of  the  kind.  He  en- 
tered the  shop,  and  found  an  old  man, 
certainly  not  less  than  seventy,  but  rather 
beyond  it,  sitting  behind  the  counter.  The 
aj^ijearance  of  this  man  was  anything  but 
13rei50ssessing.  His  brows  were  low  and 
heavy  ;  his  mouth  close,  and  remarkably 
hard  for  his  years  ;  the  forehead  low  and 
narrow,  and  singularly  deficient  in  what 
pkrenologists  term  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual qualities.  But  the  worst  feature  in  the 
whole  face  might  be  read  in  his  small,  dark, 
cunning  eyes,  which  no  man  of  any  penetra- 
tion could  look  ui^on  without  feeling  that 
they  were  significant  of  duplicity,  ci-uelty. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


389 


ftnd  fraud.  His  liair,  tliough  long,  and  fall- 
ing over  Lis  neck,  was  black  as  ebony ;  for 
altbougla  Time  had  left  bis  impress  upon  the 
genei'al  fe:itui'e8  of  his  face,  it  had  not  dis- 
colored a  single  hail'  upon  bis  bead  ;  whilst 
Ms  whiskers,  on  the  contrary,  were  like 
snow — a  circumstance  which,  in  connection 
■with  his  sinister  look,  gave  him  a  remark- 
able and  startling  ajjpearauce.  His  hands 
were  coarse  and  strong,  and  the  joints  of  bis 
thick  fingers  were  noded  either  by  age  or 
disease  ;  but,  at  all  events,  affording  indica- 
tion of  a  rude  and  vmfeeliug  character. 

"  Pray,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is  your  name 
.Denis  Dnuphj'  ?  " 

The  old  man  fastened  his  rat-like  eyes 
upon  him,  compressed  bis  bard,  uufeebng 
lijis,  and,  after  siu'N'sying  him  for  some  time, 
replied — 

"  What's  yoiu"  business,  sii',  with  Denis 
Dunpby  ? " 

"  That,  mj'  fi-iend,  can  be  mentioned  only 
to  himself  ;  are  you  the  man  ?  " 

"  Well,  and  what  if  I  be  ?  " 

"  But  I  must  be  certain  that  you  are." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  a  second 
scrutiny,  after  which  he  rejilied, 

"  May  be  my  name  w  Denis  Dunjjhy." 

"I  have  no  communication  to  make,"  said 
the  stranger,  "  that  you  may  be  afraid  of  ; 
but,  such  as  it  is,  it  can  be  made  to  no  per- 
son but  Denis  Dunpby  himself.  I  have  a 
letter  for  him." 

"  Who  does  it  come  fi'om  ? "  asked  the 
cautious  Denis  Duuisby. 

"  Fi"om  the  parish  priest  of  Bally  train," 
replied  the  other,  "the  Eev.  Father  M'Ma- 
hon." 

The  old  man  pulled  out  a  large  snuff-box, 
and  took  a  long  f)ineb,  which  be  crammed 
with  his  thumb  tirst  into  one  nostril,  then 
into  the  other,  bending  bis  head  at  the  same 
time  to  each  side,  in  order  to  enjoy  it  with 
greater  reUsh,  after  which  he  gave  a  short 
deliberative  cough  or  two. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  am  Denis  Dunpby." 

"In  that  case,  then,"  rej^lied  the  other,  "I 
should  vei-y  much  wish  to  have  a  short  pri- 
vate conversation  with  j'ou  of  some  impor- 
tance. But  you  bad  better  first  read  the 
reverend  gentleman's  letter,"  be  added,  "  and 
perhaps  we  shall  then  imderstand  each  other 
better  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he  handed  him  the 
letter. 

The  man  received  it,  looked  at  it,  and 
again  took  a  more  rapid  and  less  copious 
pinch,  peered  keenly  at  the  stranger,  and 
asked — "  Pray,  sir,  do  you  know  the  contents 
of  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Not  a  syllable  of  it." 

He  then  coughed  again,  and  having  opened 
the  document,  began  deliberately  to  peruse  it. 


The  stranger,  who  was  disagreeably  im- 
pressed by  bis  whole  manner  and  appear- 
ance, made  a  point  to  watch  the  effect  which 
the  contents  of  the  document  might  have  on 
him.  The  other,  in  the  meantime,  read  on, 
and,  as  he  proceeded,  it  was  ob^dous  that' 
the  communication  was  not  only  one  that 
gave  him  no  pleasure,  but  filled  him  with 
suspicion  and  alai-m.  After  about  twenty 
minutes — for  it  took  him  at  least  that  length 
of  time  to  get  through  it — he  raised  his  head, 
and  fastening  his  small,  piercing  eyes  ujjon 
the  stranger,  said : 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  this  letter  comes 
from  Father  M'Mahon '? " 

"I'd  have  you  to  understand,  sir,"  reislied 
the  stranger,  nearly  losing  his  temper,  "that 
you  are  addi'essing  a  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  honor." 

"Faith,"  said  the  other,  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  am  or  not.  I  have  only  your  word 
for  it — and  no  man's  T\'illin'  to  give  a  bad 
character  of  himself — but  if  you  will  keep 
the  shop  here  for  a  minute  or  two,  I'll  soon 
be  able  to  tell  whether  it's  Father  M'Mahon's 
hand-write  or  not." 

So  saying,  he  debberately  locked  both  tOls 
of  the  counter — to  wit,  those  which  contained 
the  silver  and  copjjers — then,  surveying  the 
stranger  with  a  look  of  suspicion — a  look,  by 
the  way,  that,  aft.er  having  made  his  cash 
safe,  bad  now  something  of  the  triumph  and 
confidence  of  security  in  it,  he  withdrew  to  {i 
httle  backroom,  that  was  divided  from  the 
sboiJ  by  a  partition  of  boards  and  a  glass 
door,  to  which  there  was  a  red  ciu'tain. 

"  It  is  bettber,"  .said  the  impudent  old  sin- 
ner, alluding  to  the  cash  in  the  tills,  "  to 
greet  over  it  than  gTeet  afther  it — just  keep 
the  shoj)  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  then 
we'll  undherstand  one  another,  may  be. 
There's  a  great  many  skamers  going  in  this 
world." 

Having  entered  the  Uttle  room  in  question, 
he  suddenly  flopped  out  his  head  and  asked  : 

"  Could  you  weigh  a  stone  or  a  half  stone 
of  praties,  if  they  were  called  for  ?  But, 
never  mind — you'd  be  apt  to  give  clown 
weight — I'U  come  out  and  do  it  myself,  if 
they're  wanted  ; "  sajiug  which,  he  drew  the 
red  curtain  aside,  in  order  the  better,  as  it 
would  seem,  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  upon  the 
other. 

The  latter  was  at  first  offended,  but  ulti- 
matelj'  began  to  feel  amused  l)y  the  offensive 
peculiarities  of  the  old  man.  He  now  per- 
ceived that  be  was  eccentric  and  capriciou.'^, 
and  that,  m  order  to  lure  any  information 
out  of  him,  it  would  be  necessary  to  watch 
and  take  advantage  of  the  disagreeable  whim- 
sicahties  which  marked  bis  character.  Pa- 
tience, he  saw  clearly,  was  his  only  remedy. 


390 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


After  remainiBg  in  the  back  parlor  for 
about  eight  or  ten  minvites,  he  put  out  his 
thin,  sharp  face,  with  a  grin  upon  it,  which 
was  intended  tor  a  smile — the  expression  of 
which,  however,  was  exceedingly  disagree- 
able. 

"  We  will  talk  this  matter  over,"  he  said, 
"by  and  by.  I  have  compared  the  hand- 
write  in  this  letther  wid  a  certificate  of 
Father  M'Mahon's,  that  I  have  for  many 
years  in  my  possession.  Step  inside  in  the 
meantime  ;  the  ould  woman  will  be  back  in 
a  few  minutes,  and  when  she  comes  we'll  go 
upstairs  and  speiik  about  it." 

The  stranger  complied  with  this  invita- 
tion, and  felt  highly  gratified  that  matters 
seemed  about  to  tiike  a  more  favorable  turn. 

"I  trust,"  said  he,  "you  are  satisfied  that 
I  am  fully  entitled  to  any  confidence  you 
may  feel  disposed  to  jilace  in  me '?  " 

"The  priest  speaks  weU  of  you,"  replied 
Dunphy  ;  "  but  then,  sure  I  know  him  ;  he's 
so  kind-hearted  a  creature,  that  any  one 
who  speaks  him  fair,  or  that  he  hajjpens  to 
take  a  fancy  to,  will  be  sure  to  get  his  good 
word.  It  isn't  much  assistance  I  can  give 
you,  and  it's  not  on  account  of  his  letther 
altogether  that  I  do  it ;  but  bekaise  I  think 
the  time's  come,  or  rather  soon  Kill  be  come. 
Oh,  here,"  he  said,  "  is  the  ould  woman,  and 
she'll  keep  the  shop.  Now,  sir,  come  ujd- 
stairs,  if  you  plaise,  for  what  we're  goiu'  to 
talk  about  is  what  the  very  stones  oughtn't 
to  hear  so  long  as  that  man " 

He  paused,  and  instantly  checked  him- 
self, as  if  he  felt  that  he  had  ah-eady  gone 
too  far. 

"  Now,  sir,"  he  proceeded,  "  what  is  it 
you  expect  fi-om  me  ?     Name  it  at  wanst." 

"  You  ai'e  awai-e,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that 
the  son  of  the  late  Sir  Edward  Gourlay,  and 
the  heir  of  his  projserty,  disappeared  very 
mysteriouslj'  and  suspieiouslj' " 

"And  so  did  the  sou  of  the  present  man," 
replied  Dunphy,  eying  the  stranger  keenly. 

"  It  is  not  of  him  I  am  speaking,"  rei^lied 
the  other  ;  "  although  at  the  same  time  I 
must  say,  that  if  I  could  find  a  trace  even  of 
him  I  would  leave  no  stone  uutm-ned  to  re- 
cover him.' 

The  old  man  looked  into  the  floor,  and 
mused  for  some  time. 

"  It  was  a  strange  business,"  he  observed, 
"  that  both  should  go — you  may  take  my 
word,  there  has  been  mischief  and  revenge, 
or  both,  at  the  bottom  of  the  same  business." 

"  The  worth}'  priest,  wliose  letter  I  pre- 
sented to  you  to-day,  led  me  to  suppose, 
that  if  any  man  could  \>wi  me  iu  a  capacitj' 
to  throw  light  upon  it  you  could." 

"  He  didn't  say,  surely,  that  /  could  throw 
Ught  upon  it — did  he  ?  " 


"  No,  certainly  not — but  that  if  any  man 
could,  you  are  that  man." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  old  Dunphy  ;  "  all  be- 
kaise he  thinks  I  have  a  regai-d  for  the 
Goui-lays.  That's  what  makes  him  supjjose 
that  I  know  anything  about  the  business  ; 
just  as  if  I  was  in  the  saicrets  of  the  family. 
I  may  have  suspicions  hke  other  jseople  ; 
but  that's  all." 

"  Can  you  thi'ow  out  no  hint,  or  give  no 
clew,  that  might  aid  me  iu  the  recovery  of 
this  imhapi^y  young  man,  if  he  be  alive  ?  " 

"  You  did  well  to  add  thai,  for  who  can  tell 
whether  he  is  or  not? — maybe  it's  only 
I  thrashing  the  water  you  are,  after  all." 

The  stranger  saw  the  old  fellow  had  once 
more  grown  cautious,  and  avoided  giving  a 
:  direct  rei^ly  to  him  ;  but  on  considering  the 
,  matter,  he  was,  after  all,  not  much  sui-jsrised 
at  this.  The  subject  involved  a  black  and 
heinous  crime,  and  if  it  so  happened  that 
I  Dunphy  could  in  any  way  have  been  impli- 
cated in  or  connected  with  it,  even  indirectly, 
it  would  be  almost  imreasonable  to  expect 
I  that  he  should  now  become  his  own  accuser. 
j  Still  the  stranger  could  observe  that  in  spite 
■  of  all  his  caution,  there  was  a  mystery  and 
uneasmess  in  his  manner,  when  talkiug  of 
I  it,  which  he  could  not  shake  oflf. 

When  the  conversation  had  reached  this 
point,  the  old  woman  called  her  husband 
down  in  a  voice  that  seemed  somewhat 
agitated,  but  not,  as  far  as  he  could  g^iess, 
disagreeably. 

"  Denis,  come  down  a  minute,"  she  said, 
"come  down,  will  you?  here's  a  stranger 
that  you  haven't  seen  for  some  time." 

"What  stranger?"  he  inquired,  peevishly. 
"WTio  is  it?  I  wish  you  wouldn't  bother  me 
— I'm  talkia'  with  a  gentlem;m." 

"  It's  Ginty." 

"  Ginty,  is  it  ?  "  said  he,  musing.  "  Well, 
that's  odd,  too — to  think  that  .s/u;  should 
come   at    this   very   moment.     Majbe,    the 

hand  of  G .     I  beg   your  pardon,   sir, 

for  a  minute  or  two — I'U  be  back  imme- 
diately " 

He  went  do\\Ti  stairs,  and  found  in  the 
back  parlor  the  woman  named  Ginty  Cooper, 
the  same  fortune-teller  and  prophetess  whom 
we  have  ah'eady  described  to  the  reader. 

The  old  man  seemed  to  consider  her  ap 
pearance  not  as  an  incident  that  stirred  up 
any  natural  affection  in  himself,  but  as  one 
that  he  looked  upon  as  extraordinary.  In- 
deed, to  tell  the  truth,  he  experienced  a 
sensation  of  surprise,  mingled  with  a  suiscr- 
stitious  feeling,  that  startled  him  consider- 
ably, by  her  unexpected  ajipearance  at  that 
particular  period.  He  did  not  resume  his 
conversation  with  the  stranger  for  at  least 
twenty  minutes  ;  but  the  hitter  was  perfectly 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


391 


aware,  from  the  earnestness  of  their  voices, 
although  their  words  were  not  audible,  that 
he  and  the  new-comer  were  discussing  some 
topic  in  which  they  must  have  felt  a  very 
deep  interest.  At  length  he  came  up  and 
apologized  for  the  delay,  adding  : 

"  With  regard  to  this  business,  it's  alto- 
gether out  of  my  power  to  give  you  any 
assistance.  I  have  nothing  but  my  suspi- 
cions, and  it  wouldn't  be  the  part  of  a  Chris- 
tian to  lay  a  crime  like  that  to  any  man's 
door  upon  mere  guess." 

"  If  you  know  anything  of  this  dark  trans- 
action," rej^lied  the  stranger,  whose  earnest- 
ness of  manner  was  increased  by  his  disap- 
pointment, as  well  as  by  an  impression  that 
the  old  man  knew  more  about  it  than  he 
was  disposed  to  admit,  "  and  ^vill  not  enable 
us  to  render  justice  to  the  wronged  and 
defrauded  orphan,  you  will  have  a  heavj' 
reckoning  of  it — an  awful  one  when  you 
meet  your  God.  By  the  usual  course  of 
nature  that  is  a  reckoning  that  must  soon 
be  made.  I  advise  you,  therefore,  not  to 
tamper  with  your  own  conscience,  nor,  by 
concealing  your  knowledge  of  this  great 
crime  to  jjeril  your  hoj)es  of  eternal  happi- 
ness. Of  one  thing  you  may  rest  assured, 
that  the  justice  we  seek  will  not  stoop  to 
those  who  have  been  merely  instruments  in 
the  hands  of  others." 

"That's  all  very  fine  talk,"  replied  Dun- 
phy,  uneasily'  however,  "  and  from  the  high- 
flown  language  you  give  me,  I  take  you  to  be 
a  lawyer  ;  but  if  you  were  ten  times  a  law- 
yer, and  a  judge  to  the  back  of  that,  a  man 
can't  tell  what  he  doesn't  know." 

"  Mark  me,"  replied  the  stranger,  assailing 
him  through  his  cupidity,  "I  pledge  you  my 
solemn  word  that  for  any  available  informa- 
tion you  may  or  can  give  us  you  shall  be 
most  liberally  and  amply  remunerated." 

"  I  have  money  enough,"  replied  Dunphy  ; 
"  that  is  to  say,  as  much  as  bai-ely  does  me, 
for  the  wealthiest  of  us  cannot  bring  it  to  the 
grave.  I'm  thankful  to  you,  but  I  can  give 
you  no  assistance." 

"  Wliom  do  you  suspect,  then? — whom  do 
yon  even  suspect  ?  " 

"  Hut ! — wliy,  the  man  that  every  one  sus- 
pects— Sir  Thomas  Gourlay." 

"And  ui3on  what  gromids,  may  I  ask?" 
"  Wliy,  simjily  because  no  other  man  had 
any  interest  in  getting  the  child  removed. 
Every  owe  knows  he's  a  dark,  tyrannical,  bad 
man,  that  wouldn't  be  apt  to  scruple  at  any- 
thing. There  now,"  he  added,  "  that  is  aU  I 
know  about  it ;  and  I  suppose  it's  not  more 
than  you  knew  yourself  before." 

In  order  to  close  the  dialogue  he  stood  up, 
and  at  once  led  the  way  down  to  the  back 
parlor,  where  the  stranger,  on  following  him. 


found  Ginty  Cooper  and  the  old  woman  in 
close  conversation,  which  instantly  ceased 
when  they  made  their  appearance. 

The  stranger,  chagrined  and  vexed  at  his 
want  of  success,  was  about  to  depart,  when 
Dunphy's  wife  said : 

"  Maybe,  sir,  you'd  wish  to  get  your  for- 
tune- tould  '?  bekaise,  if  you  would,  here's  a 
woman  that  will  tell  it  to  you,  and  you  may 
dejsend  u2)on  it  she'll  tell  you  nothing  but 
the  tnith." 

"  I  am  not  in  a  humor  for  such  nonsense, 
my  good  woman  ;  I  have  nuich  more  impor- 
tant matters  to  think  of,  I  assure  you  ;  but  I 
su23pose  the  woman  wishes  to  have  her  hand 
crossed  with  silver  ;  well,  it  shall  be  done. 
Here,  my  good  woman,"  he  said  offering  her 
money,  "accef)t  this,  and  spare  your  proph- 
ecy." 

"  I  will  not  have  your  money,  sir,"  replied 
the  prophetess  ;  "  and  I  say  so  to  let  you 
know  that  I'm  not  an  impostor.  Be  advis- 
ed, and  hear  me — show  me  your  hand." 

The  startling  and  almost  supernatiu-al  ap- 
pearance of  the  woman  struck  him  very  forc- 
ibly, and  with  a  kind  of  good-humored  im- 
patience, he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her. 
"  Well,"  said  he,  "I  will  test  the  truth  of 
what  you  promise." 

She  took  it  into  hers,  and  after  examining 
the  lines  for  a  few  seconds  said,  "  The  lines 
in  your  hand,  sir,  are  very  legible — so  much 
so  that  I  can  read  your  name  in  it —  and  it's 
a  name  which  very  few  in  this  country 
know." 

The  stranger  started  mth  astonishment, 
and  was  about  to  sj)eak,  but  she  .signed  to 
him  to  be  sOent. 

"  You  are  in  love,"  she  continued,  "  and 
your  sweetheart  loves  you  deai-ly.  You  saw 
her  this  morning,  and  you  would  give  a  trifle 
to  know  where  she  will  be  to-moiTow.  You 
traveled  with  her  last  night  and  didn't  know 
it — and  the  business  that  brought  you  to 
town  mil  prosper." 

"  You  say  you  know  my  name,"  replied  the 
stranger,  "  if  so,  wi-ite  it  on  a  sli^j  of  pa- 
jser." 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Will  it  do,"  she  asked,  "if  I  give  you 
the  initials  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  repUed,  "  the  name  in  fuU — and 
I  think  you  are  fairly  caught." 
*  She  gave  no  reply,  but  having  got  a  slip 
of  p.iper  and  a  pen,  went  to  the  wall  and 
knocked  three  times,  repeating  some  unin- 
telligible words  with  an  ajJiiearance  of  great 
solemnity  and  mystery.  Having  knocked, 
she  applied  her  ear  to  the  wall  three  times 
also,  after  which  she  seemed  satisfied. 

The  stranger  of  course  imijuted  all  this  to 
imjjosture  ;  but  when  he  reflected  upon  what 


592 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


she  had  already  iold  him,  he  felt  perfectly 
confoiiuded  with  amazement.  The  prophet- 
ess then  went  to  her  father's  counter  and 
wrote  something  upon  a  small  fragment  of 
paper,  which  she  handed  to  him.  No  earth- 
ly language  could  now  express  his  astonish- 
ment, not  from  any  beUef  he  entertained  tlint 
she  possessed  supernatural  power,  but  from 
the  almost  incredible  fact  that  she  could 
have  known  so  much  of  a  man's  affairs  who 
was  an  utter  stranger  to  her,  and  to  whom 
she  was  herself  unknown. 

"Well,  it  is  odd  enough," he  added  ;  "but 
this  knocking  on  the  wall  and  listening  was 
useless  jugglery.  Did  you  not  say,  when 
first  you  insjjected  my  hand,  that  you  could 
read  my  name  in  the  lines  of  it?  then,  of 
course  you  knew  it  before  you  knocked  at 
the  wi^U — the  knocking,  therefore,  was  im- 
posture." 

"I  knew  the  name,"  she  reijlied,  "the 
moment  I  looked  into  your  hand,  but  I  was 
obliged  to  ask  permission  to  reveal  it.  Your 
observation,  however,  was  very  natural.  It 
may,  in  the  meantime,  be  a  consolation  for 
you  to  know  that  I'm  not  at  liberty  to  men- 
tion it  to  any  one  but  youi'self  and  one  other 
person." 

"  A  man  or  woman  ?  " 

"  A  woman — she  you  saw  this  morning." 

"  ^^^^etheI•  that  be  true  or  not,"  obsei'ved 
the  stranger,  "the  mention  of  my  name  at 
present  would  jjlace  me  in  both  difficulty  and 
danger  ;  so  that  I  hojse  you'll  keef)  it  se- 
cret." 

She  threw  the  slip  of  jjaper  into  the  fire. 
"  There  it  lies,"  she  replied,  "  and  you  might 
as  well  read  it  in  those  white  ashes  as  extract 
it  from  me  until  the  projjer  time  comes.  Bvit 
with  respect  to  it,  there  is  one  thing  I  must 
tell  you  before  you  go." 

"  WHiat  is  that,  pray  ?  " 

"It  is  a  name  you  will  not  carry'  long. 
Ask  me  no  more  questions.  I  have  ah'eady 
said  you  will  succeed  in  the  object  of  your 
pursuit,  but  not  witliout  difficidty  and  dan- 
ger. Take  my  ad^'ice,  and  never  go  any- 
where without  a  case  of  loaded  pistols.  I 
have  good  reasons  for  saying  so.  Now  pass 
on,  for  I  am  silent." 

There  was  an  air  of  confidence  and  supe- 
riority about  her  as  she  uttered  these  words 
— a  sense,  as  it  were,  of  power — of  a  privilege 
to  command,  by  which  the  stranger  felt  hinf- 
self  involuntarily  influenced.  He  once  more 
offered  her  money,  but,  with  a  motion  of  her 
hand,  she  silently,  and  somewhat  indignant- 
ly refused  it. 

Whilst  this  singular  exhibition  took  place, 
the  stranger  observed  the  very  remarkable 
and  peculiar  expression  of  the  old  man's 
countenimce.     It  is  indeed  very  diflicult  to 


describe  it.  He  seemed  to  experience  a  feel- 
ing of  satisfaction  and  triumph  at  the  revela- 
tions the  woman  had  made  ;  added  to  which 
was  something  that  might  be  termed  shrewd, 
ironical,  and  derisive.  In  fact,  his  face  bore 
no  bad  resemblance  to  that  of  ]Mephistophe- 
les,  as  reiiresented  in  Eetsch's  powerful  con- 
ception and  delineation  of  it  in  his  illustra- 
tion of  Goethe's  "Faust,"  so  inimitably 
translated  by  oiu-  admirable  countrjonan, 
Anster. 

The   stranger  now  looked  at  his   watch, 
bade  them  good  day,  and  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

Intermew  between  Lady  Gourlay  and  the  Stranger 
— Dandi)  Dulcimer  makes  a  Discovery —  The 
Stranger  receiccs  Mysterious  Communications. 

From  Constitution  Hill  our  friend  drove 
directly  to  Merrion  square,  the  residence  of 
Lady  Gourlay,  whom  he  found  alone  in  the 
drawing-room.  She  welcomed  him  with  a 
courtesy  that  was  exjjressive  at  once  of  anx- 
iety, sorrow,  and  hoiDe.  She  extended  her 
hand  to  him  and  said,  after  the  usual  greet- 
ings were  over  : 

"I  fear  to  ask  what  the  result  of  your 
journey  has  been — for  I  cannot,  alas !  read 
any  expression  of  success  in  your  counte- 
nance." 

"As  yet,"  replied  the  stranger,  "I  have 
not  been  successful,  madam  ;  but  I  do  not 
desi^air.  I  am,  and  have  been,  acting  luider 
an  impression,  that  we  shall  ultimately  suc- 
ceed ;  and  although  I  can  hold  out  to  your 
ladyshii)  but  very  slender  hopes,  if  any,  still 
I  would  say,  do  not  despau-." 

Ladj-  Gourlay  was  about  forty-eight,  and 
although  soiTow,  and  the  bitter  calamity 
with  which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted, 
had  left  their  severe  traces  ujiou  her  consti- 
tution and  featui'es,  still  she  was  a  woman 
on  whom  no  one  could  look  without  deep 
interest  and  sympathy.  Even  at  that  age, 
her  fine  form  and  extraordinary  beauty  bore 
up  in  a  most  surj^rising  manner  against  her 
sufferings.  Her  figure  was  tall — its  projior- 
tions  admirable  ;  and  her  beauty,  faded  it  is 
true,  still  made  the  spectator  feel,  with  a 
kind  of  wonder,  what  it  must  have  Ijeen  when 
she  was- in  the  prime  of  youth  and  untouched 
by  affliction.  She  possessed  that  sober  ele- 
gance of  manner  that  was  in  melancholy 
accordance  with  her  fate  ;  and  e'^ineed  in 
every  movement  a  natural  dignity  that  ex- 
cited more  than  ordinary  respect  and  s_^-m- 
pathy  for  her  character  and  the  sorrows  she 
had  suffered.     Her  face  was  oval,  and  had 


THE  BLACK  BAEONET. 


393 


been  always  of  tliat  healthy  paleness  than 
which,  when  associated  with  symmetry  and 
expression — as  was  the  case  with  her — there 
is  nothing  more  lovelj'  among  women.  Her 
ej-es,  which  were  a  dark  brown,  had  lost,  it 
is  tiaie,  much  of  the  lustre  and  sparkle  of 
early  life  ;  but  this  was  succeeded  by  a  mild 
and  meUow  light  to  which  an  abiding  sorrow 
had  imparted  an  expression  that  was  full  of 
melancholy  beauty. 

For  many  years  past,  indeed,  ever  since 
the  disappeai-ance  of  her  only  child,  she  had 
led  a  secluded  life,  and  devoted  herself  to 
the  Christian  virtues  of  chai'ity  and  benevo- 
lence ;  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  avoid  any- 
tliing  like  ostentatious  disjalay.  Still,  such 
is  the  structure  of  society,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  carry  the  virtues  for  which  .she  was 
remarkable  to  any  practical  extent,  without 
the  world  by  degrees  becoming  cognizant  of 
the  secret.  The  very  recijsieuts  themselves, 
in  the  fulness  of  their  heart,  will  commit  a 
grateful  breach  of  confidence  with  which  it 
is  imjiossible  to  quaiTel. 

Consoled,  as  far  as  any  consolation  could 
reach  her,  by  the  consciousness  of  doing 
good,  as  well  as  by  a  strong  sense  of  religion, 
she  led  a  life  which  we  regret  so  few  in  her 
social  position  are  disposed  to  imitate.  For 
many  years  before  the  j)eriod  at  which  our 
narrative  commences,  she  had  given  up  aU 
hope  of  ever  recovering  her  child,  if  indeed 
he  was  alive.  Whether  he  had  perished  by 
an  accidental  death  in  some  jjlace  where  his 
body  could  not  be  discovered — whether  he 
had  been  mui'dered,  or  kidnapped,  were 
dreadful  contingencies  that  wrung  the  moth- 
er's soul  with  agony.  But  as  habits  of  en- 
durance give  to  the  body  stronger  2:)owers  of 
resistance,  so  does  time  by  degrees  strengtli- 
eu  the  mind  against  the  influence  of  sorrow. 
A.  blameless  life,  therefore,  varied  only  hy  its 
unobtrusive  charities,  together  with  a  firm 
trust  in  the  goodness  of  God,  took  much  of 
the  sting  from  affliction,  but  could  not  wholly 
eradicate  it.  Had  her  child  died  in  her 
arms — had  she  closed  its  innocent  eyes  with 
her  own  hands,  and  given  the  mother's  last 
kiss  to  those  pale  lips  on  which  the  smile  of 
affection  was  never  more  to  sit — had  she 
been  able  to  go,  and,  in  the  fulness  of  her 
childless  heart,  pour  her  sorrow  over  his 
grave — she  wo^ild  have  felt  that  his  death, 
compared  with  the  darkness  and  uncertainty 
by  which  she  was  enveloped,  would  have 
been  comparatively  a  mitigated  dispensation, 
for  wliich  the  heart  ought  to  feel  ahnost 
thankful. 

The  death  of  Corbet,  her  steward,  found 
her  in  that  mournful  apathy  under  which 
she  had  labored  for  years.  Indeed  she  re- 
sembled a  certain  class  of  invalids  who  are 


afflicted  ^sith  some  secret  ailment,  which  is 
not  much  felt  unless  when  an  unexpected 
pressure,  or  sudden  change  of  posture, 
causes  them  to  feel  the  pang  which  it  inflicts. 
From  the  moment  that  the  words  of  the  dy- 
ing man  shed  the  serenity  of  hope  over  her 
mind,  and  revived  in  her  heart  all  those  ten- 
der aspirations  of  maternal  affection  whicli, 
as  associated  with  the  recovery  of  her  child, 
had  nearly  perished  out  of  it — fi'om  that 
moment,  we  say,  the  extreme  bitterness  of 
her  affliction  had  departed. 

She  had  already  sufi'ered  too  much,  how- 
ever, to  allow  herself  to  be  carried  beyond 
unreasonable  bounds  by  sanguine  and  im- 
jM'udent  expectations.  Her  rule  of  heart 
and  of  conduct  was  simple,  but  true — she 
tiiisted  in  God  and  in  the  justice  of  his  pro- 
vidence. 

On  hearing  the  stranger's  want  of  success, 
she  felt  more  affected  by  that  than  by  the 
faint  consolation,  which  he  endeavored  to 
hold  out  to  her,  and  a  few  bitter  tears  ran 
slowly  down  her  cheeks. 

"Hope  had  altogether  gone,"  said  she, 
"  and  with  hope  that  power  in  the  heart  to 
cherish  the  sorrow  which  it  sustains  ;  and 
the  certainty  of  his  death  had  thro^vn  me 
into  that  ajiathy,  which  quahfies  but  cannot 
destroy  the  painful  consequences  of  reflec- 
tion. That  which  presses  ujion  me  now,  is 
the  fear  that  althougli  he  may  stiU  live,  as 
unquestionably  Corljet  on  his  death-bed  had 
assured  me,  j-et  it  is  possible  we  may  never 
recover  him.  In  that  case  he  is  dead  to  me 
— lost  forever." 

"  I  will  not  attempt  to  offer  your  ladyship 
consolation,"  replied  the  stranger;  "but  I 
would  suggest  simi3l_y,  that  the  dying  words 
of  your  stewai'd,  perhaps,  may  be  looked  upon 
as  the  first  opening — the  dawn  of  a  hopefid 
is.sue.  I  think  we  may  fairly  and  reasonably 
calculate  that  your  son  lives.  Take  coui-age, 
madam.  In  our  efforts  to  trace  him,  re- 
member that  we  have  only  commenced 
ojierations.  Every  day  and  every  successive 
attempt  to  penetrate  this  painful  mystery 
■will,  I  trust,  fuiTiish  us  with  aelditional 
materials  for  success." 

"  May  God  grant  it !  "  rejjlied  her  lady- 
ship ;  "  for  if  we  fail,  my  wounds  will  have 
been  again  torn  open  in  vain.  Better  a 
thousand  times  that  that  hope  had  never 
reached  me." 

"  True,  indeed,  madam,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger ;  "  but  still  take  what  comfort  you  can. 
Think  of  your  brother-in-law  :  he  also  has 
lost  his  child,  and  bears  it  well." 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  replied,  "but  you  forget 
that  he  has  one  still  left,  and  that  I  am  child- 
less. If  there  be  a  solitary  being  on  earth, 
it  is  a  childless  and  a  widowed  mother — a 


394 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


widow  who  lias  known  a  mother's  love — a 
wife  who  has  experienced  the  tender  and 
manly  ati'ection  of  a  devoted  husband." 

"I  grant,"  he  replied,  "that  it  is,  indeed, 
a  bitter  fate." 

"  As  for  my  brother-in-law,"  she  jiroceeded, 
"  the  child  which  God,  in  his  love,  has  spared 
to  him  is  a  compensation  almost  for  anj" 
loss.  I  trust  he  loves  and  cherishes  her  as 
he  ought,  and  as  I  am  told  she  deserves. 
There  has  been  no  communication  between 
us  ever  since  my  marriage.  Edward  and  he, 
though  brothers,  were  as  diflferent  as  day  and 
night.  Unless  once  or  twice,  I  never  even 
saw  my  niece,  and  only  then  at  a  distance  ; 
nor  has  a  word  ever  passed  between  us. 
They  tell  me  she  is  an  angel  in  goodness,  as 
well  as  in  beauty,  and  that  her  uccomphsh- 
ments  are  extraordinary — but  / — I,  alas ! — am 
alone  and  childless." 

The  strangers  heart  palpitated  ;  and  had 
Lady  Gourlay  entertained  any  susfiicion  of 
his  attachment,  she  might  have  perceived  his 
agitation.  He  also  felt  deep  symjiathy  with 
Lady  Gourlay. 

"  Do  not  say  childless,  madam,"  he  replied. 
"  Your  ladyship  must  hojie  for  the  best." 

"  But  what  have  you  done  V  "  she  asked. 
"  Did  you  see  the  young  man  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him,  madam  ;  but  it  is  impossible 
to  get  anything  out  of  him.  That  he  is 
wrapped  in  some  deep  mystery  is  unquestion- 
able. I  got  a  letter,  however,  from  an 
amiable  Roman  Catholic  clergyman,  the  par- 
ish priest  of  Ballytrain,  to  a  man  named 
Dunphy,  who  hves  in  a  street  called  Con- 
stitution Hill,  ou  the  north  side  of  the  city. " 

"  He  is  a  relation,  I  understand,  of  Edward 
Corbet,  who  died  in  my  service,"  replied  her 
ladyship,  vnth  an  interest  that  seemed  in- 
stantly to  awaken  her.  "Well,"  said  she, 
eagerly,  "what  was  the  result?  Did  you 
present  the  letter  ?  " 

"I  presented  the  letter,  my  lady  ;  and  had 
at  first  strong  hopes  —  no,  not  at  first  — 
but  in  the  course  of  our  conversation.  He 
dropped  unconscious  hints  that  induce  me 
to  suspect  he  knows  more  about  the  fate  of 
your  son  than  he  wLshes  to  acknowledge.  It 
struck  me  that  he  might  have  been  an  agent 
in  this  black  business,  and,  on  that  account, 
that  he  is  afraid  to  criminate  himself.  I 
have,  besides,"  he  added,  smilingly,  "  had 
the  gratification  to  have  heard  a  jsrophecy 
uttered,  by  which  I  was  assured  of  ultimate 
success  in  my  efforts  to  trace  out  your  son  ; 
— a  prophecy  uttered  under  and  accompanied 
by  eh'cumstanees  so  extraordinary  and  in- 
comprehensible as  to  confound  and  amaze 
me." 

He  then  detailed  to  her  the  conversation 
he  had  had  with  old  Dunphy  and  the  fortune- 


teller, suppressing  all  allusion  to  whai  ite 
latter  had  said  concerning  Lucy  and  himself. 
After  which.  Lady  Gourlay  paused  for  some 
time,  and  seemed  at  a  loss  what  construction 
to  put  upon  it. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  at  length  ob- 
served ;  "  that  woman  has  been  here,  I  think, 
several  times,  visiting  her  late  brother,  who 
left  her  some  money  at  his  death.  Is  she  not 
extremely  pale  and  wild-looking  ?  " 

"  So  much  so,  madam,  that  there  is  some- 
thing awful  and  almost  sujiernatural-looking 
iti  the  expression  of  her  eyes  and  features.  I 
have  certainly  never  seen  such  a  face  before 
on  a  denizen  of  this  life." 

"  It  is  strange,"  rephed  her  ladyship,  "  that 
she  should  have  taken  uijon  her  the  odious 
character  of  a  fortune-teller.  I  was  not 
aware  of  that.  Corbet,  I  know,  had  a  sister, 
who  was  deranged  for  some  time  ;  perhaps 
this  is  she,  and  that  the  gift  of  fortune-teU- 
ing  to  which  she  jjretends  may  be  a  mono- 
mania or  some  other  delusion  that  her  uu- 
hajjjjy  malady  has  left  behind  it." 

"  Very  likely,  my  lady,"  reijlied  the  other  ; 
"  nothing  more  probable.  The  fact  you 
mention  accounts  both  for  her  strange  ap- 
j  pearance  and  conduct.  Still  I  must  say,  that 
j  so  far  as  I  had  an  opportunity  of  observing, 
i  there  did  not  appear  to  be  any  obvious  trace 
I  of  insanity  about  her." 

I      "  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "  we  know  to  fore- 
j  tell   future   events   is  not  now  one   of  the 
:  privileges  accorded  to  mortals.     I  will  j^lace 
my  assurance  in  the  justice  of  God's  good- 
ness and  jjrovidence,  and  not  in  the  delusions 
of  a  poor  maniac,  or,  perhaps,  of  an  impostor. 
!  What  course  do  you  propose  taking  now  V  " 

"I  have  not  yet  determined,  madam.  I 
think  I  will  see  this  old  Dunphy  again.  He 
I  told  me  that  he  certamly  susjiected  your 
brother-in-law,  but  assured  me  that  he  had 
no  specific  grounds  for  his  suspicions — be- 
yond the  simple  fact,  that  Sir  Thomas  would 
i  be  the  principal  gainer  by  the  child's  re- 
moval. At  all  events,  I  shaU  see  him  once 
more  to-morrow." 

"  What  stay  will  j'ou  make  in  town  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  at  the  present  moment  say,  my 

:  lady.     I  have  other  matters,  of  which  your 

'  ladj'ship  is  aware,  to  look  after.     My  own 

I  rights  must  be  vindicated  ;  and  I  dare  say 

you  will  not  regret  to  hear  that  everj-thing  is 

in  a  proper  train.     We  want  only  one  link 

of  the   chain.     An  important   document  is 

wanting  ;  but  I  think  it  will  soon  be  in  our 

hands.      Who  knows,"  he   added,    smiling, 

"  but  your  ladysliip  and  I  may  ere  long  be 

able  to  congratvdate  each  other  upon   oiu- 

mutual  success '?     And  now,  madam,  permit 

me  to  take  my  leave.     I  am  not  without  hope 

!  on  your  account ;  but  of  this  you  may  rest 


THE  BLACK  BAROI^ET. 


395 


assured,  that  my  most  strenuous  exertions 
sball  be  devoted  to  the  object  nearest  your 
heart." 

"  Alas,"  she  reished,  as  she  stood  up,  "  it 
is  neither  title  nor  wealth  that  I  covet.  Give 
me  m_y  child — restore  me  my  child — and  I 
shaU  iDe  hajDpy.  That  is  the  simple  ambition 
of  his  mother's  heart.  I  wish  Su-  Thomas  to 
understand  that  I  shaU  allow  him  to  enjoy 
both  title  and  estates  dvii'ing  his  life,  if,  know- 
ing where  my  child  is,  he  will  restore  him  to 
my  heart.  I  toU  bind  myself  by  the  most 
solemn  forms  and  engagements  to  this. 
Perhajjs  that  might  satisfy  him." 

They  then  shook  hands  and  sejjarated,  the 
stranger  involuntarily  influenced  by  the  con- 
fident predictions  of  Gintj-  Cooper,  although 
he  was  really  afraid  to  say  so  ;  whilst  Lady 
Gourlay  felt  her  heart  at  one  time  elevated 
by  the  dawn  of  hope  that  had  ai-isen,  and 
again  depressed  by  the  darkness  which  hung 
over  the  fate  of  her  son. 

His  nest  visit  was  to  his  attorney,  Bii-ney, 
■who  had  been  a  day  or  two  in  town,  and 
whom  he  found  in  his  office  in  Gloucester 
street. 

"Well,  !Mr.  Bimey,"  he  inquii-ed,  "what 
advance  are  you  making '? " 

"Why,"  rejjhed  Birney,  "the  state  of  our 
case  is  this  :  if  ili's.  Norton  could  be  traced 
we  might  manage  ■without  the  documents 
you  have  lost ; — by  the  way,  have  you  any 
notion  where  the  scoundrel  might  be  whom 
you  su.spect  of  having  taken  them '?  " 

"  What !  IM'Bride  ?  I  was  told,  as  I  men- 
tioned before,  that  he  and  the  Frenchwoman 
■went  to  America,  lea^^-ing  his  unfortunate 
■wife  behind  him.  I  could  easily  forgive  the 
rascal  for  the  money  he  took  ;  but  the  mis- 
fortune was,  that  the  documents  and  the 
money  were  both  in  the  same  pocket-book. 
He  knew  theii'  value,  however,  for  unfortu- 
nately he  was  fully  in  my  confidence.  The 
fellow  was  insane  about  the  girl,  and  I  think 
it  was  love  more  than  dishonesty  that  tempt- 
ed him  to  the  act.  I  have  httle  doubt  that 
he  would  return  me  the  papers  if  he  knew 
where  to  send  them." 

"  Have  you  any  notion  where  the  wife 
is?" 

"None  in  the  world,  unless  that  she  is 
somewhere  in  this  country,  having  set  out 
for  it  a  fortnight  before  I  left  Pai-is. " 

"  As  the  matter  stands,  then,"  replied  Bir- 
nev\  "  we  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to  France  in 
order  to  get  a  fresh  copy  of  tlie  death  and 
the  marriage  properly  attested — or,  I  should 
rather  say,  of  the  marriage  and  the  death. 
This  ^^■ill  complete  our  documentai-y  evi- 
dence ;  but,  unfortunately,  iNlrs.  Norton,  who 
was  her  maid  at  the  time,  and  a  ^-itness  of 
both  the  death  and  maiTiage,  cannot  be  found. 


although  she  wa§  seen  in  Dublin  about  three 
months  ago.  I  have  advertised  several  times 
for  her  in  the  papers,  but  to  no  jDui-pose.  I 
cannot  find  her  whereabouts  at  :ill.  I  fear, 
however,  and  so  does  the  Attorney-General, 
that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  accomphsh  our 
purpose  without  her." 

"  That  is  unfortunate,"  replied  the  stranger. 
"  Let  us  continue  the  advertisements  ;  per- 
hajjs  she  may  tiuTi  up  yet.  As  to  the  other 
pursuit,  touching  the  lost  child,  I  know  not 
what  to  say.  There  are  but  slight  grounds 
for  hope,  and  yet  I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to 
despau',  although  I  cannot  tell  why." 

"It  cannot  be  posh^ible,"  observed  Bimey, 
"  that  that  wicked  old  baronet  could  ulti- 
mately jjrosper  in  his  villainy.  I  speak,  of 
course,  upon  the  supposition  that  he  is,  or 
was,  the  bottom  of  the  business.  Your  safest 
and  best  jjlan  is  to  find  out  his  agents  in 
the  business,  if  it  can  be  done." 

"I  shall  leave  nothing  unattempted,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "and  if  we  fail,  we  shall  at 
least  have  the  satisfaction  of  ha'^ing  done  our 
duty.  The  laj^se  of  time,  however,  is  against 
us  ; — perhaj^s  the  agents  are  dead." 

"  If  this  man  is  guilty,"  said  the  attorney, 
"he  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  modem 
Macbeth.  However,  go  on,  and  keep  up 
your  resolution  ;  effort  will  do  much.  I  hoj)e 
in  this  case — in  both  cases-  —it  will  do  all." 

After  some  further  conversation  upon  the 
matter  in  question,  which  it  is  not  our  in- 
tention to  detail  here,  the  stranger  made  an 
ficui'sion  to  the  country,  and  returned  about 
six  o'clock  to  his  hotel.  Here  he  fo^md 
Dandy  Dulcimer  before  him,  evidently  brim- 
ful of  some  important  information  on  which 
"he  (Dandy)  seemed  to  place  a  high  value, 
and  which  gave  to  his  naturally  droll  counte- 
nance such  an  expression  of  mock  gra-yity  as 
was  ludicrous  in  the  extreme. 

"  Wliat  is  the  matter,  sir '? "  asked  his  mas- 
ter ;  "  you  look  very  big  and  impoi'tant  just 
now.    I  hopej-ou  have  not  been  drinking." 

Dandj'  compressed  his  lips  as  if  his  mas- 
ter's fate  depended  upon  his  words,  and 
pointing  ■ndth  his  forefinger  in  the  direction 
of  Wioklow,  replied  : 

"  The  deed  is  done,  sir — the  deed  is  done." 

"  ^Miat  deed,  sii-ra  ?  " 

"  Wei'en't  you  tould  the  stufi  that  was  in 
me?  "  he  repUed.  "  But  God  hirti  gifted  me, 
and  sure  that's  one  comfort,  glory  be  to  his 
name.     Weren't " 

"  Exjilain  yourself,  sir  !  "  said  his  master, 
authoritatively.  "  Wliat  do  you  mean  by 
■  the  deed  is  done  ? '  You  haven't  got  mar- 
ried, I  hope.  Perhaps  the  cousin  you  went 
to  see  was  your  sweetheart?" 

"No,  sir,  Ihaven't  got  married.  God  keep 
me  a  little  while  longer  fi'om  sich  a  calamity  ? 


396 


WILLIAM.    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


But   I  have  put  you   in  the  way  of  being  1 
so." 

"  How,  sirra — put  me  into  a  state  of  cala-  i 
mity  ?    Do  you  call  that  a  ser\'ice  ?  " 

"  A  state  of  reisentance,  sir,  they  say,  is  a 
state  of  grace  ;  an'  when  one's  in  a  state  of 
grace  they  can  make  their  soul  ;  and  any-  i 
thing,  you  know,  that  enables  one  to  make 
his  soul,  is  surely  for  his  good." 

"  'WTiy,  then,  say  '  God  forbid,'  when  I  ! 
suppose  you  had  yourself  got  married  ?  "         ! 

"  Bekaise  I'm  a  sinner,  sir, — a  good  deal 
hardened  or  so, — and  haven't  the  grace  even  j 
to  wish  for  such  a  state  of  grace." 

"  Well,  but  what  deed  is  this  you  have 
done  ?  and  no  more  of  your  gesticulations." 

"  Don't  you  undherstand,  sir  !  "  he  rephed,  1 
extending  the  digit  once  more  in  the  same 
direction,  and  with  the  same  comic  sigTiifi- 
cance. 

"She's  safe,  sir.  ]\Ess  Goui-lay — I  have 
her." 

"  How,  you  impudent  scoundrel,  what 
kind  of  language  is  this  to  apj)ly  to  IVIiss 
Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Troth,  an'  I  have  her  safe,"  rephed  the 
pertinacious  Dandy.  "Safe  as  a  hare  in  her 
form  ;  but  it  is  for  yoiu-  honor  I  have  her. 
Cousin  !  oh,  the  divd.  a  cousin  has  Dandy 
widiu  the  four  walls  of  Dublin  town  ;  but 
well  becomes  me,  I  took  a  post-chaise,  no 
less,  and  followed  her  hot  foot — never  lost 
sight  of  her,  even  while  you'd  wink,  till  I  seen 
her  housed." 

"Explain  yourself,  sirra." 

"Faith,  sir,  all  the  explanation  I  have  to 
give  you've  got,  barrin'  where  she  hves." 

The  stranger  instantly  thought  of  Lucy's 
caution,  and  for  the  present  determined  not 
to  embarrass  himself  with  a  knowledge  of  her 
5*esidence  ;  "  lest,"  as  she  said,  "  her  father 
Jniglit  demand  from  him  whether  he  was 
Mware  of  it."  In  that  case  he  felt  fidly  the 
ti-uth  and  justness  of  her  injunctions.  Should 
Sii-  Thomas  put  the  question  to  him  he  coidd 
not  betray  her,  nor  coidd  he,  on  the  other 
hand,  stain  his  conscience  by  a  deliberate 
falsehood ;  for,  in  truth,  he  was  the  soul  of 
honor  itself. 

"Harkee,  Dandy,"  said  he,  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  displeased  wdth  him,  al- 
though he  affected  to  be  so,  "  if  you  wish  to 
remam  in  my  ser\'ice  keep  the  secret  of 
Miss  Gourlay's  residence — a  secret  not  only 
from  me,  but  fi-om  every  human  being  that 
lives.  You  have  taken  a  most  unwarrantable 
and  imputlent  hberty  in  following  her  as  you 
did.  You  know  not,  sirra,  how  you  may 
have  implicated  both  her  and  me  by  such 
conduct,  especially  the  young  lady.  You  are 
known  to  be  in  my  ser\-ice  ;  although,  for 
certain   reasons,   I   do   not   intend,  for  the 


jn-esent  at  least,  to  put  you  into  livery  ;  and 
you  ought  to  know,  sir,  also,  that  it  will  be 
taken  for  granted  that  you  acted  by  my 
orders.  Now,  su-,  keep  that  secret  to  your- 
self, and  let  it  not  pass  your  li^DS  rmtil  I  may 
think  proper  to  ask  you  for  it." 

One  evening,  on  the  second  daj'  after  this, 
he  reached  his  hotel  at  six  o'clock,  and  was 
about  to  enter,  when  a  young  lad,  dancing 
U13  to  him,  asked  in  a  whisper  if  that  was 
for  him,  at  the  same  time  presenting  a  note. 
The  other,  looking  at  it,  saw  that  it  was  ad- 
dressed to  him  only  by  his  initials. 

"I  think  it  is,  mj- boy,"  said  he;  "fi'om 
whom  did  it  come,  do  you  know?" 

TTie  lad,  instead  of  giving  him  any  reply, 
took  instantly  to  his  heels,  as  if  he  had  been 
pursued  for  life  and  death,  mthout  even 
waiting  to  sohcit  the  gratuity  which  is  usu- 
ally expected  on  such  occasions.  Ovu-  fiiend 
took  it  for  granted  that  it  had  come  from 
the  fortune-teller,  Ginty  Coojier  ;  but  on 
opening  it  he  perceived  at  a  glance  that  he 
must  have  been  mistaken,  as  the  wi'iting  most 
certainly  was  not  that  of  this  extraordinaiy 
sibyl.  The  hand  in  which  she  had  ^TOtten 
his  name  was  precisely  such  as  one  would 
exijeet  from  such  a  woman — rude  and  \Tilgar 
— whereas,  on  the  contrary,  that  in  the  note 
was  elegant  and  lady-like.  The  contents 
were  as  follows  : 

"  Sir, — On  receijat  of  this  you  will,  if  you 
wish  to  jDrosper  in  that  which  you  have 
undertaken  to  accomphsh,  hasten  to  Bally- 
train,  and  secure  the  jjerson  of  a  young  man 
named  Fenton,  who  lives  in  or  about  the 
town.     You  will  claim  him  as  the  lawful  heir 

I  of  the  title  and  property  of  Red  Hall,  for 
such  in  fact  he  is.  Go  then  to  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay,  and  ask  him  the  followuig  questions: 

1  "  1st.  Did  he  not  one  night,  about  sixteen 
years  ago,  engage  a  man  who  was  so  ingeni- 
ously masked  that  the  chUd  neither  perceived 
the  mask,  nor  knew  the  man's  jsersou,  to  lure 
him  fi-om  Red  Hall,  under  the  pretence  of 

I  bringing  him  to  see  a  puppet  show '? 

j       "2d.  Did   not  Sir   Thomas  give  insti-uc- 

j  tions  to  this  man  to  take  him  out  of  kin  path, 

j  out  of  his  night,  and  out  of  his  heanu;/  f 

"3d.  Was  not  this  man  well  rewiU'ded  by 

I  Sir  Thomas  for  that  act  ? 

j       "  There  are  other  questions  in  connection 

I  with  the  affair  that  could  be  put,  but  at 
present  they  woidd  be  unseasonable.  The 
curtain  of  this  dark  ch-ama  is  begumiug  to 

;  rise  ;  truth  will,  ere  long,  be  vindicated,  jus- 
tice rendered  to  the  defi-auded  orphan,  and 
guilt  punished. 

"A  Lover  of  Justice." 

I  It  is  very  difficult  to  describe  the  feelings 
,  with  whiehthe  stranger  perused  this  welcome 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


397 


but  mysterious  document.  To  liim,  it  -was 
one  of  great  pleasure,  and  also  of  exceedingly 
great  pain.  Here  was  sometliing  like  a  clew 
to  the  discovery  wbicli  he  was  so  deejily  in- 
terested in  making.  But,  then,  at  whose 
expense  was  this  discovery  to  be  made  ?  He 
was  betrothed  to  Lucy  Gourlaj',  and  here  he 
was  comj^elled  by  a  sense  of  justice  to  drag 
her  father  forth  to  j)ubUc  exi50sui-e,  as  a 
criminal  of  the  deejiest  dye.  Wliat  would 
Lucy  say  to  this '?  Wliat  would  she  say  to 
the  man  who  should  entail  the  heavy  ig- 
nominy with  which  a  discovery  of  this  atro- 
cious crime  must  blacken  her  father's  name. 
He  knew  the  high  and  proud  principles  by 
which  she  was  actuated,  and  he  knew  how 
deeply  the  disgrace  of  a  guilty  parent  would 
affect  her  sensitive  spirit.  Yet  what  was  he 
to  do  ?  AVas  the  iniquity  of  this  ambitious 
and  bad  man  to  dejjrive  the  %'irtuous  and 
benevolent  woman — the  friend  of  the  i30or 
and  destitute,  the  loving  mother,  the  affec- 
tionate ivife  who  had  enshrined  her  departed 
husband  in  the  sorrowful  recesses  of  her 
pure  and  virtuous  heart,  was  this  cold- 
blooded and  cruel  tyi-ant  to  work  out  his 
diabohcal  purposes  without  any  effort  being 
made  to  check  him  in  his  career  of  guilt,  or 
to  justify  her  jjious  trust  in  that  God  to 
whom  she  looked  for  jsrotection  and  justice  ? 
No,  he  knew  Lucy  too  well ;  he  knew  that 
her  extraordinary  sense  of  truth  and  honor 
would  justify  him  in  the  stejis  he  might  be 
forced  to  take,  and  that  whatever  micjld  be 
the  result,  he  at  least  was  the  last  man  wliom 
rIv:  could  blame  for  ren^leruig  justice  to  the 
widow  of  her  father's  brother.  But,  then 
again,  what  rehance  could  be  placed  ujjon 
anonymous  information — information  which, 
after  all,  was  but  hmited  and  obscure  ?  Yet 
it  was  endent  that  the  writer — a  female 
bej'ond  question — whoever  she  was,  must  be 
perfectly  conversant  with  his  motives  and  his 
objects.  jVnd  if  in  volunteering  him  du'ections 
how  to  proceed,  she  had  any  piu-pose  adver- 
sative to  his,  her  note  was  without  meaning. 
Besides,  she  only  reawakened  the  suspicion 
which  he  himself  had  entertained  wth 
respect  to  Fenton.  At  all  events,  to  act 
upon  the  hints  contained  in  the  note,  might 
lead  to  something  capable  of  breaking  the 
hitherto  impenetrable  cloud  under  wliich  this 
melancholy  transaction  lay  ;  and  if  it  failed 
to  do  this,  he  (the  stranger)  could  not  possi- 
bly stand  worse  in  the  estimation  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlaj'  than  he  did  ah'eady.  Li 
God's  name,  then,  he  would  make  the  expeii- 
ment ;  and  in  order  to  avoid  mail-coach  ad- 
ventures in  future,  he  would  post  it  back  to 
Ballj-train  as  quietly,  and  with  as  little  obser- 
vation as  possible. 

He  accordingly  ordered  Dandy  to  make 


such  shght  preparations  as  were  necessary 
for  their  return  to  that  town,  and  in  the 
meantime  he  determined  to  pay  another  visit 
to  old  Dunphy  of  Constitution  Hill. 

On  an-iviug  at  the  huckster's,  he  found 
him  in  the  backroom,  or  parlor,  to  which  we 
have  before  alluded.  The  old  man's  manner 
was,  he  thought,  considerably  changed  io\ 
the  better.  He  received  him  with  mori. 
complacency,  and  seemed  as  if  he  felt  some- 
thiag  like  regret  for  the  harshness  of  his 
manner  toward  him  during  his  first  ^isit. 

"  WeU,  sir,"  said  he,  "  is  it  fair  to  ask  you, 
how  you  have  got  on  in  ferritin'  out  this 
black  business?" 

There  are  some  words  so  completely  low 
and  offensive  in  their  own  nature,  that  no 
matter  how  kind  and  honest  the  intention  of 
the  speaker  may  be,  thej'  are  certain  to  vex 
and  annoy  those  to  whom  they  are  appUed. 

"Ferreling  out!"  thought  the  stranger — 
"  what  does  the  old  scoundrel  mean  ?  ''  Yet, 
on  second  considei-ation,  he  could  not  for  the 
soul  of  him  avoid  admitting  that,  consider- 
ing the  nature  of  the  task  he  was  engaged 
in,  it  was  by  no  means  an  inappropriate  illus- 
tration. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  we  have  made  no  prog- 
ress, but  we  stni  iraai  that  you  wiU  enable 
us  to  advance  a  step.  I  have  already  told 
j'ou  that  we  only  wish  to  come  at  the  princi- 
jials.  Their  mere  instruments  we  overlook. 
You  seem  to  be  a  poor  man — but  hsten  to 
me — if  you  can  give  us  any  assistance  in  this 
affair,  you  shall  be  an  indej^endent  one  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  your  Ufe.  Provided 
murder  has  not  been  committed  I  guarantee 
perfect  safety  to  any  person  who  may  have 
onlj'  acted  under  the  orders  of  a  superior." 

"  Take  your  time,"  rephed  the  old  man, 
with  a  pecuhar  expression.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  a  river  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  why  do 
you  ask  ?  " 

"  WeU,  now,  could  you,  or  any  livin'  man, 
make  the  strame  of  that  river  flow  faster 
than  its  natural  coiu-se  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  rejjhed  the  stranger. 

"  AVell,  then — I'm  an  ould  man  and  be  ad- 
vised by  me — don't  attempt  to  hiuTy  the 
course  o'  the  river.  Take  things  as  they 
come.  If  there's  a  man  on  this  earth  that's 
a  Uvin'  divil  in  flesh  and  blood,  it's  Sir 
Thomas  Gomlay,  the  Black  BaiTownight ; 
and  if  there's  a  man  livin'  that  would  go  half 
way  into  hell  to  iJunish  him,  I'm  that  man. 
Now,  sir,  you  said,  the  Last  day  you  were 
here,  that  you  were  a  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  honor,  and  I  beheve  j'ou.  So  these  vrords 
that  /  have  sjsoken  to  you  about  him  you 
vstU  never  mention  them — you  proruise 
that  ? " 


398 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Of  course  I  can,  and  do.  To  wliat  pur- 
pose should  I  mention  them  ?  " 

"  For  your  own  sake,  or,  I  should  say,  for 
the  sake  of  the  cause  you  are  engaged  in, 
don't  do  it." 

The  bitterness  of  expression  which  dark- 
ened the  old  man's  featiu'es,  while  he  spoke 
of  the  Baronet,  was  perfectly  diabohcal,  and 
threw  him  back  from  the  good  opinion  which 
the  stranger  was  about  to  form  of  him,  not- 
withstanding his  conduct  on  the  previous 
day's  ■visit. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  like  Sir  Thomas," 
he  said.  "He  is  certainly  no  favorite  of 
yours." 

"  Like  him,"  replied  the  old  man,  bitterly. 
"  He  is  supi")osed  to  be  the  best  friend  I  have  ; 
hut  little  you  know  the  punishment  he  will 
get  in  his  heart,  sowl,  and  sjjirit — httle  you 
know  what  he  will  be  made  to  sutler  yet. 
Of  course  now  you  undherstand,  that  if  I 
could  help  you,  as  you  say,  to  advance  a  sin- 
gle step  in  finding  the  right  heir  of  this 
property  I  would  do  it.  As  matthers  stand 
now,  however,  I  can  do  nothing — but  I"U 
teU  you  what  I  will  do — I'U  be  on  the  look- 
out— I'll  ask,  seek,  and  inquire  from  them 
that  have  been  about  him  at  the  time  of  the 
child's  disappeai'anee,  and  if  I  can  get  a  sin- 
gle particle  worth  mentiouin'  to  you,  you 
shall  have  it,  if  I  could  only  know  where  a 
letther  would  tind  j'ou." 

The  cimniug,  the  sagacity,  the  indefinable 
tvvdukle  that  scintillated  from  the  small, 
piercing  eyes,  were  too  obvious  to  be  over- 
looked. The  stranger  instantly  felt  himself 
placed,  as  it  were,  ujson  his  guard,  and  he 
replied, 

"  It  is  possible  that  I  may  not  be  in  town, 
and  my  address  is  uncertain  ;  but  the  mo- 
ment you  are  in  a  capaeitj'  to  communicate 
any  information  that  maybe  useful,  go  to 
the  proper  quarter — to  Lady  Gourlay  her- 
self. I  understand  that  a  relation  of  yours 
lived  and  died  in  her  service  ?  " 

"That's  true,"  said  the  man,  "and  a  bet- 
ther  mistress  never  did  God  put  breath  in, 
nor  a  betther  unasther  than  Sir  Edward.  Well, 
1  will  follow  your  advice,  but  as  for  SirThom- 
as — no  mattlier,  the  time's  comm' — the  river's 
flowin  — and  if  there's  a  God  in  heaven,  he 
TviJl  be  punished  for  all  his  misdeeds — for 
other  things  as  well  as  takin'  away  the  child 
^that  is,  if  he  has  taken  him  away.  Now, 
tiir,  that's  all  T  can  say  to  you  at  present — for 
I  know  uothiTig  about  ihis  business.  'Wlio 
can  tell,  however,  but  I  may  ferret  out  some- 
tliing  ?  It  won't  be  my  heart,  at  any  rate, 
that  will  hinder  me." 

There  was  nothing  further  now  to  detain 
the  stranger  in  town.  He  accoi'dingly  post- 
ed it  at  a  rapid  rate  to  Ballytrain,  accom- 


panied by  Dandy  and  his  dulcimer,  who,  ex- 
cejit  diu-ing  the  evenings  among  the  servants 
in  the  hotel,  had  very  httle  opiaortunity  of 
creating  a  sensation,  as  he  thought  he  would 
have-  done  as  an  amateur  musician  in  the 
metrojjolis. 

"Musha,  you're  welcome  back,  sir,"  said 
Pat  Sharpe,  on  seeing  the  stranger  enter  the 
Mitre  ;  "  troth,  we  were  longin'  for  you,  sir. 
And  where  is  herself,  your  honor  ?  " 

"  'UTiom  do  j'ou  mean,  Pat  ? "  said  the 
stranger,  sharplj'. 

Pat  pointed  with  liis  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  toward  Eed  Hall. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh,  by 
mj'  soul  I  knew  you'd  manage  it  well.  And 
troth,  I'll  drink  long  Hfe  an'  happiness  an"  a 
sweet  honeymoon  to  yez  both,  this  very 
night,  tiU  the  eyes  stand  in  my  head.  All, 
thin,  but  she  is  the  darlin',  God  bless  her  !  " 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  the 
stranger  could  not  have  felt  more  astonish- 
ment ;  but  that  is  not  the  word — sorrow — 
agony — indignation. 

"Gracious  heaven  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "what 
is  this  ?  what  vdllanous  calumny  has  gone 
abroad  ?  " 

Here  Dandy  saw  clearly  that  his  master 
was  in  distress,  and  generously  resolved  to 
step  in  to  his  assistance. 

"Paudeeu,"  said  he,  "you  know  nothing 
about  this  business,  my  hurler.  You're  a  day 
before  the  fair.  They're  not  married  yet — but 
it's  as  good — so  hould  j'our  jjrate  about  it 
till  the  knot's  tied — then  trumpet  it  through 
the  town  if  you  like." 

The  stranger  felt  that  to  enter  into  an  al- 
tercation with  two  such  persons  would  be 
perfect  madness,  and  only  make  what  now 
appeared  to  be  already  too  bac],  much  worse. 
He  therefore  said,  very  calmly, 

"  Pat,  I  assure  j'ou,  that  my  journey  to 
Dubhn  had  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with 
Miss  Gourlay's.  The  whole  matter  was  acci- 
dental. I  know  nothing  aliout  her  ;  and  if 
any  unfortunate  reports  have  gone  abroad 
they  are  unfounded,  and  do  equal  injustice 
to  that  lady  and  to  me." 

"  Divil  a  thing  else,  now,  Paudeen,"  said 
Dandy,  with  a  face  fuU  of  most  villanous 
mj'sterj' — that  had  runaway  and  elopement 
in  every  hne  of  it — and  a  tone  of  voice  that 
would  have  shamed  a  couple-beggar — "bad 
scran  to  the  ha'p'orth  hajipened.  So  don't 
be  puttin'  bad  consti-uctious  on  things  too 
soon.  However,  there's  a  good  time  eomin', 
plaise  God — so  now,  Paueieen,  behave  j'our- 
self,  can't  you,  and  don't  be  vexin'  the 
masther." 

"Pat,"  said  the  stranger,  feeling  that  the 
best  ■way  to  pxit  an  end  to  this  most  painful 
conversation  was  to  start  a  fi'esh  topic,  "  will 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


399 


TOU  send  for  Fenton,  and  say  I  wish  to  see 
iiim?" 

"  Fenton,  sir  ! — why,  poor  Mr.  Fenton 
lias  been  missed  out  of  the  town  and  neigh- 
borhood ever  since  the  night  you  and  Miss 
Gour — I  bfeg  pardon " 

"  Upon  my  soul,  Paudeen,"  said  Dandy, 
"  I'll  knock  you  down  if  you  say  that  agin 
now,  afther  what  the  masther  an'  I  said  to 
you.  Hang  it,  can't  you  have  discretion, 
and  keep  your  tongue  ^vidiu  your  teeth,  on 
this  business  at  any  rate '? " 

"Is  not  Feuton  in  town?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"  No,  sir ;  he  has  neither  been  seen  nor 
heard  of  since  that  night,  and  the  people's 
beginnin'  to  wonder  what  has  become  of  him. " 

Here  was  a  disappointment ;  just  at  the 
moment  when  he  had  determined,  by  seizing 
upou  Fenton,  with  a  view  to  claim  him  as 
the  son  of  the  late  Sir  Edward  Gourlay,  and 
the  legitimate  heir  of  Red  Hall,  in  order,  if 
it  were  legally  possible,  to  bring  about  an 
investigation  into  the  justice  of  those  claims, 
it  turned  out  that,  as  if  m  anticipation  of 
his  designs,  the  young  man  either  voluntai-ily 
disaj)peared,  or  else  was  spirited  forcibly 
away.  How  to  act  now  he  felt  himself  com- 
pletely at  a  loss,  but  as  two  heads  he  knew 
were  better  than  one,  he  resolved  to  see 
Father  M'Mahon,  and  ask  his  opinion  and 
advice  ujion  this  strange  and  mj'sterious  oc- 
currence. In  the  mean  time,  while  he  is  on 
the  way  to  visit  that  amiable  and  benevolent 
priest,  we  shall  so  far-  gratifj'  the  reader  as 
to  throw  some  Ughtupon  the  unaccountable 
disappearance  of  the  unfortimate  Fenton. 


CHAPTEE  X"VI 

Conception  and  Perpetration  of  a  Diabolical  Plot 
against  Fenton. 

Sir  Thomas  Goitrlay  was  a  man  prompt 
and  inexorable  in  following  up  his  resolu- 
tions. On  the  night  of  Lucy's  flight  fi'om 
Red  Hall,  he  had  concocted  a  plan  which  it 
was  not  his  intention  to  put  in  execution 
for  a  day  or  two,  as  he  had  by  no  means 
made  up  his  miud  in  what  manner  to  pro- 
ceed ^\dth  it.  On  turning  over  the  matter, 
however,  a  second  time  in  his  thoughts,  and 
comparing  the  information  which  he  had 
received  from  Crackenfudge  respecting  the 
stranger,  and  the  allusion  to  the  toothpick 
manufacturer,  he  felt  morally  certain  that 
Fenton  was  his  brother's  son,  and  that  by 
some  means  or  other  unknown  to  him  lie 
had  escaped  fi-om  the  asylum  in  which  he 
had  been  placed,  and  by  some  unaccountable 


fatality  located  himself  in  the  town  of  BaUy- 
train,  which,  in  fact,  was  a  portion  of  his  in- 
heritance. 

"  I  am  ■v\Tong,"  thought  he,  "  in  deferring 
this  project.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost.  Some  chance  incident,  some  early 
recollection,  even  a  sight  of  myself — for  he 
saw  me  once  or  t^^•ice,  to  his  cost — may 
awaken  feelings  which,  by  some  unlucky  as- 
sociation, might  lead  to  a  discovery.  Curse 
on  the  cowardly  scoundrel,  Corbet,  that  did 
not  take  my  hint,  and  put  him  at  once  and 
forever  out  of  my  j^ath,  sight,  and  hearing. 
But  he  had  scruples,  forsooth  ;  and  here 
now  is  the  serpent  unconsciously  crossing 
my  path.  This  is  the  third  time  he  has  es- 
caped and  broken  out  of  bounds.  TJiwn  the 
two  former  I  managed  him  myself,  withou' 
a  single  wtness  ;  and,  but  that  I  had  loSu 
my  o\\Ti  child — and  there  is  a  mystery  I  can- 
not 2Jenetrate — I  would  have " 

Here  he  rang  the  beU,  and  a  servant  en- 
tered. 

"  Send  up  GUlesijie." 

The  servant,  as  usual,  bowed,  and  Gilles- 
pie entered. 

"  Gillesj)ie,  there  is  a  young  fellow  in  Bal- 
lytrain,  named — Fenton,  I  think  ?  " 

"Yes,  your  honor; -he  is  half-mad,  or 
whole  mad,  as  a  good  many  people  think." 

"I  am  told  he  is  fond  of  liquor." 

"He  is  seldom  sober,  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Will  you  go  into  BaUytrain,  and  try  to 
see  him  ?  But  iii-st  see  the  biitler,  and  de- 
sire him,  by  my  orders,  to  give  you  a  bottle 
of  whiskej-.  I  don't  mean  this  moment, 
sirra,"  he  said,  for  Gillespie  was  proceeding 
to  take  him  instantly  at  his  word. 

"Listen,  sir.  See  Fenton — lure  him  as 
quietly  and  secretly  as  you  can  out  of  town — 
bring  him  into  some  remote  nook " 

"  Sir  Thomas,  I  beg  yoiu'  j^ardon,"  ex- 
claimed GiUesjne,  getting  j^ale  ;  "if  you 
mean  that  I  should " 

"  Silence,  sir,"  rej)lied  the  bai'onet,  in  his 
sternest  and  deefiest  voice  ;  "  hear  me  ;  bring 
him,  if  you  can,  to  some  quiet  place,  where 
you  wiU  both  be  free  fi-om  observation  ;  then 
produce  your  bottle  and  glass,  and  ply  him 
with  liquor  until  you  have  him  drunk." 

"  It's  very  likely  that  m  find  him  drunk 
as  it  is,  sir  ;  he  is  seldom  otherwise." 

"  So  much  the  better ;  you  wiU  have  the 
less  trouble.  Well,  when  you  have  him  suf- 
ficiently di-unk,  bring  him  to  the  back  gate 
of  the  garden,  which  you  will  find  unlocked  ; 
lodge  him  in  the  tool-house,  ply  him  with 
more  Uquor,  until  he  becomes  helisless.  In 
the  meantime,  lock  the  back  gate  after  j'ou 
— here  is  the  key,  which  you  can  keep  in 
your  pocket.  Ha\'ing  left  him  in  the  tool- 
house — in  a  sufficiently  helpless  state,  miu-k 


400 


WILLIAM  CARL^TON'S  WORKS. 


— lock  him  in,  put  that  key  in  your  pocket, 
also  ;  then  get  my  travelling  carriage  ready, 
put  to  the  horses,  and  when  all  this  is  done, 
come  to  me  here  ;  I  shaU  then  instruct  you 
how  and   where   to   proceed.     I   shall  also 

accompany  you  myself  to  the  town  of  , 

after  which  you  shall  take  a  post-chaise,  and 
proceed  with  this  person  to  the  place  of  his 
destination.  Let  none  of  the  servants  see 
you ;  and  remember  we  are  not  to  start  from 
the  garden  gate  until  about  twelve  o'clock, 
or  later." 

GiUespie  promised  compliance,  and,  in 
fact,  undertook  the  business  with  the  greater 
alacrity,  on  hearing  that  there  was  to  be  a 
bottle  of  whiskey  in  the  case.  As  he  was 
leaving  the  room,  however,  Sir  Thomas  called 
him  back,  and  said,  with  a  frown  which 
nobody  could  misunderstand,  "  Harkee,  Gil- 
lespie, keep  yourself  strictly  sober,  and — oh 
yes,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  it — try  if  there  is 
a  hard  scar,  as  if  left  by  a  wound,  under  his 
chin,  to  the  left  side  ;  and  if  you  find  none, 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  You  under- 
stand, now,  all  I  require  of  you  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  your  honor.  But  I  may  not 
be  able  to  find  this  Fenton." 

"That  won't  be  your  own  fault,  you  must 
only  try  another  time,  when  you  may  have 
better  success.  Observe,  however,  that  if 
there  is  no  scar  under  the  left  side  of  his 
chin,  you  are  to  let  him  pass — he  is  not  the 
person  in  whom  I  feel  interested,  and  whom 
I  am  determined  to  serve,  if  I  can — even 
against  his  wishes.  He  is,  I  believe,  the  sou 
of  an  old  fi-iend,  and  I  \\ill  endeavor  to  have 
him  restored  to  the  jjerfect  use  of  his  reason, 
if  human  skill  can  effect  it." 

"  That's  very  kind  of  you.  Sir  Thomas,  and 
very  few  would  do  it,"  replied  Gillesj)ie,  as 
he  left  the  apartment,  to  fulfil  his  execrable 
mission. 

Gillespie  having  put  the  bottle  of  strong 
sjiirits  into  his  pocket,  WTapped  a  great  coat 
about  him,  and,  by  a  subsequent  hint  fi'om 
Sir  Thomas,  tied  a  large  handkerchief  across 
his  face,  in  order  the  better  to  conceal  his  fea- 
tures, and  set  out  on  his  way  to  Ballytrain. 

It  may  ])e  remarked  with  truth,  that  the 
projects  of  crime  are  fi-equeutly  aided  by 
those  melancholy  but  felicitous  contingencies, 
which,  though  unexpected  and  unlooked  for, 
are  calculated  to  enable  the  criminal  to  efl'ect 
his  wicked  purposes  \\'ith  more  facility  and 
less  risk.  Gillesijie,  on  the  occasion  in  ques- 
tion, not  only  met  Fenton  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  town,  and  in  a  lonely  place, 
liut  also  foimd  him  far  advanced  in  a  state  of 
intoxication. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Fenton  ?  "  said  lie.  "  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Fenton  ?    A  beautiful  night,  sii\" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  unfortunate  3'oung 


man  ;  "it  is  Mr.  Fenton,  and  j'ou  are  a  gen- 
tleman. Some  folks  now  take  the  Uberty  of 
calling  me  Fenton,  which  is  not  only  impu- 
dently familiar  and  ridiculous,  but  a  pro^i 
that  they  do  not  know  how  to  address  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"You  are  leaving  the  town,  it  seems,  Mr. 
Fenton?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  wake  down  in  Killyfaddy, 
where  there  will  be  a  superfluity,  sir,  of  fun  ; 
and  I  like  to  see  fun  and  soitow  associated. 
They  harmonize,  my  fi-iend — they  concate- 
nate." 

"Mr.  Fenton,"  proceeded  Gillespie,  "you 
are  a  young  gentleman^ " 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  the  term.  I  am  a  gentle- 
man. What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  I  have  rare 
interest  among  the  great  and  powerful." 

"  I  don't  at  all  doubt  it,"  replied  GiUes- 
pie ;  "but  I  was  go  in'  to  say,  sii-,  that  you 
are  a  young  gentleman  that  I  have  always 
respected  very  highly." 

"Thanks,  my  fi-iend,  thanks." 

"  If  it  wouldn't  be  takin'  a  liberty,  I'd  ask 
a  favor  of  you." 

"  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  it  should 
be  granted.     Name  it." 

"  Tlie  night,  sir,  although  a  fine  enough 
night,  is  a  little  shai-p,  for  all  that.  Now,  I 
hajipeu  to  have  a  sup  of  as  good  liquor  in 
my  pocket  as  ever  went  do^NTi  the  red  lane, 
and  if  we  could  only  get  a  auiet  sheltering 
spot,  behind  one  of  these  ditches,  we  could 
try  its  pulse  between  us." 

"The  project  is  good  and  hospitable,'" 
replied  pjoor  Fenton,  "  and  has  my  fuU  con- 
cuiTence." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  said  the  other,  "  will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  come  along  with  me, 
and  we'll  make  out  some  snug  sjaot  where 
I'U  have  the  pleasure  of  drinkin'  yom-  hon- 
or's health." 

"  Good  again,"  rejjlied  the  vmlucky  dupe  ; 
"  upon  my  soul  you're  an  excellent  fellow  ' 
Proceed,  I  attend  you.  The  liquor's  good, 
you  say  ?  " 

"  Betther  was  never  drank,  your  honor." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  I  believe  you.  We  shal  1 
soon,  however,  put  the  truth  of  that  magni- 
ficent assertion  to  the  test ;  and  besides,  sir, 
it  will  be  an  honor  for  you  to  share  yoiu' 
bottle  with  a  gentleman." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  a  quiet 
little  dell,  by  which  there  led  a  private  path- 
way, open  only  to  the  inmates  of  Ked  Hall 
when  passing  to  or  fi-om  the  towTi,  and 
which  formed  an  agi-eeable  and  easy  short- 
cut when  any  hurried  message  was  necessaiy. 
This  path  came  out  upon  an  old  road  which 
ran  behind  the  garden,  and  joined  the  lai'ger 
thoroughfare,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  be- 
yond it. 


THE  BLAQK  BARONET. 


401 


In  a  sheltered  little  chI  de  xac,  between 
two  white-thorn  liedges,  they  took  their 
seats  ;  and  Gillespie  having  jiulled  out  his 
bottle  and  glass,  began  to  ply  the  luckless 
young  man  with  the  strong  liquor.  And  an 
easy  task  he  found  it ;  for  I'enton  resembled 
thousands,  who,  when  the  bounds  of  mod- 
eration are  once  passed,  know  not  when  to 
restrain  themselves.  It  would  be  both  painful 
and  disagreeable  to  dwell  upon  the  hellish 
iniquity  of  this  merciless  and  moral  murder  ; 
it  is  enough  to  saj^  that,  having  reduced  the 
young  man  to  the  precise  condition  which 
was  necessary  for  his  jjurijose,  this  slavish 
and  imjOTncipled  iiiffian,  as  Delahunt  did 
with  his  innocent  victim,  deliberately  j)iit 
his  hand  to  his  throat,  or,  rather,  to  the  left 
side  of  his  neck,  and  there  found  beyond  all 
doubt  a  large  welt,  or  cicatrice,  precisely  as 
had  been  described  by  Sir  Thomas.  After 
the  space  of  about  two  hours — for  Gillespie 
was  anxious  to  prolong  the  time  as  much  as 
possible — he  assisted  Fenton,  now  unable  to 
walk  without  sujjport,  and  completely  par- 
alyzed in  his  organs  of  speecli,  along  the 
short  and  solitary  path  to  the  back  gate  of 
the  garden.  He  opened  it,  dragged  Fenton 
in  like  a  dog  whom  he  was  about  to  hang, 
but  still  the  latter  seemed  disjoosed  to  make 
some  unconscious  and  instinctive  resistance. 
It  was  to  no  pm-pose,  however.  The  poor 
young  man  was  incapable  of  resistance, 
either  by  word  or  deed.  In  a  short  time 
they  reached  the  tool-liouse,  where  he  threw 
Fenton  on  a  heap  of  apples,  like  a  bag,  and 
left  him  to  lie  in  cold  and  darkness,  as  if  he 
were  some  noxioiis  animal,  whom  it  would 
be  dangerous  to  set  at  large.  He  then 
locked  the  door,  jsut  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
and  went  to  acquaint  the  bai'onet  with  the 
success  of  his  mission. 

The  latter,  on  understanding  from  Gil- 
lespie that  Fenton  was  not  only  secured, 
but  that  his  suspicions  as  to  his  identity 
were  correct,  desired  him  to  have  the  car- 
riage ready  in  the  course  of  about  an  hour. 
He  had  already  written  a  letter,  coritaining 
a  liberal  enclosure,  to  the  person  into  whose 
merciless  hands  he  was  aljout  to  commit 
him.  Li  the  meantime,  it  is  impossible  to 
describe  the  confused  character  of  his  feel- 
ings— the  tempest,  the  tornado  of  jjassions, 
that  swepit  through  his  dark  and  ambitious 
spirit. 

"This  is  the  third  time,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  as  he  paced  the  room  in  such  a 
state  of  stormy  agitation  as  reacted  upon 
himself,  and  tilled  him  vrith  temporary 
alai-m.  His  heart  beat  powerfully,  his  pul- 
sations were  strong  and  rapid,  and  his  brain 
felt  burning  and  tumultuous.  Occasion.a' 
giddiness  a'so  seized  him,  accompanied  by 


weakness  about  the  knee-joints,  and  huslcl- 
ness  in  the  throat.  In  fact,  once  or  twice 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  about  to  fall.  In  this 
state  he  hastily  gulped  dowTi  two  oi'  thi'ee 
large  glasses  of  Madeira,  which  was  Ids 
favorite  wine,  and  he  felt  his  system  mo:e 
intensely  stnmg. 

"  That  woman,"  said  he,  alluding  to  Lady 
Gourlay,  "  has  taken  her  revenge  by  destroy- 
ing my  son.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  And  what  now  prevents  me  from 
crushing  this  viper  forever  ?  If  my  daugh- 
ter were  not  with  me,  it  should  be  done  ; 
yes,  I  would  do  it  silently  and  secretly,  ay, 
and  surely,  wdth  my  own  hand.  I  would 
have  blood  for   blood.     "WTiat,  however,   if 

the  mur if  the  act  came  to  light !     Tlieu 

I  mu.st  sufi'er  ;  my  daughter  is  involved  in 
my  infamy,  and  all  my  dreams  for  her  ag- 
grandizement come  to  worse  than  nothinjr. 
But  I  know  not  how  it  is,  I  fear  tliat  girl. 
Her  moral  ascendency,  as  they  call  it,  is  so 
dreadful  to  me,  that  I  often  feel  as  if  I  hated 
her.     What  right  has  she   to   subjugate   a 
spirit   Uke   mine,   by  the   influence   of  iter 
sense  of  honor  and  her  virtuous  principles  ? 
or  to  school  me  to  my  face  by  her  exarapk'  ? 
I  am  not  a  man  di.sposed  to  brook  inferiority, 
yet  she  sometims.s  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
a  monster.      Hov.-cver,   she  is  a   fool,    and 
talks  of  happiness  as  if  it  were  anything  but 
a  chimera  or  a  dream.     Is  she  herself  happy  ? 
I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  mortal  that  is. 
Do   her    virtues    make    her    happy  ?     No. 
Then  where  is  the  use  of  tliis  boasted  ■\irtue, 
I  if  it  will  not  procure  that  happiness  after 
which  all  are  so  eager  in  pursuit,  but  wliicli 
[  none  has  ever  yet  attained  ?     Was  Christ, 
I  who  is  said  to  have  been  sjiotless,  happy  ? 
'  No  ;  he  was  a  man  of  sorrows.     Away,  then, 
;  with  this  cant  of  virtue.     It  is  a  shadow,  a 
.  deception  ;  a  thing,  like  rehgion,   that  has 
I  no  existence,  but  takes  our  senses,  our  in- 
I  terests,  and   our  passions,   and   works  with 
]  them  under  its  own  mask.     Yet  why  am  I 
j  afraid  of  my  daughter  ?  and  why  do  I,  in  jny 
I  heart,  reverence  her  as  a  being  so  far  supc- 
j  rior   to   myself?     W^hy  is   it  that  I   could 
murder — ay,  murder — this  wortldess  object 
that  thrust  himself,  or  w<iu]d  thrust  him- 
self, or   might  thnist  himself,  between  me 
and  the  hereditary  honors  of  my  name,  were 
it  not  that  her  verj'  presence,  if  I  did  it, 
would,  I  feel,  overpower   and  paralyze  me 
with  a  sense  of  my  guilt  ?     Yet  I  strack  her 
— I  strack  her  ;  but  her  spirit  trampled  mint; 
in  the  dust — she  humiliated  me.     A'A'ay  !  J 
am  not  like  other  men.     Yet  for  her  sako 
this  miserable  wretch  shall  live.     7.  will  not 
imbrue  my  hands  in  his  blood,   but   shnll 
place  him  where   he   will   never   cross   me 
more.      It   is   one    sati.sfictiou   to   me,  and 


402 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


security  besides,  that  he  knows  neither  his 
real  name  nor  ILaeage  ;  and  now  he  ahall 
enter  this  estabUshment  under  a  new  one. 
As  for  Lucy,  she  shall  be  Countess  of  Cul- 
bmore,  if  she  or  I  should  die  for  it." 

He  then  swallowed  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  was  about  to  proceed  to  the  stables, 
when  a  gentle  tap  came  to  the  door,  and 
^iillespie  presented  himself. 

"All's  ready,  your  honor." 

"Very  well,  Gillespie.  I  sh;dl '  go  with 
you  to  see  that  all  is  right,  In  the  coui'se 
of  a  few  minutes  wiU  you  bring  the  carriage 
round  to  the  back  gate  ?  The  horses  are 
steady,  and  will  remain  there  while  we  con- 
duct him  down  to  it.  Have  you  a  dark  lan- 
tern?" 

"  I  have,  your  honor." 

Both  then  proceeded  toward  the  stables. 
The  baronet  perceived  that  everything  was 
correct  ;  and  having  seen  Gillespie,  who  was 
his  coachman,  mount  the  seat,  he  got  into 
the  carriage,  and  got  out  again  at  the  door 
of  the  tool-house,  where  jDoor  Fenton  lay. 
After  unlocking  the  door,  for  he  had  got  the 
key  fi'om  Gillespie,  he  entered,  and  cautious- 
ly turning  the  light  of  the  lantern  in  the 
proper  direction,  discovered  liis  unhappy 
victim,  stretched  cold  and  apjaarently  hfe- 
less. 

Alas,  what  a  melancholy  jiictvire  lay  before 
him  !  Stretched  upon  some  apples  that  were 
scattered  over  the  Hoor,  he  found  the  unhap- 
py young  man  in  a  sleep  that  for  the  mo- 
ment resembled  the  slumber  of  the  dead. 
His  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  on  his  pale  and 
emaciated  temples  seemed  indeed  to  dwell 
the  shaip  imprest  of  ajDproaching  death.  It 
appeared,  nevertheless,  that  liis  rest  had  not 
been  by  any  mexns  unbroken,  nor  so  placid 
as  it  then  appeared  to  be  ;  for  the  baronet 
could  observe  that  he  must  have  been  weep- 
ing in  his  sleep,  as  his  eyelids  were  surcharg- 
ed with  tears  that  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
dry.  The  veins  in  his  temples  were  blue, 
and  as  fine  as  silk  ;  and  over  his  whole  coun- 
tenance was  spread  an  expression  of  such 
hopeless  sorrow  and  misery  as  was  sufficient 
to  soften  the  hardest  heart  that  ever  beat  in 
human  bosom.  One  touch  of  nature  came 
over  even  that  of  the  baronet.  "No,"  slid 
he,  "I  could  not  take  his  life.  The  family 
likeness  is  obvious,  and  the  resemblance  to 
his  cousin  Lucy  is  too  strong  to  permit  me 
to  shed  his  blood  ;  but  I  will  secure  him  so 
that  he  shall  never  cross  my  path  again.  He 
wiU  not,  however,  cross  it  long,"  he  added 
to  himself,  after  another  pause,  "  for  the 
stamp  of  death  is  upon  his  face." 

Gillesi:)ie  now  entered,  and  seizing  Fen- 
ton, dragged  him  up  upon  his  legs,  the  bar- 
onet in  the  meantime  tiu'ning  the  light  of 


the  lantern  aside.  The  poor  fellow,  being 
projierly  neither  asleep  nor  awake,  made  no 
resistance,  and  without  any  trouble  they 
brought  him  down  to  the  back  gate,  jjutting 
him  into  the  coach.  Sir  Thomas  entering 
with  him,  and  immediately  drove  oif,  about 
half-past  twelve  at  night,  their  victim  having 
fallen  asleejj  again  almost  as  soon  as  he  en- 
tered the  carriage. 

The  warmth  of  the  cari'iage,  and  the  com- 
fort of  its  cushioned  sides  and  seat  occasion- 
ed his  sleep  to  become  more  natural  and  rc- 
fresliing.  The  consequence  was,  that  he 
soon  began  to  exhibit  symptoms  of  awaken- 
ing. At  first  he  groaned  deeply,  jis  if  under 
the  influence  of  physical  pain,  or  probably 
from  the  consciousness  of  some  apprehension 
arising  from  the  exiserieuce  of  what  he  had 
already  suffered.  By  and  bj'  the  groan  sub- 
sided to  a  sigh,  whose  exjiression  was  so  re- 
plete with  misery  and  dread,  that  it  might 
well  have  touched  and  softened  any  heart. 
As  yet,  however,  the  fumes  of  intoxication 
had  not  departed,  and  his  language  was  so 
mingled  with  the  feeble  delirium  resulting 
from  it,  and  the  terrors  arising  from  the 
situation  in  which  he  felt  himself  placed, 
that  it  was  not  only  ^^■ild  and  melancholy  by 
turns,  but  often  scai'cely  intelligible.  Still 
it  was  evident  that  one  great  apprehension 
absorbed  all  his  other  thoughts  and  sensa- 
tions, and  seemed,  whilst  it  lasted,  to  burj- 
him  in  the  darkness  of  despair. 

"  Hold  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  where  am  I  ? — 
what  is  this  ?  Let  me  see,  or,  rather,  let  me 
feel  where  I  am,  for  that  is  the  more  ap^n'O- 
priate  expression,  considering  that  I  am  in 
utter  obscurity.  What  is  this,  I  ask  again  ? 
Is  my  hospitable  friend  with  me  ?  he  with 
whom  I  partook  of  that  delicious  liquor  un- 
der '  the  greenwood-tree '  ?  " 

He  then  searched  about,  and  in  doing  so 
his  hands  came  necessarily  in  contact  with 
the  bulky  person  of  the  baronet.  "  AMiat !  " 
he  proceeded,  supposing  still  that  it  was  Gil- 
lespie, "  is  this  you,  my  friend '? — but  I  take 
that  fact  for  granted.  Sir,  you  are  a  gentle- 
man, and  know  how  to  address  a  gentleman 
with  proper  resjject  ;  but  how  is  this,  you 
have  on  your  hat  ?  Sir,  you  forget  youi-self 
— uncover,  and  remember  you  are  in  my 
presence." 

As  he  uttered  the  words,  he  seized  the 
baronet's  hat,  tore  it  forcibly  off,  and,  in  do- 
ing so,  accidentally  removed  a  mask  which 
that  worthy  gentleman  had  talven  the  pre- 
caution to  assume,  m  order  to  jjreveut  him- 
self from  being  recognized. 

"Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Fenton,  with  something 
like  a  shriek — "a  mask!  Oh,  my  God! 
This  mysterious  enemy  is  upon  me  !  I  am 
once  more  caught  in  his  toils  !     What  have 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


403 


I  done  to  desen'e  this  persecution  ?  I  am 
innocent  of  all  offence — aU  guilt.  My  Hfe 
has  been  one  of  horror  and  of  suffering  in- 
describable, but  not  of  crime  ;  and  although 
they  say  I  am  insane,  I  know  there  is  a  God 
above  who  will  render  me  justice,  and  my 
oppressor  justice,  and  who  knows  that  I  have 
given  offence  to  none. 

There  ia  a  bird  that  dngs  alone — heigh  ho  ! 
And  every  note  is  but  a  tone  of  woe. 

Hoigh  ho  1  " 

Tlie  baronet  grasped  liis  -^Tist  tightly  with 
one  hand — and  both  feeble  and  attenuated 
was  that  poor  wrist — the  baronet,  we  saj% 
gi'asped  it,  and  in  an  instant  had  regained  i 
possession  of  the  mask,  which  he  deliberate- 
ly replaced  on  his  fioe,  after  which  he  seized 
the  imfortunate  young  man  by  the  neck,  and 
pressed  it  with  such  force  as  almost  to  occa- 
sion suffocation.  Still  he  (Sir  Thomas) 
uttered  not  a  sj'llable,  a  circumstance  which 
in  the  teriified  mind  of  Ids  unhappy  victim 
caused  his  position  as  well  as  that  of  his  com- 
panion to  assume  a  darker,  iind  consequent- 
ly a  more  temble  mysteiy. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low  and  trem- 
bling voice,  "  I  know  you  now.  You  are  the 
stranger  who  came  to  stop  in  the  •  Mitre.' 
Yes,  you  came  down  to  stoj)  in  the  '  Mitre.' 
I  know  you  by  your  stritng  grasp.  I  care 
not,  however,  for  your  attempt  to  strangle 
me.  I  forgive  you — I  pardon  you  ;  and  I 
will  tell  you  why — treat  me  as  violently  as 
you  maj' — I  feel  that  there  is  goodness  in 
your  face,  and  mercy  in  yoiu-  heart.  But  I 
did  see  a  face,  one  day,  in  the  inn,"  he  add- 
ed, in  a  voice  that  gradually  became  quite 
frantic — "  a  face  that  was  darlc,  damnable, 
and  demoniac — oh,  oh  !  may  God  of  heaven 
ever  preserve  me  from  seeing  that  face 
again  !  "  he  exclaimed,  shuddering  wildly. 
"  Open  me  up  the  shrouded  graves,  my 
friend  ;  I  wiU  call  you  so  notwithstanding 
what  has  happened,  for  I  still  think  you  are 
a  gentleman  ;  open  me  up,  I  say,  the  shroud- 
ed graves — set  me  among  the  hideous  dead, 
in  all  their  ghastly  and  loathsome  putrefac- 
tion— lay  me  side  bj'  side  with  the  sweltering 
carcass  of  the  gibbeted  murderer — give  me 
such  a  vision,  and  expose  me  to  the  anger  of 
the  Almighty  when  raging  in  his  vengeance  ; 
or,  if  there  be  a  pitch  of  horror  still  beyond 
this,  then  I  say — mark  me,  my  friend — then 
I  say,  open  me  up  all  hell  at  full  work — liiss- 
ing,  boiling,  bubliling,  scalding,  roasting, 
frying,  scorching,  blazing,  burning,  but  ever- 
consuming  hell,  sir,  I  say,  in  fidl  operation 
— the  whole  dark  and  penal  machinery  in 
full  2'lw — open  it  uj) — there  they  are — the 
yell,  the  scream,  the  blasphemy,  the  shout, 
the  torture,  the  laughter  of  despair — with 


the  pleasing  consciousness  that  all  tins  is  to 
be  eternal ;  hark  ye,  su-,  open  me  up  a  view 
of  this  aforesaid  spectacle  ujoon  the  very 
brow  of  perdition,  and  having  allowed  me 
time  to  console  myself  by  a  contemplation  of 
it,  fling  me,  soul  and  body,  into  the  utter- 
most depths  of  its  howhng  toi'tvu'es  ;  do  any 
or  all  of  these  tilings,  sooner  than  let  me 
have  a  sight  of  that  face  again — it  bears 
such  a  terrible  resemblance  to  that  which 
blighted  me." 

He  then  paused  for  a  little,  and  seemed  as 
if  about  to  sink  into  a  calmer  and  more 
thoughtful  mood — at  least  the  baronet  in- 
ferred as  much  from  his  sUence.  The  latter 
still  declined  to  speak,  for  he  felt  perfectly 
aware,  from  this  incoherent  outburst,  that 
although  Fenton  had  seen  him  only  two  or 
three  times,  many  j'ears  ago,  when  the  un- 
fortunate young  man  was  scarcely  a  boy,  yet 
he  had  often  heard  his  voice,  and  he  conse- 
quently avoided  every  possibility  of  giving 
the  former  a  clew  to  his  identity.  At  length 
Fenton  broke  silence. 

"  ^V^lat  was  I  saying  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Did  I 
talk  of  that  multitudinous  limbo  called  hell  ? 
Well,  who  knows,  j)erhaps  there  may  be  a 
general  jaU  delivery  there  yet ;  but  talking 
of  the  thing,  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  feel  a  portion 
of  its  tortures.  Like  Dives — no,  not  like  the 
rich  and  hardened  glutton — I  resemble  liim 
in  nothing  but  mj'  sufferings.  Oh  !  a  drink, 
a  drink — water,  water — my  tongue,  my 
mouth,  my  throat,  my  blood,  my  brain,  are 
all  on  fire  ?  " 

Oh,  false  ambition,  to  what  mean  and  des- 
picable resources,  to  what  low  and  unscru- 
jjulous  precautions  dost  thou  stoop  in  order 
to  accomplish  thy  selfish,  dishonest,  and 
lieartless  designs  !  The  very  gratification  of 
this  expected  thirst  had  been  j^rovided  for 
and  anticipated.  As  Fenton  spoke,  the  baro- 
net took  from  one  of  the  coach  pockets  a 
large  flask  of  spirits  and  water,  which  he  in- 
stantly, but  without  speaking,  placed  in  the 
scorching  wretch's  hands,  who  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  put  it  to  his  lijjs  and 
emptied  it  at  one  long,  luxurious  draught. 

"Thanks,  friend,"  he  then  exclaimed  ;  "I 
have  been  agreeably  mistaken  in  j'ou,  I  find. 
You  are — you  must  be — no  other  than  my 
worthy  host  of  the 'Hedge.'  Poor  Dives! 
D — n  the  glutton  ;  after  all,  I  pity  him,  and 
would  fain  hope  that  he  has  got  relief  by  this 
time.  As  for  Lazarus,  I  fear  that  his  con- 
dition in  life  was  no  better  than  it  deserved. 
If  he  had  been  a  trump,  now,  and  anxious  to 
render  good  for  evil,  he  would  have  dropped 
a  bottle  of  (iquapura  to  the  suffering  glutton, 
for  if  worthy  Dives  did  nothing  else,  he  fed 
the  dogs  that  licked  the  old  fellow's  sores. 
Fie,   for  shame,  old  Laz.'vrus,   d — n  me,  if  I 


404 


WILLlAJi:  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


had  you  back  again,  but  we'd  teach  you  sym- 
pathy for  Dives  ;  aud  how  so,  my  friend  of 
the  hawthorn — wUy,  we'd  send  him  to  the 
poor-house,'''  or  ii'  that  wouldn't  do,  to  the 
mad-house — to  the  mad-house.  Oh,  my  God 
— my  God  !  what  is  this  ?  Where  are  you 
bringing  me,  sir  ?  but  I  know — I  feel  it — 
this  destiny  that's  over  me  !  " 

He  again  became  silent  for  a  time,  biit 
dui-ing  the  pause,  we  need  scarcely  say,  that 
the  pernicious  draught  began  to  operate  with 
the  desired  effect. 

"  That  mask,"  he  then  added,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  himself,  "  bodes  me  nothing  but  ter- 
ror and  persecution,  and  aU  this  in  a  Chris- 
tian country,  where  there  are  rehgion  and 
laws — at  least,  they  say  so — as  for  my  part, 
1  could  never  discover  them.  However,  it 
matters  not,  let  us  clap  a  stout  heart  to  a 
steef)  brae,  and  we  may  jink  them  and  bhnk 
them  yet ;  that's  all. 

There  was  a  little  bird,  a  very  little  bird. 

And  a  very  little  bird  was  be  ; 

And  he  sans  his  little  song  all  the  summer  day  long, 

On  a  branch  of  the  fair  green-wood  tree. 

Heigh  ho  ! " 

This  little  touch  of  melody,  which  he  sang 
to  a  sweet  and  plaintive  air,  seemed  to  pro- 
duce a  feeling  of  mournfulness  and  sorrow 
in  his  spirit,  for  although  the  draught  he  had 
taken  was  ijrogressing  fast  in  its  operations 
upon  his  intellect,  still  it  onlj'  assumed  a  new 
and  more  affecting  shajje,  and  occasioned  that 
singular  form  and  ease  of  expression  which 
may  be  observed  in  many  under  the  iutlueuce 
of  similar  stimulants. 

"  Well,"  he  i^roceeded,  "I  will  soon  go 
home  ;  that  is  one  consolation !  There  is  a 
sickness,  my  friend,  whoever  you  are,  at  my 
beart  here,  and  in  what  does  that  sickness 
:.onsist '?  I  wiU  tell  you — in  the  memory  of 
some  beautiful  dreams  that  I  had  when  a 
child  or  little  boy :  I  remember  something 
about  green  fields,  groves,  dark  mountains, 
and  svimmer  rivers  flowing  sweetly  hy.  This 
now,  to  be  sure,  is  a  feeling  which  but  few 
can  understand.  It  is  called  homesickness, 
and  assumes  dift'erent  asjaects,  my  worthy 
friend.  Sometimes  it  is  a  yearning  after  im- 
mortality, which  absorbs  and  consumes  the 
spirit,  and  then  we  die  and  go  to  enjoy  that 
which  we  have  pined  for.  Now,  my  worthy 
mute  friend,  mark  me,  in  my  case  the  malady 
is  not  so  exalted.  I  only  want  my  green 
fields,  my  dai'k  mountams,  my  early  rivers, 
with  Uberty  to  tread  them  for  a  brief  space. 
Thei-e  lies  over  them  in  my  imagination — 
there  does,  my  worthy  aud  most  taciturn 


*  It  is  to  be  presumed,  that  Feiiton  spe.alcs  here 
from  his  English  experience.  We  fiud  uo  poor- 
bouses  iit  the  time. 


friend,  upon  my  soul  there  does — a  golden 
light  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  full  of  happiness, 
that  I  question  whether  that  of  heaven  itscli 
will  surjjass  it  in  radiance.  But  now  I  am 
cagetl  once  more,  and  will  never  see  anything 
even  hke  them  again." 

The  poor  yoimg   man   then  wept  for  a 
couple  of  minutes,  after   which  he  added, 
"  Yes,  sir,  this  is  at  once  my  malady  and  my 
hope.    You  see,  then,  I  am  not  worth  a  plot, 
nor  would  it  be  a  high-minded  or  honorable 
act  tor  any  gentleman  to  conspfre  again.st 
one  who  is  nobody's  enemy,  but  ajipeai-s  to 
have  aU  the  world  against  him.     Yes,  ai?d 
they  thought  when  I  used  to  get  into  my 
silent  moods  that  I  was  mad.     No,  but  3 
I  was   in   heaven,    enjoying,    as  I   said,    my 
I  mountains,  my  rivers,  and  my  green  fields. 
\  I  was  in  heaven,  I  say,  aud  walked  iu  the 
hght  of  heaven,  for  I  was  a  little  boy  once 
more,  and  saw  its  radiance  upon  them,  as  I 
j  used  to  do  long  ago.      But  do  you  know 
what  occurs  to  me  this  moment,  most  ta- 
citurn ? "    He   added,   after  a  short   jiause. 
being    moved,    pirobably,  bj'   one   of   those 
I  quick  aud  capricious  changes  to  which  both 
1  the  intoxicated  and  insane  are  proverbially 
Liable  :  "  It    strikes  me,  that  you  jirobably 
are  descended  from  the  man   iu   the  iron 
mask — ha — ha — ha  !      Or    stay,    was   there 
ever  such  a  thing  in  this  benevolent  and  hu- 
I  mane  world  of  ours  as  a  man  with  an  iron 
heart  ?  If  so,  who  knows,  then,  but  you  may 
date  your  ancestry  from  him  ?     Ay,    right 
enough ;    we  are  in   a  coach,  I  think,  and 
'  going — going — going  to — to — to — ah,  where 
;  to  ?    I  know — oh,  my  God — we  are  gouig  to 

— to — to "  and  here  j^oor   Fenton  onco 

'  more  fell  asleep,  as  was  evident  by  his  deeji 
'■■  but  oppressive  breathing. 

Now  the  baronet,  although  he  maintained 
i  a  strict  silence  diuing  their  journey,  a  si- 
lence which  it  was  not  his  intention  to 
lireak,  made  up  for  this  cautious  taciturnity 
:  by  thought  and  those  reflections  which  ori- 
I  ginated  from  his  designs  upon  Fenton.  He 
1  felt  astonished,  in  the  first  jjlace,  at  the 
[  mcasiu'es,  whatever  thej-  might  have  been. 
[  by  wliich  the  other  nuist  have  obtained 
means  of  escaping  from  the  asylum  to  which 
I  he  had  been  committed  with  such  strict  iu- 
juuctions  as  to  his  secure  custody.  It  oc- 
I  curred  to  him,  therefore,  that  by  an  exami- 
j  nation  of  his  pockets  he  might  jsossibly 
j  ascertain  some  clew  to  this  cfrcumstauce, 
;  and  as  the  man  was  not  overbui'dened  with 
j  much  conscience  or  delicacy,  he  came  to  the 
determination,  as  Fentou  was  once  more 
j  dead  asleep,  to  search  for  and  examine  what- 
!  ever  papers  he  should  find  about  him,  if 
j  auy.  For  this  pui'pose  he  ignited  a  match 
1  — such  as  they  had  iu  those  clays — ?.nd  with 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


405 


this  match  lit  up  a  small  dark  lantern,  the 
same  to  which  we  have  akeady  alluded. 
Aided  by  its  light,  he  examined  the  sleeping 
Youug  man's  pockets,  in  which  he  felt  very 
little,  in  the  shajie  of  either  money  or  pa- 
pers, that  could  compensate  him  for  this  act 
of  larceny.  In  a  breast-pocket,  however,  in- 
side his  waistcoat,  he  found  pinned  to  the 
lining  a  note — a  pound  note — on  the  back 
of  which  was»iotted  a  brief  memorandum  of 
the  day  on  which  it  was  written,  and  the 
person  fi'om  whom  he  had  received  it.  To 
this  was  added  a  second  memorandum,  in 
the  followng  words  :  "J/cm.  This  note  may 
j'et  be  useful  to  myself  if  I  could  get  a  sin- 
cere friend  that  would  find  out  the  man 
whose  name — Thomas  Skij)ton — is  ^Titten 
liere  upon  it.  He  is  the  man  I  want,  for  I 
know  his  signature." 

No  sooner  had  the  baronet  read  these 
lines,  than  he  examined  the  several  napies 
on  the  note,  and  on  coming  to  one  which 
was  underlined  evidently  by  the  same  ink 
tliat  ■S'as  used  by  Fenton  in  the  meinnranda, 
his  eyes  gleamed  with  delight,  and  he  waved 
it  to  and  fi'o  with  a  grim  and  hideous  tri- 
umph, such  as  the  lurid  light  of  his  foul 
principles  flashing  through  such  eyes,  and 
animating  such  features  as  his,  could  only 
express. 

"  Unhappy  wretch,"  thought  he,  looking 
upon  his  unconscious  victim,   "  it  is  evident 
that  you  are  doomed  ;    this  man  is  the  only 
indi\'idual  living  over  whom  I  have  no  con- 
trol, that  could  give  any  trace  of  you  ;  nei- 
ther of  the  other  two,  for  their  o^vn  salces,  '• 
dare  speak.     Even  fate  is  against  you  ;  that  i 
fate  which  has  consigned  this  beggarly  rep-  I 
resentative  of  wealth  to  my  hands,  through 
your  ovni  instrumentality.     I  now  feel  con- 
fident ;  nay,  I  am  certain  that  my  projects 
wiU  and  must  succeed.     The  afitairs  of  this  I 
world  are  regulated  unquestionably  by  the  ! 
immutable'  decrees  of  destiny.     "WTiat  is  to  i 
be  rvill  be  ;  and  I,  in  j^utting  this  wretclied,  ! 
ilrimken,   mad,  and  besotted  being  out  of  [ 
my  way,  am  only  an  instrument  in  the  hands 
of  that  destiny  myself.     The  blame  then  is  j 
not  mine,  but  that  of  the  law  which  con-  ! 
strains — forces  me  to  act  the  part  I  am  act- 
ing, a  part  which  was  allotted  to  me  from  the 
beginning  ;  and  this  reflection  fiUs  me  with 
consolation." 

He  then  re-examined  the  note,  put  it  mto 
a  particular  fold  of  his  pocket-book  which 
had  before  been  empty,  in  order  to  keep  it 
tlistinct,  and  once  more  thnisting  it  into  his 
pocket,  buttoned  it  carefully  up,  extin- 
guished the  lantern,  and  laid  himself  back 
in  the  corner  of  the  caniage,  in  which  posi- 
tion lie  reclined,  meditating  upon  the  kind 
partiality  of  destiny  in  his  fjivor,  the  virtu- 


ous tendencies  of  his  o\vn  ambition,  and  the 
admirable,  because  successful,  means  by 
which  lie  was  bringing  them  about. 

In  this  ni.inuer  they  j^roceeded  until  they 
reached  tlie  entrance  of  the  next  town,  when 
the  liaronet  desired  GiUe.spie  to  stop.  "  Go 
forward,"  said  he,  "  and  order  a  chaise  and 
pair  without  delay.  I  think,  however,  you 
will  find  tliem  ready  for  you  ;  and  if  Corbet 
is  there,  desire  him  to  return  with  you.  Hi' 
has  already  had  his  instructions.  I  am  sick 
of  this  work,  Gillespie ;  and  I  assure  j-ou 
it  is  not  for  the  son  of  a  common  fi'iend 
that  I  would  forego  my  necessary  rest,  to 
sit  at  such  an  hour  with  a  person  who  is 
both  mad  and  drunk.  What  is  fi-iendship, 
however,  if  we  neglect  its  duties  ?  Care  and 
medical  skiU  may  enable  this  unfortunate 
young  man  to  recover  his  reason,  and  take  a 
respectable  position  in  the  world  j'et.  Go 
now  and  make  no  delay.  I  sh:iJl  take  charge 
of  this  poor  fellow  and  the  horses  until  you 
return.  But,  mark  me,  my  name  is  not  to 
be  breathed  to  mortal,  under  a  i^enalty  that 
you  will  find  a  dreadful  one,  should  j'ou  in- 
cur it." 

"Never  fear,  your  honor,"  rejilied  Gilles- 
pie ;  "  I  am  not  the  man  to  betray  trust 
and  indeed,  few  gentlemen  of  your  rank,  as 
I  said,  would  go  so  far  for  the  sou  of  an 
auld  friend.     I'll  lose  no  time.  Sir  Thomas." 

Sir  Thomas,  we  have  had  occasion  to  say 
more  than  once,  was  quick  and  energetic  in 
all  his  resolutions,  and  beyond  doubt,  the 
fact  that  Gillespie  found  Corbet  ready  and 
expecting  him  on  this  occasion,  fuUy  corrob- 
orates our  opinion. 

Indeed,  it  was  his  La  variable  habit,  when- 
ever he  fovmd  that  more  than  one  agent  or 
instrument  was  necessary,  to  employ  them, 
as  fcu-  as  was  possible,  independently  of  each 
other.  For  instance,  he  had  not  at  all  com- 
municated to  Gillespie  the  fart  of  his  having 
engaged  Corbet  in  the  matter,  nor  had  the 
former  any  suspicion  of  it  until  he  now  re- 
ceived the  first  hint  from  Sir  Thomas  him- 
self. A  chaise  and  pair  in  less  than  five 
minutes  drove  gently,  but  with  steady  pace, 
back  to  the  spot  where  the  baronet  stood  at 
the  head  of  his  horses,  watcliing  the  doors 
of  the  carriage  on  each  side  everj'  quarter  of 
a  minute,  lest  by  any  piossible  chance  his 
victim  might  escape  him.  Of  this,  however, 
there  was  not  the  slightest  danger ;  poor 
Fenton's  sleep,  like  that  of  almost  all  drunk- 
en men,  having  had  in  it  more  of  stupor 
than  of  ordinai-y  and  healthful  repose. 

We  have  informed  our  readers  that  the 
baronet  was  not  without  a  strong  tinge  of 
superstition,  notwitlistandiug  his  religious 
intidslity,  and  his  belief  in  the  doctrine  of 
fate  and  necessity.     On  finding  himself  alom 


40G 


WILLIAM  CARLETON-S  WORKS. 


at  that  dead  ami  di-eary  hour  of  the  night — 
half-past  two — standing  under  a  shady  range 
of  tall  trees  that  met  across  the  road,  and 
gave  a  character  of  extraordinary  gloom  and 
solitude  to  the  place,  he  began  to  experience 
that  vague  and  undefined  terror  which  steals 
over  the  mind  from  an  involuntarj'  appre- 
hension of  the  sujjei-natural.  A  singular 
degree  of  uneasiness  came  over  him  :  he 
coughed,  he  hemmed,  in  order  to  lireak  the 
death-like  stillness  in  which  he  stood.  He 
patted  the  horses,  he  rubbed  his  hand  down 
their  backs,  but  felt  considerable  surprise 
and  terror  on  finding  that  they  both  trem- 
bled, and  seemed  by  their  snorting  and 
tremors  to  partake  of  his  own  sensations. 
Under  such  terrors  there  is  nothing  that  ex- 
tinguishes a  man's  courage  so  much  as  the 
review  of  an  ill-spent  life,  or  the  reproaches 
of  an  evil  conscience.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlaj' 
could  not  see  and  feel,  for  the  moment,  the 
criminal  iniquity  of  his  black  and  ungodly 
ambitiou,  and  the  crimes  into  which  it  in- 
volved him.  Still,  the  consciousness  of  the 
flagitious  project  in  which  he  was  engaged 
against  the  unoffending  sou  of  his  brother, 
the  influence  of  the  hour,  and  the  sohtude  in 
which  he  stood,  together  with  the  operation 
upon  his  miud  of  some  unaccountable  fear 
apart  from  that  of  personal  violence — all, 
when  united,  threw  him  into  a  commotion 
that  resulted  fi-om  such  a  dread  as  intimated 
that  something  supernatiu-id  must  be  near 
him.  He  was  seized  by  a  violent  shaking 
of  the  Umbs,  the  jjersi^ration  burst  from 
every  pore  ;  and  as  he  patted  the  horses  a 
second  time  for  relief,  he  again  jjereeived 
that  their  terrors  were  increasing  and  keep- 
ing pace  with  his  own.  At  length,  his  hair 
fairly  stood,  and  his  excitement  was  nearly 
as  high  as  excitement  of  such  a  merely  ideal 
character  could  go,  when  he  thought  he 
heard  a  step — a  heavy,  solemn,  unearthlj' 
step — that  sounded  as  if  there  was  something 
denouncing  and  jvidiciiJ  in  the  terrible  em- 
phasis with  which  it  went  to  his  heart,  or 
rather  to  his  conscience.  Without  having 
the  power  to  restrain  himself,  he  followed 
with  his  ej'es  this  sj^mbolical  tread  as  it 
seemed  to  approach  the  co.ach  door  on  the 
side  at  which  he  stood.  This  was  the  more 
surprising  and  frightful,  as,  although  he 
heard  the  tramp,  yet  he  could  for  the  moment 
see  nothing  in  the  shape  of  either  figure  or 
form,  from  which  he  could  resolve  what  he 
had  heard  into  a  natural  sound.  At  length, 
as  he  stood  almost  dissolved  in  terror,  he 
tliought  that  au  indistinct,  or  rather  an  un- 
substantial figure  stood  at  the  carriage-door, 
looked  in  for  a  moment,  and  then  bent  his 
glance  at  him,  with  a  severe  and  stern  ex- 
pression ;  after  which,  it  began  to  rub  out 


or  efface  a  certain  portion  of  the  armoriaj 
beai'ings,  which  he  had  added  to  his  heraldic 
coat  in  riglit  of  his  wife.     The  noise  of  the 
chaise  approaching  now  reached  his  eai's,  and 
he  turned  as  a  relief  to  ascertain  if  GiUespie 
and  Corbet  were  near  him.     As  far  as  he 
could  judge,   they  were   about  a  couple  of 
hundred   yards   oft",  and   this  discovery  re- 
called his  departed  courage  ;  he  turned  his 
eyes  ouce  more   to  the  carriag%-door,  but  to 
his  infinite  rehef  couhl  perceive  nothing.     A 
soft,  solemn,  mournful  blast,  however,  some- 
what Uke  a  low  moan,  amounting  almost  to 
a  waU,  crept  thi-ough  the  trees  under  which 
I  he  stood  ;  and  after  it  had  subsided — whether 
it  was  fact  or  fancy  cannot  now  be  known — 
he  thought  he  heard  the  same  step  slowly, 
and,  as  it  were  with   a  kind   of   sorrowful 
I  anger,  retreating  in  the  distance. 
j       "If  mortal  spirit,"  he  exclaimed  as  they 
approached,  "  ever  was  permitted  to  return 
i  to  this  earth,  that  form  was  the  spirit  of  my 
I  mortal  brother.     This,  however,"  he  added, 
but  only  in  thought,  when  they  came  v^  to 
him,  and  after  he  had  regained  his  confidence 
by  their  presence,  "this  is  all  stuff — nothing 
I  but  solitude  and  its  associations  acting  upon 
\  the  nerves ;  thus  enabling  us,  as  we  think, 
'  to  see  the  very  forms  created  only  by  our 
'.  f  jars,  and  which,  apart  from  them,  have  no 

existence." 

j      The  men  and  the  chaise  were  now  with 

I  him — Gillespie  on  horseback,  that  is  to  say, 

he  was  to  bring  back  the  same  animal  on 

which  Sir  Thomas  had  secretly  despatched 

.  Corbet  from  Eod  Hall  to  the  town  of , 

I  for  the  pui'j)ose  of  having  the  chaise  ready, 
and  conducting  Fenton  to  his  ultimate  des- 
tination.     The  poor  young  man's  transfer 
from  the  carriage  to  the  chaise  was  cjuickly 
and  easily  efl'ected.     Several  large  flasks  of 
strong  spii'its  and  water  were  also  transferred 
along  -nith  him. 
i       "  Now,    Corbet,"    observed    Sir  Thomas 
apart   to   him,  "  you   have  fuU  instructions 
I  how  to  act ;  and  see  that  you  carry  them  out 
■  to  the  letter.     You  will  find  no  difficulty  in 
;  keeping  this  person  in  a  state  of  intoxication 

all  the  wa3'.     Go  back  to  ,  engage  old 

1  Bradbmy  to  drive  the  chaise,  for,  although 
j  deaf  and  stupid,  he  is  an  excellent  driver. 
I  Change  the  chaise  and  horses,  however,  as 
j  often  as  you  can,  so  as  that  it  may  be  diffi- 
cult, if  not  impossible,  to  trace  the  route  you 
take.     Give  Benson,  who,    after  all,  is  the 
prince  of  mad  doctors,  the  enclosure  which 
you  have  in  the  blank  cover  ;  and  teU  him, 
he  shall  have  an  annuity  to  the  same  amount, 
whether  this  fellow  lives  or  dies.     Mark  me, 
Corbet — whether  his  charge  lives  or   dies. 
Repeat  these  v;ords  to  him  twice,  as  I  have 
done  to  you.     Above  all  things,  let  him  keep 


THE  BLACK   nAIiO^HT. 


40'i 


iiim  safe — safe — safe.  Rememlier,  Corbet, 
tliat  our  family  have  been  kiud  friends  to 
yours.  I,  therefore,  have  trusted  you  all 
along  in  this  matter,  and  calculate  upon  your 
confidence  as  a  grateful  and  honest  man,  as 
well  as  ujjon  your  implicit  obedience  to  every 
order  I  have  given  you.  I  myself  shall  drive 
home  the  carriage  ;  and  when  we  get  near 
Red  Hall,  Gillespie  can  ride  forward,  have 
his  horse  put  up,  and  the  stable  and  coach- 
house doors  open,  so  that  everything  to- 
morrow morning  may  look  as  if  no  such  ex- 
pedition had  taken  f)lace." 

They  then  separated  ;  Coi'bet  to  conduct 
poor  P'enton  to  his  dreaiy  cell  in  a  mad-house, 
and  Sir  Thomas  to  seek  that  upon  which, 
desj)ite  his  most  ambitious  projects,  he  had 
been  doomed  all. his  life  to  seek  after  in 
vain — rest  on  an  i(»easy  pillow. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

A  Scene  in  Jemmy  TraikudyeVs — Retributive  Jus- 
tice, or  the  Robber  robbed. 

In  the  days  of  wliich  we  write,  ti-avelling 
was  a  very  different  jjrocess  from  what  it  is 
at  present.  Mail-coaches  and  chaises  were 
the  only  vehicles  then  in  requisition,  with 
the  exception  of  the  awkward  gingles,  bug- 
gies, and  other  gear  of  that  nondescript  class 
which  w"ere  peculiar  to  the  times,  and  2)rin- 
cipally  confined  to  the  metropolis.  The  re- 
sult of  this  was,  that  travellers,  in  conse- 
(pieuce  of  the  slow  jog-trot  motion  of  those 
curious  and  inconvenient  machines,  were 
obliged,  in  order  to  transact  their  business 
with  something  like  due  disj)atch,  to  travel 
both  by  night  and  day.  In  this  case,  as  in 
others,  the  cause  produced  the  effect ;  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  the  temptation  occa- 
sioned the  crime.  Highway-robbery  was 
frequent ;  and  many  a  worthy  man — fat  far- 
mer and  wealthy  commoner — was  eased  of 
his  purse  in  despite  of  all  his  armed  precau- 
tions and  the  most  sturdy  resistance.  The 
poorer  classes,  in  ever'y  fjart  of  the  country, 
were,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  the  friends 
of  those  dejiredators ;  by  whom,  it  is  tiiie, 
they  were  aided  against  oppression,  and  as- 
sisted in  their  destitution,  as  a  comjsensation 
for  connivance  and  shelter  whenever  the  ex- 
e-utive  authorities  were  in  pursuit  of  them. 
Most  of  these  robberies,  it  is  true,  were  the 
result  of  a  loose  and  disorganized  state  of  so- 
piety,  and  had  their  direct  origin  from  op- 
pressive and  unequal  laws,  badlv  or  {jartiallj' 
administered.  Robbery,  therefore,  in  its  gen- 
eral character,  was  caused,  not  so  much  by 


poverty,  as  from  a  desj^erate  hatred  of  those 
penal  statutes  which  operated  for  punish- 
ment Init  not  for  jwotection.  Om'  readers 
may  not  feel  siu-prised,  then,  when  we  assure 
them  that  the  burglar  and  highway-robber 
looked  upon  this  infamous  habit  as  a  kiud 
of  patriotic  and  political  profession,  rather 
than  a  crime  ;  and  it  is  well  known  tint 
within  the  last  century  the  sons  of  even  decent 
farmers  were  bound  apprentices  to  this  fla- 
gitious craft,  esjiecially  to  that  of  horse  steal- 
ing, which  was  then  reduced  to  a  system  of 
most  extraordinaiy  ingenuity  and  address. 
Still,  there  were  many  poor  wretches  who, 
sunk  in  the  deepest  destitution,  and  con- 
taminated by  a  habit  which  familiarity  had 
deprived  in  their  eyes  of  much  of  its  inher- 
ent enormity,  scrupled  not  to  relieve  their 
distresses  by  having  recourse  to  the  preva- 
lent usage  of  the  country. 

Having  thrown  out  these  few  preparatoiy 
observations,  we  request  our  readers  to  fol- 
low us  to  the  wretched  cabin  of  a  man 
whose  nnm  de  guerre  was  that  of  Jemmy 
TraUcudgel — a  name  that  was  applied  lo 
him,  as  the  reader  may  see,  in  consequence 
of  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  he  carried 
the  weajDon  aforesaid.  Trailcudgel  "was  a 
man  of  enormous  personal  strength  and  sur- 
prising courage,  and  had  distingixished  him- 
self as  the  leader  of  many  a  party  and  faction 
fight  in  the  neighboring  fairs  and  markets. 
He  had  been,  not  many  years  before,  in  tol- 
erably good  circumstances,  as  a  tenant  imdet 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  ;  and  as  that  gentleman 
i  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  his  tenantry 
were  bound,  as  firmly  as  if  there  had  been  :i 
clause  to  that  effect  in  their  leases,  to  beai' 
j>atiently  and  in  resp)ectful  silence,  the  im- 
perious and  ribald  scurrility  which  in  a  state 
of  resentment,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  pour- 
ing upon  them,  so  did  he  lose  few  opportu- 
nities of  making  them  feel,  for  the  most 
trivial  causes,  all  the  irresj^onsible  insolence 
of  the  strong  and  vindictive  tyrant.  Now, 
Jemmy  Trailcudgel  was  an  honest  man, 
whom  every  one  liked  ;  but  he  was  also  a 
man  of  sjiirit,  whom,  in  another  sense,  most 
people  feared  Among  his  family  he  was  a 
perfect  child  in  affection  and  tenderness — 
loving,  playful,  and  simple  as  one  of  them- 
selves. Yet  this  man,  affectionate,  brave, 
and  honest,  because  he  could  not  submit  in 
silence  and  without  vindication,  to  the  wan- 
ton and  overbearing  violence  of  his  landlord, 
was  harassed  by  a  series  of  persecutions,  • 
under  the  jiretended  authority  of  law,  until 
he  and  his  unhappy  family  were  driven  to 
beggary — almost  to  despair. 

"Trailcudgel,"  said  Sir  Tliom.as  to  him 
one  day  that  lie  hid  sent  for  him  in  a  fiu-y, 
"  by  wh'tt  right  iv.id  ■m'Jiority,  sirr.i,  did  you 


408 


V^ILLIAR    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Jiire  to  cut  turf  on  that  pai't  of  tlie  bog  | 
•called  Berwick's  Bank  ?  " 

"Upon  the  right  and  authority  of  my 
ease,  Sir  Thomas,"  repHedTrailcudgel;  "and 
»vith  great  respect,  sir,  you  had  neither 
right  nor  authority  for  settiu'  m[i  bog,  that 
I'm  payin'  you  rent  for,  to  another  tenant." 

The'barouet  grew  black  in  the  face,  as  he 
always  did  when  in  a  passion,  and  especially 
when  replied  to. 

"You  are  a  lying  scoundrel,  sii-ra,"  con- 
tinued the  other";  "  the  bog  does  not  belong 
to  you,  and  I  will  set  it  to  the  devil  if  I 
like." 

"I  know  nobody  so  fit  to  be  your  tenant," 
replied  Trailcudgel.  "  But  I  am  no  seoim- 
drel,  Sir  Thomas,"  added  the  independent 
fellow,  "  and  there's  very  few  dare  tell  me 
so  but  yourself." 

"What,  you  villain!  do  you  contradict 
nxe  ?  do  you  bandy  words  and  looks  with 
me  ?  "  asked  the  baronet,  his  rage  deepening 
at  Trailcudgel's  audacity  in  having  rei^hed  at 
alL 

"  Villam  !"  returned  his  gigantic  tenant, 
in  a  voice  of  tlmnder.  "You  called  me  a 
scoundrel,  sirra,  and  you  have  called  me  a 
villain,  sirra,  now  I  tell  you  to  your  teeth,  j 
you're  a  liar — I  am  neither  villain  nor  scoun-  j 
Irel  ;  but  you're  both  ;  and  if  I  hear  another 
word  of  insolence  out  of  your  foul  and  lying 
mouth,  I'll  thi-ash  you  as  I  would  a  shafe  of 
whate  or  oats." 

The  black  hue  of  the  baronet's  rage 
changed  to  a  much  modester  tint  ;  he  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  sturdy  yeoman,  now 
flushed  with  honest  resentment ;  he  looked 
upon  the  eye  that  was  kindled  at  once  into 
au  e.xpressiou  of  resolution  and  disdain  ;  and 
fuming  on  his  toe,  proceeded  at  a  pace  by 
no  means  funereal  to  the  steps  of  the  hall- 
door,  and  having  ascended  them,  he  turned 
-ound  and  said,  in  a  very  mild  and  quite 
A  gentlemanly  tone, 

"  Oh,    very  well.  Mi".    Trailcudgel ;    very 
well,  indeed.     I  have  a  memory,  IMr.  Trail- 
cudgel— I  have  a  memon/.    Good  morning  !  " 
"  Betther  for  3'ou  to  laave  a /tmrt,"  replied 
Trailcudgel ;  "  what  you  never  had." 

Havmg  uttered  these  words  he  departed, 
conscious  at  the  same  time,  from  his  knowl- 
edge of  bis  lauiUord's  mu-elenting  malignity, 
that  his  own  fate  was  sealed,  and  his  rum 
accomplished.  And  he  was  right.  Li  the 
course  of  four  years  after  their  cjuarrel,  Trail- 
cudgel found  "  himself,  and  his  numerous 
family,  in  the  scene  of  destitution  to  which 
we  are  about  to  conduct  the  indulgent 
reader. 

We  pray  you,  therefore,  gentle  reader,  to 
imagine  yourself  in  a  small  cabin,  where 
ihcre  are  two  beds— that  is  to  say,  two  scimty 


portions  of  damp  straw,  spread   out    thinlj 
upon  a  still  damper  foot  of  earth,  ij\  a  por- 
tion of  which  the  foot  sinks  when  walking 
over  it.     The  two  beds — each  what  is  termed 
a  ahabe  down — have  barely  covering  enough 
to  perserve  the  purposes  of  decency,  but  not 
to   communicate  the   usual    and    necessary 
warmth.    In  consequence  of  the  limited  area 
of  the  cabin  door  they  are  not  far  removed 
from  each  other.    Upon  a  little  three-legged 
stool,  between  them,  bums  a  dim  iTish  can- 
dle,  whose    Hght    is  so  exceedingly  feeble 
that  it  casts  ghastly  and  death-Uke  shadows 
over   the  whole  inside  of  the  cabin.     That 
famUy   consists  of  nine    persons,  of  whom 
j  five  are  lying  ill  of  fever,  as  the  reader,  froiii 
\  the  nature  of  their  bedding,   may  have  al- 
!  ready  anticipated — for  w-e  must  observe  here, 
;  that    the   epidemic   was   rife   at   the   time. 
i  Food  of  any  description  has  not  been  under 
that  roof  for  more  than  twenty-four  hour.s. 
1  They  are  all  in  bed  but  one.     A  low  mur- 
i  mur,  that   went   to   the  heart  of  that  one. 
with  a  noise  which  seemed  to  it  louder  and 
i  more  terrible   than  the   deepest   peal   that 
j  ever  thundered   through   the  firmament  of 
\  heaven — a  low  murmur,  we  say,  of  this  de- 
I  scription,  arose  from  the  beds,  composed  of 
I  those  waihug  sounds  that  mingle  together 
j  as  they  proceed  from  the  lips  of  weakness, 
pain,  and  famine,  Tintil  they  form  that  many- 
toned,  incessant,  and  horrible  voice  of  mul- 
I  tipUed    misery,    which    falls   upon   the   ear 
with  the  echoes  of  the  grave,  and  upon  the 
heart  as  something  wonderful  in  the  accents 
!  of  God,  or,  as  we  may  supimse  the  voice  of 
1  the  accusing  angel   to  be,   v,hilst  recording 
I  before   His   throne   the   official  inhumanity 
of  councils  and  senates,   who  harden  their 
hearts  and  shut  their  earc  to  "  the  cry  of  the 
poor." 

Seated  upon  a  second  little  stool  was  a 

man  of  huge  stature,  clothed,  if  we  can  say 

so,    with   rags,    contemplating    the    misery 

around  himi  and  having  no  sounds  to  listen 

to  but  the  low,   ceaseless  wail   of   pain  and 

suftering  which   we   have   described.      His 

features,    once   manly   and    handsome,    are 

now  sharp  and  hollow  ;  his  beard  is  grown  ; 

his  lips  are   white ;    and   his   eyes   without 

I  speculation,  unless  when  lit  up  into   an  oc- 

j  casional  blaze  of  fire,  that  seemed  to  proceed 

I  as  much  from  the  paroxysms  of  approaching 

;  insanity   as   from  the  terrible  scene  which 

I  surrounds   him,  as   well  as  from   his   own 

wolfish  desire  for  food.     His  cheek   bones 

'  project  fearfully,  and  his  large  temples  seem. 

,  by  the  ghastly"  skin  which  is  drawn   tight 

about  tliem,  to  remind  one  of  those  of  a  skele- 

ton,  were  it  not  that  the  image  is  made  still 

more  appalling  by  the  existence  of  hfe. 

1      Whilst  in  this  position,  motionless   as  a 


LICnARV 
THE 
jNIVERSriV  OF   ILLINOIS 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


409 


statue,  a  voice  from  one  of  the  beds  ciilled 
out  "Jemmy,''  with  a  tone  so  low  and  feeble 
that  to  other  ears  it  would  probably  not 
have  been  distinctly  audible.  He  went 
to  the  bedside,  and  taking  tlie  candle  in  his 
hand,  said,  in  a  voice  that  had  lost  its  strength 
but  not  its  tenderness  : 

"  Well,  Mary  deal"  ? 

"  Jemmy,"  said  she,  for  it  was  his  wife 
who  had  called  him,  "  my  time  has  come. 
I  must  lave  you  and  them  at  last." 

"Thanks  be  to  the  Almighty,"  he  ex- 
claimed, fervently  ;  "  and  don't  be  surprised, 
darlin'  of  my  hfe,  that  I  sj^ake  as  I  do.  jUi, 
Mai-j'  dear,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  wild  and 
bitter  manner,  "  I  never  thought  that  my  love 
for  you  would  make  me  say  such  words,  or 
wish  to  feel  you  torn  out  of  my  breakin' heart ; 
but  I  know  how  happy  the  change  wiU  be 
for  you,  as  weU  as  the  sufferers  you  are 
lavin'  behind  you.  Death  now  is  our  only 
consolation." 

"It  cannot  be  that  God,  who  knows  the 
kind  and  afi'ectionate  heart  you  have,  an' 
ever  had,"  rephed  his  dying  mfe,  "  will  neg- 
lect you  and  them  long," — but  she  an- 
swered with  diiBculty.  "  We  were  very 
happy,"  she  proceeded,  slowly,  however,  and 
with  pain  ;  "  for,  hard  as  the  world  was  of 
late  upon  us,  still  we  had  love  and  aftection 
among  ourselves  ;  and  that,  Jemmy,  God  iu 
his  goodness  left  us,  blessed  be  his — his — 
holj-  name — an'  sure  it  was  betther  than  aU 
he  took  from  us.  I  hope  poor  Alley  will  re- 
cover ;  she's  now  nearly  a  girl,  an'  \vill  be 
able  to  take  care  of  you  and  be  a  mother  to 
the  rest.  I  feel  that  my  tongue's  gettiu' 
wake  ;  God  bless  you  and  them,  an',  above 
all,  her — for  she  was  our  darlin'  an'  our 
life,  especially  yours.  Raise  me  up  a  little," 
she  added,  "  till  I  take  a  last  look  at  them 
before  I  go."  He  did  so,  and  after  casting 
her  languid  eyes  mournfully  over  the 
wretched  sleepers,  she  added :  "  WeU,  God 
is  good,  but  this  is  a  bitther  sight  for  a 
mother's  heart.  Jemmy,"  she  proceeded, 
"  I  won't  be  long  by  myself  in  heaven  ;  some 
of  them  will  be  with  me  soon — an'  oh,  what 
a  joyful  meeting  will  that  be.  But  it's  you 
I  feel  for  most — it's  you  I'm  loath  to  lave, 
light  of  my  heart.  Howsomever,  God's  will 
be  done  still.  He  sees  we  can't  live  here,  an' 
He's  takin'  us  to  himself.  Don't,  darlin', 
don't  kiss  me,  for  fraid  you  might  catch  this 

fav " 

She  held  his  hand  in  hers  during  this  brief 
and  tender  dialogue,  but  on  attempting  to 
utter  the  last  word  he  felt  a  gentle  jriressure, 
then  a  slight  relaxation,  and  on  holding  the 
candle  closer  to  her  emaciated  face— which 
still  bore  those  dim  traces  of  former  beauty, 
that,  in  many  instances,  neither  sickness  nor 


death  can  altogether  obliterate — he  stooped 
and  wildly  kissed  her  now  passive  lips,  ex- 
claimuig,  in  words  purjjosely  low,  that  the 
other  inmates  of  the  cabin  might  not  hear 
them  : 

"  A  million  favers.  my  darhn'  Mary,  would 
not  prevent  me  from  kissin'  j'our  hps,  that 
will  never  more  be  opened  with  words  oi 
love  and  kmdness  to  my  he;u-t.  Oh,  Mar\\ 
Mary !  httle  did  I  di"ame  that  it  would  be  iu 
such  a  jjlace,  and  in  such  a  way,  that  you'd 
lave  me  and  them." 

He  had  hardly  sjsoken,  when  one  of  the 
httle  ones,  awaking,  said  : 

"  Daddy,  come  here,  an'  see  what  ails  Alley; 
she  won't  sjjake  to  me." 

"  She's  asleej),  darlin',  I  suppose.  "  he  re- 
plied ;  "  don't  S23ake  so  loud,  or  you'U  waken 
her." 

"Ay,  but  she's  as  could  as  anything,"  con- 
tiuued  the  little  one  ;  "  an'  I  can't  rise  her 
arm  to  put  it  about  me  the  way  it  used  to  be." 

Her  father  went  over,  and  placing  the  dim 
light  close  to  her  face,  as  he  had  done  to  that 
of  her  mother,  perceived  at  a  glance,  that 
when  the  spirit  of  that  affectionate  mother — 
of  that  faithful  wife — went  to  happiness,  she 
had  one  kindred  soul  there  to  welcome  her. 

The  man,  whom  we  need  not  name  to  the 
reader,  now  stood  in  the  centre  of  his  "  deso- 
late hearth,"  and  it  was  indeed  a  fearful  thing 
to  coutemjjlate  the  change  which  the  last  few 
minutes  had  produced  on  his  apjsearance. 
His  countenance  ceased  to  manifest  any  ex- 
pression of  either  grief  or  sorrow  ;  his  brows 
became  knit,  and  fell  with  savage  and  deter- 
mined gloom,  not  unmingled  with  fury,  over 
liis  eyes,  that  now  blazecl  like  coals  of  fire. 
His  lips,  too,  became  tight  and  firm,  and 
were  jjressed  closely  together,  unconsciously 
and  without  effort.  In  this  mood,  we  say,  he 
gazed  about  him,  his  heart  smote  with  sor- 
row and  affliction,  whilst  it  boiled  with 
indignation  and  fury.  "  Thomas  Gourlay," 
he  exclaimed — "villain — ojopressor — murd- 
herer — devil — this  is  your  work  !  but  I  here 
entreat  the  Almighty  God  " — he  drojajJed  on 
liis  knees  as  he  spoke — "  never  to  suffer  you 
to  lave  this  world  till  he  taches  you  that  he 
can  take  vengeance  for  the  poor."  Looking 
around  him  once  more,  he  lit  a  longer  rush- 
light, and  i^laced  it  in  the  little  wooden 
candlestick,  which  had  a  slit  at  the  topi,  into 
which  the  rush  was  j^i'essed.  Proceeding 
then  to  the  lower  corner  of  the  cabin,  he  put 
up  his  hand  to  the  top  of  the  side  v.-all,  from 
which  he  took  do\\Ti  a  large  stick,  or  cudgel, 
having  a  strong  leathern  thong  in  the  upper 
part,  within  about  six  inches  of  the  top. 
Into  this  thong  he  thrust  his  hand,  and 
twisting  it  round  his  wrist,  iu  order  that  no 
accident  or  chance  blow  might  cause  him  to 


410 


WILL/AJf  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


lose  his  gi'ij)  of  it,  be  once  more  looked  upon 
this  scene  of  uuexamj)led  wretchedness  and 
sorrow,  and  f)ulling  his  old  caubeen  over  his 
brow,  left  the  cabin. 

It  is  altogether  impossible  to  describe  the 
storm  of  conflicting  passions  and  .emotions 
that  raged  and  jostled  against  each  other 
within  him.  Sorrow — a  sense  of  relief — on 
behalf  of  those  so  dear  to  him,  who  had  been 
rescued  from  such  misery  ;  the  love  which  he 
bore  them  now  awakened  into  tenfold  affec- 
tion and  tenderness  by  theu-  loss  ;  the  un- 
certain fate  of  his  other  little  brood,  who 
were  ill,  but  still  living  ;  then  the  destitution 
— the  want  of  all  that  covild  nourish  or  sus- 
tain them — the  furious  ravenings  of  famine, 
which  he  himself  felt — and  the  black,  hojie- 
less,  impenetrable  future — all  crowded  upon 
his  heart,  swepit  through  liis  frantic  imagina- 
tion, and  produced  those  maddening  but 
unconscious  impulses,  under  the  influence  of 
which  great  crimes  are  frequently  committed, 
almost  before  their  perpetrator  is  aware  of 
his  having  committed  them. 

Trailcudgel,  on  leaving  his  cabin,  eared 
not  whither  he  went ;  but,  by  one  of  those 
instincts  which  direct  the  savage  to  the  pecu- 
liar haunts  where  its  prey  may  be  expected, 
and  guides  the  stupid  drunkard  to  his  own 
particular  dwelling,  though  unconscious  even 
of  his  very  existence  at  the  time — like  either, 
or  both,  of  these,  he  went  on  at  as  rapid  a 
pace  as  his  weakness  would  permit,  being 
quite  ignorant  of  his  whereabouts  untd  he 
felt  himself  on  the  great  highway.  He  looked 
at  the  sky  now  with  an  interest  he  had  never 
felt  before.  The  night  was  exceedingly  diU'k, 
but  calm  and  warm.  An  odd  star  here  and 
there  presented  itself,  and  he  felt  glad  at 
this,  for  it  removed  the  monotony  of  the 
darkness. 

"There,"  said  he  to  himself,  "is  the  place 
where  Maiy  and  Alley  live  now.  Up  there, 
in  heaven.  I  am  glad  of  it ;  but  still,  how 
will  I  enther  the  cabin,  and  not  hear  their 
voices  ?  But  the  other  poor  creatures ! 
mnsn't  I  do  something  for  them,  or  they  will 
go  too  ?  Yes,  yes, — but  whisht !  what  noise 
is  that  ?  Ha !  a  coach.  IS  ow  for  it.  May 
God  support  me  !  Here  comes  the  battle 
for  the  little  ones — for  the  poor  weak  hand 
that's  not  able  to  carry  the  drink  to  its 
lips.  Poor  darlins !  Yes,  darlins,  your 
father  is  now  goiu'  to  fight  your  battle — to 
put  himself,  for  j'our  sakes,  against  the  laws 
of  man,  but  not  against  the  laws  of  nature 
that  God  has  put  into  my  heart  for  my  dying 
childre.  Either  the  one  finieral  will  carry 
three  coi-pses  to  the  grave,  or  I  wiU  bring 
yez  rehef.  It's  comin'  near,  and  I'll  stand 
undher  this  tree." 

In    accordance   with    this    resolution,    he 


planted  himself  under  a  large  clump  of  trees 
where,  like  the  famished  tiger,  he  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  carriage.  And,  indeed,  it 
is  obvious  that  despair,  and  hunger,  and  sor- 
row, had  brought  him  down  to  the  first  ele- 
ments of  mere  animal  hfe  ;  and  finding  not 
liy  anj-  process  of  reasoning  or  inference,  but 
by  the  agonizing  pressure  of  stern  reaUty, 
that  the  institutions  of  social  civihzatiou  were 
closed  against  him  and  his,  he  acted  pre- 
cisely as  a  man  would  act  in  a  natural  and 
savage  state,  and  who  had  never  been  ad- 
mitted to  a  particijjation  in  the  common 
rights  of  hiimanity — we  mean,  the  right  to 
live  honestly,  when  willing  and  able  to  con- 
tribute his  share  of  labor  and  industry  to 
the  common  stock. 

Let  not  our  readers  mistake  us.  We  are 
not  defending  the  crime  of  robbery,  neither 
would  we  rashly  jialliate  it,  although  there 
are  instances  of  it  which  desei-ve  not  only 
palliation,  but  pardon.  "We  are  only  describ- 
ing the  principles  ujjou  which  this  man 
acted,  and,  considering  his  motives,  we 
question  whether  this  j)eculiar  act,  origina- 
ting as  it  did  in  the  noblest  virtues  and 
affections  of  our  nature,  was  not  rather  an 
act  of  heroism  than  of  robbery.  This  point, 
however,  we  leave  to  inetajihysicians,  and 
return  to  our  narrative. 

The  night,  as  we  said,  was  dark,  and  the 
caniage  in  question  was  proceeding  at  that 
slow  and  steady  pace  which  was  necessary  to 
insure  .safety.  Sir  Thomas,  for  it  was  he,  sat 
on  the  dickey  ;  GiUesjjie  ha^'ing  proceeded 
in  advance  of  him,  in  order  to  get  horses, 
carriage,  and  everj-thing  safely  put  to  rights 
without  the  possibility  of  observation. 

We  may  as  well  mention  here  that  his 
anxiety  to  keej}  the  events  of  the  night  secret 
had  overcome  his  apprehensions  of  the  su- 
pernatural, and  indeed,  it  may  not  be  im- 
jjossible  that  he  made  acquaintance  -srith  one 
of  the  flasks  that  had  been  destined  for  poor 
Fenton.  Of  this,  however,  we  are  by  no 
means  certain  ;  we  only  thi'ow  it  out,  there- 
fore, as  a  pirobability. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  stronger  and 
more  insupportable  jjassions  sharpen  not 
only  the  physical  but  the  mental  faculties  in 
an  extraordinary  degree.  The  eye  of  the 
bird  of  prey,  which  is  mostly  directed  by 
the  savage  instincts  of  hunger,  can  view  its 
quarry  at  an  incredible  distance  ;  and,  insti- 
gated by  vengeance,  the  Americ-an  Indian 
will  trace  his  enemy  by  marks  which  the  ut- 
most ingenuity  of  civilized  man  would  nevei- 
enable  him  to  discover.  Quickened  by  some- 
thing of  the  kind,  Trailcudgel  instantly  rec- 
ognized his  bitter  and  implacable  foe,  and  in 
a  moment  an  unusual  j)ortion  of  his  fo)  mer 
strength  returned,  with  the  impetuous  -■  ■'1 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


411 


energetic  resentment  which  the  appearance 
of  the  baronet,  at  that  peculiar  crisis,  had 
awakened.  When  the  carriage  came  nearly 
opposite  where  he  stood,  the  frantic  and  un- 
happy man  was  in  an  instant  at  the  heads  of 
the  horses,  and,  seizing  the  reins,  brought 
them  to  a  stand-still. 

"  ^^Tiat's  the  matter  there  ? "  exclaimed 
the  bai-onet,  who,  however,  began  to  feel 
7ery  serious  alarm.  "  Why  do  you  stop  the 
horses,  my  friend?  All's  right,  and  I'm 
much  obliged — j)ray  let  them  go." 

"AU's  wrong,"  shouted  the  other  in  a 
voice  so  deep,  hoarse,  and  terriljle  in  the 
wildness  of  its  intonations,  that  no  human 
being  could  recognize  it  as  that  of  Trailcud- 
gel ;  "  all's  wrong,"  he  shouted  ;  "  I  de- 
maud  your  money  !  your  life  or  your  money 
— quick  ! " 

"This  is  highway-robbery,"  replied  Sir 
Thomas,  in  a  voice  of  expostulation,  "  think 
of  what  you  are  about,  my  friend." 

But,  as  he  spoke,  Trailcudgel  could  ob- 
sei-^-e  that  he  put  his  hand  behind  him  as  if 
with  the  intent  of  taking  lire-arms  out  of  his 
f)ocket.  Like  hghtuing  was  the  blow  which 
tumbled  him  from  his  seat  iipon  the  two 
liorses,  and  a  fortunate  cfrcumstauce  it 
proved,  for  there  is  little  doubt  th;it  his 
1  ec'i  would  have  been  broken,  or  the  fiill 
pro .ed  otherwise  fatal  to  so  heavj'  a  man. 
La  1  he  been  j>recipitated  directly,  and  fr'om 
such  a  height,  tipon  the  hard  road.  As  it 
was,  he  found  himself  instantly  in  the  fei'o- 
cious  clutches  of  Trailcudgel,  who  dragged 
him  from  the  horses,  as  a  tiger  would  a  bull, 
and  ere  he  could  use  hand  or  word  in  his 
own  defence,  he  felt  the  muzzle  of  one  of  his 
o^vn  pistols  pressed  against  his  head. 

"  Easy,  my  friend !  "  he  exclaimed,   in  a  \ 
voice  that  was  rendered  infirm  by  terror  ; 
"do  not  take  my  hfe — don't  murder  me — j 
you  shall  have  my  money." 

"  Murdher  !  "    shouted  the   other.     "  Ah, 
you  black  dog  of  hell,  it  is  on  your  red  sowl 
that  many  a  murdher  lies.     ^Murdher  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  in  words  that  were  thick,  vehem-  ' 
ent,    and   almost   uuiutelhgible   with    rage.  ' 
"  Ay,  mui-dher  is  it?    It  wnts  a  just  God  that  j 
put  the  words  into  your  g-uilty  heart  and  i 
wicked   hps — prejsare,    your   last  moment's 
come — your  doom  is  sealed — are  you  ready 
to  die,  \illain  ?  "  | 

The  whole  black  and  fearful  tenor  of  the  j 
baronet's  hfe  came  like  a  vision  of  hell  itself 
over  liis  conscience,  now  fearfully  awalconed 
to  the  terrible  position  in  which  he  felt  him-  | 
self  placed. 

"Oh.  no!"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  whose  ' 
tremulous  tones  lietrayed  the  full  extent  of  ■ 
his  agony  and  terrors.  "  Oh.  no  !  "  he  ex-  ! 
claimed.     "  Spare  me,   whoever   you   are —  ! 


spare  my  life,  and  if  you  vriU  come  to  me 
to-morrow,  I  promise,  in  the  presence  of 
God,  to  make  you  independent  as  long  as 
you  hve.  Oh,  sj^ai-e  me,  for  the  sake  of  the 
li\-ing  God — for  I  am  vot  lit  to  die.  If  you 
kiU  me  now,  you  will  have  the  perdition  o( 
my  soul  to  answer  for  at  the  bai-  of  judg 
ment.  If  you  spare  me,  I  wUl  reform  mi 
life — I  will  become  a  virtuous  man." 

"WeL',''  replied  the  other,  relaxing — "ioi 
the  sake  of  the  name  you  have  used,  and  ui 
the  hope  that  this  may  be  a  wai-nin'  to  you 
for  jour  good,  I  -w-ill  leave  your  wicked  and 
worthless  life  -n-ith  you.  No,  I'll  not  be  the 
man  that  wUl  hurl  you  into  perdition — but 
it  is  on  one  condition — _you  must  hand  me 
out  your  money  before  I  have  time  to  count 
ten.  Listen  now — if  I  haven't  every  farthing 
that's  about  you  before  that  reckonin's  made, 
the  bullet  that's  in  this  pistol  will  be  thi'ough 
your  brain." 

The  expedition  of  the  baronet  was  amaz- 
ing, for  as  Jemmy  went  on  with  this  disas- 
trous enumeration,  steadily  and  distinctly, 
but  not  quickly,  he  had  only  time  to  get  as 
far  as  e'nihl  when  he  found  himself  in  jiosses- 
sion  of  the  bai-onet's  purse. 

"  Is  it  aW  here  ?  "  he  asked.  "No  trick.j 
— no  lyin' — the  truth  ?  for  I'll  search  you." 

"You  may,"  rephed  the  other,  with  confi- 
dence ;  "  and  you  may  shoot  me,  too,  if  you 
find  another  fartliing  in  my  possession." 

"  Now,  then,"  said  TraUeudgel,  "  get  home 
as  well  as  you  can,  and  reform  your  life  as 
you  i^romised — as  for  me,  I'll  keep  the  pis- 
tols ;  indeed,  for  my  avra  sake,  for  I  have  no 
notion  of  putting  them  into  your  hands  at 
present." 

He  then  disappeared,  and  the  baronet, 
having  with  considerable  difficulty  gained 
tlie  box-seat,  reached  home  somewhat  lighter 
in  j)ocket  than  he  had  left  it,  convinced  be- 
sides that  an  unexpected  visit  from  a  natural 
appai-ition  is  frequently  much  more  to  be 
dreaded  than  one  from  the  supernatural. 

The  baronet  was  in  the  general  afi'aii-s  of 
life  penurious  in  money  matters,  but  on 
those  occasions  where  money  was  necessaiy 
to  enable  him  to  advance  or  mature  his  jjImis, 
conceal  his  proceedings,  or  reward  his  in- 
struments, he  was  by  no  means  ilhberal. 
This,  however,  was  mere  selfishness,  or 
rather,  we  shoidd  say,  self-preservation,  inas- 
much as  liis  success  and  rej)utation  depended 
in  a  great  degree  upon  the  liberpJity  of  his 
corruption.  On  the  present  occasion  he  re- 
gretted, no  doubt,  the  loss  of  the  money, 
but  we  are  boimd  to  say,  that  he  would  have 
given  its  amount  fifteen  times  repeated,  to 
get  once  more  into  his  hands  tlie  single 
pound-note  of  which  he  had  treacherously 
and   like   a   coward   robbed   Feuton    whila 


412 


WILLIAM  CARLETOiTS    WORKS. 


asleep  iu  tile  carriage.  Tliifs  loss,  in  coBnec- 
tion  with  the  robbery  wliicli  occasioned  it, 
forced  him  to  retrace  to  a  consideralile  ex- 
tent the  process  of  ratiocination  on  the  sub- 
ject of  fate  and  destiny,  in  which  he  had  so 
complacently  indulged  not  long  before. 

No  matter  how  deep  and  hardened  any 
villain  may  be,  the  most  reckless  and  im- 
scrapulous  of  the  class  possess  some  con- 
scious princiijle  within,  that  tells  them  of 
their  misdeeds,  and  acquaints  them  with  the 
fact  that  a  point  iu  the  moral  government  of 
life  has  most  certainly  been  made  against 
them.  So  was  it  now  with  the  baronet.  He 
laid  himself  upon  his  gorgeous  bed  a  des- 
ponding, and,  for  the  jjresent,  a  discomfited 
man  ;  nor  could  he  for  the  life  of  him,  much 
as  he  pretended  to  disregard  the  operations 
of  a  Divine  Providence,  avoid  coming  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  highway  robbery  com- 
mitted on  him  looked  sui-prisingly  like  an 
act  of  retributive  justice.  He  consoled  him- 
self, it  is  true,  with  the  reflection,  that  it  was 
not  for  the  mlue  of  the  note  that  be  had 
committed  the  crime  upon  Fenton,  for  to 
him  the  note,  except  for  its  mere  amount, 
was  in  other  respects  valueless.  But  what 
galled  him  to  the  soul,  was  the  bitter  re- 
flection that  he  did  not,  on  perceiving  its  ad- 
vantage to  Fenton,  at  once  destroy  it — tear 
it  up — eat  it — swallow  it — and  thus  render  it 
utterly  impossible  to  ever  contravene  his 
ambition  or  his  crimes.  In  the  meantime 
slumber  stole  upon  him,  but  it  was  neither 
deep  nor  refreshing.  His  mind  was  a  choas 
of  dark  projects  and  frightftd  images.  Fen- 
ton— the  ragged  and  gigantic  robber,  who 
was  so  much  changed  by  famine  and  misery 
that  he  did  not  know  him — the  stranger — his 
daughter — Giuty  Cooper,  the  fortune-teller — 
Lord  Culliunore — the  terrible  pistol  at  his 
br.ain — Dunroe — and  all  those  who  were 
more  or  less  concerned  in  or  aft'ected  by  his 
schemes,  flitted  through  his  disturbed  fancy 
like  tlie  figures  in  a  magic  lantern,  rendering 
his  sleep  feverish,  disturbed,  and  by  m-iny 
degrees  more  painful  than  his  waking  re- 
flections. 

It  has  been  frequently  observed,  that 
violence  and  tyranny  overshoot  their  mark  ; 
and  we  may  add,  that  no  craft,  however 
secret  its  operations,  or  rather  however 
secret  they  are  designed  to  be,  can  coj^e  wth 
the  consequences  of  even  the  simjilest  acci- 
dent. A  sliort,  feverish  attack  of  illness  hav- 
ing seized  jVIi's.  Morgan,  the  housekeeper,  on 
tlie  night  of  Fenton's  removal,  she  persuaded 
one  of  the  maids  to  sit  up  with  her,  iu  order 
to  provide  her  with  whey  and  nitre,  which 
.she  took  fi'om  time  to  time,  for  the  purpose 
of  relieving  lier  by  cooling  the  system.  The 
ftttack  though  short  was  a  sliarpoue,  and  the 


poor  woman  was  really  very  ill.  In  the 
course  of  the  night,  this  gii'l  was  somewhat 
surprised  by  hearing  noises  in  and  about  the 
stables,  and  as  she  began  to  entertain  ajjpre- 
heusion  from  robbers,  she  considered  it  her 
duty  to  consult  the  sick  woman  as  to  the 
steles  she  ought  to  take. 

"Take  no  steps,"  replied  the  prudent 
housekeeper,  "till  we  know,  if  we  can,  what 
the  noise  proceeds  from.  Go  into  that  closet, 
but  don't  take  the  candJe,  lest  the  light  of  it 
might  alarm  them — it  overlooks  the  stable- 
yard — open  the  window  gently  ;  you  know  it 
turns  upon  hinges — and  look  out  cautiously. 
If  Sir  Thomas  is  disturbed  by  a  false  alarm, 
you  might  fly  at  once  ;  for  somehow  of  late 
he  has  lost  all  conmiand  of  his  temper." 

"But  we  know  the  reason  of  that,  Mrs. 
Morgan,"  replied  tbe  girl.  "It's  because 
Miss  Gourlay  refuses  to  marry  Lord  Dimroe, 
and  because  he's  afraid  that  she'll  run  away 
with  a  very  handsome  gentleman  that  stops 
in  the  Mitre.  TTiat's  what  made  him  lock 
her  up." 

"  Don't  you  l>reathe  a  syllable  of  thfi," 
said  the  cautious  Mrs.  Morgan,  "  for  fear 
you  might  get  locked  up  yourself.  You 
know,  nothing  that  hai^isens  in  this  family  is 
ever  to  be  spoken  of  to  any  one,  on  pain  of 
Sir  Thomas's  severest  disialeasure  ;  and  you 
have  not  come  to  this  time  of  day  withoiit 
iniderstanding  what  that  means.  But  don't 
talk  to  me.  or  rather,  don't  expect  me  to  talk 
to  you.  My  head  is  verj'  iU,  and  my  jaulse 
going  at  a  rapid  rate.  Another  di'ink  of  that 
whey,  Nancy  ;  then  see,  if  you  can,  what 
that  noise  means." 

Nancy,  having  handed  her  the  whey,  went 
to  the  closet  window  to  i^connoitre  ;  but 
the  reader  may  judge  of  her  surj^rise  on  see- 
ing Sir  Thomas  himself  moving  aliout  with 
a  dark  lantern,  and  giving  directions  to 
Gillespie,  who  was  j^utting  the  horses  to  the 
carriage.  She  retiu-ned  to  the  housekeei^er 
on  tip-toe,  her  face  brimful  of  mysterv  and 
dehght. 

"\Vhat  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Morgan  ?  If 
there  isn't  Sir  Thomas  himself  walking  about 
with  a  little  lantern,  and  giving  orders  to 
Gillespie,  who  is  yoking  the  coach." 

Mis.  Morgan  could  not  refrain  fi'om  smil- 
ing at  this  comical  expression  of  yoking  the 
coach  ;  but  her  face  soon  became  serious, 
and  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  hope  in  God 
this  is  no  further  act  of  violence  against  liis 
angel  of  a  daughter.  "What  else  coidd  he 
mean  by  getting  out  a  camjige  at  this  hour 
of  the  niglit?  Go  and  look  again,  Nancy, 
and  see  whether  you  nny  not  also  get  r. 
ghmpse  of  Miss  Gourlay." 

Nancy,  however,  arrived  at  the  mndowonly 
in  time  to  seo  her  master  enter  the  carriage, 


THE  BLACK  BAAiONET. 


413 


ani-l  the  cariiafje  Jisn.ppeav  out  of  the  yard  ; 
but  wliether  Miss  Gouiiaj  was  in  it  along 
witli  hiiii,  the  darkness  of  the  night  prevent- 
ed her  from  ascertaining.  After  some  time, 
however,  she  threw  out  a  suggestion,  on 
wliich,  with  the  consent  of  the  patient,  she 
immediately  acted.  This  was  to  discover,  if 
possible,  whetlier  Jliss  Goiu-lay  with  her 
maid  was  in  her  own  room  or  not.  She  ac- 
cordingly went  with  a  light  and  stealthy  pace 
to  the  door  ;  and  as  she  knew  that  its  fair  oc- 
cupant always  slept  v^dth  a  night-light  in  her 
chamber,  she  put  her  pretty  ej-e  to  the  key- 
hole, in  order  to  satisfy  herself  on  this  j)oiut. 
All,  however,  so  far  as  both  sight  and  hearmg 
could  inform  her,  was  both  dark  and  silent. 
This  was  odd  ;  nay,  not  only  odd,  but  un- 
usual. She  now  felt  her  heart  palpitate  ; 
she  was  excited,  alarmed.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  She  would  take  a  bold  step — she 
would  knock — she  would  wliisj)er  thi'ough 
the  key-hole,  and  set  down  the  interrujstiou 
to  anxiety  to  mention  Mrs.  Morgan's  sudden 
and  -^-iolent  illness.  Well,  all  these  remedies 
for  curiosity  were  tried,  aU  these  ste2:)s  taken, 
and,  to  a  certain  extent,  they  were  success- 
fid  ;  for  there  could  indeed  be  little  doubt 
that  Miss  Govu'lay  and  her  maid  were  not  in 
the  apartment.  Everything  now  pertaining 
to  the  mysterious  motions  of  Sir  Thomas  and 
his  coachman  was  as  clear  as  cry.stal.  He 
had  spirited  her  away  somewhere — "placed 
her,  the  old  brute,  under  some  she-dragon 
or  other,  who  would  make  her  feed  on  raw 
flesh  and  cobwebs,  with  a  view  of  reducing 
her  strength  and  breaking  her  spirit." 

Mrs.  Morgan,  however,  with  her  usual 
good  sense  and  prudence,  recommended  the 
lively  girl  to  preserve  the  strictest  silence  on 
what  she  had  seen,  and  to  allow  the  other 
servants  to  tind  the  secret  out  for  themselves 
if  they  could.  To-morrow  might  disclose 
more,  but  as  at  present  they  had  nothing 
stronger  than  suspicion,  it  would  be  wi'ong 
to  sjjeak  of  it,  and  might,  besides,  be  preju- 
dicial to.^Miss  Gourlay's  reputation.  Such 
was  the  love^nd  resjject  which  all  the  family 
felt  for  the  Imid-hearted  and  amiable  Lucy, 
who  was  the  general  advocate  v.itli  her  father 
when  any  of  them  had  iucun-ed  his  dis- 
jjleasure,  that  on  her  account  alone,  even  if 
dread  of  Sir  Thomas  did  not  loom  Hke  a 
gathering  storm  in  the  background,  not  one 
of  them  ever  seemed  to  notice  her  absence, 
nor  did  the  baronet  himself  until  days  had 
elapsed.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day 
he  began  to  think,  that  perhaps  confinement 
might  have  tamed  her  down  into  somewhat 
of  a  more  amenable  spirit ;  and  as  he  had  in 
the  interval  taken  all  necessary  steps  to 
secure  the  jierson  of  the  man  who  robbed 
him,  and  ottered  a  large  reward  for  his  ap- 


prehension, he  felt  somewhat  satisfied  tliat 
he  had  done  all  that  could  Ise  done,  and  was 
consequently  moi'e  at  leisiu-e,  and  also  more 
anxious  to  ascertain  the  tem2:)er  of  mind  in 
which  he  should  find  her. 

In  the  meantime,  the  dehcious  scandal  of 
the  supj^osed  elopement  was  beginning  to 
creej)  abroad,  and,  in  fact,  was  pretty  gen- 
erally rumored  throughout  the  redoubtable 
town  of  Ballytrain  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  or  fourth  day.  Of  course,  we  need 
ficarcely  assure  our  intelligent  readers,  that 
the  friends  of  the  parties  are  the  very  last 
to  whom  such  a  scandal  would  be  mentioned, 
not  only  because  such  an  office  is  always 
painfid,  but  because  every  one  takes  it  for 
granted  that  they  are  already  aware  of  it 
themselves.  In  the  case  before  us,  such 
was  the  general  opinion,  and  Sir  Thomas's 
silence  on  the  subject  was  imjjuted  by- some 
to  the  natui-al  delicacy  of  a  father  in  aUuding 
to  a  subject  so  distressing,  and  by  others  to 
a  calm,  quiet  sjiirit  of  vengeance,  which  he 
only  restrained  until  circumstances  should 
2)lace  him  in  a  condition  to  crush  the  man 
who  had  entailed  shame  and  disgrace  upon 
his  name  and  familj-. 

Such  was  the  state  of  circumstances  upon 
the  third  or  fourth  morning  after  Lucy's 
disappearance,  when  Su-  Thomas  called  the 
footman,  and  desired  him  to  send  Miss 
Gourhiy's  maid  to  him  ;  he  wished  to  speak 
with  her. 

By  this  time  it  was  known  through  the 
whole  establishment  that  Lucy  and  she  had 
both  disappeared,  and,  thanks  to  Nancy — 
to  ijretty  Nancy — "  that  her  own  father,  the 
hard-hearted  old  wretch,  had  forced  her  olf 
— God  knows  where — in  the  dead  of  night." 

The  footman,  who  had  taken  Nancy's 
secret  for  granted  ;  and,  to  teU  the  truth,  he 
had  it  in  the  most  agreeable  and  authentic 
sliape — to  wit,  fi'om  her  own  sweet  lips — 
and  who  could  be  base  enough  to  doubt  any 
communication  so  delightfully  conveyed? — 
the  footman,  we  say,  on  hearing  this  command 
from  his  master,  started  a  little,  and  in  the 
confusion  or  forge tfulness  of  the  moment, 
almost  stared  at  him. 

"  What,  sirrah,"  exclaimed  the  latter  ;  "  did 
you  hear  what  I  said  ?  " 

"  I  did,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  stiU  more 
confused;  "but,  I  thought,  your  honor, 
that " 

"  You  despicable  scoundrel !  "  said  his 
master,  stamping,  "  what  means  this '?  You 
thought !  What  riglit,  sir,  have  you  to  think, 
or  to  do  anything  but  obey  your  orders  from 
me.  It  was  not  to  think,  sir,  I  brought  you 
here,  but  to  do  your  duty  as  footman. 
Fetch  Miss  Gourlay's  maiil,  sir,  immediately. 
Say  I  desire  lo. speak  with  her." 


iU 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  She  is  not  within,  sii',"  replied  the  man 
trembling. 

"  Then  where  is  she,  sir?  Why  is  she  ab- 
sent from  her  charge  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir.     We  thought,  sir " 

"  Thinking  again,  you  scoundrel ! — speak 
out,  however." 

"  Why,  the  tiTith  is,  your  honor,  that 
neither  lliss  Gourlay  nor  she  has  been  here 
since  Tuesday  night  last." 

The  baronet  had  been  walking  to  and  fro, 
as  was  his  wont,  but  this  information  para- 
lyzed him,  as  if  by  a  physical  blow  on  the 
brain.  He  now  went,  or  rather  tottered 
over,  to  his  arm-chair,  into  which  he  drop- 
ped rather  than  sat,  and  stared  at  Gibson 
the  footman  as  if  he  had  forgotten  the  intel- 
ligence just  conveyed  to  him.  In  fact,  his 
confusion  was  such — so  stunning  was  the 
blow^that  it  is  possible  he  did  forget  it. 

"What  is  that,  Gibson?"  said  he  ;  "teU 
me  ;  repeat  what  you  said." 

"  Why,  your  honor,"  rejjlied  Gibson, 
"since  last  Tuesday  night  neither  Miss 
Gourlay  nor  her  maid  has  been  in  this 
house." 

"Was  there  no  letter  left,  nor  any  verbal 
information  that  might  satisfy  us  as  to  where 
they  have  gone  ?  " 

"Not  any,  sir,  that  I  am  aware  of." 

"Was  her  room  examined?" 

"I  cannot  say,  sir.  You  know,  sir,  I 
never  enter  it  unless  when  I  am  rung  for  by 
Miss  Gourlay  ;  and  that  is  very  rarely." 

"  Do  you  think,  Gibson,  that  there  is  any 
one  in  the  house  that  knows  more  of  this 
matter  than  you  do  ?  " 

Gibson  shook  his  head,  and  rejjlied,  "  As 
to  that.  Sir  Thomas,  I  cannot  say." 

The  baronet  was  not  now  in  a  rage.  The 
thing  was  impossible  ;  not  within  the  energies 
of  nature.  He  was  stunned,  stupefied,  ren- 
dered helpless. 

"I  think,"  he  proceeded,  "I  observed  a 
girl  named  Nancy — I  forget  what  else,  Nancy 
something — that  Miss  Gourlaj'  seemed  to 
like  a  good  deal.  Send  her  here.  But  be- 
fore you  do  so,  may  I  beg  to  know  why  /, 
her  father,  her  natural  guardian  and  pro- 
tector, was  kept  so  long  in  ignorance  of  her 
extraordinary  disappearance  ?  Pray,  ]Mr. 
Gibson,  satisfy  me  on  that  head  ?  " 

"  I  think,  sir,"  replied  Gibson,  most  un- 
gallantly  shifting  the  danger  of  the  explana- 
tion from  his  own  shoulders  to  the  pretty 
ones  of  Nancy  Forbes — "  I  think,  sir,  Nancy 
Forbes,  the  girl  you  speak  of,  may  know 
more  about  the  last  matter  than  I  do." 

"  ^Vhat  do  you  mean  by  the  /a.s/  mat- 
ter?" 

"  ^^^ly,  sir,  the  reason  why  we  did  not  tell 
50m-  honor  of  it  sooner " 


Sir  Thomas  waved  his  hand.  "  Go,"  he 
added,  "send  her  here." 

"D — n  the  old  scoundrel,"  thought  Gib- 
son to  himself  ;  "  but  that's  a  fine  piece  of 
acting.  Why,  if  he  hadn't  been  aware  of  it 
all  along  he  would  have  throwii  me  clean  out 
of  the  window,  even  as  the  messenger  of  such 
tidings.  However,  he  is  not  so  cleep  as  he 
thinks  himself.  We  know  him — see  through 
him — on  this  subject  at  least." 

Wieu  Nancy  entered,  her  master  gave  her 
one  of  those  stem,  searching  looks  wliich 
often  made  his  unfortunate  menials  tremble 
before  him. 

"  What's  your  name,  my  good  gii'l  ?  " 

"  Nancy  Forbes,  sir." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  family  ?  " 

"  I'm  in  the  first  mouth  of  my  second 
quarter,  your  honor,"  with  a  courtesy. 

"You  are  a  jiretty  girl." 

Nancy,  with  another  courtesy,  and  a  sim- 
per, which  vanity,  for  the  life  of  her,  could 
not  suppress,  "  Oh  la,  sir,  how  could  your 
honor  say  such  a  thing  of  a  humble  girl  like 
me  ?  Y'^ou  that  sees  so  many  handsome  great 
ladies. " 

"  Have  you  a  sweetheart?  " 

Nancy  fairly  tittered.  "Is  it  me,  sir — 
why,  who  would  think  of  the  like  of  me  ? 
Not  one,  sir,  ever  I  had." 

"Because,  if  you  have,"  he  proceeded, 
"  and  that  /  approve  of  him,  I  wouldn't  scra- 
25le  much  to  give  you  sonietliing  that  might 
enable  you  and  your  husband  to  begin  the 
world  with  comfort." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  verj'  kind,  your  honor,  but 
I  never  did  anything  to  desan-e  so  much 
goodness  at  your  honor's  hands." 

"The  old  villain  wants  to  bribe  me  for 
something."  thought  Nancy. 

"  Well,  but  you  may,  my  good  girl.  I  think 
you  are  a  favoiite  with  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  thought  Nancy,  "  I  am  sure  of 
it  now." 

"  That's  more  than  I  know,  sir,"  she  re- 
plied. "  Miss  Gourlay — God  bless  and  pro- 
tect her — was  kind  to  every  one ;  and  not 
more  so  to  me  than  to  the  other  servants." 

"  I  have  just  been  informed  by  Gibson, 
that  she  and  her  maid  left  the  Hall  on  Tues- 
day night  last.  Now,  answer  me  truly,  and 
you  sh'dl  be  the  better  for  it.  Have  you  any 
conception,  any  susj^icion,  let  us  say,  where 
they  have  gone  to  ?  " 

"  La,  sir,  sure  your  honor  ought  to  know 
that  better  than  me." 

"  How  so,  my  pretty  girl  ?  How  should  I 
know  it?   She  told  me  nothing  about  it." 

"  ^Miy,  wasn't  it  your  honor  and  Tom 
Gillespie  that  took  her  away  in  the  carriage 
on  that  very  night  ?  " 

Here  now  was  wit  against  \sit,  or  at  least 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


415 


cunning  agiiiiist  cunning.  Nancy,  the  adroit, 
hazarded  au  assertion  of  whicii  she  was  not 
certain,  in  order  to  f)robe  the  baionet,  and 
place  him  in  a  j)ositiou  by  wliich  she  might 
be  able  by  his  conduct  and  manner  to  satisfy 
herself  whether  her  susjaicions  were  well- 
founded  or  not. 

"  But  how  do  you  know,  my  good  gii'l, 
that  I  and  Gillespie  were  out  that  night?  " 

It  is  unnecessary  to  repeat  here  circum- 
stances with  which  the  reader  is  already  ac- 
quainted. Nixncy  gave  him  the  history  of 
Mrs.  ^Morgan's  sudden  illness,  and  all  the 
other  facts  already  mentioned. 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  still  can- 
not understand,"  rejslied  the  baronet,  "  which 
is,  that  the  disappearance  of  Miss  Gourliy 
was  never  mentioned  to  me  until  I  inquired 
for  her  maid,  whom  I  wished  to  speak 
with." 

"  But  sure  that's  verj- natural,  sir,"  replied 
Nancy  ;  "  the  reason  we  didn't  speak  to  you 
upon  the  subject  was  because  we  thovight 
that  it  was  your  honor  who  brought  her 
away  ;  and  that  as  you  took  such  a  late  hour 
in  the  night  for  it.  you  didn't  wish  that  we 
should  know  anything  about  it." 

The  baronet's  eye  fell  upon  her  severely, 
as  if  he  doubted  the  truth  of  what  she  said. 
Nancy's  eye,  however,  neither  avoided  his 
nor  quailed  before  it.  She  now  spoke  the 
truth,  and  she  did  so,  in  order  to  prevent 
herself  and  the  other  servants  from  incurring 
his  resentment  by  their  silence. 

"Very  well,"  observed  Sir  Thomas,  calmly, 
but  sternly.  "I  think  you  have  spoken  what 
you  believe  to  be  the  truth,  and  what,  for  all 
you  know,  ma\i  be  the  truth.  But  observe  my 
words :  let  this  subject  be  never  breathed 
nor  uttered  by  any  domestic  in  my  establish- 
ment. Tell  your  fellow-servants  tliat  such 
are  my  orders  ;  for  I  swear,  if  I  find  that  any 
one  of  you  shall  speak  of  it,  ray  utmost  ven- 
geance shall  pursue  him  or  her  to  death  it- 
self. That  win  do."  And  he  signed  to  her 
to  retire. 


CHAPTER  X\T[I. 

Danphy  visits  the  Cn'iiily  Wicklino — Old  Sam  and 
his    Wife. 

It  was  about  a  week  subsequent  to  the  in- 
terview which  the  stranger  had  with  old 
Dunphy,  unsuccessful  as  our  readers  know 
it  to  have  been,  that  the  latter  and  his  wife 
were  sitting  in  the  back  parlor  one  night  af- 
ter their  little  shop  had  been  closed,  when 
the  following  dialogue  took  place  between 
them  : 

"  Well,  at  all  events,"  observed  the  old 


man,  "  he  was  the  best  of  them,  and  to  my 
own  knowledge  that  same  saicret  lay  hot 
and  heavy  on  his  conscience,  especiallj'  to  so 
good  a  master  awl  mistress  as  they  were  to 
him.     The  truth  is,  Polly,  I'll  do  it." 

"  But  why  didn't  he  do  it  himself  ?  "  asked 
his  wife. 

"Why? — why?"  he  rei^lied,  looking  at 
her  with  his  keen  ferret  eyes — "  why,  don't 
you  know  what  a  weakminded,  timorsome 
creature  he  was,  ever  since  the  height  o'  my 
knee  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay,"  she  returned  ;  "  and  I  hard 
something  about  an  oath,  I  think,  that  they 
made  him  take." 

"  You  did,"  said  her  husband  ;  "and  it  was 
true,  too.  They  swore  him  never  to  breathe 
a  syllable  of  it  instil  his  dying  day — an'  al- 
though they  meant  hj  that  that  he  should 
never  revale  it  at  all,  yet  he  always  was  of 
opinion  that  he  migJit  tell  it  on  that  day,  but 
on  no  other  one.  And  it  was  his  intention 
to  do  so." 

"  Wasn't  it  an  unlucky  thing  tliat  fOie  hap- 
pened to  be  out  when  he  could  do  it  with  a 
safe  conscience  ?  "  obsei-A'ed  his  wife. 

"  They  almost  threatened  the  life  out  of 
the  poor  creature,"  pursued  her  husband, 
"  for  Tom  threatened  to  murder  him  if  he 
betrayed  them  ;  and  Ginty  to  poison  him,  if 
Tom  didn't  keep  /»'.s  word— and  I  believe  in 
my  sowl.  that  the  same  devil's  pair  would  a' 
done  either  the  one  or  the  other,  if  he  had 
broken  his  oath.  Of  the  two,  however.  Gin- 
ty's  the  worst,  I  think  ;  and  I  often  believe, 
myself,  that  she  deals  with  the  devil  ;  but 
that,  I  suppose,  is  bekaise  she's  sometimes 
not  right  in  her  head  still." 

"  If  she  doesn't  dale  with  the  devil,  the 
de\il  dales  with  her  at  any  rate,"  rejilied  the 
other.  "  Thej-'ll  be  apt  to  gain  their  point, 
Tom  and  she." 

"  Tom,  I  know,  is  just  as  bitther  as  slie 
is,"  observed  the  old  man,  "  and  Ginty,  by 
her  promises  as  to  what  she'll  do  for  him, 
has  turned  his  heart  altogether  to  stone  ;  and 
yet  I  know  a  man  that's  bittherer  against  the 
black  fellow  than  either  o'  them.  She  only 
thinks  of  the  luck  that's  before  her  ;  but,  af- 
ther  all,  Tom  acts  more  fi-om  hatred  to  him 
than  fi-oni  Ginty's  promises.  He  has  no  bad 
feelin'  against  the  young  man  himself ;  but 
it's  the  others  he's  bent  on  punishing.  God 
direct  myself,  I  wish  at  any  rate  that  I  never 
had  act  or  hand  in  it.  As  for  your  time  o'  life 
and  mine,  Polly,  you  know  that  age  puts  it 
out  of  our  power  ever  to  be  much  the  bet- 
ther  one  way  or  the  other,  even  if  Ginty  does 
succeed  in  her  devih-y.  Very  few  years  now 
will  see  us  botli  in  our  graves,  and  I  don't 
know  but  it's  safer  to  lave  this  world  with  an 
aisy  conscience,  than  to  face  God  with  the 


•116 


WILLIAM  CARL  ETON'S   WORKS. 


fjiiilt  of   sicli  a  Llack  saicret  as  that  iiiion 
us." 

"  Well,  but  haven't  yon  promised  tliem 
not  to  tell  ?  "  "    t 

■'  I  have — an'  only  that  I  take  sich  delight 
in  waitin'  to  see  the  black  scoundrel  puuislieil 
till  his  heart  '11  burst. — I  think  I'd  come  out 
with  it.  That's  one  raison  ;  and  the  other 
is,  that  I'm  afraid  of  the  consequences.  The 
law's  a  dangerous  customer  to  get  one  in  its 
clushes,  an'  who  can  tell  how  we'd  be  dealt 
with  ?  " 

"  Troth,  an'  that's  true  enough,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"And  when  I  j)romised  poor  Edwai-d  on 
his  death-bed,"  proceeded  the  old  man,  "  I 
made  him  give  me  a  sartin  time  ;  an'  I  did 
this  in  ordher  to  allow  Ginty  an  opportunity 
of  tryiu'  her  luck.  If  she  does  not  manage 
her  point  vsdthin  that  time,  I'll  fulfil  my  prom- 
ise to  the  dyin'  man." 

"  But,  why,"  she  a.sked,  "  did  he  make  you 
promise  to  do  it  when  he  could — nj,  but  I 
forgot.  It  was  jist,  I  suppose,  in  case  he 
might  be  taken  short  as  he  was,  and  that  you 
wor  to  do  it  for  him  if  lie  hadn't  an  opportu- 
nity? But,  sure,  if  Ginty  succeeds,  there's 
an  end  to  your  promise." 

"Well,  I  believe  so,"  said  the  old  man; 
"  but  if  she  does  succeed,  why,  all  I'll 
woudher  at  will  be  that  God  would  allow  it. 
K-i  any  rate  she's  the  fir.st  of  the  family  that 
ever  brouglit  shame  an'  disgrace  ui^on  the 
name.  Not  but  she  felt  her  misfortune  keen 
enough  at  the  time,  since  it  turned  her  brain 
almost  ever  since.  And  him,  the  villain — 
but  no  matter — he  must  be  punished." 

"  But,"  replied  the  wife,  "  wont  Giutj-  be 
puuishin'  him  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Polly,  you  know  little  of  the  plans — 
the  deep  pkius  an'  plots  that  he's  siirrounded 
by.  We  know  ourselves  that  there's  not 
such  a  plotter  in  existence  as  he  is,  barrin' 
them  that's  plottiu'  aginst  him.  Lord  bless 
us  !  but  it's  a  quare  world — here  is  both 
joarties  schamin'  an'  plottiu'  away — all  bent 
on  risiu'  themselves  higher  in  it  by  jsride  and  j 
dishonestj'.  There's  the  high  rogue  and  the 
low  rogue — the  great  villain  and  the  Httle 
villain — musha  !  Polly,  which  do  you  think 
is  worst,  eh  ?  " 

"  Faith,  I  think  it's  six  o'  one  and  half-a- 
lozen  of  the  other  with  them.  Still,  a  body 
would  suppose  that  the  high  rogxie  ought  to 
rest  contented  ;  but  it's  a  hard  thing  they 
say  to  satisfj-  the  craviu's  of  man's  heart 
when  pride,  an'  love  of  wealth  an'  power,  get 
into  it." 

"  I'm  not  at  all  happy  in  my  mind,  Polly," 
observed  her  husband,  meditatively  ;  "  I'm 
not  at  aise — and  I  won't  bear  this  state  of 
mind  much  longer.    But,  then,  again,  there's 


ray  pension  ;  and  that  I'll  lose  if  I  spake  out 
I  sometimes  tliink  I'll  go  to  the  country 
some  o'  these  days,  and  see  an  ould  fi-iend." 

"  An'  where  to,  if  it's  a  fair  question  ?" 

"  Why,"  he  reijlied,  "  maybe  it's  a  fair 
c|uestion  to  ask,  but  not  so  fiiii-  to  answer. 
Ay!  I'U  go  to  the  eountiw — I'll  start  in  a  few 
days — in  a  few  days  !  No,  savin'  to  me.  but 
I'll  start  to-morrow.  PoUy,  I  could  tell  you 
something  if  I  wished — I  say  /  have  a  secret 
that  noue  o'  them  knows — ay,  have  I.     Oh, 

God  pardon  me  !     The  d d  thieves,  to 

make  me,  me  above  all  men,  do  the  blackest 
part  of  the  business — an'  to  think  o'  the  way 
they  misled  Edward,  too — who,  after  all, 
would  be  desavin'  poor  Lady  Goiuiay,  if  he 
had  tould  her  all  as  he  thought,  although  he 
did  not  know  that  he  would  be  misleadin' 
her.  Yes,  faith,  I'll  start  for  the  country  to- 
morrow, plaife  God  ;  but  listen,  Polly,  do 
you  know  who's  in  town  '?  " 

"  Aira,  no  ! — how  could  I  ?  " 

"  Kate  M'Bride,  so  Ginty  tells  me  ;  she'a 
livin'  with  her." 

"  And  why  didn't  she  call  to  see  you  ?  " 
asked  his  wife.  "  x\iid  yet  God  knows  it's 
no  great  loss ;  but  if  ever  woman  was 
cursed  wid  a  step-daughter,  I  was  wid 
her." 

"  Don't  j-ou  know  very  well  that  we  never 
spoke  since  her  runaway  match  ■with  M'Bride. 
If  she  had  married  Cummins,  I'd  a'  given 
her  a  jsurty  jienny  to  help  him  on  ;  but  in- 
stead o'  that  she  cuts  off  with  a  sojer,  be- 
kaise  he  was  well  faced,  and  starts  with  him 
to  the  Aist  Indies.  No  ;  I  wouldn't  sj)ake 
to  her  then,  and  I'm  not  sure  I'll  spake  tc 
her  now  either  ;  and  yet  I'd  Hke  to  see  her — 
the  unfortunate  woman.  However,  I'U  thin'K 
of  it ;  but  in  the  mane  time,  as  I  said,  I'll 
start  for  the  country  in  the  moriiin'." 

And  to  the  country  he  did  start  the  nest 
morning  ;  and  if,  kind  reader,  it  so  happen 
that  you  feel  your  curiosity  in  aiiy  degree 
excited,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  take  a  seat 
in  your  own  imagination,  whether  outside  or 
in,  matters  not,  the  fare  is  the  same,  and 
thus  you  mil,  at  no  great  cost,  be  able  to 
accompany  him.  But  before  we  j^roceed 
further  we  shall,  in  the  first  place,  convey 
you  in  ours  to  the  ultimate  jioint  of  his 
journey. 

There  was,  in  one  of  the  mountain  dis- 
tricts of  the  county  Wicklow,  that  paradise 
of  our  countiy,  a  small  white  cottage,  with  a 
neat  ilower  jjlot  before,  and  a  small  orchard 
and  garden  behind.  It  stood  on  a  little  em- 
inence, at  the  foot  of  one  of  those  mountains, 
which,  in  some  instances,  abut  from  higher 
ranges.  It  was  then  bare  and  barren  ;  but 
at  i^resent  presents  a  very  different  aspect,  a 
considerable  portion  of  it  having  been   since 


THE  BLACK  BAROKET. 


417 


reclaiuied  and  planted.  Seattered  around  this 
1011^1)  district  were  a  number  of  houses  that 
could  be  classed  with  neither  farm-house  nor 
cabin,  but  as  humble  little  buUdings  that 
possessed  a  feature  of  each.  Those  who 
dwelt  in  them  lield  in  general  four  or  live 
acres  of  rough  land,  some  more,  but  very 
few  less  ;  and  we  allude  to  these  small  tene- 
ments, because,  as  our  readers  are  aware, 
the  wives  of  their  proprietors  were  in  the 
habit  of  eking  out  the  means  of  subsistence, 
and  paying  their  rents,  by  nursing  illegiti- 
mate children  or  foundlings,  which  upon  a 
proper  understanding,  and  in  accordance 
with  the  usual  ai'rangements,  were  either 
transmitted  to  them  from  the  hospital  of 
that  name  in  Dublin,  or  taken  charge  of  by 
these  women,  and  conveyed  home  from  that 
establishment  itself.  The  children  thus  nur- 
tured were  universally  termed  pariKheens, 
because  it  was  found  more  convenient  and 
less  expensive  to  send  a  country  foundling 
to  tlie  hospital  in  Dublin,  tlian  to  burden 
the  inhabitants  of  the  parish  with  its  main- 
tenance. A  small  sum,  entitling  it  to  be  re- 
ceived in  tlie  hospital,  was  remitted,  and  as 
this  sum,  in  most  instances,  was  levied  off 
the  parish,  these  wretched  creatures  were 
tlierefore  called  pnrisheen.s,  that  is,  creatures 
aided  by  pai'ish  allowance. 

The  verj'  handsome  little  cottage  into 
which  we  are  about  to  give  the  reader  ad- 
mittance, commMided  a  singularly  beautifid 
and  picturesque  view.  From  the  little  ele- 
vation on  which  it  stood  could  be  seen  the 
entrancing  vale  of  Ovoca,  winding  in  its  in- 
expressible lovliness  toward  Arlslow,  and  di- 
versified with  green  meadows,  orchard  gar- 
dens, elegant  villas,  and  what  was  sweeter 
than  all,  warm  and  comfortable  homesteads, 
more  than  realizing  our  conceptions  of  Ar- 
cadian liajjpiness  and  lieauty.  Its  precipi- 
tous sides  were  clothed  with  the  most  en- 
chanting variety  of  plantation  ;  whilst,  like 
a  stream  of  liquid  light,  the  silver  Ovoca 
shone  sparkling  to  the  sun,  as  it  followed, 
by  the  harmonious  law  of  nature,  that  grace- 
fid  line  of  beauty  wliich  char.icterizes  the 
windings  of  this  unrivalled  valley.  Tlie  cot- 
tage which  commanded  this  rich  prospect 
wo  have  partially  descril)ed  It  was  white 
as  snow,  and  had  about  it  all  those  traits  of 
neatness  and  good  taste  ■which  are,  we  regret 
to  S1J-,  so  rare  among,  and  so  badly  under- 
stooii  by,  our  humbler  countrymen.  The 
front  walls  were  covered  by  honeysuckles, 
rose  trees,  and  wild  brier,  and  the  flower 
plot  in  front  was  so  well  stocked,  that  its 
summer  bloom  would  have  done  credit  to 
the  sivill  of  rai  ordinary  florist.  The  inside 
of  this  cottnge  was  equally  neat,  clean,  and 
cheerful     The  floor,  an  unusual  thing  then, 


was  tiled,  which  gave  it  a  look  of  agreeable 
warmth  ;  the  wooden  vessels  in  the  kitchen 
were  white  with  incessant  scouring,  whilst 
the  pewter,  brass,  and  tin,  shone  in  becom- 
ing rivalry.  The  room  you  entered  was  the 
kitchen,  off  which  was  a  parlor  and  two  bed- 
rooms, besides  one  for  the  servant. 

As  may  be  inferred  from  what  we  have 
said,  the  dresser  was  a  perfect  treat  to  look 
at,  and  as  the  owners  kept  a  cow,  we  need 
hardly  add  that  the  delightful  fragrance  of 
milk  which  characterizes  everj'  well-kept 
dairy,  was  perfectly  ambrosial  here.  The 
chairs  were  of  oak,  so  were  the  tables  ;  and 
a  large  arm-chair,  with  a  semicircular  back, 
stood  at  one  side  of  the  clean  hearth,  whilst 
over  the  chimney-piece  hung  a  portrait  of 
General  Wolfe,  with  an  engraving  of  the 
siege  of  Quebec.  A  series  of  four  silver 
medals,  enclosed  in  red  morocco  cases,  hav- 
ing the  surface  of  each  protected  by  a  glass 
cover,  hung  from  a  liiiputian  rack  made  of 
maliogany,  at  once  bearing  testimony  to  the 
enterprise  and  gallantry  of  the  owner,  as 
well  as  to  the  manly  pride  with  which  he 
took  such  esjjecial  jjains  to  j^reserve  these 
proud  rewards  of  his  courage,  and  the  abili- 
ty with  which  he  must  have  discharged  his 
duty  as  a  soldier.  On  the  table  lay  a. 
large  Bible,  a  Prayer-book,  and  the  "  Whole 
Duty  of  Man,"  aU  neatly  and  firmly,  but  not 
ostentatiously  bound.  Some  works  of  a 
militai-y  character  lay  upon  a  little  hanging 
shelf  beside  the  dresser.  Over  this  shelf 
hung  a  fishing-rod,  unscrewed  and  neatly 
tied  up  ;  and  upon  the  top  of  the  other  books 
lay  one  bound  with  red  cloth,  in  which  he 
kept  his  flies.  On  one  side  of  the  v^indow 
sills  lay  a  backgammon  box,  with  which  his 
wife  and  himself  amused  themselves  for  an 
hour  or  two  ever^'  evening  ;  and  fixed  in  re- 
cesses intended  for  the  pui-jjose,  Sam  Rob- 
erts, for  such  was  his  name,  having  built 
the  hoiise  himself,  were  comfortable  cup- 
boards filled  with  a  variety  of  delft,  several 
curious  and  foreign  ornaments,  an  ostrich's 
egg,  a  di'inking  cup  made  of  the  jiohshed 
shell  of  a  cocoanut,  whilst  crossed  saltier- 
wise  over,  a  porti-ait  of  himself  and  of  his 
wife,  were  jilaced  two  feathers  of  the  bird  of 
paradise,  constituting,  one  might  imagine, 
emblems  significant  of  the  happy  life  they 
led.  But  we  cannot  close  our  description  here. 
Upon  the  good  woman's  bosom,  fastened  to 
her  kerchief,  was  a  locket  which  contained  a 
portion  of  beautiful  brown  hair,  taken  from 
the  youthful  1,'ead  of  a  deceased  son,  a  manly 
and  promising  I'oy,  who  died  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  and  whose  death,  although  it  did 
not  and  could  not  throw  a  jiermanent  gloom 
over  two  lives  so  innocent  and  happy,  occa- 
sioned, nevertheless,  periodical  recollections 


il8 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


of  profound  and  bitter  sorrow.  Old  Sam  had 
hia  locket  also,  but  it  was  invisible  ;  its  posi- 
tion being  on  that  heart  whose  affections 
more  resembled  the  enthusiasm  of  idolatry 
than  the  love  of  a  parent.  His  wife  was  a 
placid,  contented  looking  old  woman,  with  a 
complexion  exceedingly  hale  and  fresh  for 
her  years ;  a  shi'ewd,  clear,  benevolent  eye, 
and  a  general  air  which  never  fails  to  mark 
that  ease  and  superiority  of  manner  to  be 
found  only  in  those  who  have  had  an  enlarged 
experience  in  life,  and  seen  much  of  the 
world.  There  she  sits  by  the  clear  fire  and 
clean,  comfortable  hearth,  knitting  a  jiair  of 
stockings  for  her  husband,  who  has  gone  to 
Dublin.  She  is  tidily  and  even,  for  a  woman 
of  lier  age,  tastefully  dressed,  but  still  with  a 
sober  decency  that  showed  her  good  sense. 
Her  cap  is  as  white  as  snow,  with  which  a 
well-fitting  brown  stuff  gown,  that  gave  her  a 
highly  respectable  appearance, admirablycon- 
trasted.  She  wore  an  a^Jrou  of  somewhat 
coai'se  muslin,  that  seemed,  as  it  always  did, 
fi-esh  from  the  iron,  and  her  hands  were 
covered  with  a  pair  of  thread  mittens  that 
only  came  half-way  down  the  fingers.  Hang- 
ing at  one  side  was  a  three-cornered  pin- 
cushion of  green  silk,  a  proof  at  once  of  a 
character  remarkable  for  thrift,  neatness, 
and  industry.  Whilst  thus  emjiloyed,  she 
looks  from  time  to  time  through  a  window 
that  commanded  a  j)rospect  of  the  road,  and 
seems  affected  by  that  complacent  expression 
of  uneasiness  which,  whilst  it  overshadows 
the  features,  never  disturbs  their  benignity. 
At  length,  a  good-looking,  neat  girl,  their 
servant,  enters  the  cottage  with  a  can  of  new 
milk,  for  she  had  been  to  the  fields  a-milking; 
her  name  is  Molly  B3-nie. 

" Molly,"  Slid  her  mistress,  " I  wonder  the 
master  has  not  come  yet.  I  am  getting  un- 
easy. The  coach  has  gone  past,  and  I  see 
no  ajjpearance  of  him." 

"I  supjjose,  then,  he  didn't  come  by  the 
coach,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  but  he  said  he  would." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  something  must  'a  pre- 
vented him." 

"Molly,"  said  her  mistress,  smiling,  "you 
are  a  good  hand  at  telling  us  John  Thomp- 
son's news ;  that  is,  any  thing  we  know  our- 
selves." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  but  you  know  many  a  time 
he  goes  to  Dublin,  an'  doesn't  come  home 
by  the  coach." 

"  Yes,  whenever  he  visits  Kilmainham 
Hospital,  and  gets  into  conversation  with 
some  of  his  old  comrades  ;  however,  that's 
natural,  and  I  hoije  he's  safe." 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  replied  Molly,  looking 
out,  "I  have  betther  news  for  you  than  Jen- 
ny Thomj)Sou's  now." 


"  Attention,  Molly  ;  John  Thompson's  thft 
word,"  said  her  mistress,  with  the  sUghtest 
conceivable  air  of  professional  form  ;  for  if 
she  had  a  foible  at  all,  it  was  that  she  gave 
aU  her  orders  and  exacted  all  obedience 
from  her  servant  in  a  spuit  of  militaiy  dis- 
ciphne,  which  she  had  unconsciously  bor- 
rowed from  her  husband,  whom  she  imitated 
as  far  as  she  could.  "  Where,  Molly  ?  Fall 
back,  I  say,  till  I  get  a  peep  at  dear  old 
Sam." 

"  There  he  is,  ma'am,"  continued  Molly, 
at  the  same  time  obeying  her  orders,  "  and 
some  other  person  along  with  him." 

"  Yes,  sure  enough  ;  thank  God,  thank 
God  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  who  can  the 
other  person  be,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  replied  Molly. 
"  I  only  got  a  glimpse  of  them,  but  I  knew 
the  master  at  once.  I  would  know  him 
round  a  corner." 

"  Advance,  then,  girl ;  take  another  look  ; 
reconnoitre,  Molly,  as  Sam  says,  and  see  if 
jou  can  make  out  who  it  is." 

"I  see  him  now  well  enough,  ma'am,"  re- 
plied the  girl,  "  but  I  don't  know  him  ;  he's 
a  stranger.  What  can  bring  a  stranger  here, 
ma'am,  do  you  think  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Why  your  kind  master,  of  course,  girl ; 
isn't  that  sufficient?  W^hoever  comes  with 
my  dear  old  Sam  is  welcome,  to  be  sure." 

Her  clear,  cloudless  face  was  now  lit  up 
with  a  multiplicitj'  of  kind  and  hospitable 
thoughts,  for  dear  old  Sam  and  his  friend 
were  not  more  than  three  or  four  j^erches 
from  the  house,  and  she  could  perceive  that 
her  husband  was  in  an  extraordiuaiy  state  of 
good  humor. 

"  I  know,  Jlolly,  who  the  strange  man  is 
now,"  she  said.  "  He's  an  old  friend  of  my 
husband's,  named  Dunphy ;  he  was  once  in 
the  same  regiment  with  him  ;  and  I  know, 
besides,  oui-  o^\ai  good  man  has  heard  some 
news  that  has  delighted  him  very  much." 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when 
Sam  and  old  Duiphy  entered. 

"Beck,  my  girl,  here  I  am,  safe  and 
sound,  and  here's  an  old  friend  come  to 
see  us,  and  you  know  how  much  we  are  both 
indebted  to  him  ;  I  felt,  Beck,  and  so  did 
you,  old  girl,  that  we  must  have  something 
to  love  and  provide  for,  and  to  keep  the 
heart  moving,  but  that's  natural,  you  know 
— quite  natural — it's  all  the  heart  of  man." 

"Mr.  Dunphy,"  said  Beck — a  curtailment 
of  Eebecca — "I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  take  a 
seat  ;  how  is  the  old  woman  ?  " 

"  As  tough  as  ever,  Mrs.  Roberts.  'Deed 
I  had  thought  last  winter  that  she  might 
lave  me  a  loose  leg  once  more  ;  but  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  she's  gatherin'  strength  on 
my  hands,  an'  a  young  wife,  I'm  afraid,  isn't 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


419 


en  the  cai-ds — ha — ha — ha !  And  how  are 
you  yourself,  Mrs.  Roberts  ? — but,  indeed, 
one  may  tell  with  half  an  eye — fresh  and 
well  you  look,  thank  God  !  " 

"  j3oesn't  she,  man  ?  "  exclaimed  Sam, 
slapping  him  with  delight  on  the  shoulder  ; 
"  a  woman  that  triivelled  half  the  world,  and 
improved  in  everj-  chmate.  Mollj',  atten- 
tion ! — let  us  tui'u  in  to  mess  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Good  news,  Beck — good  news,  but 
pot  tiU  after  mess;  double-quick,  Molly." 

"  Come,  Molly,  double-quick,"  added  her 
mistress  ;  "  the  master  and  his  fiieud  must 
be  hungry  by  this  time." 

Owing  to  the  expeditious  habits  to  which 
Mrs.  Roberts  had  disciplined  Molly,  a  smok- 
ing Irish  stew,  hot  and  savory,  was  before 
them  in  a  few  minutes,  which  the  two  old 
fellows  attacked  with  powers  of  demolition 
that  would  have  shamed  j-ounger  men. 
There  was  for  some  time  a  very  significant 
lull  in  the  conversation,  during  which  Molly, 
by  a  hint  fi-om  her  mistress,  put  dowTj  the 
kettle,  an  act  which,  on  being  observed  by 
Dunphy,  made  his  keen  old  eye  sjaarkle  with 
the  expectation  of  what  it  suggested.  Shovel- 
ful after  shovelful  passed  from  dish  to  plate, 
until  a  very  relaxed  action  on  the  jsai-t  of  each 
■was  evident. 

"Dunphy,"  said  Sam,  "I  believe  our  fire 
is  beginning  to  slacken  ;  but  come,  let  us 
give  the  enemy  another  round,  the  citadel  is 
nearly  won — is  on  the  point  of  surrender." 

"  Begad,"  rephed  Dunphy,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  his  friend's  phraseology,  and 
had  seen  some  service,  as  already  intimated, 
in  the  same  regiment,  some  fifty  years  before. 
"  I  must  lay  down  my  arms  for  the  present." 
''No  matter,  friend  Dunphy,  we'll  renew 
the  attack  at  sujjper  ;  an  easy  mind  brings  a 
good  ajspetite,  which  is  but  natural ;  it's  all 
the  heart  of  man." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Dunphy, 
replying  to  the  first  of  the  axioms  ;  "I  have 
oft(;n  aiten  a  hearty  dinner  enough  when  my 
mind  was,  God  knows,  anything  but  aisy." 

"  Well,  then,"  rejoined  Sam,  "  when  the 
heart's  down,  a  glass  of  old  stingo,  mixed 
stiff,  will  give  it  a  lift ;  so,  my  old  feUow,  if 
there's  anything  wrong  with  you,  we'll  soon 
set  it  to  riglits." 

The  table  was  now  cleai-ed,  and  the  word 
"  Hot  wate-r-r,"  was  given,  as  if  Molly  had 
been  on  drill,  as  in  fact,  she  may  be  con- 
sidered to  have  been  every  day  in  the  week  ; 
then  the  sugar  and  whiskey  in  the  same 
tone.  But  whilst  she  is  prejiaring  and  pro- 
ducing the  materials,  as. they  have  been  since 
termed,  we  shall  endeavor  to  give  an  outline 
of  old  Sam, 

Old  Sam,  then,  was  an  erect,  square-built, 
fine-looking  old  fellow,  with  firm,  massive, 


but  benevolent  features  ;  not,  however,  with- 
out a  dash  of  determination  in  them  that 
added  very  considerably  to  their  interest. 
His  eyes  were  gray,  kind,  and  Uvely  ;  his 
eyebrows  rather  large,  but  their  expression 
was  either  stem  or  complacent,  according  to 
the  mood  of  the  moment.  That  of  com- 
placency, however,  was  their  general  charac- 
ter. Upon  the  front  part  of  his  head  he  had 
received  a  severe  wound,  which  extended  an 
inch  or  so  down  the  side  of  his  forehead,  he 
had  also  lost  the  two  last  fingers  of  his  left 
hand,  and  received  several  other  wounds  that 
were  severe  and  dangerous  when  inflicted, 
but  as  their  scars  were  covered  by  his  dress, 
they  were  consequently  invisible.  Sam  was 
at  this  time  close  upon  seventy,  but  so  regu- 
lar had  been  his  habits  of  life,  so  cheerful 
and  kind  his  disposition,  and  so  excellent  his 
constitution,  that  he  did  not  look  more  than 
fifty-five.  It  was  utterly  impossible  not  to 
read  the  tine  old  soldier  in  everj'  one  of  his 
free,  but  well-disciplined,  movements.  The 
black  stock,  the  bold,  erect  head,  the  firm 
but  measured  step,  and  the  existence  of 
something  like  mihtary  ardor  in  the  eye  and 
whole  bearing  ;  or  it  might  be  the  proud 
consciousness  of  having  bravely  and  faithfully 
discharged  his  duty  to  his  king  and  his  coun- 
try ;  all  this,  we  say,  marked  the  man  with 
an  impress  of  such  honest  pride  and  frank 
military  spirit,  as,  taken  into  consideration 
with  his  tine  figure,  gave  the  very  hnaa  ideal 
of  an  old  soldier. 

^\1len  each  had  mixed  his  tumbler,  Sam, 
brimful  of  the  good  news  to  whicdi  he  had 
alluded,  fiUed  a  small  glass,  as  was  his  wont, 
and  placing  it  before  Beck,  said  : 

"  Come,  Beck,  attention ! — '  The  king,  God 
bless  him  ! '  Attention,  Dunjjhy  ! — off  with 
it." 

"The  king,  God  bless  him  !"  having  been 
duly  honored,  Sam  jiroceeded  : 

"  Beck,  my  old  jsartner,  I  said  I  had  good 
news  for  you.  Our  son  and  his  regiment — 
three  times  eleven,  eleven  times  tliree — the 
gallant  thirty-third,  are  in  Dublin." 

Beck  laid  down  her  stocking,  and  her  eyes 
spai-kled  with  delight. 

'■  But  that's  not  all,  old  girl,  he  has  risen 
from  the  ranks — his  commission  has  been 
just  made  out,  and  he  is  now  a  commissioned 
officer, in  his  majesty's  service.  But  I  knew 
it  would  come  to  that.  Didn't  I  say  so,  old 
comrade,  eh  ?  " 

" Indeed  jou  did,  Sam,''  replied  his  wife  ; 
"  and  I  thought  as  much  myself.  There  was 
something  about  that  boy  beyond  the  com- 
mon." 

"Ay,  you  may  say  that,  girl  ;  but  who 
found  it  out  first  ?  Why,  I  did  ;  but  the 
thing  was  natural  ,  it's  aU  the  heart  of  man^ 


4S0 


WILLIAM  CAIiLKToy;S   WOIiKS. 


wlii'U  IIi.iCh  ill  tlio  lijiht  pluoo  uothiufi  will 
ijo  wrmi^f.  Willi!  dovoii  N!»_y.  fi'ioiul  Punpliy  V 
Dili  _(/i'i'  tliliik  it  \vi>uKl  «>vrr  fouu'  ti>  ttiisV" 

"'I'mtli,  I  tl»l  not,  Mr.  i(i>U>rUi  but  il'ii 
you  li(<  iiiiiv  thiink  tor  it." 

V  ( Jt»l  Alliii;;lil,v  liint.  Dllliph.Y,  ttud  IlK' 
»ft«>rw(«iilH.  Well.  Ik«  hIijhi'I  wiiiil  t\  ftitlior. 
ut  till  cvoiiIh  ;  iiiul  ««<>  Ion;;  iim  1  li!iv«>  t»  fow 
bliiniM's  to  Mjniro,  \w  kIuiii'I  want  llio  niouns  of 
Hii|>)>oi'tin{^'  liis  nmk  h.s  h  iiritisli  olVictT  and 
ui'ntlouian  should.  Tlu'ri's  iu'wk  for  _v»hi, 
l)un|iliv.     Do  yow  hwu'  that,  j'ou  old  dog    - 

"It's  iill  tlio  lu'iirt  of  miHi.  Si»u,"  oImwu-vihI 
Lin  wif(>,  I'Yin;;  Inni  witli  utV<>ction<iti'  itdmiru- 
Uoii.  '"  \\  lu'n  till'  lu>(irt's  lu  tlu'  li^^lit  pliwo, 
uotliin^  will  p)  wnui^:." 

Now,  nothing  gititiliiHl  Sum  so  iiiuoh  uh  to 
hwH'  his  own  u|)otlK>gniti  honitiiHl  b)'  if  jit'ti- 
tion. 

•' Uijjlit,  K''!' '  Ix'  n>|>liod  ;  "itliiiko  huudN 
for  tlmt.  l)iin|>li_v.  mark  tlio  truth  of  tJiat. 
Imi'l  slio  worth  ^;oUl,  voii  sinm'rV" 

'•  Tnith  slio  is*.  Mr.  Kolwrls,  luul  nilver  to 
tlio  bai'k  o'  that." 

'•  What?  "  s;iiil  Siun,  looking  at  liiui  with 
comic  siiriirisii.  "  What  do  yow  mctui  by 
Uiat,  you  WvwA  t  Why  ilon't  you  a<ld,  and 
'  bia.>i.s  to  till'  back  of  that  V  "  lly  lifo  luid 
dniiii.  I  wt>iri  stand  tliix  to  15«vk.  A|iol<>gi/.«' 
iuNtautly,  sir."  Tluni  breaking  into  a  hvarty 
Ittugli — '■  lie  iiKHMit  no  oQV.'in.'t<,  IV'ok,"  Lu 
KiUttnl ;  "  Ik>  it's^RH'tt*  and  lovwyou — I  kiiow 
111'  docs  as  who  doosn't  thai  knows  you,  my 
nil  1  V  • 

■"  What  1  tiR'iuit  to  stiy,  Mr.  Il(>bc>t'ts " 

""  Miu  UoU'it*),  sir  ;  lui'wct  the  apology  to 
hi'i'solf." 

"  WV'U.  tlioii,  what  I  wantod  to  say,  Mrs. 
IJobcrls.  was.  that  all  tho  goKl,  silver,  and 
br;iss  in  his  niajosty's  doiiiiiiions  (dod  bloss 
him  !  iMtiriitliittir,  from  SanO  couldn't  pur- 
ohaso  you,  au"  would  fall  ftu'  short  of  youi- 
v.ihu'  ' 

'•  Wt'U  dono  -tluuik  you.  Duiipliy — thank 
you,  honost  oUl  Uunphy  ;  shake  haiidtt.  H«'s 
H  lino  old  follow,  Ik'ok.  isn't  ho.  oh  ?  " 

"  I'm  v«'ry  miii'li  obligtil  to  you,  Mr.  Dun- 
pliy  ;  but  \o\i  ovorrato  mo  a  gix'at  doul  to«.> 
uiuoh."  ropln'd   Mi's.    Hoborts. 

"  No  such  thing.  IVvk  ;  you'ro  wrong 
Uioro,  for  onoo  :  tho  thing  couldn't  bo  doiio 
—by  llfu  and  drum  !  it  tnnildii't ;  lUid  no 
man  has  a  Ix-ltor  rij'ht  to  know  tluit  than 
myself     mill  I  Sill/  tl." 

!S(Uii.  liko  all  truly  bravo  mon,  iiovor  boast- 
tnl  of  his  military  exploits,  although  he 
might  wi^ll  liavo  dono  so.  t)n  tho  contrary, 
it  was  a  subici't  which  ho  studiously  avoided, 
and  on  which  those  who  knew  his  modesty 
aa  woU  as  his  pndo  uovor  vontiirod.  Ho  usu- 
ally out  tihort  Huch  tiu  rofonvd  to  it,  with  : 


"  Novor  miiid  thitt,  my  friend  :  I  did  mj 
duty,  and  that  whm  nil  ;  and  so  did  every 
man  in  the  liritish  army,  or  1  wouldn't  Iw 
hero  to  Kiy  so.      I'ass  tlu'  subject." 

Kiuu  and  Dunpliy,  at  all  evi  ii(s,  siiynt  u 
pleasant  ovoniiiK  :  at  U'ast.  be>ond  (|nestioii, 
Sam  did.  \h  for  Dunphy,  ho  tM><>inod  ocea^ 
sionally  rolievotl  by  healing  Kiim's  warm  luid 
alVectionato  allusions  to  his  son  ;  and,  on  tho 
other  hand,  he  appeared,  from  time  to  limo, 
to  fall  into  a  iiuhhI  that  iiidicati'ii  a  state  ol 
fooling  iR'twoon  ^loom  and   relliH'tion. 

"It'H  oxtraoixliimry.  Mr.  Hoborts,"  ho  ob- 
wrvi'd,  after  awakening  from  one  of  tlu-tM 
ix'vories  ;  "  it  looks  as  if  I'roxideiicf  wms  in  it." 

"(»<k1  Alini^^litv's  in  it,  sir,-  didn't  1  sjiy 
w)?  lUid  under  fiini,  Siun  Hoborts.  Sir,  I 
observed  that  lioy  clos«'ly  from  the  beginning. 
Ho  reniinded  nie,  and  you  too.  Heck,  didn't 
ho,  of  him  that  that  wo  lost  "  here  ho 
{Miused  a  iiiomeiit,  and  placed  his  hand  ni>ou 
his  hojirt,  as  if  to  fool  for  soiiiothing  then) 
that  awoko  touching  and  melancholy  ro- 
membrances  ;  whilst  his  wife,  on  the  other 
hand,  unpinned  the  liH'kot,  and  having 
kisM'd  it.  ipiietly  let  f.ill  a  few  te.-irs  ;  after 
which  she  rosloivd  it  to  its  former  jHisitiou. 
S<im  cloaiXHl  his  voioo  u  little,  uikI  then  pro- 
c.ded  : 

"  Yes  ;  1  couUl  iiovor  look  nt  tho  one 
without  thinking  of  tho  other ;  but  'twas  all 
tho  heart  of  mtui.  In  a  wiH'k's  tinu>  ho 
could  lisli  as  well  as  inysolf,  tuid  in  a  short 
time  bopm  to  tiiu'li  mo.  'dad  I  ho  us<h1  to 
take  tho  nnl  out  of  my  hand  with  so  much 
kindness,  so  gently  and  losjioclfully  -  for, 
mark  mo,  Dunphy,  ho  ivsp».'ot<'d  iiu-  ftx)m 
tho  beginning  -didn't  ho,  beck'/" 

"  He  ilid,  indt'inl,  Sam." 

"  Thank  you.  Ik'ck  ;  you'i-o  iv  gootl  croa- 
turo.  So  gently  and  lespoctfully.  us  1  waa 
s;iying,  and  sliowed  mo  in  his  sweet  words, 
and  with  his  smiling  oyos-  yes,  and  his  hair, 
liK).  was  the  very  color  of  his  bix)tlu'r's  1  was 
afraid  I  might  forgot  that.  Well  yes.  with 
such  smiling  eyes  that  it  was  iiiipos.siblo  not 
to  love  him-  1  couldn't  but  lovo  him  but, 
sure,  it  was  only  natund  all  tho  li<>nrt  of 
man,  Dunphy.  '  Nctl,'  said  I  to  him  one 
day,  ■  would  you  like  to  become  a  s<.ildior  - 
a  soi.mni.  N<'tl  T"  ,Viul  as  tho  oKl  inau  ro- 
iH'atod  the  word  "  si)ldior  "  his  voice  bwaino 
full  and  impressive,  his  oyos  s|xirkhHl  with 
privle.  and  his  very  form  seenioil  to  dilate  at 
the  oMiUing  reiniiiis»'oncos  lUid  heroic  asiio- 
ciations  connected  with  it. 

"  AlK)ve  all  things  in  this  life,"  n'plied  the 
boy  ;  "but  you  know  I'm  too  young." 

"  '  Never  mind,  my  lK)y.'  .slid  1.  '  that's  a 
fault  that  every  ilay  will  niciul ;  you'll  lu'vor 
grow  loss  ;  ■  so  1  consulted  with  Ikck  thorv, 
tuiit  with  you,  Diuiphy,  didn't  IV  " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


421 


"You  <li<l,  indetd,  Mr.  ItfjberUj,  and 
wouUInt  (1(1  iinvtbinfj  till  you  Imd  Hpoken 
to  nje  on  llu;  Hiil)jf-ct" 

"  Right,  Dunjjln,  right-  well,  you  know 
the  rent  '  Edufaition'H  the  jioint,'  said  I  to 
Bwk — ignorance  is  a  l>wl  inheritance.  What 
would  I  i>c  to-day  if  I  didn't  write  a  good 
linnd.  and  wa-H  a  keen  at^coiintant  !  But  no 
matter,  oft'  he  %vent  with  a  decent  outtit  t<» 
honest  Miiinwairing-  -tliirty  i>oundn  a-year 
-  tive  yearn — lost  no  tiine — \Vii.4  Hteady,  hut 
alwavH  showe<l  a  Hjjirit  Coiddn't  get  him 
a  cominisHion  then,  for  I  tm<ln't  come  in  for 
my  Uncle's  legacy,  which  I  got  tlie  other  day 
^da-shed  him  into  the  ranks  thougli-and 
here  he  is  -a  comrnis-sioued  officer — eh,  old 
Dunphy  !  Well,  isn't  that  natural  ?  but  it's 
all  the  heart  of  man." 

"  It's  wonderful,"  observed  Dunphy,  ru- 
minating, "  it's  wonderful  indee<L  Well, 
now,  Mr.  I{<^»berts,  it  really  w  wonderful  I 
came  down  here  to  spike  to  you  about  tliat 
very  lM>y,  and  see  the  news  I  have  Ijefore 
rae.  Indeed,  it  is  wonderful,  and  the  band  o' 
(iod  is  surely  in  it" 

"  Right,  buni)hy,  that's  the  word ;  and 
under  him,  in  the  capacity  of  agent  in  tlie 
business,  book  down  .Sam  l{<jl)erts,  who's 
dee])ly  thankful  t<i  God  fi>r  miking  him,  if  I 
may  say  sf),  his  adjutant  in  advanciug  the 
boy's  fortune.H." 

'•  Did  you  see  him  to-day,  Sam?"  asked 
Mrs.  I-U)i)erts. 

"  No,"  replied  Ham,  "  he  wasn't  in  the  bar- 
racks, but  I'll  engage  we'll  Ix^h  s«-e  him  to- 
nion-ow,  if  he  haM  life,  that  is,  unless  he  should 
hH]>]>en  to  be  on  duty.  If  he  doesn't  come 
to-inormw,  however,  111  start  the  thiv  after  for 
Dubhn." 

"  Well,  now,  Mr.  Roberts,"  said  Dunphy, 
"  if  you  have  no  objection,  I  didn't  care  if  I 
turned  into  beil ;  I'm  n(jt  a<^«'UHt/jme<l  to 
travelin",  and  I'm  a  thrifle  fatigued  ;  only  Ui- 
morrow  morning,  tjlaiaf:  (iod,  I  have  some- 
thing to  siiy  to  you  alxjut  that  b(jy  that  may 
surprise  you." 

"  Not  a  syllable,  Dunphy,  nothing  alxiut 
him  tliat  could  surprise  me." 

"  Well,"  replitsd  the  hesitating  and  <»u- 
tiouii  old  man,  "  maylje  I  vnll  surjjriite  you 
for  all  that." 

This  he  said  wliilst  Mrs.  Rrjberts  and 
Molly  BjTne  were  prejmring  his  l>ed  in  one 
of  the  neat  sleeping  rooms  which  stofxl  off 
the  plea-sant  kitchen  where  thr-y  sat;  "and 
listen,  Mr.  Rolx-rts,  Vjefore  I  tell  it,  you 
niu.st  j)ledge  your  honor  as  a  s<jldier,  that 
until  I  give  you  lave,  you'll  never  breathe  a 
syllable  of  what  I  have  to  mention  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  Mrs.  Roljerts." 

•'  What's  tliat?  Keep  a  «e<-ret  from  Beck  ? 
Come,  Dunphy,  that's  what  I  never  did,  un- 


lesH  the  word  and  countersign  wlicn  on  duty, 
and,  by  fife  and  drum,  I  never  will  keep 
your  secret  then  ;  I  don't  want  it,  for  a.* 
sureaM  I  he-ur  it,  M)  sliall  she.  And  is  it 
afraid  of  old  lif-ck  yon  are ';'  Hy  fife  and 
drum,  sir,  old  ii(?ck  liait  more  lionor  than 
either  of  us,  and  would  as  soon  take  a  fancy 
to  a  coward  an  betr/iy  a  stxTet.  You  don't 
know  her,  old  Dunpliy,  you  don't  know  her, 
or  you  wouldn't  spake  as  if  you  fear(-<l  that 
she's  not  truth  and  honesty  to  the  back- 
bone." 

"  I  believe  it,  Mr.  Roberta,  but  they  say, 
afther  all,  that  one*  a  woman  gets  a  s«^ret, 
she  thinks  herself  in  a  sartin  way,  until  she's 
delivered  of  it." 

Sam,  who  liked  a  joke  very  well,  liiughed 
heartily  at  this,  bad  as  it  was,  or  rather  he 
Liugh(-d  at  the  shrewd,  ludicrous,  liut  satiri- 
cal grin  with  wliich  old  Dunjihy's  fiu*  was 
j)uck<-red  whilst  he  uttered  it. 

"  But,  sir,"  said  he,  resuming  his  gravity, 
"  Beck,  I'd  have  you  to  know,  is  n(it  like 
other  women,  by  which  I  nujan  that  no  other 
woman  could  be  compared  to  her.  Ikfck's 
the  (|ueeu  of  women,  uf>on  my  soul  she  is  ; 
and  all  I  liave  to  say  is,  tliat  if  you  t<-ll  mo 
the  secret,  in  half  an  hour's  time  she'll  be  as 
well  acquainted  with  it  an  either  of  us.  I 
have  no  notion,  Dunphy,  at  this  time  of  life, 
to  sefiarate  my  mind  from  Beck's  :  my  con- 
8cien(!e,  sir,  is  my  store-rfKjm  ;  she  has  a 
key  for  it,  and,  by  fife  and  drum,  I'm  not 
going  t4j  take  it  from  her  now.  Do  you 
think  Beck  would  tr<;at  old  Ham  stj?  No. 
And  my  rule  is,  and  ever  has  br-en,  treat  your 
wife  with  c^jnfidence  if  you  resjject  her,  and 
expect  confidence  in  your  tuni.  No,  no  ; 
po(jr  Be<!k  must  have  it  if  /  have  it  The 
truth  is,  I  have  no  secrets,  and  never  hml.  I 
keep  none,  Dunphy,  and  that's  but  mitural ; 
however,  it's  all  the  h(5art  of  man." 

The  next  morning  the  two  men  took  an 
early  walk,  for  Ixith  were  in  the  habit  of 
rising  betimes.  Dunphy,  it  would  api>r;ar, 
was  one  of  those  individuiihi,  who,  if  they 
ever  i>erform  a  prais*!Worthy  arf.,  do  it  rather 
from  weakness  of  diarocter  and  fear,  than 
fiom  a  principle  of  cf>nsrnentious  rt-ctilude. 
After  having  gone  Xfy  V>ed  the  j>n:vi(<us  night 
he  lay  awake  for  a  considerable  time  delating 
with  himself  the  purjxjrt  of  his  visit,  />ro  and 
con,  without  after  all,  l>eing  able  U>  w;com- 
jjUsh  a  determination  on  the  sultject.  He 
was  timid,  cunning,  shrew<l,  avarici(jus,  and 
])ossessed,  1>eHides,  a  large  jjortion  of  that 
l>eculiar  sujierstition  which  drx.-s  n(^t  rentrain 
from  inif^uity,  although  it  renders  the  min(l 
anxious  and  ajjprehensive  of  tlir-  conse<)uen- 
ces.  Now  the  hon<rst  fellow  with  whom  he 
liafl  to  deal  was  the  reverse  of  all  this  in 
ever}'  possible  phase  of  his  chorart^r-  being 


i22 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


oimdifl,  conscientious,  fearless,  and  i^traiglit- 
forward.  ^\1iatevei'  lie  felt  to  be  his  dut}% 
iJiat  he  did,  regardless  of  all  opinion  and  idl 
consequences.  He  was,  in  fact,  an  indepen- 
dent man,  because  he  always  acted  from 
right  principles,  or  rather  £'om  right  im- 
pulses ;  the  truth  being,  that  the  vii'tuous 
action  was  performed  before  he  had  allowed 
himself  time  to  reason  upon  it.  Every  one 
must  have  obsen-ed  that  there  is  a  rai-e  class 
of  men  whose  feehngs,  always  on  the  right 
side,  are  too  quick  for  their  reason,  which  thej'' 
generously  anticipate,  and  have  the  j^roposed 
virtue  completed  before  either  reason  or  pru- 
dence have  had  time  to  argue  either  for  or 
against  the  act.  Old  Sam  was  one  of  the 
latter,  and  our  read  el's  may  easily  perceive 
the  contrast  which  the  two  individuals  jire- 
sented. 

After  about  an  hour's  walk  both  I'eturiied 
to  breakfast,  and  whatever  may  have  been 
the  conversation  that  took  place  between 
them,  or  whatever  extent  of  confidence 
Dunjjhy  rejiosed  in  old  Sam,  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  his  glee  this  morning  was 
infinitely  gi-eater  than  on  the  preceding 
evening,  although,  at  Duiiphy's  earnest  re- 
quest, considerably  more  subdued.  Nay, 
the  latter  had  so  fai-  succeeded  with  old  Sam 
as  to  induce  him  to  promise,  that  for  the 
present  at  least,  he  would  forbear  to  com- 
municate it  to  his  wife.  Sam,  however, 
would  under  no  circumstances  promise  this 
until  he  should  first  hear  the  nature  of  it, 
upon  which,  he  said,  he  would  then  judge 
for  himself.  After  hearing  it,  however,  he 
said  that  on  Duuphy's  own  accoimt  he  would 
not  breathe  it  even  to  her  without  his  per- 
mission. 

"  Mind,"  said  Dunphy,  at  the  conclusion 
of  their  dialogue,  and  with  his  usual  caution, 
"  I  am  not  sartin  of  what  I  have  mentioned  ; 
but  I  hope,  plaise  God,  in  a  short  time  to  be 
able  to  prove  it  ;  and,  if  not,  as  nobody 
knows  it  but  yourself  an'  me,  why  there's  no 
harm  done.  Dear  knows,  I  have  a  strong 
reason  for  lettin'  the  matter  Ue  as  it  is,  even 
if  my  suspicions  are  true  ;  but  my  conscience 
isn't  aisy,  Mr.  Roberts,  an'  for  that  raison  I 
came  to  spake  to  you,  to  consult  with  you, 
and  to  have  your  advice." 

"  And  my  advice  to  3'ou  is,  Dunphj-,  not 
to  attack  the  enemy  until  your  plans  are 
properly  laid,  and  all  your  forces  in  a  good 
position.  The  thing  can't  be  proved  now, 
you  say  ;  very  well  ;  you'd  be  only  a  fool  for 
attempting  to  prove  it." 

"I'm  not  sayin',"  said  the  cautious  old  sin- 
ner again,  "  that  it  can  be  proved  at  any 
time,  or  proved  al  all — that  is,  for  a  Kartinty  ; 
but  I  think,  afther  a  time,  it  may.  There's 
a  person  not  now  in  the  countiy,  that  will  be 


back  shortly,  I  hope  ;  and  if  any  one  can 
prove  what  I  mentioned  to  you,  that  person 
can.  I  know  we'd  make  a  powerful  fiieud  by 
it,  but " 

Here  he  squirted  his  thin  tobacco  spittle 
"  out  owre  his  beard,"  but  added  nothing 
further. 

"Dunjihy,  my  fine  old  fellow,"  said  Sam, 
"  it  was  vei-j'  kind  of  you  to  come  to  me  upon 
this  point.  You  know  the  afi'ection  I  have 
for  the  young  man  ;  thank  you,  Dunphy  ; 
but  it's  natural — it's  all  the  heai-t  of  man. 
Dunphy,  how  long  is  it,  now,  since  you  and 
I  messed  together  in  the  gallant  eleven  times 
three?  Fifty  years,  I  think,  Dunphy,  or 
more.  You  were  a  smaa-t  fellow  then,  and 
became  seiTant,  I  thmk,  to  a  young  captain-^ 
what's  this  his  name  was  '?  oh  !  I  remember 
— Gourlay  ;  for,  Dunphy,  I  remember  the 
name  of  every  of3dcer  in  our  regiment,  since 
I  entered  it ;  when  they  joined,  when  they 
exchanged,  sold  out,  or  died  lilce  brave  men 
in  the  field  of  battle.  It's  upwai'ds  of  tift_y. 
By  the  way,  he  left  us — sold  out  immediately 
after  his  father's  death." 

"  Ay,  ould  Sii'  Edward — a  good  man  ;  but 
he  had  a  woman  to  his  wife,  and  if  ever 
there  was  a  clivil — Lord  bless  us  ! — in  any 
woman,  there  was  one,  and  a  choice  bad  one, 
too,  ill  her.  The  present  barrownight.  Sir 
Thomas,  is  as  like  her  as  if  she  had  spat  him 
out  of  her  mouth.  The  poor  ould  man.  Sir 
Edward,  had  no  rest  night  or  day,  because 
he  wouldn't  get  himself  made  into  a  lord,  or 
a  peer,  or  some  high-flovsoi  title  of  the  kind  ; 
and  all  that  she  herself  might  rank  as  a 
nobleman's  lady,  although  she  was  a  '  lady,' 
by  title,  as  it  was,  which,  God  knows,  was 
more  than  she  desarved,  the  thief." 

"  Ah,  she  was  different  fi-om  Beck,  Dun- 
phy. Talking  of  wives,  have  I  not  a  right 
to  feel  thankful  that  God  in  his  goodness 
gifted  me  with  such  a  blessing  ?  You  don't 
know  what  I  owe  to  her,  Dunphy.  When  I 
was  sick  and  woiuided — I  bear  the  marks  of 
fifteen  severe  wounds  upon  me — when  I  was 
in  fever,  in  ague,  in  jaundice,  and  several 
other  complaints  belonging  to  the  difl'erent 
countries  we  were  in,  there  she  was — lltere 
die  was,  Dunphy  ;  but  enough  said  ;  ay,  and 
in  the  field  of  battle,  too,"  he  added,  immetli- 
ateh'  forgetting  himself,  "  lying  like  a  log, 
my  tongue  black  and  burning.  Oh,  yes, 
Beck's  a  great  creature ;  that's  all,  now 
— that's  all.  Come  in  to  breakfast,  and  now 
you  shall  know  what  a  fi'esh  egg  means,  for 
we  have  lots  of  poultry." 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Roberts,  I  and 
my  ould  woman  know  that." 

"  Tut — nonsense,  man  ;  lots  of  j^oultiy,  I 
say — always  a  pig  or  two,  and  never  with- 
out a  ham  or  a  Hitch,  you  old  dog.     Except 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


423 


the  welfare  of  that  boy,  we  have  nothing  on 
eartli,  tliank  God,  to  trouble  us  ;  but  that's 
natural — it's  all  the  heart  of  man,  Dun- 
phy." 

After  ha\'ing  made  a  luxurious  breakfast, 
Dunphy,  who  felt  that  he  could  not  readily 
remain  away  from  his  little  shop,  bade  this 
most  aifectionate  and  worthy  couple  good-by 
and  proceeded  on  his  wa}'  home. 

This  hesitating  old  man  felt  anytliing  but 
comfortable  since  the  partial  confidence  he 
liad  placed  in  old  Sam.  It  is  true,  he 
stated  the  jjurport  of  his  disclosure  to  him 
as  a  contingency  that  might  or  might  not 
happen  ;  thus,  as  he  imagined,  keeping  him- 
self on  the  safe  side.  But  in  the  me;mtime, 
he  felt  anxious,  apprehensive  and  alarmed, 
even  at  the  lengths  to  which  his  superstitious 
fears  had  driven  him  ;  for  he  felt  now  that 
one  class  of  terrors  had  only  superinduced 
another,  without  destroying  the  tirst.  But 
so  must  it  ever  be  with  those  timid  and  pu- 
sillanimous villains  who  strive  to  impose  up- 
on their  consciences,  and  hesitate  between 
right  and  wrong. 

On  his  waj'  home,  however,  he  determined 
to  visit  the  barracks  in  which  the  thirty-third 
regiment  lay,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  get  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  young  ensign.  In  this 
he  was  successful.  On  entering  the  br.rrack 
square,  he  saw  a  group  of  officers  chatting 
together  on  the  north  side,  and  after  inquir- 
ing fi'om  a  soldier  if  Ensign  Roberts  was 
among  them,  he  was  answered  in  the  affirma/- 
tive. 

"  There  he  is,"  said  the  man,  "  standing 
with  a  whip  in  his  hand — that  tall,  handsome 
young  fellow." 

Dunphy,  who  was  sufficiently  near  to  get 
a  clear  view  of  him,  was  instantly  struck  by 
his  sui'prising  resemblance  to  Miss  Goui'lay, 
whom  he  had  often  seen  in  town. 


CELAPTER  XIX. 

Interiiiew  between  Trailcudjfel  and  tlie  Stranger — A 
Peep  at  Lend  Dunroe  and  his  Friend. 

It  was  on  the  morning  that  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  had  made  the  disastrous  discovery 
of  the  tiight  of  his  daughter — for  he  had  not 
yet  heard  the  spreading  rumor  of  the  im- 
aginary elopement — that  the  stranger,  on 
his  way  from  Father  M'Mahon's  to  the  Jlitre, 
was  met  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  near 
the  priest's  house,  by  a  man  of  huge  stature 
and  savage  appearance.  He  was  literally  in 
rags  ;  and  his  long  beard,  gaunt  features, 
and  eyes  that  glared  as  if  with  remorse, 
distraction,  or  despsiir,  absolutely  constituted 


him  an  alarming  as  well  as  a  painful  specta/ 
cle.  As  he  approached  the  stranger,  with 
some  obvious  and  urgent  purpose,  trailing 
after  him  a  weajjon  that  resembled  the  club 
of  Hercules,  the  latter  paused  Ln  his  step 
and  said, 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  good 
fellow  ?  You  seem  agitated.  Do  you  want 
anything  with  me  ?  Stand  back,  I  will  per- 
mit you  to  come  no  nearer,  till  I  know  your' 
purpose.     I  am  armed." 

The  wretched  man  put  his  hand  upon  hia 
eyes,  and  groaned  as  if  his  heart  wouli 
burst,  and  for  some  moments  was  unable  ta 
make  any  reply. 

"  What  can  this  mean  ? "  thought  the 
stranger  ;  "  the  man's  features,  though  \^'ild 
and  hollow,  are  not  those  of  a  ruffian." 

"  My  good  friend,"  he  added,  speaking 
in  a  milder  tone,  "  j-ou  seem  distressed. 
Pray  let  me  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  " 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,"  replied  the 
man,  addressing  him  with  dry,  parched  lips, 
whilst  his  Herculean  breast  heaved  up  and 
down  with  agitation  ;  "  I  didn't  intend  to  dcv 
it,  or  to  break  in  upon  it,  but  now  I  must, 
for  it's  life  or  death  with  the  three  that's  left 
me  ;  and  I  dnrstn't  go  into  the  town  to  ask  it 
there.  I  have  lost  ionv  already.  jMaybe, 
sir,  you  could  change  this  pound  note  for 
me  ?  For  the  sake  of  the  Almighty,  do  ;  as 
you  hope  for  mercy  don't  refuse  me.  That's 
aU  I  ask.  I  know  that  you  stop  in  the  iiin 
in  the  to-mi  there  above — that  you're  a 
friend  of  our  good  priest's — and  that  you 
are  well  spoken  of  by  every  one." 

Now,  it  fortunately  hajjjiened  that  the 
stranger  had,  on  learing  the  inn,  put  thirty 
shilliugs  of  silver  in  his  pocket,  not  only 
that  he  might  distribute  through  the  hands 
of  Father  M'Malion  some  portion  of  assist- 
ance to  the  poor  whom  that  good  m.an  had 
on  his  list  of  distress,  but  risit  some  of  the 
hovels  on  his  way  back,  in  order  jjersonally 
to  witness  their  condition,  and,  if  necessaiy, 
relieve  them.  The  priest,  hov.'ever,  was 
from  home,  and  he  had  not  an  opjaortunity 
of  carrying  the  other  portion  of  his  inten- 
tions into  effect,  as  he  was  only  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  the  good  man's  residence,  and  no 
hovels  of  the  description  he  wished  to  visit 
had  yet  presented  themselves. 

"  Change  for  a  pound  !"he  exclaimed,  with 
a  good  deal  of  sui'iarise.  "  ^^liy,  from  your 
appearance,  poor  fellow,  I  should  scarcely 
suspect  to  find  such  a  sum  in  your  possession. 
Did  you  expect  to  meet  me  here  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  was  on  ray  way  to  the  priest, 
to  ojsen  my  heart  to  him,  for  if  I  don't,  I 
know  I'll  be  ragin'  mad  before  forty-eight 
hours.     Oh,  sir,  if  you  have  it,  make  haste  ; 


424 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


every  minute  may  cost  me  a  life  that's  dearer 
to  me  a  thousand  times  than  my  own.  Here's 
the  note,  sir." 

The  stranger  took  the  note  out  of  his  hand, 
and  on  looking  at  the  face  of  it  made  no  ob- 
servation, but,  uijon  mechanically  turning 
up  the  back,  apparently  without  any  purpose 
of  examining  it,  he  started,  looked  keenly  at 
the  man,  and  seemed  sunk  in  the  deepest 
possible  amazement,  not  unrelieved,  how- 
ever, by  an  air  of  satisfaction.  The  sudden 
and  mysterious  disappearance  of  Fen  ton, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  discovery  of  the 
note  which  he  himself  had  given  him,  and 
now  in  the  possession  of  a  man  whose  appear- 
ance was  both  desperate  and  suspicious,  tilled 
him  with  instant  apprehensions  for  the  safety 
of  Fenton. 

His  brow  instantly  became  stem,  and  in  a 
voice  full  of  the  most  unequivocal  determina- 
tion, he  said, 

"  Pray,  sir,  how  did  you  come  by  this 
note  ?  " 

"  By  the  temptation  of  the  devil  ;  for  al- 
though it  was  in  my  possession,  it  didn't  save 
my  two  other  darlins  fi-om  dying.  A  piece 
of  a  slate  would  be  as  useful  as  it  was,  for  I 
couldn't  change  it — I  durstn't." 

"  You  committed  a  robbery  for  this  note, 
sir?" 

The  man  glared  at  him  wdth  something 
like  incipient  fury,  but  jjaused,  and  looking 
on  him  with  a  more  soiTowful  aspect,  repKed, 

"That  is  what  the  world  will  call  it,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  if  you  wish  to  get  anything  out  of 
me,  change  the  tone  of  your  voice.  I  haven't 
at  the  present  time,  much  command  over  my 
temper,  and  I'm  now  a  desperate  man, 
though  I  wasn't  always  so.  Either  give  me 
the  change  or  the  note  back  again." 

The  stranger  eyed  him  closely.  Although 
desperate,  as  he  said,  still  there  were  symp- 
toms of  an  honest  and  manly  feeling,  even  in 
the  very  bursts  of  passion  which  he  suc- 
ceeded with  such  effort  in  restraining. 

"I  repeat  it,  that  this  note  came  into  youi* 
hands  by  an  act  of  robbeiy — perhaps  of 
murder." 

"  Murder  !  "  replied  the  man,  indignantly. 
"Give  me  back  the  note,  su-,  and  provoke 
me  no  farther." 

"  No,"  rejjlied  the  other,  "  I  shall  not ;  and 
you  must  consider  yourself  my  prisoner. 
You  not  only  do  not  deny,  but  seem  to  admit, 
the  charge  of  robbery,  and  you  shall  not  pass 
out  of  my  hands  until  you  render  me  an  ac- 
count of  the  person  from  whom  you  took  this 
note.  You  see,"  he  added,  producing  a  case 
of  jjistols — for,  in  accordance  with  the  hint 
he  had  received  in  the  anonymous  note,  he 
resolved  never  to  go  out  without  them — "  I 
am  iu-med,  and  that  resistance  is  useless." 


The  man  gave  a  proud  but  ghastly  smile, 
as  he  rephed — dropping  his  stick,  and  pull- 
ing from  his  bosom  a  pair  of  pistols  much 
lai'ger  and  more  dangerous  than  those  of  the 
stranger, 

"  You  see,  that  if  you  go  to  that  I  have  the 
advantage  of  you." 

"Tell  me,"  I  repeat,  "  what  has  become  of 
Mr.  Fenton,  from  whom  you  took  it." 

"  Fenton  !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  with  sur- 
prise ;  "is  that  the  poor  young  man  that's 
not  right  in  his  head  '? " 

"The  same." 

"  Well,  I  know  nothing  about  him." 

"  Did  you  not  rob  him  of  this  note?" 

"No." 

"  You  did,  SU" ;  this  note  was  in  his  pos- 
session ;  and  I  fear  you  have  murdered  him 
besides.  You  must  come  with  me," — and  as 
he  spoke,  our  fi-iend,  Trailcudgel,  saw  two 
pistols,  one  in  each  hand,  levelled  at  him. 
"  Get  on  before  me,  sir,  to  the  town  of  BaUy- 
traiu,  or  resist  at  youi-  peril." 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  the  two  pis- 
tols, taken  from  Sir  Thomas  Goui'lay,  were 
levelled  at  the  stranger. 
j  "  Now,"  said  the  man,  whilst  his  eyes  shot 
fire  and  his  brow  darkened,  "  if  it  must  be, 
it  must ;  I  only  want  the  sheddin'  of  blood 
to  fill  up  my  misei-y  and  guilt ;  but  it  seems 
I'm  doomed,  and  I  can't  help  it.  Sir,"  said 
he,  "  think  of  yourself.  If  I  submit  to  become 
your  prisoner,  my  hfe's  gone.  You  don't 
know  the  villain  you  ai'e  goin'  to  hand  me 
over  to.  I'm  not  afi-aid  of  jou.  nor  of  any- 
thing, but  to  die  a  disgraceful  death  through 
Ais  means,  as  I  mvist  do." 

"  I  wOl  hear  no  reasoning  on  the  subject," 
rejilied  the  other;  "go  on  before  me." 

The  man  kept  his  pistols  presented,  and 
there  they  stood,  looking  sternly  into  each 
other's  faces,  each  determined  not  to  yield, 
and  each,  probablj",  on  the  brink  of  eternity. 

At  length  the  man  dropped  the  muzzles  of 
the  weapons,  and  holding  them  reversed,  ap- 
proached the  stranger,  saying,  in  a  voice  and 
with  an  expression  of  feeling  that  smote  the 
other  to  the  heart, 

"  I  will  be  conqueror  still,  sir.  Instead  of 
goin'  wdth  you,  you  will  come  with  me. 
There  are  my  pistols.  Only  come  to  a  house 
of  misery  ;md  sorrow  and  death,  and  you  will 
know  all." 

"  This  is  not  treacherj',"  thought  the  stran- 
ger. "There  can  be  no  mistaking  the 
anguish — the  agony — of  that  voice  ;  and 
those  large  tears  bear  no  testimony  to  the 
crime  of  murder  or  robbery." 

"  Take  my  pistols,  sir,"  the  other  repeated, 
"only  foUow  me." 

"  No,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  keep  them  : 
I  feai*  you  not — and  what  is  more,  I  do  not 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


425 


now  even  suspect  you.  Here  are  thirty 
8hillm<]fs  in  silver — but  you  must  allow  me  to 
keep  this  note." 

We  need  not  describe  anew  the  scene  to 
which  jjoor  Traileudgel  introduced  him.  It 
is  enough  to  say,  that  since  his  last  ajspear- 
ance  in  our  pages  he  had  lost  two  more  of 
his  children,  one  by  famine  and  the  other  by 
fever  ;  and  that  when  the  stranger  entered 
his  hovel — that  Ubel  upon  a  human  habita- 
tion— that  disgrace  to  landlord  inhumanity 
— he  saw  stretched  out  in  the  stillness  of 
death  the  emaciated  bodies  of  not  less  than 
four  human  beings — to  wit,  this  ■(\Tetched 
man's  wife,  their  daughter,  a  sweet  girl 
nearly  gl•o^vn,  and  two  little  ones.  The  hus- 
band and  father  looked  at  them  for  a  little, 
and  the  stranger  saw  a  singulai-  working  or 
change,  taking  place  on  his  features.  At 
length  he  clasped  his  hands,  and  first  smiled 

-then  laughed  outright,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Thank  God  that  they,"  pointing  to  the 
dead,  "  are  saved  from  iuiy  more  of  this," — 
but  the  scene — the  efibrt  at  comjDosure — the 
sense  of  his  gaiilt — the  condition  of  the  sur- 
vivors— exhaustion  fi'om  want  of  food,  all 
combined,  overcame  him,  and  he  fell  sense- 
less on  the  floor. 

The  stranger  got  a  poninger  of  water, 
bathed  his  temples,  opened  his  teeth  with 
an  old  knife,  and  having  poured  some  of  it 
down  his  tlu'oat,  tU-agged  him — and  it  re- 
quired all  his  strength  to  do  so,  although  a 
powerful  man — over  to  the  cabin-door,  in 
order  to  get  him  within  the  influence  of  the 
fresh  air.  At  length  he  recovered,  looked 
wildly  about  him,  then  gazed  uj)  in  the  face 
of  the  stranger,  and  made  one  or  two  deep 
respii-ations. 

"I  see,"  said  he,  "I  remember — set  me 
sittin'  upon  this  little  ditch  beside  the  door 
— but  no,  no — "  he  added,  starting — "  come 
away — I  must  get  them  food — come — quick, 
quick,  and  I  wiU  tell  you  as  we  go  along." 

He  then  repeated  the  history  of  his  ruin 
by  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  of  the  robbery,  and 
of  the  scene  of  death  and  destitution  which 
drove  him  to  it. 

"And  was  it  &'om  Sir  Thomas  you  got 
this  note  ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  whose  inter- 
est was  now  deeplj-  excited. 

"From  him  I  got  it,  sir  ;  as  I  tould  you," 
he  replied,  "and  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
priest  to  give  him  up  the  money  and  the 
pistols,  when  the  situation  of  my  children,  of 
my  family,  of  the  U\in'  and  the  dead,  over- 
came me,  and  I  was  tempted  to  break  in 
upon  one  pound  of  it  for  their  sakes.  Sir, 
my  life's  in  your  hands,  but  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  face  that  tells  my  heart  that 
you  won't  betray  me,  especially  afther  what 
you  have  seen." 


The  stranger  had  been  a  silent  and  atten- 
tive listener  to  this  nairative,  and  after  he 
had  ceased  he  spoke  not  for  some  time.  He 
then  added,  emphatically  but  quickly,  acd 
almost  abruptlj- : 

"  Don't  fear  me,  my  poor  fellow.  Your 
secret  is  as  safe  as  if  you  had  never  disclosed 
it.  Here  are  other  notes  for  you,  and  in  the 
meantime  place  yourself  in  the  hands  of 
yoiu-  priest,  and  enable  him  to  restore  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  his  money  and  his  pistols. 
I  shall  see  j'ou  and  your  family  again." 

The  man  viewed  the  money,  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment,  burst  into  tears,  and  hurried 
away,  \Wthout  saymg  a  word,  to  j)rocure  food 
for  himself  and  his  children. 

Our  readers  need  not  imagine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  the  scenes  with  which  we  have  en- 
deavored to  present  them,  in  the  wretched 
hut  of  Trailcudgel,  are  at  all  overdra\\Ti.  In 
point  of  fact,  they  fall  far  short  of  thousands 
which  might  have  been  witnessed,  and  were 
witnessed,  dm-ing  the  years  of  '47,  '48,  '49, 
and  this  present  one  of  '50.  Wo  are  aware 
that  so  many  as  twenty-three  human  beings, 
I  of  all  ages  and  sexes,  have  been  found  by 
[  public  oflicers,  jdl  lying  on  the  same  floor, 
I  and  in  the  same  bed — if  bed  it  can  be  tenned 
j  — nearly  one-fourth  of  them  stift'ened  and 
i  putrid  corpses.  The  sui-^dvors  weltering  in 
tilth,  fever,  and  famine,  and  so  completely 
maddened  by  despair,  deliinum,  and  the 
I  rackings  of  intolerable  pain,  in  its  severest 
!  shapes — aggi-avated  by  thirst  and  Inuiger — 
that  all  the  impidses  of  nature  and  aflection 
were  not  merely  banished  from  the  heart, 
but  superseded  by  the  most  fi-ightful  peals 
of  insane  mirth,  cruelty,  and  the  horrible 
appetite  of  the  ghoul  and  vampire.  Some 
were  found  tearing  the  flesh  from  the  bodies 
of  the  carcasses  that  were  stretched  beside 
them.  Mothers  tottered  oft"  under  the  woful 
excitement  of  misery  and  frenzy,  and  threw 
their  wretched  children  on  the  sides  of  the 
highways,  leaving  them  there,  with  shouts 
of  mirth  and  satisfaction,  to  j^erish  or  be 
saved,  as  the  ch.ances  might  turn  out — whilst 
fathers  have  been  known  to  make  a  wolfish 
meal  upon  the  dead  bodies  of  their  own  off- 
spring. We  might,  therefore,  have  carried  on 
our  description  up  to  the  very  liighest  point 
of  imaginable  horror,  without  going  beyond 
the  tnith. 

It  is  well  for  the  world  that  the  schemes 
and  projects  of  ambition  depend  not  in  their 
fulfilment  upon  the  means  and  instruments 
with  which  they  are  sought  to  be  accom- 
pUshed.  Had  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  for  in- 
stance, not  treated  his  daughter  wth  such 
brutal  cruelty,  an  intennew  must  have  taken 
place  between  her  and  Lord  Cullamore, 
which  would,  as  a  matter  of  course,  have 


426 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


put  an  end  forever  to  licr  father's  liojies  of 
the  higli  rank  for  whicli  he  was  so  anxious 
to  sacrifice  her.  The  good  old  nobleman, 
failing  of  tlie  interview  he  had  expected, 
went  immediately  to  London,  with  a  hojDe, 
among  other  objects,  of.  being  in  some  way 
useful  to  his  son,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
more  than  two  years,  the  latter  having  been, 
■during  that  period,  making  the  usual  tour  of 
the  Continent. 

On  the  second  day  of  his  arrival,  and  after 
he  had  in  some  degree  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  tlie  voyage — liy  which,  on  the 
whole,  he  was  i-ather  improved — he  resolved 
to  call  upon  Duuroe,  in  jaursuance  of  a  note 
which  he  had  written  to  him  to  that  effect, 
being  unwilling  besides  to  take  him  un- 
awares. Before  he  arrives,  however,  we 
shall  take  the  liberty  of  looking  in  uj5on  his 
lordship,  and  thus  enable  ourselves  to  form 
8ome  opinion  of  the  materials  which  consti- 
tuted that  young"  nobleman's  character  and 
habits. 

The  accessories  to  these  habits,  as  expo- 
nents of  his  life  and  character,  were  in  ad- 
mirable keeping  with  both,  and  a  slight 
glance  at  them  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
reader. 

His  lordship,  who  kept  a  small  establish- 
ment of  his  own,  now  lies  in  a  very  elegantly 
furnished  bedroom,  with  a  table  beside  his 
bed,  on  which  are  dressings  for  his  wound, 
phials  of  medicines,  some  loose  comedies, 
and  a  volume  still  more  objectionable  in 
point  both  of  taste  and  morals.  Beside  him 
is  a  man,  whether  young  or  of  the  middle 
age  it  is  difficult  to  say.  At  the  first  glance, 
his  general  appearance,  at  least,  seemed 
rather  juvenile,  but  after  a  second — and  still 
more  decidedly  after  a  third — it  was  evident 
to  the  spectator  that  he  could  not  be  under 
forty.  He  was  dressed  in  quite  a  youthful 
style,  and  in  the  very  extreme  of  fashion. 
This  person's  features  were  good,  regular, 
absolutely  symmetrical ;  yet  was  there  that 
in  his  countenance  which  you  could  not  rel- 
ish. The  face,  on  being  examined,  bespoke 
the  life  of  a  battered  rake  ;  for  although  the 
complexion  was  or  had  been  naturally  good, 
it  was  now  set  in  too  high  a  color  for  that  of 
a  young  man,  and  was  hardened  into  a  cer- 
tain apjsearanee  which  is  produced  on  some 
features  by  the  struggle  that  takes  place  be- 
tween dissipation  and  health.  The  usual 
obsei-vatiou  iu  such  cases  is — "  with  what  a 
constitution  has  that  man  been  blessed  ■  on 
whose  countenance  the  symptoms  of  a  hard 
life  are  so  slightly  jierceptible."  The  symp- 
toms, however,  are  there  in  every  case,  as 
they  were  on  his.  This  man's  countenance, 
we  say,  at  the  first  glance,  was  good,  and  his 
sye  seemed  indicative  of  great  mildness  and 


benignity  of  heart — yet  here,  again,  was  b 
drawback,  for,  ujion  a  stricter  examination 
of  that  organ,  there  might  be  read  in  it  the 
expression  of  a  spirit  that  never  permitted 
him  to  utter  a  single  word  that  was  not  as- 
sociated with  some  selfish  calculation.  Add 
to  this,  that  it  was  unusually  small  and 
feeble,  intimating  duplicity  and  a  want  of 
moral  energy  and  candor.  In  the  mere 
face,  therefore,  there  was  something  which 
you  could  not  like,  and  which  would  have 
prejudiced  you,  as  if  by  instinct,  against  the 
man,  were  it  not  that  the  phant  and  agreeable 
tone  of  his  conversation,  in  due  time,  made 
you  forget  everything  except  the  fact  that 
Tom  Norton  was  a  most  delightful  fellow, 
with  not  a  bit  of  selfishness  about  him,  but  a 
warm  and  fi'iendly  wish  to  oblige  and  serve 
every  one  of  his  acquaintances,  as  far  as  he 
could,  and  with  the  greatest  good-will  in  the 
world.  But  Tom's  excellence  did  not  rest 
here.  He  was  disinterested,  and  frequently 
went  so  far  as  almost  actually  to  quarrel 
with  some  of  liis  friends  on  their  refusing  to 
be  g-uided  by  his  advice  and  expeiience. 
Then,  again,  Tom  was  generous  and  delicate, 
for  on  finding  that  his  dissuasions  against 
some  jaarticular  course  had  been  disregarded, 
and  the  consequences  he  had  predicted  had 
actually  followed,  he  was  too  magnanimous 
ever  to  harass  them  by  useless  expostula- 
tions or  vain  rejiroofs  ;  such  as — "I  told  you 
how  it  would  happen" — "I  advised  you  in 
time  " — "  you  would  not  listen  to  reason  " — 
and  other  postUminious  apothegms  of  the 
same  character.  No,  on  the  contrary',  he 
maintained  a  considerate  and  gentlemanly 
silence  on  the  subject — a  circumstance  which 
saved  them  fi-om  the  embarrassment  of  much 
self-defence,  or  a  painful  admission  of  their 
error — and  not  only  satisfied  them  that  Tom 
was  honest  and  unselfish,  but  modest  and 
forbearing.  It  is  true,  that  an  occasional 
act  or  solecism  of  manner,  somewhat  at  vari- 
ance with  the  conventional  usages  of  polite 
society,  and  an  odd  ^oilgarism  of  expression, 
were  slight  blemishes  which  might  bo 
brought  to  his  charge,  and  would  probably 
have  told  against  any  one  else.  But  it  was 
well  known  that  Mr.  Norton  admitted  him- 
self to  be  a  Connaught  gentleman,  with  some 
of  the  rough  habits  of  his  country,  as  well  of 
manner  as  of  phraseology,  about  him  ;  and 
it  was  not  to  be  exjjected  that  a  Connemara 
gentleman,  no  matter  how  high  his  birth 
and  connection,  could  at  once,  or  at  all, 
divest  himself  of  these  piquant  and  agreeable 
peculiarities. 

So  much  for  Tom,  who  had  been  for  at 
least  a  couple  of  years  pre\'ious  to  his  pres- 
ent appearance  fairly  domesticated  with  his 
lordship,    acting   not   only  as   his    "guide, 


TUE  BLACK  BARONET. 


427 


philosopher,  aud  friend,"  but  actually  as 
major-domo,  or  general  steward  of  the  estab- 
lishment, even  condescending  to  jjay  the  ser- 
vants, and  kindly  undertaking  to  rescue  his 
friend,  who  was  ignorant  of  business,  from 
the  disagreeable  trouble  of  coming  in  contact 
with  tradesmen,  and  making  occasional  dis- 
bursements in  matters  of  which  Lord  Dun- 
roe  knew  little  or  nothing.  Tom  was  indeed 
a  most  invaluable  friend,  aud  his  lordship 
considered  it  a  veiy  fortunate  night  on  which 
they  iirst  became  acquainted  ;  for,  although 
he  lost  to  the  tune  of  live  hundred  pounds  to 
him  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  gaming- 
houses of  London,  yet,  as  a  comiDensation — 
and  more  than  a  compensation — for  that  loss, 
he  gained  Tom  in  return. 

His  lordship  was  lying  on  one  side  in  bed, 

with   the    ^lemoirs  of  on   the  pillow 

beside  him,  when  Tom,  who  had  only  entered 
a  few  minutes  before,  on  looking  at  the  walls 
of  the  ai^artment,  exclaimed,  "  What  the 
deuce  is  this,  my  lord  ?  Are  you  aware  that 
your  father  will  be  here  in  a  couple  of  hours 
from  this  time?"  and  he  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  Oh,  ay  ;  the  old  peer,"  rei^lied  his  lord- 
ship, in  a  languid  voice,  "  coming  as  a  mis- 
sionary to  reform  the  profane  and  infidel.  I 
wish  he  would  let  me  alone,  and  subscribe  to 
the  Missionai'v  Society  at  once." 

"  But,  my  dear  Dunroe,  are  you  asleep  ?  " 

"Very  nearly,  I  believe.     I  wish  I  was." 

"  But  what's  to  be  done  with  certain  cf 
these  pictures?  You  dont  intend  his  lord- 
ship should  see  them,  I  hojie  ?  " 

"  No  ;  certainly  not,  Tom.  We  must  have 
them  removed.  WiU  you  see  about  it,  Tom, 
like  a  good  fellow  ?  Stow  them,  however,  in 
some  safe  place,  where  they  won't  'be  in- 
jured." 

"  Those  five  must  go,"  said  Norton. 

"No,"  rei^hed  his  lordshij),  "let  the  Mag- 
dalen stay  ;  it  wiU  look  like  a  tendency  to 
repentance,  you  know,  and  the  old  peer  may 
hke  it." 

"  Dunroe,  my  dear  fellow,  you  know  I 
make  no  pretence  to  rehgion  ;  but  I  don't 
relish  the  tone  in  which  you  generally  speak 
of  that  most  respectable  old  nobleman,  your 
father."    • 

"Don't  you,  Tom?  Well,  l)ut,  I  say,  the 
idea  of  a  most  respectable  old  nobleman  is 
rather  a  shaliby  afiair.  It's  merelj'  the  privi- 
lege of  age,  Tom.  I  hope  I  shall  never  live 
to  be  termed  a  most  respectalile  old  noble- 
man. Pshaw,  my  dear  Tom,  it  is  too  much. 
It's  a  proof  that  he  wants  character." 

"I  wish,  in  the  mean  time,  Dunroe,  that 
you  and  I  had  as  much  of  that  same  com- 
modity as    the  good   old   peer  could  spare 


"  Well,  I  suppose  you  do,  Tom  ;  I  dare 
say.     My  sister  is  coming  with  him  too." 

"Yes  ;  so  he  says  in  the  letter." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  endure  that  also; 
an  aristocratic  lecture  on  the  one  hand,  and 
■  the  uncouth  affections  of  a  hoiden   on  the 
i  other.     It's  hard  enough,  though." 
[      Tom  now  rang  the  bell,  aud  in  a  few  mo- 
ments a  servant  entered. 

"  Wilcox,"  said  Norton,  "  get  Taylor  and 
M'Intyre  to  assist  you  in  removing  those  five 
pictui-es  ;  place  them  carefully  in  the  green 
closet,  which  you  will  lock. ' 

"  Yes,  carffully,  Wilcox,"  said  his  lordship ; 
"and  afterwards  give  the  key  to  Mr.  Nor- 
'  ton." 

j       "Yes,  my  lord." 

!  In  a  few  minutes  the  jjaintings  were  re- 
moved, and  the  conversation  began  where  it 
had  been  left  off. 

"  This  double  ^'isit,  Tom,  will  be  a  great 
bore.     I  wish  I  could  avoid  it — jahilosoiihiz- 
ed  by  the  father,  beslobbered  by  the  sister— 
I  faugh  ! " 

"  These  books,  too,  my  lord,  had  better  be 
put  aside,  I  think." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so  ;  lock  them  in  that 
di'awer." 

Norton  did  so,  and  then  jJroceeded.  "Now, 
my  dear  Dunroe " 

"  Tom,"  said  his  lordship,  interiniptLng 
him,  "I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say — 
try  and  put  yourself  into  something  like  mor- 
al trim  for  the  old  jieer — is  not  that  it  ?  Do 
you  know,  Tom,  I  have  some  thouglits  of  be- 
coming rehgious  ?  ^Vllat  is  religion,  Tom  ? 
You  know  we  were  talking  about  it  the  oth- 
er day.  You  said  it  was  a  capital  thing  for 
the  world — that  it  sharpened  a  man,  and  put 
him  w]}  to  anything,  and  so  on." 

"  What  has  put  such  a  notion  into  your 
head  now,  my  lord  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — nothing,  I  believe.  Can 
rehgion  be  taught,  Tom  ?  Could  one,  for  in- 
stance, take  lessons  in  it  ?  " 

"  For  what  purpose  do  you  projsose  it,  my 
lord?" 

"  I  don't  know — for  two  or  three  jjui-poses, 
I  believe." 

"  Will  your  lordship  state  them  ?  " 

"Why,  Tom,  I  should  wish  to  .do  the  old 
peer  ;  and  touching  the  baronet's  daughter, 
who  is  said  to  be  very  conscientious — which 
I  suppose  means  the  same  thing  as  religion — 
I  should  wish  to " 

"To  do  her  too,"  added  Norton,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so  ;  but  I  forget.  Don  t  the 
pas'ns  teach  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  by  precept,  most  of  them 
do  ;  not  so  many  by  example." 

"  But  it's  the  theory  only  I  want.     You 


428 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


don't  suppose  I  intend  to  practice  religion, 
Tom,  I  hope?" 

"No,  my  lord,  I  have  a  diiFerent  opinion 
of  your  principles." 

"  Could  you  hire  me  a  pasu,  to  p^ve  les- 
sons in  it — say  two  a  week — I  shall  require 
to  know  something  of  it ;  for,  my  dear  Tom, 
you  are  not  to  be  told  that  twelve  thousand 
a  year,  and  a  beautiful  girl,  are  worth  mak- 
ing an  eifort  for.  It  is  true  she — Miss 
Gourlay,  I  mean — is  not  to  be  spoken  of  in 
comparison  with  the  cigar-man's  daughter  ; 
but  then,  twelve  thousand  a  year,  Tom  ! — 
and  the  good  old  peer  is  threatening  to  cur- 
tail my  allowance.  Or  stay,  Tom,  would  hy- 
pocrisy do  as  well  as  religion  ?  " 

"  Every  bit,  my  lord,  so  far  as  the  world 
goes.  Indeed,  in  point  of  fact,  it  requires  a 
veiy  keen  eye  to  discover  the  difference  be- 
tween them.  For  one  that  practises  religion, 
there  are  live  thousand  who  practise  hypoc- 
risy " 

"  Could  I  get  lessons  in  hypocrisy  ?  Are 
there  men  set  apart  to  teach  it?  Are  there, 
for  instance,  professors  of  hypocrisy  as  there 
are  of  music  and  dancing  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  my  lord  ;  but  many  of  the 
professors  of  religion  come  very  neaiiy  to  the 
Bame  j^oint." 

"How  is  that,  Tom?  Explain  it,  like  a 
good  fellow." 

"  Why  a  great  number  of  them  deal  in  both 
— that  is  to  say,  they  teach  the  one  by  their 
doctrine,  and  the  other  by  their  example. 
In  different  words,  they  inculcate  religion  to 
others,  and  practise  hj'pocrisy  themselves." 

"  I  see — that  is  clear.  Then,  Tom,  as  they 
— the  pas'us  I  mean — are  the  best  judges 
of  the  matter,  of  course  hypocrisy  must  be 
more  useful  than  religion,  or  they — and  such 
an  immense  majority  as  you  say — would  not 
practise  it." 

"  More  useful  it  unquestionably  is,  my 
lord." 

"Well,  in  that  case,  Tom,  try  and  find  me 
out  a  good  hypocrite,  a  sound  fellow,  who 
properly  understands  the  subject,  and  I  will 
take  lessons  from  him.  My  terms  wiU  be 
liberal,  say " 

"  Unfortunately  for  your  lordship,  there 
are  no  jirofessors  to  be  had  ;  but,  as  I  said, 
it  comes  to  tlie  same  thing.  Engage  a  pro- 
fessor of  religion,  and  whilst  you  pretend  to 
study  his  doctrine,  make  a  point  also  to  study 
his  life,  and  ten  to  one  but  you  wiU  close 
your  studies  admirably  qualified  to  take  a  de- 
gree in  hypocrisy,  if  there  were  such  an  hon- 
or, and  that  you  ^^nsh  to  imitate  your  teach- 
er. Either  that,  my  lord,  or  it  may  tend  to 
cure  you  of  a  leaning  towai'd  hypocrisy  as 
long  as  you  live." 

"  W^ell,  I  wish  I  coidd  make  some  progress 


in  either  one  or  the  other,  it  matters  not 
which,  provided  it  be  easier  to  learn,  and 
more  useful.  We  must  think  about  it,  Tom. 
You  will  remind  me,  of  course.  Was  Sir 
George  here  to-day  ?  " 

"No,  my  lord,  but  he  sent  to  inquire." 

"  Nor  Lord  Jockej^viUe  ?  " 

"  He  drove  tandem  to  the  door,  but  didn't 
come  in.  The  other  members  of  our  set 
have  been  tolerably  regular  in  their  in- 
quiries, especially  smce  they  were  undeceiv- 
ed as  to  the  danger  of  your  wound." 

"  By  the  way,  Norton,  that  was  a  d d 

cool  fellow  that  pinked  me ;  he  did  the 
thing  in  quite  a  self-possessed  and  gentle- 
manly way,  too.  However  it  was  my  own 
fault ;  I  forced  him  into  it.  You  must 
know  I  had  reason  to  suj)pose  that  he  was 
endeavoring  to  injure  me  in  a  certain 
quarter ;  in  short,  that  he  had  made  some 
progress  in  the  ailections  of  Lucy  Gourlay. 
I  saw  the  attentions  he  paid  to  her  at  Paris, 
when  I  was  sent  to  the  right  about.  In 
short — but  hang  it — there — that  will  do — let 
us  talk  no  more  about  it — I  escaped  narrow- 
ly— that  is  all." 

"  And  I  must  leave  you,  my  lord,  for  I  as- 
sure you  I  have  many  things  to  attend  to. 
Those  creditors  are  imreasonable  scoundrels, 
and  must  be  put  off  with  soft  words  and 
hard  promises  for  some  time  longer.  That 
Irish  wine-merchant  of  yours,  however,  is  a 
model  to  every  one  of  his  tribe." 

"Ah,  that  is  because  he  knows  the  old 
peer.  Do  you  know,  Tom,  after  all,  I  don't 
think  it  so  disreputable  a  thing  to  be  termed 
a  respectable  old  nobleman  ;  but  still  it  in- 
dicates want  of  individual  character.  Now, 
Tom,  I  think  I  have  a  character.  I  mean 
an  original  character.  Don't  eveiy  one  al- 
most say — I  allude,  of  course,  to  every  one 
of  sense  and  jjenetration — Dunroe's  a  char- 
acter— quite  an  original — an  enigma — a 
sphinx — an  inscription  that  cannot  be  de- 
ciphered— an  illegible  dog — eh — don't  they, 
Tom  ?  " 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  lord.  Even  I, 
who  ought  to  know  you  so  well,  can  make 
nothing  of  you." 

"  Well,  but  after  aU,  Tom,  my  father's 
name  overshadows  a  gi-eat  number*  of  my  ve- 
nialities,  Dunroe  is  wild,  they  say,  but  then 
he  is  the  son  of  a  most  respectable  old 
nobleman ;  and  so,  many  of  them  sluaig 
and  pity,  when  they  would  otherwise  assail 
and  blame." 

"  And  I  hope  to  live  long  enough  to  ste 
you  a  most  respectable  old  '  character '  yet, 
my  dear  Dunroe.  I  must  go  as  yoiu'  repre- 
sentative  to   these  d d    ravenous   duns. 

But  mark  me,  comport  yourself  in  voir  fa- 
ther's and  sister's  presence  as  a  yoimg  man 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


429 


somewhat  meditating  upon  the  reformation 
of  his  life,  so  that  a  favorable  impression 
may  be  made  here,  and  a  favorable  report 
reach    the    baronet's    fair    daughter.       Au 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Interview  between  Lords  CuUiimore,  Duiiros,  and 
Lady  Emily  —  Tom  Norton'' s  Arinlocrucy  fails 
Him — His  Reception  by  Lord  Cutlamore. 

At  the  hour  appointed,  Lord  Dunroe's 
father  and  sister  an-ived.  The  old  peer,  as 
his  son  usual!}%  but  not  in  the  most 
reverential  spirit,  termed  him,  oii  entering 
his  sleeping  chamber,  jsaused  for  a  moment 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  as  if  to  ascertain 
his  precise  state  of  health  ;  but  his  sister, 
Lady  Emily,  with  all  the  warmth  of  a  young 
and  affectionate  heart,  pure  as  the  morning 
dew-droj],  ran  to  his  bedside,  and  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  stooped  down  and  kissed  him, 
excliiming  at  the  same  time, 

"  My  dear  Dimroe  ;  but  no — I  hate  those 
cold  and  formal  titles — they  are  for  the 
world,  but  not  for  brother  and  sister.  My 
dear  John,  how  is  your  wound  ?  Thank  God, 
it  is  not  dangerous,  I  hear.  Ai-e  you  better? 
WlU  you  soon  be  able  to  rise '?  My  dear 
brother,  how  I  was  alarmed  on  hearing  it ; 
but  there  is  another  kiss  to  help  to  cure 
you." 

"  My  dear  Emily,  what  the  deuce  are  you 
about  ?  I  teU  you  I  have  a  prejudice  against 
kissing  female  relations.  It  is  too  tame, 
and  somewhat  of  a  bore,  child,  especially  to 
a  sick  man." 

His  father  now  approached  him  with  a 
gi'ave,  but  by  no  means  an  unfeeling  coun- 
tenance, and  extending  his  hand,  said,  "  I 
fear,  John,  that  this  has  been  a  foolish 
business  ;  but  I  am  glad  to  hnd  that,  so  far  as 
your  personal  danger  was  concerned,  you 
have  come  off  so  safely.  How  do  you  lind 
j-Qurselt  ?  " 

"  Eaj)idly  recovering,  my  lord,  I  thank 
you.  At  first  they  considered  the  thing 
serious  ;  but  the  buUet  only  grazed  the  rib 
shghtly,  although  the  liesh  wound  was,  for 
a  time,  troublesome  enough.  I  am  now, 
however,  free  fi'om  fever,  and  the  wound  is 
clo.sing  fast." 

Whilst  this  brief  dialogue  took  place, 
Lady  Emily  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside, 
her  large,  brilliant  ej'es  no  longer  fiUed  with 
tears,  but  open  with  astonishment,  and  we 
may  as  well  add  vnth  pain,  at  the  utter  in- 
diiference  with  which  her  brother  received 
her  aifectionate  caresses.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments'  reflection,    however,    her    generous 


heart  supposed  it  had  discovered  his  apo 
logy. 

"Ah,"  thought  the  sweet  girl,  "I  had  for- 
gotten his  wound,  and  of  course  I  must  have 
occasioned  him  gi'eat  pain,  which  his  deli- 
cacy placed  to  a  different  motive.  He  did 
not  wish  to  let  me  know  that  I  had  hurt 
him."  And  her  countenance  again  lieamed 
with  the  joy  of  an  innocent  and  unsu.speet- 
ing  spirit. 

I      "  But,  Dunroe,"  she  said — "John,  I  mean, 
I  won't  j'ou  soon  be  able  to  get  up,  and  to 
walk  about,  or,  at  aU  events,  to  take  an  air- 
ing with  us  in  the  carriage  ?  AViil  you  not, 
dear  John  ?  " 
j       "Yes,  I  hope  so,  Emily.      By   the  way, 
Emily,  you  have  grown  quite  a  woman  since 
!  I  saw  you  last.     It  is  now  better  than  two 
I  years,  I  think,  since  then." 
j      "  How  did  you  like  the  Continent,  John  ?  " 
j       "^\^ly,  my  dear  girl,  how  is  this?   What 
!  sympathy  can  you  feel  with  the  experience 
j  of  a  young  fellow  like  me  on  the  Coutinent  ? 
j  When  you  know  the  world  better,  my  dear 
girl,  you  will  feel  the  impropriety  of  asking 
'  such  a  question.     Pray  be  seated,  my  lord." 
I      Lord  CuUamore  sat,  as  if  unconsciously, 
I  in  an  arm-chau-  beside  the  table  on  ^vhich 
t  were  placed  his  son's  dressings  and  medi- 
cines, and  resting  his  head  on  his  hand  for 
a  moment,   as   if   suffering  pain,  at  length 
raised  it,  and  said, 

j  "  No.  Dunroe  ;  no.  I  trust  my  innocent 
gu'l  will  never  live  to  fi'el  the  imj^ropriety  of 
'  asking  a  question  so  natural." 
!  "I'm  sure  I  hofie  not,  my  lord,  with  all 
my  heart,"  replied  Dunroe.  "  Have  you  been 
'  pre.-ented,  Emily  ?  Have  you  been  brought 
I  out  ?  " 

I      "  She  has  been  presented,"  said  her  father, 
[  "  but  not  brought  out ;   nor  is  it  my  inten- 
tion, in  the  obvious  sense  of  that  word,  that 
she  ever  shall." 

"  Oh,  your  lordshijj  perhaps  has  a  tenden- 
cy to  Popery,  then,  and  there  is  a  convent 
in  the  background  ?  Is  that  it,  my  good 
lord  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  No,"  r  jjlied  his  father,  who  could  not 
help  smiling  in  return,  "  not  at  aU,  John. 
Emily  will  not  require  to  be  brought  out, 
nor  paraded  through  the  debasing  formali- 
ties of  fashion.  She  .shaU  not  lie  excluded 
from  fashion,  certainly ;  but  neither  shall  I 
suft'er  her  to  iim  the  vulgar  gauntlet  of  heart- 
less dissipation,  wliich  too  often  hardens, 
debases,  and  corruists.  But  a  truce  to  this  ; 
the  subject  is  isainful  to  me  ;  let  vis  change 
it." 

The  last  obsei-vation  of  Dunroe  to  his 
sister  startled  her  so  much  that  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  looked  with  that  fascinating  tim- 
idity which  is  ever    associated    with    umo< 


430 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


cence  and  purity  from  her  brother  to  her 
father. 

"Have  I  said  anything  wrong,  papa?" 
she  asked,  when  Lord  Cnllamore  had  ceased 
to  speak. 

"  Nothing,  my  love,  nothing  but  precisely 
what  was  natural  and  right.  Dunroe's  reply, 
however,  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
and  he  ought  to  have  known  it." 

"Well  now,  Emily,"  said  her  brother,  "I 
don't  regret  it,  inasmuch  as  it  has  enabled 
me  to  satisfy  myself  upon  a  point  which  I 
have  frequently  heard  disputed — that  is, 
whether  a  woman  is  capable  of  blushing  or 
not.  Now  I  have  seen  you  blush  with  my 
own  eves,  Emily  ;  nay,  upon  my  honor,  you 
blush  again  this  moment." 

"  Duuroe,"  observed  his  father,  "you  are 
teasing  your  sister  ;  forbear." 

"  But  don't  you  see,  my  lord,"  persisted 
his  son,  "the  absolute  necessity  for  giving 
her  a  coiu'se  of  fashionable  life,  if  it  were  only 
to  remove  this  constitutional  blemish.  If 
it  were  discovered,  she  is  ruined  ;  to  blush 
being,  as  your  lordship  knows,  contrary  to 
all  the  laws  and  statutes  of  fashion  in  that 
case  made  and  provided." 

"  Dmiroe,"  said  his  father,  "  I  intend  you 
shall  spend  part  of  the  summer  and  all  the 
autumn  in  Ireland,  with  us." 

"  Oh,  yes,  John,  you  must  come,"  said  his 
sister,  clapping  her  snow-white  hands  in  ex- 
illtation  at  the  thought.  "  It  wiU  be  so  de- 
lightful." 

"  Ireland  !  "  exclaimed  Dunroe,  with  well- 
feigned  surprise  ;  "  pray  where  is  that,  my 
lord?" 

"  Come,  come,  John,"  said  his  father, 
smihng  ;  "be  serious." 

"Ireland!  "he  again  exclaimed;  "oh,  by 
the  waj',  that's  an  island,  I  think,  in  the 
Pacific — is  it  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  rei)lied  his  father;  "a  more  inap- 
propriate jjosition  you  could  not  have  pos- 
sibly found  for  it." 

"  Is  not  that  the  happy  country  where  the 
people^  live  without  food  ?  'Where  they  lead 
a  life  of  independence,  and  starve  in  such 
an  heroic  spirit  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Dunroe,"  said  his  father,  seri- 
ously, "never  sjiort  with  the  miseries  of  a 
peojsle,  esijeeially  when  that  people  are  your 
own  countrymen." 

"My  lord,"  he  replied,  disregarding  the 
rebuke  he  had  received,  "  for  Heaven's  sake 
conceal  that  disgi'aceful  fact.  Remember,  I 
am  a  young  nobleman  ;  call  me  profligate — 
spendthrift — debauchee — anything  you  will 
but  an  Irishman.  Don't  the  Irish  refuse 
beef  and  mutton,  and  take  to  eating  each 
other?  What  can  be  said  of  a  people  who, 
to  please  their  betters,  practise  stai-vation  o.s 


their  natural  pastime,  and  dramatize  hunger 
to  pamper  their  most  affectionate  lords  and 
masters,  who,  whilst  the  latter  witness  the 
comedy,  make  the  performers  jjay  for  their 
tickets?  And  yet,  although  the  cannibal 
system  floiu'ishes,  I  fear  they  find  it  any- 
thing but  a  Sandwich  island." 

"  Pafia,"  said  Lady  Emily,  in  a  whisper, 
and  with  tears  in  her  ej'es,  "  I  fear  John's 
head  is  a  little  unsettled  by  his  illness." 

"You  will  injure  yourself  mj-  dear  Dun- 
roe," said  his  father,  "  if  you  talk  so  much." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  good  lord  and  father. 
But  I  think  I  recollect  one  of  their  bills  of 
performance,  which  runs  thus  :  "  On  Sat- 
urday, the  25th  inst.,  a  tender  and  affection- 
ate father,  stuffed  by  so  many  cubic  feet  of 
cold  \vind,  foul  air,  all  resulting  from  ex- 
termination and  the  benevolence  of  a  hu- 
mane landlord,  wiU  in  the  very  wantonness 
of  repletion,  feed  upon  the  dead  body  of  his 
own  child — for  which  entertaining  perfor- 
mance he  ■^dll  have  the  satisfaction,  subse- 
quently, of  enacting  with  success  the  inter- 
esting character  of  a  felon  and  be  comforta- 
bly lodged  at  his  Majesty's  exjiense  in  the 
jail  of  the  couutj'.'  *  Why,  my  lord,  how 
could  you  expect  me  to  acknowledge  such  a 
country?  However,  I  must  talk  to  Tom 
Norton  about  this.  He  was  born  in  the 
country  you  speak  of — and  yet  Tom  hjs  an 
excellent  appetite ;  eats  hke  other  people  ; 
abhors  starvation  ;  and  is  no  cannibal.  It 
is  true,  I  have  frequently  seen  him  ready 
enough  to  eat  a  fellow — a  perfect  raw-head- 
and-bloody-bones — for  which  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, the  principle,  or  instinct,  or  whatever 
you  call  it,  is  still  latent  in  his  constitution. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  whenever  Tom 
gnashed  his  teeth  at  any  one  a  la  caninbale, 
if  the  other  gnashed  his  teeth  at  him,  all  the 
cannibal  disappeai'ed,  and  Tom  was  quite 
harmless." 

"  By  the  way,  Dimroe,"  said  his  father, 
"who  is  this  Tom  Norton  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"He  is  my  most  particular  friend,  my 
lord — my  companion — and  traveled  with  me 
over  the  Continent.  He  is  kind  enough  to 
take  charge  of  my  affairs :  he  pays  my  ser- 
vants, manages  my  tradesmen  —  and,  in 
short,  is  a  man  whom  I  could  not  do  with- 
out. He's  up  to  everything  ;  and  is  alto- 
gether indispensable  to  me." 

Lord  C'uUamore  paused  for  some  time, 
and  seemed  for  a  moment  absorbed  in  some 
painful  reflection  or  reminiscence.  At  length 
he  said, 

"This  man,  Dunroe,  must  be  very  useful 
to  you,  if  he  be  what  you  have  just  described 


*  This  alludes  to  a  dreadful  fact  of  cannilialism, 
which  occurred  in  the  South  of  Ireland  in  ia4(>. 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


431 


bim.  Does  be  also  manage  your  correspond- 
ence ?  " 

"  He  does,  my  lord  ;  and  is  possessed  of  my 
most  unlimited  confidence.  In  fact,  I  could 
never  get  on  without  liim.  My  affairs  are 
in  a  state  of  the  most  inextricable  confusion, 
and  were  it  not  for  bis  sagacity  and  pru- 
dence, I  could  scarcely  contrive  to  live  at  all. 
Poor  Tom ;  he  abandoned  fine  prospects 
in  order  to  devote  himself  to  my  service." 

"  Such  a  friend  must  be  invaluable,  John," 
observed  his  sister.  "  They  say  a  fi'iend,  a 
true  friend,  is  the  rai'est  thing  in  the  world  ; 
and  when  one  meets  such  a  fi'iend,  they 
ought  to  apjjreciate  bim." 

"Very  true,  EmQy,"  said  the  Earl ;  "  very 
true,  indeed."  He  spoke,  however,  as  if  in 
a  state  of  abstraction.  "  Norton  ! — Norton. 
Do  you  know,  John,  who  he  is  ?  Anytliing 
of  bis  origin  or  connectious  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever,"  replied  Dunroe ; 
"  unless  that  be  is  well  connected — he  told 
me  so  himself — too  well,  indeed,  be  hinted, 
to  render  the  situation  of  a  dependent  one 
which  he  should  wi.sb  his  relatives  to  be- 
come acquainted  with.  Of  course,  I  re- 
spected bis  delicacy,  and  did  not,  conse- 
quently, j)ress  bim  further  upon  the  point." 

"  That  was  considerate  on  your  part,"  re- 
plied the  Earl,  somewhat  dryly  ;  "  but  if  he 
be  such  as  you  have  described  him,  I  agree 
with  Emily  in  thinking  be  must  be  invalu- 
able. And  now,  John,  with  respect  to  an- 
other affair — but  perhaps  this  interview  may 
be  injurious  to  your  health.  TaUiing  much, 
and  the  excitement  attending  it,  may  be 
bad,  you  know." 

"  I  am  not  easily  excited,  my  lord,"  re- 
plied Dunroe  ;  "rather  a  coolfeUow  ;  unless, 
indeed,  when  I  used  to  have  duns  to  meet. 
But  now  Norton  manages  all  that  for  me. 
Proceed,  my  lord." 

"  Yes,  but,  John,"  observed  Lady  Emily, 
"  don't  let  affection  for  papa  and  me  allow 
you  to  go  beyond  your  strength." 

"  Never  mind,  Emily  ;  I  am  all  right,  if 
this  wound  were  healed,  as  it  will  soon  be. 
Proceed,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear  Dunroe,  I  am 
anxious  you  should  know  that  I  have  bad  a 
long  conversation  with  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay, 
upon  the  subject  of  your  maniage  with  his 
beautiful  and  accomplished  daughter." 

"  Yes,  the  Black  Baronet ;  a  confounded 
old  scoundrel  by  all  accounts." 

"You  forget,  sii',"  said  the  Earl,  sternly, 
"  that  be  is  father  to  your  future  wife." 

"  Devilish  sorry  for  it,  my  lord.  I  wish 
Lucy  was  daughter  to  any  one  else — but  it 
matters  not ;  I  am  not  going  to  marry  the 
black  fellow,  but  twelve  thousand  a  year  and 
a  pretty  girl.     I  know  a  prettier,  though." 


"Impossible,  John,"  replied  Lady  Emily, 
with  enthusiasm.  "  I  really  think  Lucy  Gour- 
lay the  most  lovely  girl  I  have  ever  seen — 
the  most  amiable,  the  most  dignified,  the 
most  accomplished,  the  most — dear  John, 
how  happy  I  shall  be  to  call  her  sister  !  " 

"  Dunroe,"  proceeded  his  father,  "I  beg 
you  consider  this  affair  seriously — solemnly 
— the  happiness  of  such  a  girl  as  Lucy  Gour- 
lay is  neitlier  to  be  sjiortod  witli  nor  perilled. 
You  will  have  much  to  reform  before  j'ou  can 
become  worthy  of  her.  I  now  tell  you  that 
the  reformation  must  be  effected,  sincerely 
and  thoroughly,  before  I  shall  ever  give  my 
consent  to  your  union  witli  her.  There  must 
be  neither  dissimulation  nor  hyjjocrisy  on 
your  part.  Your  conduct  must  speak  for 
you,  and  I  must,  from  the  clearest  evidence, 
be  j^erfectly  satisfied  that  in  marrying  you 
she  is  not  wrecking  her  peace  and  happiness, 
by  committing  them  to  a  man  who  is  in- 
capable of  appreciating  ber,  or  who  is  insen- 
sible to  what  is  due  to  ber  great  and  shining 
virtues." 

"It  would  be  dreadful,  John,"  said  bis  sis- 
ter, "if  she  should  not  feel  bai^py.  But  if 
John,  papa,  requires  reformation,  I  am  sure 
he  win  reform  for  Lucy's  sake." 

"  He  ought  to  reform  from  a  much  higher 
l^rinciple,  my  dear  child,"  replie<l  her  father. 

"  And  so  he  will,  papa.  Will  j'ou  not,  dear 
brotlier  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  my  lord,"  said  Dunroe, 
"  I  had  a  conversation  this  very  morning  up- 
I  on  the  subject  with  Tom  Norton." 
I  "I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear  son.  It  is 
I  not  too  late — it  is  never  too  late — to  amend 
I  the  life  ;  but  in  this  instance  there  is  an 
j  event  about  to  take  place  which  renders  a 
[  previous  reformation,  in  its  truest  sense,  ab- 
\  solutely  indispensable." 

"My  loi-d,"  he  replied,  "  the  truth  is,  lam  . 
1  determined  to  try  a  coiuse  of  religion.    Tom 
Norton  tells  me  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  tbi'ough  life  with." 

"  Tom  Norton  might  have  added  that  it  is 
a  much  better  thing  to  get  through  death 
with,"  added  the  Earl,  gravely.  * 

"  But  he  appears  to  understand  it  admir- 
ably, my  lord,"  replied  Dunroe.  "He  says 
it  quickens  a  man's  intellects,  and  not  only 
prevents  him  fi'om  being  imposed  upon  by 
knaves  and  sharpers,  but  enables  bim,  by 
putting  on  a  long  face,  and  using  certain 
cabalistic  phrases,  to  overreach — no,  not  ex- 
actly tliat,  but  to — let  me  see,  to  steer  a  safe 
course  through  the  world  ;  or  something  to 
that  effect.  He  says,  too,  that  religious  folks 
always  come  best  oft",  and  pay  more  attention 
to  the  things  of  this  life,  than  any  one  else  ; 
and  that,  in  consequence,  they  thrive  and 
prosper   under   it.     No   one,    he  says,  gets 


432 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


credit  so  freely  as  a  man  that  is  supposed  to 
be  religious.  Now  this  struck  me  quite 
forcibly,  as  a  tliiug  that  might  be  very  use- 
ful to  me  in  gettiug  out  of  my  embarrass- 
ments. But  then,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
go  to  church,  I  believe— to  pray — sing 
psalms — read  the  Bible — and  subscribe  to 
societies  of  some  kind  or  other.  Now  all  that 
would  be  very  troublesome.  How  does  a 
person  pray,  my  lord  ?  Is  it  by  repeating 
the  Ten  Commandments,  or  reading  a  re- 
ligious book  ? " 

Despite  the  seriousness  of  such  a  subject, 
Lord  Cullamore  and  his  daughter,  on  glanc- 
ing at  each  other,  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
smiling. 

"  Now,  I  can't  see,"  proceeded  Dunroe, 
"  how  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  the  said 
commandments  would  sharpen  a  man  for  the 
world,  as  Tom  Norton's  religion  does." 

The  good  old  Earl  thought  either  that  his 
son  was  affecting  an  ignorance  on  the  subject 
which  he  did  not  feel,  or  that  his  ignorance 
was  in  reality  so  great  that  for  the  present, 
at  least,  it  was  useless  to  discuss  the  matter 
with  him. 

"I  must  say,  my  dear  Dunroe,"  he  added, 
in  a  kind  and  indulgent  voice,  "  that  your 
first  conceptions  of  reformation  are  very  ori- 
ginal, to  s:iy  the  least  of  them." 

"I  grant  it,  my  lord.  Every  one  knows 
that  all  my  views,  acts,  and  expressions  are 
original.  '  Dunroe's  a  perfect  original '  is  the 
general  expression  among  my  friends.  But 
on  the  subject  of  religion,  I  am  willing  to  be 
put  into  training  I  told  Tom  Norton  to 
look  out  and  liu-e  me  a  pas'n,  or  somebody, 
to  give  me  lessons  in  it.  Is  there  such  a 
thing,  by  the  way,  as  a  Religious  Grammar  ? 
If  so,  I  shall  provide  one,  and  make  myself 
master  of  all  the  rules,  cases,  inflections,  in- 
terjections, groans,  exclamations,  and  so  on, 
connected  with  it.  The  Bible  is  the  diction- 
ary, I  believe  ?  " 

Poor  Lady  Emily,  like  her  father,  could 
not  for  the  life  of  her  suppose  for  a  moment 
that  her  bi'other  was  serious  :  a  reflection 
that  relieved  her  from  much  anxiety  of  mind 
and  embairassment  on  his  account. 

"Papa,"  said  she,  whilst  her  beautiful 
features  were  divided,  if  we  may  so  s.ay,  be- 
tween smiles  and  tears,  "  papa,  Dunroe  is 
only  jesting  ;  I  am  sure  he  is  only  jesting, 
and  does  not  mean  any  serious  disrespect  to 
rehgion." 

"  That  may  be,  my  dear  Emily  ;  but  he 
will  allow  me  to  tell  him  that  it  is  the  last 
subject  upon  which  he,  or  any  one  else, 
should  jest.  Whether  you  are  in  jest  or 
earnest,  my  dear  Dunroe,  let  me  advise  you 
to  bring  the  moral  courage  and  energies  of 
a  man  to  the  contemplation  of  your  Ufe,  in 


the  first  i^laee  ;  and  in  the  next,  to  its  im- 
provement. It  is  not  reading  the  Bible,  not 
repeating  prayers,  that  will,  of  themselves, 
make  you  religious,  unless  the  heart  is  ia 
earnest ;  but  a  correct  knowledge  of  what 
is  right  and  wrong — in  other  words,  of  hu- 
man duty — ■will  do  much  good  in  the  first 
place  ;  with  a  firm  resolution  to  avoid  the 
evil  and  adopt  the  good.  Remember  that 
you  are  accountable  to  the  Being  who  placed 
you  in  this  life,  and  that  j'our  duty  here 
consists,  not  in  the  indulgence  of  wild  and 
licentious  passions,  but  in  the  higher  and 
nobler  ones  of  rendering  as  many  of  your 
fellow-creatures  happy  as  you  can  :  for  such 
a  cpurse  will  necessarily  insure  happiness  to 
yourself.  This  is  enough  for  the  present  ; 
as  soon  as  you  recover  your  strength  you 
shall  come  to  Ireland." 

"  When  I  recover  my  strength  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Ay,  to  be  eaten  like  a  titbit. 
Heavens,  what  a  delicious  moi'sel  a  piece  of 
a  young  peer  would  be  to  such  fellows  !  but 
I  wiU  not  run  that  .homble  risk.  Lucy  must 
come  to  me — I  am  sure  the  prospect  of  a 
countess's  coronet  ought  to  be  a  sufficient 
inducement  to  her.  B'lt,  to  think  that  I 
should  run  the  risk  of  lieing  shot  from  be- 
hind a  hedge — made  a  component  part  of  a 
midnight  bonfire,  or  entombed  in  the  bowels 
of  some  Patagonian  cannibal,  savagely  glad 
to  feed  upon  the  hated  Saxon  who  has  so 
often  fed  upon  him  ! — No,  I  repeat,  Lucy,  if 
she  is  to  be  a  countess,  must  travel  in  this 
direction." 

The  indelicacy  and  want  of  all  considera- 
tion for  the  feelings  of  his  father,  so  obvious 
in  his  heartless  allusion  to  a  fact  which  could 
onlj-  result  fi'om  that  father's  death,  satisfied 
the  old  man  that  any  reformation  in  his  son 
was  for  the  present  hopeless,  and  even  Lady 
Emily  felt  anxious  to  j)ut  an  end  to  the  visit 
as  soon  as  possible. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  his  father,  as  they 
were  taking  their  leave,  "  I  have  had  an 
unpleasant  letter  from  my  brother,  in  which 
he  states  that  he  wrote  to  you,  but  got  no 
answer." 

"  I  never  received  a  letter  from  him,"  re- 
plied his  lordship  ;  "  none  ever  reached  me  ; 
if  it  had,  the  very  novelty  of  a  communication 
from  such  a  quarter  would  have  prevented 
me  fi-om  forgetting  it." 

"I  should  think  so.  His  letter  to  me,  in- 
deed, is  a  strange  one.  He  utters  enigmati- 
cal threats " 

"  Come,  I  like  that — I  am  enigmatical 
myself — you  see  it  is  in  the  family." 

"  Enigmatical  threats  which  I  cannot  un- 
derstand, and  desires  me  to  hold  myself 
prepared  for  certain  steps  which  he  is  about 
to  take,  in  justice  to  what  he  is -pleased  to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


43S 


term  his  own  claims.  However,  it  is  not 
worth  notice.  But  this  Norton,  I  am  anx- 
ious to  see  him,  Dunroe — will  von  request 
him  to  call  ujjou  me  to-morrow  at  twelve 
o'clock  ? — of  coui'se,  I  feel  desirous  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  a  man  who  has  proved 
himself  such  a  wai-m  and  sterling  friend  to 
mj'  son." 

"  Undoubtedly,  my  lord,  he  shall  attend 
on  you — I  shall  take  care  of  that.  Good-by, 
my  lord — good  by,  Emily — good — good — my 
dear  girl,  never  mind  the  embrace — it  is 
quite  undignified — anything  but  a  patrician 
_  usage,  I  assure  you." 

Now  it  is  necessar  /  that  w^e  should  give 
our  readers  a  clearer  conception  of  Lord 
Dunroe's  character  than  is  to  be  found  in 
the  preceding  dialogue.  This  young  gentle- 
man was  one  of  those  who  wish  to  put  every 
person  who  enters  into  conversation  with 
them  completely  at  fault.  It  was  one  of  his 
whims  to  affect  ignorance  on  many  subjects 
with  which  he  was  very  well  acquainted. 
His  ambition  was  to  be  considered  a  char- 
acter ;  and  in  order  to  carry  this  idea  out, 
he  very  frequently  spoke  on  the  most  com- 
monplace topics  as  a  man  might  be  supposed 
to  do  who  had  just  dropped  from  the  moon. 
He  thought,  also,  that  there  was  sonisthing 
aristocratic  in  this  fictitious  ignorance,  and 
that  it  raised  him  above  the  common  herd 
of  those  who  could  talk  reasonably  on  the 
ordinary  tojjies  of  conversation  or  life.  His 
ambition,  the  reader  sees,  was  to  be  consid- 
ered original.  It  had  besides,  this  advan- 
tage, that  in  matters  where  his  igTiorauce 
is  anything  but  feigned,  it  brought  him  out 
safelj'  under  the  protection  of  his  accustomed 
habit,  without  suffering  from  the  imputation 
of  the  ignorance  he  affected.  It  was,  indeed, 
the  ambition  of  a  vain  and  silly  mind  ;  but 
provided  he  could  work  out  this  paltry  joke 
upon  a  grave  and  sensible  though  unsus- 
pecting individual,  he  felt  quite  delighted  at 
the  feat,  and  took  the  person  thus  imposed 
upon  into  the  number  of  his  favorites.  It 
was  up)on  this  principle  among  others  that 
Norton,  who  pretended  never  to  see  through 
his  flimsy  irony,  contrived  to  keep  in  his  fa- 
vor, and  to  shape  him  according  to  his 
wishes,  whilst  he  made  the  weak-minded 
young  man  beheve  that  everything  he  did 
and  every  step  he  took  was  the  result  of  his 
own  deliberate  opinion,  whereas  in  fact  he 
was  only  a  imppot  in  his  hands. 

His  father,  who  was  naturally  kind  and 
indulgent,  felt  deeply  grieved  and  mortified 
by  the  reflections  arising  from  this  visit. 
During  the  remainder  of  the  daj-  he  seemed 
WTapped  in  thought  ;  but  we  do  not  attempt 
to  assert  that  the  dialogue  with  his  son  was 
the  sole  caiise  of  this.     He  more  than  once 


■  took  out  his  brother's  letter  which  he  read 
'  with  surprise,  not  unmingled  with  strong 
curiosity  and  pain.  It  was,  as  he  said,  ex- 
tremely enigmatical,  whilst  at  the  same  time  it 
contained  e^^dences  of  that  deplorable  spirit 
which  almost  imiformly  embitters  so  deepl}' 
the  feuds  which  arise  from  domestic  miscon- 
ceptions. On  this  point,  however,  we  shall 
enable  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself.  Tlie 
j  letter  was  to  the  following  effect : 

'  "My  Lord  Ciillamore. — It  is  now  nine 
'  .ncnths  and  ujjwards  since  I  addressed  a 
letter  to  your  son  ;  and  I  wrote  to  him  in 
I  preference  to  j'ou,  because  it  had  been  for 
I  many  years  my  intention  never  to  have  re- 
newed or  held  any  communication  whatso- 
ever with  you.  It  was  on  this  account, 
therefore,  that  I  opened,  or  endeavored  to 
ojjen,  a  correspondence  with  him  rather  thai, 
with  his  father.  In  this  I  have  been  disap- 
pointed, and  my  object,  which  was  not  an 
unfiiendly  one,  fiiistrated.  I  do  not  regret, 
however,  that  I  have  been  treated  with  con- 
tempt. The  fact  cancelled  the  foolish  in- 
dulgence with  which  an  exhibition  of  com- 
mon courtesy  and  jjoliteness,  if  not  a  better 
feeling,  on  the  part  of  your  son,  might  have 
induced  me  to  treat  both  you  and  him.  As 
matters  now  stand  between  us,  indulgence 
is  out  of  the  question  ;  so  is  comi^romise.  I 
shall  now  lose  little  time  in  urging  claims 
which  you  will  not  be  able  to  withstand. 
Whether  you  suspect  the  natm-e  of  these 
claims  or  not  is  more  than  I  know.  Be 
that,  however,  as  it  may,  I  can  assure  you- 
that  I  had  resolved  not  to  disturb  your  last 
days  by  prosecuting  them  during  your  life- 
time. That  resolution  I  have  now  rescinded, 
and  aU  that  remains  for  me  to  say  is,  that  as 
little  time  as  possible  shall  be  lost  in  enforc- 
ing the  claims  I  allude  to,  in  justice  to  m 
family. 

"  I  am,  mj'  Lord  CuUamore, 

'■  Your  obedient  servant, 

"ElCHARD    StAPLETOX." 

This  straage  and  startling  communication- 
caused  the  good  old  man  much  uneasiness, 
even  although  its  object  and  purpose  were 
altogether  beyond  his  comprehension.  The 
only  solution  that  occurred  to  him  of  the 
mystery  ^^'hich  ran  through  it,  was  that  it 
must  have  been  written  imder  some  miscon- 
ception or  delusion  for  which  he  could  not 
account.  Another  key  to  the  difficulty — one 
equally  re23lete  with  distress  and  alarm — was 
that  his  brother's  reason  had  probably  be- 
come unsettled,  and  that  the  communication 
in  question  was  merely  the  emanation  of 
mental  alienation.  And,  indeed,  on  this 
point    only  could  he  account   for  the  mis- 


iU 


WILL/Air  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


carriage  of  tlie  letter  to  his  son,  which  prob- 
ably had  never  been  written  at  all,  and  ex- 
isted only  in  the  disturbed  imagination  of 
his  unfortunate  brother. 

At  all  events,  the  contents  of  this  docu- 
ment, like  those  mysterious  presentiments 
of  evil  which  sometimes  are  said  to  precede 
calamity,  hung  like  a  weight  ujjon  his  mind, 
view  them  as  he  might.  He  became  nervous, 
ilepressed,  and  gloomy,  pleaded  illness  as 
an  apology  for  not  dining  abroad  ;  remain- 
ed alone  and  at  home  during  the  whole 
evening,  but  arose  the  next  morning  in 
better  spirits,  and  when  our  friend  Tom 
Norton  presented  himself,  he  had  regained 
sufficient  equanimity  and  comi^osure  to  pay 
proper  attention  to  that  faithful  and  friendly 
gentleman. 

Now  Tom,  who  resolved  to  make  an  im- 
pression, as  it  is  termed,  was  dressed  in  the 
newest  and  most  fashionable  morning  visit 
costume,  drove  up  to  the  haU-door  at  that 
kind  of  breakneck  pace  with  which  your 
celebrated  whips  delight  to  astonish  the 
multitude,  and  throwing  the  reius  to  a 
servant,  desired,  if  he  knew  how  to  pace  the 
horse  up  and  down,  to  do  so  ;  otherwise  to 
renieml)er  that  he  had  a  neck. 

The  servant  in  question,  a  stout,  compact 
fellow,  wth  a  rich  Milesian  face  and  a  mel- 
low brogue,  looked  at  him  with  a  steady  but 
smiling  eye. 

"  Have  a  neck,  is  it  ? "'  he  exclaimed  ;  "  by 
my  sowl,  an'  it'.s  sometimes  an  inconvenience 
to  have  that  same.  My  own  opinion  is,  sir, 
that  the  neck  now  is  jist  one  of  the  tenderest 
joints  in  the  body." 

Norton  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with 
an  ottended  and  haughty  stare. 

"  If  you  are  incapable  of  cMving  the  landau, 
sir,"  he  replied,  "  call  some  one  who  can  ; 
and  don't  l)e  impertinent." 

"  Incapable,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  cool 
but  humorous  kind  of  gravity  ;  "  troth,  then 
it's  disgrace  I'd  bring  on  my  taicher  if  I 
couldn't  sit  a  saddle  an'  handle  a  whip  with 
the  best  o'  them.  And  wid  regard  to  the 
neck,  sir,  many  a  man  has  escaped  a  worse 
fall  than  one  from  the  box  or  the  saddle." 

Norton  drew  himself  ujj  with  a  highly  in- 
dipfnant  scowl,  and  turning  his  frown  once 
more  upon  this  most  impertinent  menial, 
encountered  a  look  of  such  comic  familiarity, 
easy  assurance,  and  droll  indifi'ei'ence,  as  it 
woidd  not  be  easy  to  match.  The  beau 
started,  stared,  again  puUed  himself  to  a 
still  greater  height — as  if  by  the  dignity  of 
the  attitude  to  set  the  other  at  fault — frowned 
more  awfully,  then  looked  bluster,  and  once 
more  surveyed  the  broad,  knowing  face  and 
significant  laughing  eyes  that  were  fixed 
upon  him — set,  as  they  were,  in  the  centre 


of  a  broad  grin — after  which  he  pulled  up 
his  collar  with  an  air — taking  two  or  three 
strides  ujj  and  down  with  what  he  intended 
as  aristocratic  dignity — 

"  Hem  !  ahem !  What  do  you  mean, 
sir?" 

•  To  this,  for  a  time,  there  was  no  reply  ; 
but  there,  instead,  were  the  laughing  fascin- 
ators at  work,  fixed  not  only  ujjon  him,  but 
in  him,  piercing  him  through  ;  the  knowing 
giin  still  increasing  and  gathering  force  of 
exjjression  bj'  his  own  confusion. 

"  Curse  me,  sir,  I  don't  understand  this 
insolence.  "What  do  jou  mean?  Do  you 
know  who  it  is  you  treat  in  this  manner  ?  " 

Again  he  stretched  himself,  pulled  up  his 
collar  as  before,  displaying  a  rich  diamond 
ring,  then  taking  out  a  valuable  gold  watch, 
glanced  at  the  time,  and  putting  it  in  his 
fob,  looked  enormously  big  and  haughty,  ex- 
claiming again,  with  a  fi'own  that  was  in- 
tended to  be  a  stunner — after  again  jiacing 
ujj  and  down  with  the  genuine  tone  and 
carriage  of  true  nobility — 

"  I  say,  sir,  do  you  know  the  gentleman 
whom  j'ou  are  treating  with  such  imperti- 
nence ?  Perhajjs  you  mistake  me,  on  account 
of  a  siijaposed  resemblance,  for  some  former 
acquaintance  of  yours.  If,  so,  correct  your- 
self ;  I  have  never  seen  you  tiU  this  mo- 
ment." 

There,  however,  was  the  grin,  and  there 
were  the  eyes  as  before,  to  which  we  must 
add  a  small  bit  of  pantomime  on  the  part  of 
Morly  O'Flaherty,  for  such  was  the  servant's 
name,  which  bit  of  pantomime  consisted  in 
his  (Moi'ty's)  laying  his  forefinger  very  know- 
ingly alongside  his  nose,  exclaiming,  in  a 
cautions  and  friendly  voice  however, 

"  Barnej',  achora,  don't  be  alarmed ; 
there's  no  hai-m  done  yet.  You're  safe  if  you 
behave  yourself." 

"What!"  said  Norton.  "Bv  the  bones 
of  St.  Patrick  but  you  are  Morty  O'Fla- 
herty !  Confound  it,  my  dear  Morty,  why 
didn't  you  make  j-ourself  known  at  once  ?  it 
would  have  relieved  both  of  ns." 

"  One  of  us,  yoii.  mane,"  replied  Morty, 
with  a  wink. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
Morty.  And  how  ai-e  you,  man  alive  ?  In  a 
snug  berth  here.  I  see,  with  the  father  of 
my  friend.  Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Morty,  shrewdly  ;  "  is 
that  it?  Youi-  friend;  Oh,  I  see.  Nate  as 
ever,  Hke  a  clane  sixpence.  Well,  Bai-ney, 
the  worlil  will  have  its  way." 

"  Ay,  Morty,  and  we  must  comply  with  it. 
Some  it  brings  uji,  and  others  it  brings 
down." 

"Whisht,  now,  Barney,"  said  Morty  ;  "let 
by-gones  be  by-goues.     That  it  ditln't  bring 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


435 


you  Np,  be  thankful  to  a  gracious  Providence 
and  a  liglit  jsair  o'  heels  ;  that's  all.  And 
what  are  you  now  ?  " 

"  No  longer  Barney  Bryan,  at  any  rate," 
repHed  the  other.  "  My  name,  at  2>resent,  is 
Norton." 

"  At  prenenf  !  Upon  my  sowl,  Barney,  so 
far  as  names  goes,  you're  a  walkin'  cata- 
log^ie.' 

"  Thomas  Norton,  Esqiure  ;  residing  with 
that  distinguished  young  nobleman.  Lord 
Duiiroe,  as  his  bosom  fi'iend  and  insej)ara- 
ble  companion." 

"Hem  !  I  see,"  said  Morty,  with  a  shrug, 
which  he  miaut  as  one  of  compassion  for  the 
aforesaid  LordDunroe  ;  "  son  to  my  masther. 
Well,  God  pity  liim,  Barney,  is  tlie  worst  I 
wish  him.  You  will  take  care  of  him  ;  you'll 
tache  him  a  thing  or  two- — and  that's  enough. 
But,  Barnej' " 

"  Curse  Barney — Mi-.  Norton's  the  word." 

"Well,  Mr.  "Norton— ah,  Mr.  Norton, 
there's  one  person  you'U  not  neglect." 

"Who  is  that,  Morty?" 

"  Faith,  your  mother's  son,  achora.  How- 
ever, you  know  the  proverb — '  A  burnt  child 
dreads  the  fire.'  You  have  a  veck  still,  Bar- 
ney— beg  pardon,  Mr.  Norton — don't  forget 
that  fact." 

"  And  I'll  take  care  of  the  said  neck,  be- 
lieve me,  Morty ;  I  shall  keep  it  safe,  never 
fear." 

"  Take  care  you  don't  keep  it  a  little  loo 
safe.  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough.  Bar — 
Mr.  Norton." 

"  It  is,  Morty  ;  and  I  trust  you  will  re- 
member that  (hat  is  to  be  a  regulation  be- 
tween lis.  '  A  close  month  is  the  sign  of  a 
wise  head,'  too  ;  and  there's  a  comrade  for 
your  proverb — but  we  are  talking  too  long. 
Listen  ;  keep  my  secret,  and  I  will  make  it 
worth  your .  while  to  do  so.  You  may  ruin 
me,  without  serving  yourself  ;  but  as  a  proof 
that  you  will  find  me  yoiu-  friend,  I  will  slij) 
j'ou  five  guineas,  as  a  recompense,  you 
know,  for  taking  care  of  the  landau  and 
horses.  In  short,  if  we  work  into  each  other's 
hands  it  will  be  the  better  for  us  both." 

"  I'll  keep  your  saicret,"  replied  honest 
Morty,  "  so  long,  Barney — hem  !  Mr.  Nor- 
ton— as  j'Ou  keej)  yourself  honest ;  but  I'll 
dirty  my  hands  wid  none  o'  yoiu-  money. 
If  I  was  williu'  to  betray  you,  it's  not  a 
bribe  would  prevent  me." 

Jlr.  Norton,  in  a  few  moments,  was  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  Lord  CuUamore. 

On  entering  the  ajiartment,  the  old  noV^le- 
man,  with  easy  and  native  courtesy,  rose  up, 
and  received  him  with  every  mark  of  atten- 
tion and  respect. 

"  I  am  happy,  Mr.  Noi'ton,"  he  proceeded, 
"  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  thank  you  for 


the  friendship  and  kindness  which  my  son. 
Lord  Dunroe,  has  been  so  fortimate  as  to 
receive  at  your  hands.  He  speaks  of  you 
with  such  warmth,  and  in  terms  of  such 
high  esteem,  that  I  felt  naturally  anxious  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  as  his  fiieud. 
Pray  be  seated." 

Norton,  who  was  a  quick  and  ready  fel- 
low, in  more  senses  than  one,  bowed  lowly, 
aud  with  every  mark  of  the  deepest  respect ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  he  certainly  started 
uijon  a  high  and  a  rather  hazardous  theory — 
to  wit,  that  of  a  man  of  consequence,  who 
wished  to  be  considered  with  resj)ect  to  Dun- 
roe  rather  as  a  patron  than  a  dependent. 

The  fellow,  we  should  have  stated  to  the 
reader,  was  originally  from  Kerry,  though 
he  adojjted  Connaught,  and  consequently 
had  a  tolerable  acquaintance  with  Latin  and 
Greek — an  acquisition  which  often  stood 
him  in  stead  through  life  ;  joined  to  which  was 
an  assurance  that  notliuig  short  of  a  scrutiny 
such  as  Morty  O'Flaherty's  could  conquer. 

"I  assure  you,  my  lord,"  he  rephed,  "  you 
quite  overrate  any  trifling  services  I  may 
have  rendered  to  my  friend  Dunroe.  Upon 
my  soul  aud  honor  you  do.  I  have  done 
nothing  for  him — that  is,  nothing  to  speak 
of.  But  the  truth  is,  I  took  a  fancy  to  Dun- 
roe ;  and  I  do  assure  j'ou  again.  Lord  Cul- 
lamore,  that  when  I  do  take  a  fancy  to  any 
j)erson — a  rare  case  with  me,  I  grant — I 
would  go  any  possible  lengths  to  serve  him. 
Every  man  has  his  whim,  my  lord,  and  that 
is  mine.  I  hope  your  lonlship  had  a  jjleas- 
ant  triji  across  Channel  ?  " 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Mr.  Norton  ;  but  I  have 
been  for  some  time  past  in  delicate  health, 
and  am  not  now  so  cajiable  of  bearing  the  trip 
as  formerly.  Still  I  feel  no  reason  to  com- 
plain, although  far  from  strong.  Dunroe,  I 
perceive,  is  reduced  considerably  by  his 
wound  and  the  consequent  confinement." 

"  Oh,  naturally,  of  course,  my  lord  ;  but 
a  few  days  now  will  set  him  upon  his  legs." 

"  That,  it  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Norton,  was  a 
veiy  foolish  and  unpleasant  aft'air  altogether." 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  so,  my  lord.  It 
was  altogether  wrong  on  the  part  of  Dunroe  ; 
and  so  I  told  him." 

"  Could  you  not  have  prevented  it,  Mx. 
Norton  ?  " 

"Ha,  ha,  ha  !  very  good,  Lord  CuUamore. 
Ask  me  could  I  prevent  or  check  a  flash  oi 
lightning.  Ujjon  my  soul  and  honor,  the 
thing  was  over,  and  my  poor  friend  dov^^l, 
before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson — hem  ! 
— as  we  say  in  Connaught." 

"You  have  travelled,  too,  with  my  son, 
Mr.  Norton,  and  he  is  perfectly  sensible  of 
the  sei'vices  you  have  rendered  him  during 
his  tour." 


43G 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S    WORIvS. 


"  God  forbid,  my  Lord  CuUamore,  that  I 
sliould  assume  any  superiority  over  poor, 
kiud-hearted,  and  honorable  Dunroe  ;  but  as 
you  are  his  father,  my  lord,  I  may — and 
with  pride  and  satisfaction  I  do  it — jiut  the 
matter  on  its  jaroper  footing,  and  say,  that 
Dunroe  travelled  witli  me.  The  thing  is 
neither  here  nor  there,  of  course,  nor  would 
I  ever  allude  to  it  unless  as  a  proof  of  my  re- 
gard and  affection  for  him." 

"  That  only  enhances  your  kindness,  Mr. 
Norton." 

"^^^ay,  my  lord,  I  met  Dunroe  in  Paiis — 
no  matter,  I  took  him  out  of  some  difficulties, 
and  prevented  him  fi-om  getting  into  more. 
He  had  been  hcI  by  a  clicpe  of — but  I  will 
not  dwell  on  this,  it  looks  like  egotism — I 
said  before,  I  took  a  fancy  to  him — for  it 
fi'equently  happens,  my  good  lord,  that  you 
take  a  fancy  to  the  2:)erson  you  have  served." 

"  True  enough,  indeed,  ]Mr.  Norton." 

"  I  am  fond  of  travelUug,  and  was  about  to 
make  my  fourth  or  fifth  tour,  when  I  met 
your  son,  suiTOunded  by  a  crew  of — but  I 
have  alluded  to  tliis  a  moment  ago.  At  all 
events,  I  saw  his  danger — a  youug  man  ex- 
posed to  temptation — the  most  alluring  and 
perilous.  Well,  my  lord,  mine  was  a  name 
of  some  weight  and  authority,  afl'ording  just 
the  kind  of  countenance  and  protection  your 
son  required.  Well,  I  travelled  with  him, 
guarded  him,  guided  him,  for  as  to  any  in- 
convenience I  may  myself  have  experienced 
in  taking  him  by  the  most  comprehensive 
routes,  and  some  other  matters,  they  are  not 
worth  naming.  Of  course  I  introduced  him 
to  some  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
France — to  the  Marquis  De  Fogleville,  for 
instance,  the  Coimt  Easeallion,  Baron  Snot- 
tellin,  and  some  others  of  the  first  rank  and 
nobihty  of  the  country.  The  pleasure  of  his 
society,  however,  more  than  comjjensated  me 
for  all." 

"But,  pardon  me,  IMr.  Norton,  I  believe 
the  title  and  family  of  De  Fogleville  have 
been  extinct.  The  last  of  them  was  guillo- 
tined not  long  since  for  an  attempt  to  steal 
the  crown  jewels  of  France,  I  think." 

"  True,  my  lord,  you  are  perfectly  right, 
the  unhappy  man  was  an  insane  legitimist ; 
but  the  title  and  estates  have  been  revived  in 
the  person  of  another  member  of  the  family, 
the  present  marquis,  who  is  a  nobleman  of 
high  consideration  and  honor." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  I  was  not  aware  of  that, 
Mr.  Norton,"  said  his  lordship.  "  I  am  quite 
surjjrised  at  the  extent  of  your  generosity 
and  goodness  to  my  son." 

"  But,  my  lord,  it  is  not  mv  intention  to 
give  up  Dunroe  or  abandon  the  jioor  fellow 
yet  awhile.  I  am  determined  to  teach  him 
economy  in  managing  his  att'airs,  to  make  him 


know  the  value  of  time,  of  money,  and  ot 
system,  in  everything  pertaining  to  life  and 
business.  Nor  do  I  regi'et  what  I  have  done, 
nor  what  I  propose  to  do  ;  f(u-  from  it,  my 
lord.  All  I  a.sk  is,  that  he  wiU  always  look 
upon  me  as  a  friend  or  an  elderljrother,  and 
consult  me,  confide  in  me,  and  come  to  me, 
in  fact,  or  write  to  me,  whenever  he  may 
think  I  can  be  of  service  to  him." 

"  And  in  his  name,  of  course,  I  may  at 
least  thank  you,  Mr.  Norton,"  replied  the 
Earl,  with  a  shght  ii-ony  in  his  manner,  "  not 
only  for  all  you  have  done,  but  for  all  you 
■propom  to  do,  as  you  say." 

Norton  shook  his  head  jjeremjitoiily. 
"Pardon  me,  my  lord,  no  thanks.  I  am 
overj)aid  by  the  pleasure  of  ranking  Dunroe 
among  the  number  of  my  friends." 

"  You  are  too  kind,  indeed,  Sir.  Norion  ; 
and  I  trust  my  son  will  be  duly  grateful,  as 
he  is  duly  sensible  of  all  you  have  done  for 
him.  By  the  way,  IVIi-.  Norton,  you  alliided 
to  Connaught.  You  are,  I  j)resume,  an  Iiish- 
man  ?" 

"  I  am  an  Ii-ishman,  my  lord." 

"Of  coiuse,  sir,  I  make  no  inquiry  as  to 
your  individual  family.  I  am  sure  from  what 
I  have  seen  of  you  they  must  have  been,  and 
are,  persons  of  worth  and  consideration ; 
but  I  wished  to  ask  if  the  name  be  a  numer- 
ous one  in  Ii'eland,  or  rather,  in  your  part  of 
it — Connaught  ?  " 

"Numerous,  my  lord,  no,  not  very  niuuer- 
oiis,  but  of  the  first  respectability." 

"  Pray,  is  j'our  father  living,  Sir.  Norton  ? 
If  he  be,  why  don't  you  bring  him  among  us  ? 
And  if  you  have  any  brother,  I  need  scai'celj' 
say  what  pleasure  it  would  afford  me,  having, 
as  you  are  aware,  I  presume,  some  influence 
with  ministers,  to  do  anything  I  could  for 
him,  should  he  require  it  ;  jjrobably  in  the 
shape  of  a  foreign  ajjpointment,  or  something 
that  way.  Anything,  Mr.  Norton,  to  repay  a 
portion  of  what  is  due  to  you  by  my  family." 

"  I  thank  your  lordship,"  replied  Tom. 
"  My  poor  father  was,  as  too  many  other 
Ii'ish  gentlemen  have  been,  what  is  termed  a 
liard  goer  (the  honest  man  was  a  horse  jockey 
like  myself,  thought  Tom) — and  indeed  ran 
tJirougli.  a  great  deal  of  property  during  the 
latter  part  of  his  life  (v\hen  he  was  hunts- 
man to  Lord  Eattlecap,  he  went  thj'ough 
many  an  estate)." 

"  Well,  but  your  brother  ?  " 

"  Deeply  indebted,  my  lord,  but  I  have  no 
brother  Uviug.  Poor  Edwai-d  did  get  a  for- 
eign a2)2Miiilment.  many  years  ago  (he  was 
transported  for  horse  stealing),  by  the  influ- 
ence of  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  our 
judges,  who  strongly  adrised  him  to  accept 
it,  and  returned  his  name  to  government  as 
a  worthy  and  suitable  candidate.     He  died 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


437 


there,  my  lortl,  iu  the  diseharp^e  of  his  ap- 
pointed duties.  Poor  Ned,  however,  was 
\iever  fond  of  pubUc  business  under  govern- 
ment, and,  indeed,  accepted  the  appointment 
in  question  with  great  reluctance." 

"  The  reason  why  I  made  these  inquii-ies 
about  the  name  of  Norton,"  said  Lord  Culla- 
more,  "  is  tlnis.  There  was,  several  yaars 
ago,  a  resjDectable  female  of  the  name,  who 
held  a  confidential  situation  in  my  family  ;  I 
have  long  lost  sight  of  her,  liowever,  and 
would  be  glad  to  know  whether  she  is  living 
or  dead." 

("My  sister-in-law,"  thought  Tom.)  "I 
fear,"  he  repUed,  "I  can  render  you  no  in- 
formation on  that  j>oiut,  my  lord  ;  the  last 
female  branch  of  our  part  of  the  family  was 
my  grandmother,  who  died  about  three  years 
ago." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  the 
apartment,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  letter,  for 
which  office  he  had  received  a  bribe  of  half- 
a-erown.  "I  beg  pardon,  my  lord,  but 
there's  a  woman  at  the  hall-door,  who  wishes 
this  letter  to  be  handed  to  that  gentleman  ; 
but  I  fear  there's  some  mistake,"  he  added, 
"  it  is  directed  to  Barney  Bi-yan.  She  in- 
sists he  is  here,  and  that  she  saw  liim  come 
into  the  house." 

"Barney  Bryan,"  said  Tom,  ^-ith  great 
coohiess  ;  "  show  me  tlie  letter,  for  I  think  I 
know  something  about  it.  Yes,  I  am  right. 
It  is  an  insane  woman,  n\j  lord,  vsdfe  to  a 
jockey  of  mine,  who  broke  his  neck  riding 
my  celebrated  horse,  Black  and  aU  Black,  on 
the  Curragh.  The  poor  creature  cannot  be- 
lieve that,  her  husband  is  dead,  and  thinks 
that  I  enjoy  that  agreeable  privilege.  The 
circumstance,  indeed,  was  a  melancholy  one  ; 
but  I  have  supported  her  ever  since." 

Morty  O'Flaherty,  who  had  transferred 
his  charge  to  other  hands,  fearing  that  ]VIis- 
ter  Norton  might  get  into  trouble,  now  came 
to  the  rescue. 

"Pray,"  said  Tom,  quick  as  lightning,  "is 
tliit  ius;ine  creature  below  still,  a  poor  wo- 
man whose  husband  broke  his  neck  riding  a 
race  for  me  on  the  Curragh,  and  she  thinks 
<hat  I  stand  to  her  iu  that  capacity '? " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  she  says,"  added  the  man  who 
Ijrought  the  letter,  "  that  this  gentleman's 
name  is  not  Norton,  but  Bryan — Barney 
Bryan,  I  think — and  that  he  is  her  husband, 
exactly  as  the  gentleman  says." 

"Just  so,  my  lord,"  said  Tom,  smQing  ; 
"poor  thing!  what  a  melancholy  delusion." 

"  I  was  present  at  the  accident,  Mr.  Nor- 
ton," added  Morty,  boldly,  "  and  remember 
the  circumstance,  in  throth,  very  well. 
Didn't  the  poor  woman  lose  her  senses  by  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Tom,  "I  have  just  men- 
tioned the  cu-cumstance  to  his  lordship." 


"  And — beg  ^J^xrdon,  IMr.  Norton — doesn't 
she  take  you  for  her  husband  from  that  day 
to  this'?"' 

"  Yes,  so  I  have  said." 

"  Oh,  God  help  her,  poor  thing !  Isn't 
she  to  be  jjitied  ?  "  added  Morty,  vnih.  a  dry 
rogTiish  glance  at  Isli:  Norton  ;  "  throth,  she 
has  a  hard  fate  of  it.  Howaniver,  she  is 
gone.  I  got  her  off,  an'  now  the  place  is 
clear  of  the  unfortunate  creatui'e.  The  lord 
look  to  her  !  " 

The  servants  then  •wdthdrew,  and  Norton 
made  his  parting  bow  to  Lord  Cullamore, 
whom  Ave  now  leave  to  his  meditations  on 
the  subject  of  this  interview. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  Spy  Rewrirdfd — Sir  Thomas  Gourlaij  Charged 
Home  hy  the  Stranger  with  the  Removal  and  Dis- 
appearance of  his  Brother's  Son. 

We  left  the  Black  Baronet  in  a  fi'ame  of 
mind  by  no  means  to  be  envied  by  our 
readers.  TTie  disappearance  of  his  daughter 
and  her  maid  had  stunned  and  so  completely 
prostrated  him,  that  he  had  not  sutficient 
energy  even  for  a  burst  of  his  usual  dark 
and  overbearing  resentment.  In  this  statp 
of  muid,  however,  he  was  better  able  to  re- 
flect upon  the  distressing  occurrence  that 
ha<l  happened.  He  bethought  him  of  Lucy's 
delicacy,  of  her  sense  of  honor,  her  uniform 
projjriety  of  conduct,  her  sing-ular  self-re- 
spect, and  after  all,  of  the  comijlacent  siDirit 
of  obedience  with  which,  in  everything  but 
her  contemjilated  union  with  Lord  Dunroe, 
she  had,  during  her  whole  life,  and  under 
the  most  trymg  circumstances,  accommo- 
dated herself  to  his  VAishes.  He  then  re- 
flected upon  the  fact  of  her  maid  havmg  ac- 
comiaanied  her,  and  concluded,  very  naturally, 
that  if  she  had  resolved  to  elope  with  this 
hateful  stranger,  she  would  have  done  so  in 
piu-suance  of  the  precedent  set  by  most 
yormg  ladies  who  take  such  steps — that  is, 
unaccomj)anied  by  any  one  but  her  lover. 
From  this  view  of  the  case  he  gathered  com- 
fort, and  was  beginning  to  feel  his  mind 
somewhat  more  at  ease,  when  a  servant  en- 
tered to  say  that  Mr.  Crackenfudge  requested 
to  see  him  on  particular  business. 

"  He  has  come  to  annoy  me  about  that 
confounded  magistracy,  I  suppose,"  ex- 
claimed the  baronet.  "Have  you  any  no- 
tion what  the  worthless  scoundrel  wants, 
Gibson?" 

"  Not  the  least,  your  honor,  but  he  seems 
brimful  of  something." 

"Ay,  brimful  of  ignorance,  and  of  imper- 


438 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


tinence,  too,  if  lie  durst  show  it ;  yes,  and  of 
as  much  pride  and  oppression  as  could  weU 
be  contained  in  a  miserable  carcass  Uke  his. 
As  he  is  a  sneaking,  ^dgilant  rascal,  however, 
and  has  a  great  deal  of  the  spy  in  his  com- 
position, it  is  not  impossible  that  he  may  be 
able  to  give  me  some  information  touching 
the  disapj)earance  of  Miss  Gourlaj'." 

Gibson,  after  making  his  bow,  withdrew, 
and  the  redoubtable  Crackenfudge  was 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  baronet. 

The  iirst  thing  the  former  did  was  to  sur- 
vey the  countenance  of  his  patron,  for  as 
sucii  he  wdshed  to  consider  him  and  to  find 
him.  There,  then,  Sir  Thomas  sat,  stem 
bvit  indifferent,  with  precisely  the  expression 
of  a  tiger  lying  gloomilj'  in  his  den,  the  nat- 
ural ferocity  "  in  grim  repose  "  for  the  time, 
but  evidently  ready  to  blaze  uj)  at  anything 
that  might  distvirb  or  jirovoke  him.  Had 
Crackenfudge  been  gifted  with  either  tact  or 
experience,  or  anj*  enlarged  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart,  esjaecially  of  the  deep, 
dark,  and  impetuous  one  that  beat  in  the 
bosom  then  before  him,  he  would  have 
studied  the  best  and  least  alarming  manner 
of  conveying  intelligence  calcvdated  to  jiro- 
duce  such  terrific  effects  upon  a  man  Uke  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay.  Of  this,  however,  he 
knew  nothing,  although  his  own  intercourse 
with  him  might  have  well  taught  him  the 
necessai-y  lesson. 

"  Well,  Ml-.  Crackenfudge,"  said  the  lat- 
ter, without  moving,  "  what's  wrong  now  ? 
Wliat's  the  news '? " 

"  There's  nothing  WTong,  Sir  Thomas,  and 
a've  good  news." 

The  baronet's  eye  and  brow  lost  some  of 
their  gloom  ;  he  arose  and  commenced,  as 
was  his  custom,  to  walk  across  the  room. 

"  Pray  what  is  this  good  news.  Mi'.  Crack- 
enfudge ?  WiU  you  be  kind  enough,  without 
any  unnecessary  circumlocution,  to  favor 
your  friends  with  it  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  Sir  Thomas,  because  a' 
know  you  are  anxious  to  hear  it,  and  it  deeply 
concerns  you." 

Sir  Thomas  j)aused,  turned  round,  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  inq^atient 
scowl ;  but  in  the  meaningless  and  simi^ering 
face  before  him  he  could  read  nothing  but 
what  appeared  to  him  to  be  an  impudent 
chuckle  of  satisfaction  ;  and  this,  indeed,  was 
no  more  than  what  Crackenfudge  felt,  who 
had  altogether  forgotten  the  nature  of  the 
communication  he  was  about  to  make, 
dreadful  and  disastrous  as  it  was,  and 
thought  only  of  the  claim  upon  Sir  Thomas's 
influence  which  he  was  about  to  estabhsh 
with  reference  to  the  magistracy.  It  was 
the  reflection,  then,  of  this  train  of  little 
ambition   which   Sir   Thomas    read   in    his 


countenance,  and  mistook  for  some  commu. 
nication  that  might  reheve  him,  and  set  liia 
mind  probably  at  ease.  The  scowl  we 
allude  to  accordinglj-  disaj^peared,  and  Sir 
Thomas,  after  the  glance  we  have  recorded, 
said,  checking  himself  into  a  milder  and 
more  encoiu-aging  tone  : 

'^'  Go  on,  Mr.  Crackenfudge,  let  us  hear  it 
at  once." 

"  WeU,  then,  Su-  Thomas,  a'  told  you  a'd 
keep  my  eye  on  that  chap." 

"  On  whom?  name  him,  sir." 

"  A'  can't,  Sir  Thomas  ;  the  feUow  in  the 
inn." 

"  Oh  !  what  about  Mm  ?  " 

"  Why  he  has  taken  her  off. 

"Taken  whom  off?  "  shouted  the  baronet, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "  You  contemptible 
scoundrel,  whom  has  he  taken  off?  " 

"  Your  daughter.  Sir  Thomas — Miss  Gour- 
lay. They  went  together  in  the  '  Fly '  on 
Tuesday  night  last  to  Dublin  ;  a'  foUowed  in 
the  'Flash  of  Lightning,'  and  seen  them  in 
conversation.     Dandy  Dulcimer,  who  is  your 

friend For  God's   sake.  Sir  Thomas,  be 

quiet.  You'll  shake  me — a-a-ach — Sir — 
Thom-a-as — w-wi-wUl  jou  not  take  my — my 
— li-Ufe " 

"  You  lie  Uke  a  villain,  you  most  con- 
temptible reptile,"  shouted  the  other. 
"  My  daughter,  sirrah,  never  elojsed  with  an 
adventurer.  She  never  eloped  at  aU,  sir. 
She  durst  not  elope.  She  knows  what  my 
vengeance  would  be,  sirrali.  She  knows, 
you  lying  wheljs  of  jierdition,  that  I  would 
pursue  herself  and  her  paramour  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  ;  that  I  would 
shoot  them  both  dead — that  I  would  trample 
upon  and  spurn  their  worthless  carcasses, 
and  make  an  example  of  them  to  all  time, 
and  through  all  eternity.  And  you — you 
prying,  intermeddling  scoundrel — how  durst 
you — you  jjetty,  beggarh-  tyrant^ — hated  and 
desj)ised  hj  23oor  and  rich — was  it  to  mock 
me " 

"  Sir  Thom-a-as,  a'm — a'm — I — I — a  ach — 
ur-ur-ur-mur-murd-murd-er-er-err-errr." 

"  Was  it  to  jeer  and  sneer  at  me — to  insult 
me — you  miserable  knave — to  drive  me  mad 
— into  raging  frenzy — that  you  came,  with  a 
smirk  of  satisfaction  on  your  face,  to  com- 
municate the  disgxace  and  dishonor  of  my 
family — the  ruin  of  my  hoj^es — tlie  frustra- 
tion of  my  ambition — of  aU  I  had  set  my 
heart  on,  and  that  I  perilled  my  soul  to  ac- 
complish? Yes,  you  viUaiu,  your  eye  was 
smiling — elate — your  heart  was  glad — for, 
sirrah,  you  hate  me  at  heart." 

"God!  oh,  oh!  a'm — a'm — ui--uiT-urrr — 
whee-ee-ee-hee-hee-hee.  God  ha-ha-ha-have 
mer-mer-mercy  on  my  sinf-sinfu-l  sou-so- 
sold  !  a'm  gone." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


439 


"  i.K.4,  you  hate  me,  villain,  and  this  is  a 
triumph  to  you  ;  every  one  hates  me,  and 
every  cue  will  rejoice  at  my  shame.  I  know 
it,  you  aec'ursed  miscreant,  I  feel  it  ;  and  in 
return  I  hate,  with  more  than  the  rnahprnity 
of  the  de\'il,  every  human  creature  that  God 
has  made.  I  have  been  at  enmity  with 
them,  and  in  that  enmity  I  shall  persist ; 
deep  and  dark  as  hell  shall  it  be,  and  unre- 
lenting as  the  vengeance  of  a  devil.  There," 
he  added,  throwing  the  almost  senseless 
body  of  Crackenfiidge  over  on  a  sofa,  "  there, 
you  may  rest  on  that  sofa,  and  get  breath  ; 
g^t  breath  quickly,  and  mark,  obey  me." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Thomas,  a'^vlll  ;  a'll  do  anything, 
provided  that  you'll  let  me  escape  with  my 
life.  God  !  a'm  nearly  dead,  the  lire's  not 
out  of  my  eyes  yet." 

"  Silence,  you  wretched  slave  ! "  shouted 
the  baronet,  stamping  with  rage ;  '"  not 
another  woi-d  of  complaint,  but  listen  to  me 
— listen  to  me,  I  say  :  go  on,  and  let  me 
hear,  fully  and  at  large,  the  witliering  history 
of  this  burning  and  most  flagitious  disgrace." 

"  But  if  a'  do,  you'll  onh'  beat  and  throttle 
me  to  death.  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Whether  I  may  or  may  not  do  so,  go  on, 
villtiin,  and — -go  on,  that  quickly,  or  by 
hexveusi  shall  tear  the  venomous  heart  from 
your  body,  and  trample  the  black  intelligence 
out  of  it.     Proceed  instantly." 

With  a  face  of  such  distress  as  our  readers 
may  well  imagine,  and  a  voice  whose  quavers 
of  terror  were  in  admirable  accordance  with 
it,  the  unfortunate  Crackenfudge  related  the 
circumstance  of  Lucy's  visit  to  Dublin,  as  he 
cousi  lered  it,  and,  in  fact,  so  far  as  he  was 
acquainted  with  her  motions,  as  it  appeared 
to  him  a  decided  elopement,  witliout  the 
possibility  of  entertaining  either  doubt  or 
mistake  about  it. 

In  the  meantime,  liow  .shall  we  describe 
the  savage  fuiy  of  the  liaronet,  as  the  trem- 
bling wretch  proceeded  '?  It  is  impossible. 
His  rage,  the  ve'nemence  of  his  gestures,  the 
spasms  that  seemed  to  seize  sometimes  upon 
his  features  and  sometimes  upon  his  limbs, 
as  well  as  upon  dift'ereut  parts  of  his  body, 
transformed  him  into  the  appearance  of 
something  that  was  unnatural  and  frightful. 
He  bit  his  lips  m  the  effort  to  restrain  these 
tremendous  paroxysms,  imtil  the  bloody 
fo  im  fell  in  red  ilakes  from  his  mouth,  and 
as  portions  of  it  were  carried  by  the  violence 
of  his  gesticulations  over  several  parts  of  his 
face,  lie  had  more  the  appearance  of  some 
bloody-fauged  ghoul,  reeking  from  the  spoil 
of  a  midnight  grave,  than  that  of  a  human 
being.  { 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  how  did  it  happen  that 
— brainless,  worthless,  and  beneath  all  con-  | 
tempt,  as  you  are,  most  execrable  scoundrel  i 


— you  siiffered  that  adroit  ruffian.  Dulcimer 
— whom  I  shall  jjunish,  never  fear — how 
came  it,  you  desjjicable  libel  on  nature  and 
common  sense — that  you  allowed  him  to 
humbug  3'ou  to  your  face,  to  laugh  at  you. 
to  scorn  you,  to  sjiit  upon  yon,  to  poke  your 
ribs,  as  if  you  were  an  idiot,  as  you  ai'e,  and 
to  kick  j'ou,  as  it  were,  in  every  imaginable 
part  of  your  worthless  carcass — how  did  it 
come,  I  say,  that  you  did  not  watch  them 
properly,  that  you  did  not  get  them  imme- 
diately arrested,  as  you  ought  to  have  done, 
or  that  you  did  not  do  more  than  would 
merely  enable  you  to  chronicle  my  disgi-ace 
and  misery  ?  " 

"  A'  did  all  a'  could,  Sir  Thomas.  A' 
searched  through  all  Dulilin  for  hei  without 
success  ;  but  as  to  where  he  has  her,  a'  can't 
guess.  The  first  thing  a'  did,  after  takin'  a 
sleep,  was  to  come  an'  tell  you  to-day  ;  for 
a'  travelled  home  by  last  night's  coach.  You 
ought  to  do  something.  Sir  Thomas,  for 
every  one  has  it  now.  It's  through  all  Bal- 
lytrain.     'Deed  a'  pity  you.  Sir  Thomas." 

Now  this  unfortunate  being  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  last  brief  silence  of  the 
baronet  resulted  fi'om  some  reasonable  at- 
tention to  what  he  (Crackenfudge)  had  been 
saying,  whereas  the  fact  was,  that  his  terri- 
ble auditor  had  been  transfixed  into  tlie 
highest  and  most  uncontrollable  tit  of  indig- 
nation by  the  substance  of  his  words. 

"  Whni  !  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  made 
Crackenfudge  leap  at  least  a  foot  from  the 
sofa.  "  You  pity  me,  do  you  ! — you,  you 
diabolical  eavesdropper,  you  pity  me  !  S;i- 
cred  heaven  !  And  again,  you  searched 
tlu'ough  all  Dublin  for  my  daughter  ! — carry- 
ing her  disgrace  and  infamy  wherever  you 
appeared,  and  advertising  them  as  you  went 
along,  like  an  emissary  of  shame  and  cal- 
umny, as  you  are.  Yes,"  said  he,  as  he 
foamed  with  the  fury  of  a  raging  bull  ;  "  '  I 
— I — I,'  you  might  have  said,  '  a  nameless 
whelp,  spiamg  from  the  dishonest  clippings 
of  a  counter — I,  I  say,  am  in  quest  of  Miss 
Gourlay,  who  has  eloped  T^-ith  an  adventurer, 
an  imijostor — with  a  brushmakers  clerk." 

"  A  tooth-brush  manufacturer,  Sir  Thomas, 
and,  you  know,  they  are  often  made  of 
ivory." 

"  Come,  you  intermeddling  rascal,  I  must 
either  tear  you  asunder  or  my  brain  ^^ill 
burst  ;  I  will  not  have  such  a  worthless  life 
as  yours  on  my  hands,  however  ;  you  vermin, 
out  with  you  ;  I  might  have  borne  anything 
but  your  compassion,  and  even  that  too  ;  but 
to  blazon  through  a  gaping  metropolis  tlie 
infamy  of  my  familj- — of  all  that  was  dear  to 
me — to  turn  the  name  of  my  cliild  into  a 
polluted  word,  which  modest  lips  wotild  feel 
ashamed  to  utter  ;  nor,  lastly,  can  I  forgive 


440 


WILLIAM  CARLET02i'S   WOliKS. 


vou  the  crime  of  making  me  sufi'er  this  mad 
;iud  unexampled  agony." 

Action  now  took  the  place  of  words,  and 
had,  indeed,  come  in  as  an  auxiliary  for 
some  time  jirevious.  He  seized  the  unfor- 
tunate Ci-ackeufudge,  and  as,  with  red  and 
dripping  lips,  he  gave  vent  to  the  furious 
eruptions  of  his  fiery  spirit,  like  a  living 
Vesuvius — for  we  know  of  no  other  com- 
parison so  appropriate — he  kicked  and 
cufi'ed  the  WTetehed  and  unlucky  intelligen- 
cer, until  he  fairly  threw  him  out  at  the 
hidl-door,  which  he  himself  shut  after 
him. 

"  Begone,  ^'illain  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  and 
may  you  never  die  till  you  feel  the  torments 
which  you  have  kindled,  hke  the  flames  of 
hell,  within  me  !  " 

On  entering  the  room  again,  he  found, 
however,  that  vidth  a  being  even  so  wretched 
and  contemptible  as  Crackeufudge,  there 
had  departed  a  portion  of  his  strength.  So 
long  as  he  had  an  object  on  which  to  launch 
his  fury,  he  felt  that  he  could  still  sustain 
the  battle  of  his  passions.  But  now  a  heavj' 
sense  came  over  him,  as  if  of  something 
which  he  could  not  understand  or  analyze. 
His  heart  sank,  and  he  felt  a  nameless  and 
indescribable  terror  within  him — a  terror, 
he  thought,  quite  distinct  from  the  conduct 
of  his  daughter,  or  of  anything  else  he  had 
heard.  He  had,  in  fact,  lost  all  perception 
of  his  individual  misery,  and  a  moral  gloom, 
black  as  night,  seemed  to  cover  and  mingle 
with  those  fiery  tortures  which  were  con- 
suming him.  An  apprehension,  also,  of  im- 
mediate dissolution  came  over  him  —  his 
memory  grew  gradually  weaker  and  weaker, 
until  he  felt  himself  no  longer  able  to  ac- 
<'ount  for  the  scene  which  had  just  taken 
place  ;  and  for  a  brief  period,  although  he 
neither  swooned  nor  fainted,  nor  fell  into  a 
ti  t  of  any  kind,  he  experienced  a  stupor  that 
amounted  to  a  complete  unconsciousness  of 
being,  if  we  except  an  undying  impression 
of  some  great  evil  which  had  befallen  him, 
and  which  lay,  like  a  grim  and  insatiable 
riionster,  tearing  up  his  heart.  At  length, 
by  a  violent  effort,  he  recovered  a  little,  be- 
came once  more  conscious,  walked  about  for 
some  time,  then  surveyed  himself  in  the 
glass,  and  what  between  the  cadaverous  hue 
of  his  face  and  the  flakes  of  red  foam  which 
we  have  described,  when  taken  in  connection 
with  his  thick,  midnight  brows,  it  need  not 
be  wondered  at  that  he  felt  alarmed  at  the 
st  ite  to  which  he  awakened. 

After  some  time,  however,  he  rang  for 
Gibson,  who,  on  seeing  him,  started. 

"  Good  God,  sir  !  "  said  he,  quite  alarmed, 
"  what  is  the  matter?  " 

■'I  did  not  ring  for  you,  sir,"  he  rephed, 


"  to  ask  impertinent  questions.  Send  GU- 
lespie  to  me." 

Gibson  withdrew,  and  in  the  mean  time 
his  master  went  to  his  cbessing-room,  where 
be  washed  himseK  fi-ee  of  the  bloody  axi- 
dences  of  his  awful  passions.  This  being 
done,  he  returned  to  the  library,  where,  in 
a  few  minutes,  Gillespie  attended  him." 

"Gillespie,"  he  exclaimed,  "do  you  fear 
God?" 

"I  hope  I  do.  Sir  Thomas,  as  well  as 
another,  at  any  rate." 

"  Well,  then,  begone,  for  you  are  useless 
to  me — begone,  sirrah,  and  get  me  some  one 
that  feai-s  neither  God  nor  devil." 

"Why,  Sir  Thomas,"  rephed  the  rufiian, 
who,  having  expected  a  job,  felt  anxious  to 
retrieve  himself,  "  as  to  that  matter,  I  can't 
say  that  I  ever  was  overburdened  with  much 
fear  of  either  one  or  other  of  them.  In- 
deed, I  beheve,  thank  goodness,  I  have  as 
little  religion  as  most  peojsle." 

"  Are  you  sure,  sirrah,  that  you  have  no 
conscience  ?  " 

"  Why — hem — I  have  done  things  for 
your  honor  before,  you  know.  As  to  reli- 
gion, however,  I'll  stand  upon  having  as 
little  of  it  as  e'er  a  man  in  the  barony.  I 
give  up  to  no  one  in  a  want  of  that  commod- 
ity." 

"  What  proof  can  you  afiord  me  that  you 
are  fi-ee  fi'om  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  blow  me  if  I  know  the  twelve 
commandments,  and,  besides,  I  was  onlj'  at 
church  three  times  in  my  hfe,  and  I  fell 
asleeja  imder  the  sermon  each  time  ;  rehgion, 
sir,  never  agreed  with  me." 

"  To    blazon   my    shame  I — bad   enough  ; 

but  the  ruin  of  my  hojies,  d n  you,  sir, 

how  durst  you  publish  my  disgrace  to  the 
world  ?  " 

"  I,  your  honor  !  I'll  take  my  oath  I  never 
breathed  a  syllable  of  it  ;  and  you  know 
yourself,  sir,  the  man  was  too  drunk  to  be 
able  to  sjjeak  or  remember  anything  of  what 
happened." 

"  Sir,  you  came  to  mock  and  jeer  at  me  ; 
and,  besides,  you  are  a  har,  she  has  not 
elojjed." 

"I  don't  understand  you.  Sir  Thomas," 
said  Gillespie,  who  saw  at  once  by  his  mas- 
ter's disturbed  and  wandering  eye,  that  the 
language  he  uttered  was  not  addressed  to 
him. 

"  What — what,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  ris- 
ing up  and  stretching  himself,  in  order  to 
call  back  his-  scattered  faculties.  "  Eh, 
Gillespie  ! — what  brought  you  here,  sirrah  ? 
Are  you  too  come  to  triumph  over  the  am- 
bitious projector?  What  am  I  saying?  I 
sent  for  you,  Gillespie,  did  I  not  ?  " 

"  You  did.  Sir  Thomas  :    and  with  regard 


THE  BLACK  BARONET, 


441 


to  what  we  were  speaking  about — I  meau 
religion — I'll  boultl  a  pound  note  with 
Charley  Corbet,  when  he  comes  back,  that  I 
have  less  of  it  than  him  ;  and  we'll  both 
leave  it  to  your  honor,  as  the  best  judge  ; 
now,  if  I  have  less  of  it  than  Charley,  I 
think  I  deserve  the  preference." 

The  bai'ouet  looked  at  him,  or  rather  in 
the  dii-ectiou  where  he  stood,  which  induced 
Gillesj)ie  to  sujjjjose  that  he  was  paying  the 
strictest  attention  to  what  he  said. 

"  Besides,  I  ouce  caught  Charley  at  his 
prayers,  Sir  Thomas  ;  but  I'd  be  glad  to  see 
the  man  that  ever  caught  me  at  them — that's 
the  chat.'' 

Sir  Thomas  jjlaced  his  two  hands  upon 
his  ej"es  for  as  good  as  a  minute,  after  which 
he  removed  them,  and  stared  about  him 
like  one  awakening  from  a  disturbed  dream. 

"  Eh  ? — Begone,  GiUespie  ;  I  believe  I  sent 
for  you,  but  you  may  go.  I  am  unweU,  and 
not  in  a  condition  to  speak  to  you.  When  I 
want  you  again,  you  shall  be  sent  for. "  ■ 

'■  I  don't  care  a  d about  either  heU  or 

the  de^il,  Sir  Thomas,  especially  when  I'm 
drunk  ;  and  I  once,  for  a  wager,  outswore 
Squire  Leatherlugs,  who  was  so  deaf  that  I 
was  obliged  to  swear  with  my  mouth  to  the 
end  of  his  ear-trumpet.  I  was  backed  for  i 
tifty  guineas  by  Colonel  Brimstone,  who  was  ' 
head  of  tlie  HeMre  Club." 

The  baronet  signed  to  him  impatiently  to 
begone,  and  this  worthy  moriilist  withdrew, 
exclaiming  as  he  went : 

"  Take   my   word    for   it,    you   will  find 
nothing  to  your  hand  equal  to  myself ;  and 
if  there's  auj-thing  to  be  done,  curse  me  but ; 
I    deserve   a  preference.       I    think    merit  i 
ought  to  have  its  reward  at  any  rate."  i 

Sir  Thomas,  we  need  not  say,  felt  ill  at  ' 
ease.     The  tumults  of  his  mind  resembled 
those  of  the  ocean  after  the  \iolence  of  the "' 
temjjest  has  swept  over  it,  leaving  behind 
that  dai'k  and  augrj'  agitation  which  indi-  j 
cates  the  awfid  extent  of  its  power.     After 
taking  a  turn  or  two  through  the  room,  he 
felt  fatigued  and  drowsy,    -nith   something 
hke  a  feeling  of  approaching  iUness.     Yield-  ; 
iug  to  this  heaviness,  he  stretched  himself  j 
on  a  sofa,   and  in  a  few   minutes  was  fast  j 
asleej).  .  i 

All  minds  naturally  vicious,  or  influenced 
by  the  impulses  of  bad  and  irregidar  pas- 
sions, are  essentially  vulgar,  mean,  and  cow- 
ardly. Our  baronet  was,  beyond  question,  , 
a  striking  proof  of  this  truth.  Had  he  jjos-  j 
sessed  either  dignity,  or  one  spark  of  gentle- 
maidy  feeling,  or  self-respect,  he  would  not 
have  degraded  himself  from  what  ought  to 
have  been  expected  from  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion, by  his  violence  to  the  worthless  "vn-etch, 
Crackeufudge,  who  was  slight,  eompai-atively  j 


feeble,  and  by  no  means  a  match  for  him  in 
a  personal  contest.  The  only  apology  that 
can  be  offered  for  him  is,  that  it  is  prolialile 
he  was  scarcelj'  conscious,  in  the  whirh\iud 
and  temf)est  of  his  pas.sions,  that  he  allowed 
himself  to  act  such  a  base  and  unmanly  f)arfc 
to  a  person  who  had  not  willingly  offended 
him,  and  who  was  entitled,  whilst  under  his 
roof,  to  forbearance,  if  not  protection,  even 
in  virtue  of  the  communication  he  had 
made. 

After  sleeiDing  about  an  hour,  he  arose 
considerably  refi-eshed  in  body ;  but  the 
agony  of  mind,  although  diminished  in  its 
strength  by  its  o'mi  previous  paroxysms,  was 
still  intense  and  bitter.  He  got  ujd,  sur- 
veyed himself  once  more  in  the  glass,  adjust- 
ed his  dress,  and  helped  himself  to  a  glass 
or  two  of  Miideira,  which  was  his  usual  spe- 
cific after  these  internal  conflicts. 

This  day,  however,  was  destined  to  be  one 
of  trial  to  him,  although  by  no  means  his 
last ;  neither  was  it  ordained  to  bring  forth 
the  final  ordeals  that  awaited  him.  He  had 
scarcely  time  to  reflect  upon  the  measures 
which,  under  the  present  circumstances,  he 
ought  to  pursue,  although  he  certainly  was 
engaged  in  considering  the  matter,  wTien 
Gibson  once  more  entered  to  let  him  know 
that  a  gentleman  requested  the  favor  of  a 
short  inter\iew. 

"What  gentleman?  "\Mio  is  he?  I'm 
not  in  a  fi'ame  of  mind  to  see  any  stranger 
— I  mean,  Gibson,  that  I'm  not  weU. " 

"  Sorry  to  hear  ^t,  sir ;  shall  I  tell  the 
gentleman  you  can't  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes — no — stay  ;  do  vou  know  who  he 
is  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  gentleman,  sir,  who  has  been 
stopping  for  some  time  at  the  Mitre." 

■'What!"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  boun- 
cing to  liis  feet. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

If  some  notorious  felon,  red  with  half-a- 
dozen  murders,  and  who,  having  broken 
jail,  left  an  empty  noose  in  the  hands  of  the 
hangman,  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  re- 
turn and  oft'er  himself  up  for  instant  execu- 
tion to  the  aforesaid  hangman,  and  eke  to 
the  sheriff,  we  assert  that  neither  sheriff  nor 
hangman,  nor  hangman  nor  sheriff,  arrange 
them  as  you  may,  could  feel  a  thousandth 
part  of  the  astonishment  which  seized  Sir 
Thomas  Gomiay  on  learning  the  fact  con- 
veyed to  him  by  Gibson.  Sir  Thomas,  how- 
ever, after  the  first  natural  start,  became,  if 
we  may  use  the  expression,  deadly,  fear- 
fully ciilm  It  was  not  jjoor,  contemptible 
Crackenfudge  he  had  to  deal  \Aith  now,  but 
the  ijrime  offender,  the  great  felon  himself, 
the  author  of  his  shame,  the  villain  who 
poured   in   the   fire   of  perdition  upon  hia 


442 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


heart,  who  blasted  his  hopes,  crumbled  into 
iiiiu  all  his  schemes  of  ambition  for  his 
daughter,  and  tiu-ned  her  very  name  into  a 
byword  of  pollution  and  guilt.  This  was  the 
man  whom  he  w-as  now  about  to  get  into  his 
power ;  the  man  who,  besides,  had  on  a  for- 
mer occasion  bearded  and  insulted  him  to 
his  teeth  ; — the  skulking  adventurer  afraid 
to  disclose  his  name — the  low-born  impos- 
tor, living  by  the  rinsings  of  foul  and  fetid 
teeth — the  base  uj^start — the  thief — the  man 
who  robbed  and  absconded  from  his  employ- 
er ;  and  this  vsretch,  this  cipher,  so  low  in 
the  scale  of  society  and  hfe,  was  the  indi- 
vidual who  had  left  him  what  he  then  felt 
himself  to  be — a  thing  crushed,  disgraced, 
trodden  in  the  dust — and  then  his  daugh- 
ter ! 

"  Gibson,"  said  he,  "  show  him  into  a 
room — say  I  will  see  him  presently,  in  about 
ten  minutes  or  less  ;  deliver  this  message, 
and  return  to  me." 

In  a  few  moments  Gibson  again  made  his 
appearance. 

"  Gibson,"  continued  his  master,  "where 
is  GUlesjiie  ?     Send  him  to  me." 

"  GUlespie's  gone  into  Ballytrain,  fir',  to 
get'  one  of  the  horses  fired." 

"  Gibson,  you  are  a  good  and  faithful  ser- 
vant. Go  to  my  bedroom  and  fetch  me  my 
pistols." 

"  My  God,  Sir  Thomas  !  oh,  sir,  for  heav- 
en's sake,  avoid  violence !  The  exjiression 
of  Toiu'  face.  Sir  Thomas,  makes  me  trem- 
ble."" 

Sir  Thomas  spoke  not,  but  by  one  look 
Gibson  felt  that  he  must  obey  him.  On  re- 
tviruing  with  the  arms,  his  master  took  them 
out  of  his  hands,  opened  the  pans,  shook 
and  stirred  the  powder,  examined  the  flints, 
saw  that  they  were  shai-p  and  firm,  and  hav- 
ing done  so,  he  opened  a  drawer  in  the  table 
at  which  he  usually  wrote,  and  there  jslaced 
them  at  full  cock.  Gibson  could  perceive 
that,  although  unnaturally  Ciilm,  he  was  nev- 
ertheless in  a  state  of  great  agitation  ;  for 
whilst  examining  the  pistols,  he  oliserved 
that  his  hand  trembled,  althovigh  his  voice 
was  low,  condensed,  and  firm. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Sir  Thomas !  for  the 
Almighty  God's  sake — " 

"  Go,  Gibson,  and  desire  the  '  gentleman  ' 
to  walk  up — show  him  the  way." 

Sir  Thomas's  mind  was,  no  doixbt,  in  a 
tumult ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  the 
agitation  of  a  man  without  courage.  After 
Gibson  had  left  the  room,  he  grew  absolutely 
nervous,  both  in  mind  and  body,  and  felt  as 
if  he  were  imequal  to  the  conflict  that  he 
expected.  On  heai-ing  the  firm,  manly  tread 
of  the  stranger,  his  heart  sank,  and  a  consid- 
ei'able   portion  of   his   violence   abandoned 


him,  though  not  the  ungenerous  purpose 
which  the  result  of  their  interview  might 
possibly  render  necessary.  At  all  events,  he 
felt  that  he  was  about  to  meet  the  stranger 
in  a  much  more  subdued  si^irit  than  he  had 
expected  ;  simply  because,  not  being  natur- 
ally a  brave  or  a  firm  man,  his  courage,  and 
consequently  his  resentment,  cooled  in  pro- 
portion as  the  distance  between  them  dimin- 
ished. 

Sir  Thomas  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire  as  the  stranger  entered.  The  man- 
ner of  the  latter  was  cool,  but  cautious,  and 
his  bow  that  of  a  perfect  gentleman.  The 
baronet,  suiinised  into  more  than  he  had 
intended,  bowed  haughtil}-  in  return — a 
mark  of  resf)ect  which  it  was  not  his  inten- 
tion to  have  paid  him. 

"I  jJresume,  sir,"  said  he,  "that  I  vmder- 
stand  the  object  of  this  visit?" 

"You  and  I,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  re- 
p)lied  the  stranger,  "have  had  one  interview 
already — and  but  one  ;  and  I  am  not  aware 
that  anything  occurred  then  between  us  that 
could  enable  you  to  account  for  my  presence 
here. " 

"Well,  sir,  perhaps  so,"  re])hed  the  baro- 
net, with  a  sneer  ;  "  but  to  what  may  I  at- 
tribute the  honor  of  that  distinguished  pres- 
ence ?  " 

"  I  come.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  to  seek  for 
an  explanation  on  a  subject  of  the  deepest 
imijortance  to  the  party  under  whose  wishes 
and  instructions  I  act." 

"  That  party,  sir,"  replied  the  baronet, 
who  alluded  to  his  daughter,  "has  forfeited 
everj"  right  to  give  you  instructions  on  that, 
or  any  other  subject  where  I  am  concerned. 
And,  indeed,  to  sjseak  candidly,  I  hardly 
know  whether  more  to  admire  her  utter 
want  of  all  shame  in  deputing  you  on  such  a 
mission,  or  your  o^^•n  immeasiu'able  effron- 
tery in  undertaking  it." 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger, with  a  jiroud  smile  on  his  lips,  "I  beg 
to  assure  you,  once  for  all,  that  it  is  not  my 
intention  to  notice,  much  less  return,  such 
language  as  you  have  now  ajoplied  to  me. 
Whatever  you  may  forget,  sir,  I  entreat  you 
to  remember  that  j'ou  are  addi'essing  a  gen- 
tleman, who  is  anxious  in  this  interview,  as 
well  as  upon  all  occasions  when  we  may 
meet,  to  treat  you  with  courtesy.  And  I 
beg  to  say  now,  that  I  regret  the  warmth  of 
my  language  to  you,  though  not  unprovoked, 
on  a  former  occasion." 

"Oh,  much  obliged,  sir,"  replied  the  baro' 
net,  with  a  low,  ironical  inclination  of  the 
head,  indicative  of  the  most  withering  con- 
tempt ;  "  much  obliged,  sir.  Perhaps  you 
would  honor  me  with  your  patronage,  too. 
I  dare  say  that  will  be  the  next  courtesy 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


443 


Well,  I  can't  say  but  I  am  a  fortunate  fellow. 
Will  you  have  the  gooclnes-i,  however,  to 
proceed,  su-,  and  oj^eu  your  negotiations? 
unless,  iu  the  tioie  diplomatic  spirit,  you 
wish  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  its  real  ob- 
ject." 

"It  is  a  task  that  I  enter  ui^on  with  gi-eat 
jjain,"  rejilied  the  other,  without  noticing 
the  offensive  politeness  of  the  baronet,  "  be- 
cause I  am  aware  that  there  are  associations 
connected  with  it,  which  you,  as  a  father, 
cannot  contemplate  without  profound  sor- 
row." 

"  Don't  rest  assiu'ed  of  that,"  said  Sir 
Thomas.  "  Your  philosophy  may  lead  you 
astraj'  there.  A  sensible  man,  sir,  never  re- 
grets that  which  is  worthless." 

The  stranger  looked  a  good  deal  surjirised  ; 
however,  he  opened  the  negotiation,  as  the 
baronet  said,  in  due  form. 

"I  believe,  Su-  Thomas  Gourlay,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "you  remember  that  the  son  and 
heir  of  your  late  brother,  Sir  Edward  Goui-- 
lay,  long  deceased,  disappeared  very  mysteri- 
ousl}'  some  sixteen  or  eighteen  years  ago, 
and  has  been  lost  to  the  family  ever  siace. " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  with 
no  httle  surprise,  "I  beg  your  pardon. 
Your  e.rordiuin  was  so  singularly  clear,  that 
1  did  not  imderstaud  j'ou  before.  Pray 
proceed." 

"  I  trust,  then,  you  understand  me  now, 
sir,"  replied  the  stranger;  "  and  I  tru.st  you 
\\'i]l  understand  me  better  before  we  part." 

The  baronet,  in  spite  of  his  hauteur  and 
contemptuous  sarcasm,  began  to  feel  un- 
easy ;  for,  to  speak  ti-uth,  there  was  in  the 
stranger's  words  and  manner,  an  earnestness 
of  purpose,  joined  to  a  cool  and  manly  spir- 
it, that  could  not  be  treated  lightly,  or  with 
indifference. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  iJroceeded  the 
stranger 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
interruj)tuig  him  ;  "  jjlain  Thomas  Gourlay, 
if  you  please.     Is  not  that  your  object  ?  " 

"  Truth,  sir,  is  oiu-  object,  and  justice,  and 
the  restoration  of  the  defrauded  orphan's 
rights.  These,  sii',  are  our  objects ;  and 
these  we  shall  endeavor  to  establish.  Su- 
Thomas  Goui-laj-,  you  know  that  the  sou  of 
your  brother  lives." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"  Yes,  sii' ;  disguise  it — conceal  it  as  you 
will.  You  know  that  the  son  of  your 
brother  lives.     I  repeat  that  emishatically." 

"So  I  perceive.  You  are  evidently  a  very 
emj)hatic  gentleman." 

"  If  truth,  sir,  constitute  emphasis,  you 
shall  find  me  so." 

"  I  attend  to  you,  sir  ;  and  I  give  j'ou  no- 
tice, that  when   you   shall   have  exhausted 


yourself,  I  have  mj'  explanation  to  demand  ; 
and,  I  promise  you,  a  terrible  one  you  shall 
find  it." 

This  the  wily  baronet  said,  in  order,  if 
jDOssible,  to  confound  the  stranger,  and 
throw  him  out  of  the  directness  of  his  pur- 
j)ose.  In  this,  however,  he  found  himself 
mistaken.     The  other  proceeded  : 

"  You,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  did,  one 
night  about  eighteen  years  ago,  as  I  said, 
engage  a  man,  disguised  in  a  mask  for  the 
pui-jjose  of  conceahng  his  featui'es,  to  kidnap 
your  brother's  child  fiom  Red  H;ill — from 
this  very  house  in  which  we  both  stand." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "I 
forgot  that  cu'cumstance  in  the  blaze  of  your 
eloquence  ;  j^erhaps  you  will  have  the  good- 
ness to  take  a  seat ; "  and  in  the  same  sjsirit 
of  bitter  sarcasm,  he  motioned  him  with 
mock  courtesy,  to  sit  do^vn.  The  other, 
pausing  only  untU  he  had  spoken,  pro- 
ceeded : 

"  You  engaged  this  man,  I  repeat,  to  kid- 
nap your  brother's  son  and  heir,  under  the 
pretence  of  bringing  him  to  see  a  23U2:)pet- 
show.  Now,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  proceed- 
ed the  stranger,  "  suppose  that  the  friends 
of  this  child,  kidnapped  by  you,  shall  suc- 
ceed in  i)ro\ing  this  fact  by  incontestable 
evidence,  iu  what  position  will  you  stand  be- 
fore the  world  ?  " 

"  Much  in  the  same  position  in  which  I 
stand  now.  In  Eed  Hall,  as  its  rightl'id 
proprietor,  with  my  back  jsrobably  to  the 
fire,  as  it  is  at  present." 

It  is  undeniable,  however,  that  despite  all 
this  haughty  coolness  of  the  baronet,  the 
charge  involved  in  the  statement  advanced 
by  the  stranger  stunned  him  beyond  belief  ; 
not  sim23ly  because  the  other  made  it,  for 
that  was  a  mere  secondary  consideration,  but 
because  he  took  it  for  granted  that  it  never 
could  have  been  made  unless  through  the 
medium  of  treachery  ;  and  we  all  know  that 
when  a  criminal,  whether  great  or  small,  has 
reason  to  believe  that  he  has  been  betrayed, 
his  position  is  not  enviable,  inasmuch  as  all 
sense  of  security  totters  from  under  him. 
The  stranger,  as  he  jn'oceeded,  watched  the 
featui'es  of  his  auditor  closely,  and  could  per- 
ceive that  the  struggle  then  going  on  be- 
tween the  tumult  of  ahauu  within  and  the 
effort  at  calmness  "without,  was  more  than, 
with  all  his  affected  ii'ony  and  stoicism,  he 
could  conceal. 

"But,  i^erhaps,"  proceeded  the  bai'onet, 
"  J'OU  who  presume  to  be  so  well  accpiainted 
with  the  removal  of  my  brother's  chUd,  may 
have  it  in  your  j)ower  to  afford  me  some  in- 
formation on  the  disappearance  of  my  own. 
I  wish  .you,  however,  to  observe  this  distinc- 
tion.    As  the  history  you  have  given  hap- 


444 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


pens  to  be  pure  fiction,  I  should  wish  the 
other  to  be  uothiug  but  truth." 

"  The  loss  of  your  child  I  regret,  sir"  (Sir 
Thomas  bowed  as  before),  "  but  I  am  not 
here  to  spe^  of  that.  You  perceive  now 
that  we  have  got  a  clew  to  this  painful  mys- 
tery— to  this  great  crime.  A  portion  of  the 
veil  is  raised,  and  you  may  rest  assured  that 
it  shaU  not  fall  again  luitil  the  author  of  this 
injustice  shall  be  fully  exposed.  I  do  not 
wish  to  use  harsher  language." 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  "  use  no 
unnecessary'  deUcacy  on  the  subject.  Thank 
God,  the  English  language  is  a  copious  one. 
Use  it  to  its  full  extent.  You  wiU  find  aU  its 
power  necessary  to  establish  the  prettj'  con- 
spiracy you  are  developing.  Proceed,  sii',  I 
am  quite  attentive.  I  really  did  not  imagine 
I  could  have  felt  so  much  amused.  Indeed, 
I  am  very  fortunate  in  this  respect,  for  it  is 
not  eveiy  man  who  could  have  such  an  ex- 
cellent farce  enacted  at  his  owti  iireside." 

"AU  this  language  is  well,  and  no  doubt 
very  witty.  Sir  Thomas ;  but,  believe  me,  in 
the  end  you  will  find  this  matter  anything 
but  a  farce.  Now,  su',  I  crave  your  attention 
to  a  jsroposal  which  I  am  about  to  make  to 
you  on  this  most  distressing  subject.  Re- 
store this  young  man  to  his  mother — use 
whatever  means  you  may  in  bringing  this 
about.  Let  it  aj)pear,  for  instance,  that  he 
was  discovered  accidentally,  or  in  such  a  way, 
at  least,  that  your  name  or  agency,  either 
now  or  formerly,  may  in  no  manner  be  con- 
nected with  it.  On  these  terms  you  shall  be 
permitted  to  enjoy  the  title  and  proj)erty 
diu-ing  your  Ufe,  and  every  necessary  guar- 
antee to  that  effect  shall  be  given  you.  The 
heart  of  Lady  Gourlay  is  neither  in  your 
present  title  nor  your  jiresent  property,  biit 
in  her  child,  whom  that  heart  yearns  to  re- 
cover. This,  then.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  is 
the  condition  which  I  projDose  ;  and,  mark 
me,  I  j)ropose  it  on  the  alternative  of  our  us- 
ing the  means  and  materials  already  in  our 
hands  for  your  exjjosure  and  conviction 
should  you  reject  it." 

"There  is  one  quality  about  you,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  baronet,  "  which  I  admire  extreme- 
\\,  and  that  is  your  extraordinary'  modesty. 
Nothing  else  could  promf)t  you  to  stand  up 
and  charge  a  man  of  my  rank  and  character, 
on  my  own  hearth,  with  the  very  respectable 
crime  of  kidnapping  my  brother's  child. 
Extremely  modest,  indeed !  But  how  you 
sliould  come  to  be  engaged  in  this  \indic- 
tive  jDlot,  and  how  you,  above  all  men  li\ing, 
should  have  the  assiu'ance  to  thus  insult  me, 
is  a  mystery  for  the  present.  Of  course,  you 
see,  you  are  aware,  that  I  treat  eveiy  word 
you  have  uttered  with  the  utmost  degi-ee  of 
contempt  and  scorn  which  the  language  is 


capable  of  expressing.  I  neither  know  noi 
cai^e  who  may  have  jJrompted  you,  or  misled 
you  ;  be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  I  have 
only  simplj'  to  state  that,  on  this  subject  I 
dety  them  as  thoroughlj'  as  I  despise  you. 
On  another  subject,  however,  I  exjjerienee 
toward  you  a  different  feeling,  as  I  shall 
teach  you  to  understand  before  you  leave 
the  room." 

"  This  being  your  reply,  I  must  discharge 
ifiy  duty  fuUy.  Prry  mark  me,  now.  Sir 
Thomas.  Did  you  not  give  instructions  to 
a  certain  man  to  take  your-  brother's  child 
out  of  your  2i(if1>- — out  of  your  sifjht — out  of 
your  hearing?  And,  Sir  Thomas,  was  not 
tliat  man  very  liberally  rewarded  for  that  art  ? 
I  pray  you,  sir,  to  think  seriously  of  this,  as 
I  need  not  say  that  if  you  perjist  in  reject- 
ing oiu-  conditions,  a  serious  matter  you  will 
find  it." 

Another  contemptuous  iucUnation,  and 
"  you  have  my  reply,  sir,"  was  all  the  baro- 
net could  trust  himself  to  say. 

"  I  now  come  to  a  transaction  of  a  more 
recent  date,  Sir-  Thomas." 

"Ah!"  said  the  baronet,  "I  thought  1 
should  have  had  the  pleasure  of  introducing 
the  discussion  of  tliat  transaction.  You  really 
are,  however,  quite  a  universal  genius — so 
clear  and  eloquent  upon  all  topics,  that  I 
supjjose  I  may  leave  it  in  your  hands." 

"  A  young  man,  named  Fenton,  has  sud- 
denly disapiieared  from  this  neighborhood." 

"  Indeed  '  Why,  I  must  surely  live  at  the 
antipodes,  or  in  the  moon,  or  I  could  not 
jilead  such  ignorance  of  those  great  events." 

"You  are  aware.  Sir  Thomas,  that  the 
person  passing  iinder  that  name  is  your 
brother's  son — the  legitimate  heir  to  the 
title  and  jiroperty  of  which  you  are  in  the 
unjust  possession." 

Another  bow.  "I  thank  you,  sir.  I 
really  am  deriving  much  information  at 
your  hands." 

"  Now  I  demand.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlaj',  in 
the  name  of  his  injured  mother,  what  you 
have  done  with  that  young  man  ?  " 

"It  would  be  useless  to  conceal  it,"  re- 
pUed  the  other.  "  As  you  seem  to  know 
everything,  of  course  you  know  that.  To 
your  own  knowledge,  therefore,  I  beg  most 
respectfully  to  refer  you." 

"  I  have  only  another  observation  to  make. 
Sir  Thomas  Goiu-lay.  You  eemember  last 
Tuesday  night,  when  you  drove  at  an  un- 
seasonable hoiu-  to  the  town  of ?    Now, 

sir,  I  use  your  words,  on  tliat  subject,  to 
your  own  knowledge  I  beg  most  respectfully 
to  refer  ?/0M.     I  have  done." 

Sir  Thomas  Gom-lay,  when  effort  was  neces- 
sary, could  certainly  filay  an  able  and  adroit 
pai-t.    There  was  not  a  charge  brought  against 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


445 


him  iu  the  preceding  conference  that  did 
not  sink  his  heart  into  the  deepest  dismay  ; 
yet  did  he  contrive  to  throw  over  his  whole 
manner  and  bearing  such  a  veil  of  cold,  hard 
dissimulation  as  it  was  nearly  imjiossible  to 
jienetrate.  It  is  true,  he  saw  that  he  had  au 
acute,  sensible,  independent  man  to  de;il 
with,  whose  keen  eye  he  felt  was  reading 
every  feature  of  his  face,  and  every  motion 
of  his  body,  and  weighing,  as  it  were,  with  a 
practised  hand,  the  force  and  import  of 
every  word  he  uttered.  He  knew  that  mere- 
ly to  entertain  the  subject,  or  to  discuss  it  at 
aU  with  anytliing  like  seriousness,  would 
probably  have  exposed  him  to  the  risk  of 
losing  his  temper,  and  thus  j)laced  liimself 
in  the  power  of  so  sharp)  and  impurturbable 
au  antagonist.  As  the  dialogue  proceeded, 
too,  a  portion  of  his  attention  was  transferred 
from  the  topic  in  question  to  the  individual 
wlio  introduced  it.  His  language,  his  niau- 
uer,  his  dress,  his  tout  ensemble  were  un- 
questionably not  only  those  of  au  educated 
gentleman,  but  of  a  man  who  was  weU  ac- 
quainted with  life  and  society,  and  who  ap)- 
peared  to  speak  as  if  he  possessed  no  une- 
quivocal jJositiou  in  both. 

"  Who  the  devil,"  thought  he  to  himself 
sever.il  times,  "  can  this  person  be  '?  How 
does  he  come  to  speak  on  behalf  of  Lady 
Gourlay?  Sui-ely  such  a  man  cannot  be  a 
bi-ush  manufacturer's  clerk — and  he  has  very 
little  the  look  of  an  impostor,  too." 

All  this,  however,  could  not  free  him  from 
the  <leep  and  deadly  conviction  that  the 
friends  of  his  brother's  widow  were  on  his 
trail,  and  that  it  required  the  whole  united 
jjowers  of  his  faculties  for  decejition,  able 
and  manifold  as  they  were,  to  cheek  his  puv- 
suers  and  throw  them  off  the  scent.  It  was 
now.  too,  that  his  indignation  against  his 
daughter  and  him  who  had  seduced  her  from 
his  roof  began  to  deepen  in  his  heart.  Had 
he  succeeded  in  seeing  her  united  to  Lord 
Duuroe,  previous  to  any  exposure  of  him- 
self— sujjposing  even  that  discovery  was  pos- 
sible — his  end,  the  great  object  of  his  life, 
was,  to  a  certain  extent,  gained.  Now,  how- 
ever, that  that  hope  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  treachei'v  evidently  at  work  against  him, 
he  felt  that  gloom,  disappointment,  shame, 
and  ruin  were  fast  gathering  rouud  him. 
He  was,  indeed,  every  way  hemmed  in  and 
hampered.  It  was  clear  that  this  stranger 
was  not  a  man  to  he  either  cajoled  or  bul- 
lied. He  read  a  spirit — a  sparkle — in  his 
eye,  which  taught  him  that  the  brutality  in- 
flicted upon  the  imfortunate  Crackenfudge, 
and  such  others  as  lie  knew  he  might  tram- 
ple on,  would  never  do  here. 

As  matters  stood,  however,  he  thought 
the  only  chance  of  throwing  the  stranger  off 


his  guard  was  to  take  him  by  a  coupde  main. 
With  this  jjurpose,  he  weut  over,  and  sitting 
down  to  his  desk  before  the  drawer  that . 
contained  his  jsistols,  thus  jjlacing  himself 
between  the  stranger  and  the  door,  he 
turned  upon  him  a  look  as  stern  and  deter- 
mined as  he  could  possibly  assume  ;  and  we 
must  remark  here,  that  he  omitted  no  single 
consideration  connected  with  the  subject  he 
was  about  to  introduce  that  was  calcu- 
lated to  strengthen  his  determination. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  he,  "  in  the  first  place, 
may  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  where  you 
have  concealed  my  claughter  ?  I  will  have 
no  equivocation,  sir,"  he  added,  raising  his 
voice — "  no  evasion,  no  falsehood,  but  in 
one  plain  word,  or  iu  as  many  as  may  be 
barely  necessary,  say  where  you  have  con- 
cealed Miss  Gourlay." 

"  Su'  Thomas  Gourlay,"  replied  the  other, 
"  I  can  understand  3'our  feelings  upon  this 
subject,  and  I  can  overlook  much  that  you 
may  say  in  connection  with  it ;  but  neither 
uj)ou  that  nor  any  other,  can  I  permit  the 
imp)utation  of  falsehood  against  myself.  You 
are  to  observe  this,  sir,  and  to  forbear  the 
repetition  of  such  an  insult.  My  repily  is 
brief  and  candid :  I  know  not  where  Miss 
Gourlay  is,  upon  my  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

"  Do  you  meau  to  tell  me,  sir,  that  you 
and  she  did  not  elope  in  the  same  coach  on 
Tuesday  night  last '? " 

"  I  do,  su- ;  and  I  beg  to  tell  you,  that  such 
a  suspicion  is  every  way  unworthy  of  your 
daughter." 

"  Take  care,  sir  ;  you  were  seen  together 
in  Dublin." 

"  That  is  true.  I  had  the  honor  of  travel- 
ling in  the  same  coach  with  her  to  the  metrop- 
olis ;  but  I  was  altogether  unconscious  of 
being  her  feUow-traveller  initil  we  arrived  iu 
Dublin.  A  few  brief  words  of  conver.satiou 
I  had  with  her  iu  the  coach,  but  nothing 
more." 

"And  you  presume  to  say  that  you  know 
not  where  she  is — that  you  are  ignorant  of 
the  place  of  her  retreat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  presume  to  say  so,  Sir  Thomas  ;  I 
have  ab-eady  pledged  my  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man to  that  effect,  and  I  shall  not  repeat  it." 

"As  a  gentleman  ! — but  how  do  I  know 
that  you  are  a  man  of  honor  and  a  gentle- 
man ?  " 

"  Sir  Thomas,  don't  allow  your  passion  or 
jsrejudice  to  impose  upon  yoiu-  judgment 
and  penetration  as  a  man  of  the  world.  I 
know  jou  feel  this  moment  that  you  are  ad- 
dressing a  man  who  is  both  ;  and  your  ov\-n 
heart  tells  you  that  every  word  I  have  ut- 
tered resx>ecting  Miss  Gourlay  is  ti-ue." 

."Youvi-ill  excuse  me  there,  sir,"  replied 
the  baronet.      "  Your  position  in  this  neigh- 


446 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


faorliood  is  anything  but  a  guarantee  to  the 
ti-uth  of  what  you  say.  If  j'ou  be  a  gentle- 
man— a  man  of  honor,  why  live  here,  incorj- 
nilo,  afi-aid  to  declare  your  name,  or  your 
rank,  if  you  have  any  ? — why  lie  perdu,  like 
a  man  under  disgrace,  or  who  had  fled  from 
justice  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  beg  j'ou  to  rest  satisfied 
that  1  am  not  under  disgrace,  and  that  I  have 
motives  for  concealing  my  name  that  are  dis- 
interested, and  even  honorable  to  myself,  if 
they  were  known." 

"  Pra)',  will  you  answer  me  another  ques- 
tion— Do  you  hajJiien  to  know  a  firm  in  Lon- 
don named  Grinwell  and  Co.  ?  they  are  tooth- 
brush manufacturers  ?  Now,  mark  my  words 
•well — I  say  GrinweU  and  Co.,  tooth-brush 
manu  f  aetvirers. " 

"I  have  until  this  moment  never  heard  of 
Grmwell  and  Co.,  tooth-brush  manufac- 
turers." 

"Now,  sir,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  "all  this 
may  be  verj'  well  and  very  true  ;  but  there  is 
one  fact  that  you  can  neither  deny  nor  dis- 
pute. You  have  been  paymg  your  addresses 
clandestinely  to  my  daughter,  and  there  is  a 
mutual  attachment  between  yon." 

"  I  love  your  daughter — I  will  not  deny  it." 

"  She  returns  your  affections  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  rei)ly  to  anything  involving 
Miss  Gourlay's  opinions,  who  is  not  here  to 
exj^iain  them  ;  nor  is  it  generous  in  you  to 
foiTe  me  into  the  presumptuous  task  of  in- 
terpreting her  sentiments  on  such  a  subject." 

"  The  fact,  however,  is  this.  I  have  for 
some  years  entertained  other  and  different 
views  with  resjsect  to  her  settlement  in  life. 
You  may  be  a  gentleman,  or  you  may  be  an 
imj^ostor  ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  you  have 
taught  her  to  contravene  my  wishes — to  de- 
spise the  honors  to  which  a  dutiful  obedience 
to  them  would  exalt  her — to  spurn  my  af- 
fection, and  to  tramijle  on  vay  authority. 
Now,  sir,  listen  to  me.  Renounce  her — give 
up  all  claims  to  her — withdraw  every  j)re- 
tension,  now  and  forever ;  or,  by  the  living 
God  !  you  shall  never  carry  your  life  out  of 
this  room.  Sooner  than  have  the  noble  de- 
sign which  I  proposed  for  her  frustrated  ; 
sooner  than  have  the  projects  of  my  whole 
hfe  for  her  honorable  exaltation  ruined,  I 
could  bear  to  die  the  death  of  a  common 
felon.  Here,  sir,  is  a  proposition  that  ad- 
mits of  only  the  one  fatal  and  deadly  al- 
ternative. You  see  these  pistols  ;  they  are 
heavily  loaded  ;  and  you  know  my  pui-pose  ; 
— it  is  the  2jvu-f)0se,  let  me  tell  j'ou,  of  a  re- 
solved and  desjaerate  man." 

"  I  know  not  how  to  account  for  this  vio- 
lence. Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  rep)lied  the 
stranger  with  singular  coolness  ;  "all  I  can 
say  is,  that  on  me  it  is  thrown  away." 


"  Refuse  the  compliance  with  the  prop- 
osition I  have  made,  and  by  heavens  you 
have  looked  upon  your  last  sun.  The  pistols, 
sir,  are  cocked  ;  if  one  fails,  the  other  won't. " 

"  This  outrage.  Sir  Thomas,  ujjon  a  stran- 
ger, in  your  own  house,  under  the  protection 
of  your  own  roof,  is  as  monstrous  as  it  is 
cowardly." 

"My  roof,  sir,  shall  never  afford  protection 
to  a  villain,"  said  the  baronet,  in  a  loud  and 
furious  voice.  "  Renounce  my  daughter,  and 
that  quickly.  No,  sir,  this  roof  wiU  afford 
you  no  protection." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  cannot  help  that,"  replied  the 
stranger,  deliberately  taking  out  of  his 
breast,  where  they  were  covered  by  an  out- 
side coat,  a  ease  of  excellent  pistoLs,  which 
he  instantly  cocked,  and  held  ready  for 
action :  "  If  yovu-  roof  won't,  these  good 
friends  ■wiU.  And  now.  Sir  Thomas,  hear 
me  ;  lay  aside  your  idle  weajjons,  which, 
were  I  even  unarmed,  I  would  disregard  as 
much  as  I  do  this  moment.  Our  interview 
is  now  closed  ;  but  before  I  go,  let  me  en- 
treat you  to  reflect  iijion  the  conditions  I 
have  oftered  you  ;  reflect  upon  them  deeply 
— yes,  and  accept  them,  othenvise  you  will 
involve  j'ourself  in  all  the  consequences  of  a 
guilty  but  unsuccessful  ambition^in  con- 
tempt— infamy — and  ruin." 

The  baronet's  face  became  exceedingly 
blank  at  the  exhibition  of  the  tire-arms. 
Pistol  for  pistol  had  been  iitterly  out  of  tlie 
range  of  his  calculations.  He  looked  ujjon 
the  stranger  with  astonishment,  not  un- 
mingled  with  a  considerable  jaortion  of  that 
wholesome  feeling  which  begets  self  preser- 
vation. In  fact,  he  was  struck  dumb,  and 
uttered  not  a  syllable  ;  and  as  the  stranger 
made  his  parting  bow,  the  other  could  only 
stai'e  at  him  as  if  he  had  seen  an  apjjarition. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

Lucy  at  Summerfield  Cottage. 

On  his  way  to  the  inn,  the  stranger  could 
not  avoid  admiring  the  excellent  sense  and 
prudence  displayed  by  Lucy  Gourlay.  in  the 
brief  dialogue  which  we  have  already  detailed 
to  our  readers.  He  felt  clearly,  that  if  he 
had  followed  up  his  natural  impulse  to  as- 
certain the  place  of  her  retreat,  he  would 
have  jilaced  himself  in  the  very  jiosition 
which,  knowing  her  father  as  she  did,  she 
had  so  correctly  anticipated.  In  the  mean- 
time, now  that  tlie  difficulty  in  this  respect, 
which  she  had  apprehended,  was  over,  liia 
anxiety  to  know  her  present  residence  re- 
turned upon  him  wth  fuU  force.     Not  that 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


m 


he  tlioufjlit  it  consistent  with  delicacy  to  in- 
trude himself  upon  her  presence,  without 
first  obtaining  her  permission  to  that  e&ct. 
He  was  well  and  painfully  aware  that  a 
lying  report  of  their  elopement  liad  gone 
abroad,  but  as  he  did  not  then  know  that  this 
calumny  had  been  jjrincij^ally  circidated  by 
unfortunate  Crackenfudge,  who,  however, 
was  the  dupe  of  Dandy  Dulcimer,  and  con- 
sequently took  the  fact  for  granted. 

Lucy,  however,  to  whom  we  must  now 
return,  on  arriving  at  the  neat  cottage 
already  alluded  to,  occasioned  no  small  sur- 
prise to  its  projirietor.  The  family,  when 
the  driver  knocked,  were  aU  asleejj,  or  at 
least  had  not  arisen,  and  ou  the  door  being 
oj^ened  by  a  broad-faced,  good-humored 
looking  servant,  who  was  desired  to  go  to  a 
lady  in  the  chaise,  the  woman,  after  rubbing 
her  eyes  and  yawning,  looked  about  her  as 
if  she  were  in  a  dream,  exclaiming,  "  Lord 
bless  us !  and  divil  a  sowl  o'  them  out  o'  the 
blankets  yet ! " 

"  You're  nearly  asleep,"  said  the  driver  ; 
"  but  I'll  hould  a  testher  that  a  tight  crajsper 
would  soon  brighten  your  eye.  Come, 
come,"  he  added,  as  she  yawned  again, 
"  shut  your  pittaty  trap,  and  go  to  the  young 
lady  in  the  chaise." 

The  woman  settlefj  her  cap,  which  was 
awry,  upon  her  head,  by  plucking  it  quickly 
over  to  the  opposite  side,  and  hastily  tying 
the  strings  of  her  apron,  so  as  to  give  herself 
something  of  a  tidy  look,  she  j^roceeded, 
barefooted,  but  in  slippers,  to  the  chaise. 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness,"  said  Lucy, 
in  a  very  sweet  voice,  "  to  say  to  Mrs.  Norton 
that  a  j'oung  fi'iend  of  hers  wishes  to  see 
her." 

'•  And  tell  her  to  skip,"  added  AUey 
Mahon,  "  and  not  keep  us  here  aU  the 
blessed  mornin'." 

"  Mrs.  Norton  !  "  exclaimed  the  woman  ; 
"  I  don't  know  any  sich  parson  as  that, 
Miss." 

"  WTiy,"  said  Lucy,  putting  her  head  out 
of  the  chaise,  and  re-examining  the  cottage, 
"  surely  this  is  where  my  friend  Mi-s.  Norton 
did  Uve,  certainly.  She  must  have  changed 
her  residence,  Allej'.  This  is  most  un- 
fortunate !  'What  are  we  to  do  ?  I  know 
not  where  to  go." 

"  Wliisht !  Miss,"  said  Alley,  "we'll  put 
her  through  her  catechiz  again.  Come  here, 
my  good  woman  ;  come  forrid  ;  don't  be 
ashamed  or  afeard  in  the  jsresence  of  ladies. 
Who  does  live  here  ?  " 

"Mr.  'Mainwarin',"  replied  the  servant, 
omitting  the  "  Miss,"  notwithstanding  that 
Alley  had  put  in  her  claim  for  it  by  using  the 
plural  number. 

"  This  is  distressing — most  unfortunate  !  " 


exclaimed  Lucj' ;  "  how  long  has  this  gentle, 
man — Mr. — Mi-. " 

"  Mainwarin',  !Miss,"  added  the  woman, 
respectfully. 

"She's  a  stupid  lookin'  sOir'vl,  at  aU 
events,"  said  AUey,  half  to  herself  and  half  to 
her  mistress. 

"Yes,  Mainwaiing,"  continued  Lucy; 
"  how  long  has  he  been  living  here  ?  " 

"  Troth,  and  that's  more  than  I  can  tell 
you.  Miss,"  reialied  the  woman;  "I'm  from 
the  county  Wexford  myself,  and  isn't  more 
than  a  month  here  " 

Whilst  this  little  dialogue  went  on,  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  after  it  was  concluded, 
a  tapping  was  heard  at  one  of  the  windows, 
and  a  signal  given  with  the  finger  for  the 
servant  to  return  to  the  house.  She  did  so  ; 
but  soon  presented  herself  a  second  time  at 
the  chaise  door  with  more  agreeable  intelli- 
gence. 

"  You're  right.  Miss,"  said  she  ;  "  the  mis- 
tress desii-ed  me  to  ask  you  in  ;  she  seen  you 
from  the  wiudj',  and  desired  me  to  bring 
your  things  too  ;  you're  to  come  in,  then, 
IVIiss,  you,  an'  the  sarvint  that's  along  wid 
you." 

On  entering,  an  iutelhgent,  respectable- 
lookmg  female,  of  lady-like  manners,  shook 
hands  with  and  even  kissed  Luc_v,  who  em- 
braced her  with  much  affection. 

"  My  dear  ilrs.  Norton,"  she  said,  "  how 
much  sui-prised  you  must  feel  at  this  abrupt 
and  unseasonable  visit." 

"  How   much   dehghted,    you   mean,    my 
dear  Miss  Gourlay  ;  and  if  I  am  surprised, 
I   assure  you  the  surprise  is  an  agreeable  • 
one." 

"But,"  said  the  innocent  girl,  "your  ser- 
vant told  me  that  you  did  not  live  here,  and 
I  felt  so  much  distressed  !  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Norton,  "  she  was 
right,  in  one  sense :  if  Mrs.  Norton  that  was 
does  not  live  here,  jMi's.  Mainwaring  that  is 
certainly  does — and  feels  both  proiid  and 
flattered  at  the  honor  Miss  Goiuiay  does  her 
humble  residence." 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  said  Lucy,  smiling  ;  "you 
have  then " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have  changed  my  condi- 
tion, as  the  phrase  goes  ;  but  neither  my 
heart  nor  my  affections  to  j'ou.  Miss  Gour- 
lay. Pray  sit  down  on  this  sofa.  Youjt 
maid,  I  presume.  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lucy  ;  "  and  a  faithful  crea- 
ture has  she  proved  to  me,   Mrs.    Nor , 

but  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  madam ; 
how  am  I — oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Mainwaring  !  " 

"  Nancy,"  said  the  latter,  "  take  this  young 
woman  with  you,  and  make  her  comfortable. 
You  seem  exhausted.  Miss  Gouiiaj' ;  shall  ] 
get  some  tea  ?  " 


448 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Thank  you,    IVIi-s.   Nor Mainwaring, 

no  ;  we  lia-ve  liad  a  hastv  cup  of  tea  in  Dub- 
lin. But  if  it  wll  not  be  troublesome,  I 
should  like  to  go  to  bed  for  a  time." 

JMi-s.  Mainwaring  flew  out  of  the  room, 
and  called  Nancy  Gallaher.  "  Nancy,  pre- 
pare a  bed  immediately  for  this  lady ;  her 
maid,  too,  will  probably  require  rest.  Pre- 
pare a  bed  for  both." 

She  was  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  room 
as  she  spoke  ;  then  returning  with  a  bunch 
of  keys  dangling  from  her  finger,  she  glanc- 
ed at  Miss  Gourlay  with  that  shght  but  deli- 
cate and  considerate  curiosity  which  arises 
onlj'  fi-om  a  friendly  warmth  of  feeling — but 
said  nothing. 

•'  My  dear  Mrs.  Mainwaring,"  said  Lucy, 
who  understood  her  look,  "  I  feel  that  I  have 
acted  very  wrong.  I  have  fled  from  my 
father's  house,  and  I  have  taken  refuge  with 
you.  I  am  at  jwesent  confvised  and  exhaust- 
ed, but  when  I  get  some  rest,  I  will  give 
you  an  explanation.  At  present,  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  say  that  pajja  has  taken  my  mar- 
riage with  that  odious  Lord  Dunroe  so 
strongly  into  his  head,  that  nothing  short  of 
my  consent  will  satisfy  him.  I  know  he 
loves  me,  and  thinks  that  rank  and  honor, 
because  they  gratify  his  ambition,  will  make 
me  haj)py.  I  know  that  that  ambition  is  not 
at  all  personal  to  himself,  but  indulged  in  and 
nurtured  on  my  account,  and  for  my  advance- 
ment in  life.     How  then  can  I  blame  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  eliild,  no  more  of  that  at  pres- 
ent ;  you  want  rest." 

"  Yes,  Mi's.  Mainwaring,  I  do  ;  but  I  am 
very  wretched  and  unhappy.  Alas !  you 
know  not,  my  dear  fi'iend,  the  deliglit  which 
I  have  always  exjierienced  in  obejing  pajsa 
in  everything,  with  the  exception  of  this 
hateful  union  ;  and  now  I  feel  something 
like  remorse  at  having  abandoned  him." 

81ie  then  gave  a  brief  accovmt  to  her  kind- 
hearted  fiiend  of  her  journey  to  Dublin  by 
the  "  Fly,"  in  the  first  instance,  sujDpressing 
one  or  two  incidents ;  and  of  her  second  to 
Mrs.  Mainwaring's,  who,  after  hearing  that 
she  had  not  slep)t  at  all  during  the  night, 
would  permit  no  fiu'ther  conversation  on 
that  or  any  other  suliject,  but  hurried  her  to. 
bed,  she  herself  acting  as  her  attendant. 
Having  seen  her  comfortably  settled,  and 
carefully  tucked  her  up  with  her  own  hands, 
she  kissed  the  fair  girl,  exclaimmg,  "  Sleep, 
my  love  ;  and  may  God  bless  and  protect 
you  from  eril  and  unhappiness,  as  I  feel  cer- 
tain He  will,  because  you  deserve  it." 

She  then  left  her  to  repose,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  Lucy  was  fast  asleep. 

Whilst  this  little  dialogue  between  Lucy 
and  Jlrs.  J.Iainwaring  was  proceeding  in  the 
uarlor  i:f  Sumraerfield  cottage,  another  was 


running  parallel  with  it  between   the   two 
servants  in  the  kitchen. 

"  God  bless  me,"  said  Nancy  Grallaher,  ad- 
dressing Alley,  "you  look  shoekin' bad  af- 
ther  so  early  a  journey  !  I'll  get  you  a  cup 
o'  tay,  to  put  a  bloom  in  j'our  cheek." 

"  Thank  you,  kindly,  ma'am,"  rephed 
Alley,  T\-ith  a  toss  of  her  head  whicli  impUed 
anything  but  gratitude  for  this  allusion  to 
her  complexion  :  "  a  good  sleep),  ma'am,  will 
bring  back  the  bloom — and  that's  aisy  done, 
ma'am,  to  any  one  who  has  youth  on  their 
side.  The  color  will  come  and  go  then,  but 
let  a  wTinkle  alone  for  keejjin'  its  ground." 

This  was  accompanied  by  a  significant 
glance  at  Nancy's  face,  on  which  were  legi- 
ble som-e  rather  unequivocal  traces  of  that 
description.  Honest  Nancy,  however,  al- 
though she  saw  the  glance,  and  understood 
the  insinuation,  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of 
either — the  fact  being  that  her  whole  spirit 
w  as  seized  with  an  indomitable  curiosity, 
wliich,  like  a  restless  familiar,  insisted  on 
being  gi-atified. 

In  the  ease  of  those  who  undertake  jour- 
neys similar  to  that  which  Lucy  had  just  ac- 
comp)lished,  there  may  be  noticed  almost  by 
every  eye  those  evidences  of  haste,  alarm, 
and  anxiety,  and  even  distress,  which  to  a 
certain  extent  at  least  '^ll  then-  own  tale,  and 
betray  to  the  observer  that  all  can  seai-cely 
be  right.  Now  Nancy  Gallaher  saw  this, 
and  having  di-awn  the  estabhshed  conclusion 
that  there  must  in  some  way  be  a  lover  in 
the  case,  she  sat  down  in  form  before  the 
fortress  of  Alley  Mahon's  secret,  with  a  firm 
determination  to  make  herself  mistress  of  it, 
if  the  feat  were  at  all  jjracticable.  In  Allej-, 
however,  she  had  an  able  general  to  compete 
with — a  general  who  resolved,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  make  a  sortie,  as  it  were,  and  attack 
Nancy  by  a  series  of  bold  and  unexpected 
manoeuvres. 

Nancy,  on  her  part,  having  felt  her  first 
error  touching  Alley's  comjjlexion,  resolved 
instantly  to  repair  it  bj-  the  substitution  of  a 
compliment  in  its  stead. 

"  Tliroth,  an'  it'll  be  many  a  day  till 
there's  a  wrinkle  in  your  face,  avourneen — • 
an'  now  that  I  look  at  you  agiu — a  pretty 
an'  a  sweet  face  it  is.  'Deed  it's  many  a  daj' 
since  I  seen  two  sich  faces  as  yours  and  the 
other  young  lady's  ;  but  anyway,  you  had 
betther  let  me  get  you  a  comfortable  cup  o' 
tay — afther  your  long  journey.  Oh,  then, ' 
but  that  beautiful  creature  has  a  sorrovfful 
look,  poor  thing." 

These  words  were  accompanied  by  a  most 
insinuating  glance  of  curiosity,  mingled  up 
wdth  an  air  of  strong  benevolence,  to  show 
Alley  that  it  jiroceeded  only  fiom  the  piui'es* 
of  good  feeling. 


Lh:nARY 
THE 
t'NIVERSnV  OF  ILLINOIS 


^  V(T:LI,  sir,  I  CANNOT  HELP  THAT,'  REPLIED  THE  STRANGER,  DELIBERATELr  TARING 
Onr  OP  HT8  BREAST,  WHERE  THEY  WERE  COVERED  BY  AN  OUTSIDE  COAT,  A  PAIR  OP 
EXCELLENT    PISTOLS,    WHICH   HE    nJSTANTlT   COCKED.   AND  HELD   READY  FOE   ACTION." 


hlticJi:  Rfironet— Chapter  XXt. 
p.  UG. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


4rVj 


•■  Thank  you,"  replied  Alley,  "  I  wiU  take  a 
cup  sure  enouj^b.  What  family  have  you 
here  ?  if  it's  a  fair  questiou." 

"  Sorra  one  but  ourselves,"  replied  Nancj', 
without  making  her  much  the  mser. 

"  T^ut,  I  mane,"  jjroceeded  Alley,  "  have 
you  children  ?  bekase  if  you  have  I  hate 
them." 

'■Neither  chick  nor  child  there  will  be 
under  the  roof  -wid  you  here,"  responded 
Nancy,  whilst  putting  the  dry  tea  into  a  tin 
tea-pot  that  had  seen  service  ;  "  there's  only 
the  three  of  us — that  is,  myself,  the  mis- 
thress,  and  the  masther — fori  am  not  couut- 
iu'  a  shp  of  a  girl  that  comes  in  every  day  to 
do  odd  jobs,  and  some  o'  the  rough  work 
about  the  house." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose,"  said  Alley,  indifi'erently, 
"  the  cliildre's  all  married  off  ?  " 

"  There's  only  oue,"rei5lied  Nancy  ;  "  and 
indeed  you're  right  enough — she  is  married, 
and  not  long  either — and,  in  truth,  I  don't 
en-\y  her  the  husband  she  got.  Lord  save 
and  guard  us  !  I  know  I  wouldn't  long  kee]) 
my  senses  if  I  had  him." 

"  Why  so '?  "  asked  Alley.  "  Has  he  two 
heads  upon  him  ?  " 

"  Troth,  no,"  replied  the  other  ;  "but  he's 
what  they  call  a  mad  docther,  an'  keeps  a 
rheumatic  asylum — that  manes  a  place  where 
they  put  mad  people,  to  prevent  them  fi'om 
doin'  harm.  They  say  it  would  make  the 
hail-  stand  on  yoiu-  head  like  nettles  even  to  go 
into  it.  However,  that's  not  what  I'm  think- 
in'  of,  but  that  darlin'  lookin'  creature  that's 
wid  the  misthress.  Tlie  Lord  keep  sorrow 
and  cross-fortune  from  her,  poor  thing — for 
she  looks  unhappy.  AviUish  !  are  you  and 
she  related '?  for,  as  I'm  a  sinner,  there's  a  re- 
semblance in  your  faces — and  even  m  your 
figures — only  you're  something  rounder  and 
fuller  than  she  is." 

"Isn't  she  lovely?"  returned  Alley,  mak- 
ing the  most  of  the  compliment.  "  Sure, 
wasn't  it  in  Dubhn  her  health  was  di'unk 
as  the  greatest  toast  in  Ireland."  She  then 
added  after  a  pause,  "  The  Lord  knows  I 
wouldn't " 

"  Wouldn't  ivhaf — avourneen  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  thiukin',  that  I  wouldn't  marry 
a  mad  docther,  if  there  was  ne'er  another 
man  in  Ireland.  A  mad  docther !  Oh, 
beetha.  Then  will  you  let  us  know  the 
name  that's  upon  him  ?  "  she  added  in  a 
most  wheedUng  tone. 

"His  name  is  Scareman,  my  mistliress 
tolls  me — he's  related  by  the  mother's  side 
to  the  Moontides  of  Ballycrazy,  in  the  bar- 
ony of  Quarther  Clift — an-ah,  what's  this 
your  name  is,  avoui'neen  ?  " 

"  Alley  Mahon  I  was  christened,"  replied 
her  new  friend  ;  "  but,"  she  added,  with  an 


air  of  modest  dignity  that  was  inimitable  ir 
its  way — "in  regard  of  my  jilace  as  maid  o" 
honor  to  Lady  Lucy,  I'm  usually  called  MisM 
j\Iahon,  or  Miss  AUey.  My  mistress,  for  her 
own  sake,  in  ordher  to  keep  up  her  conse^ 
quence,  you  jsersave,  doesn't  like  to  hear  m( 
called  anything  else  than  either  one  oi 
t'other  of  tliem." 

"  And  it's  all  right,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Well,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  that  Mi-s. 
Mainwaring  is  brealcin'  her  heart  about  this 
unforthunate  marriage  of  her  daughter  to 
Scareman.  It  seems — but  this  is  between 
ourselves — it  seems,  my  dear,  that  he's  a 
dark,  hard-hearted  sci-ub,  tliat  'id  go  to  hell 
or  farther  for  a  shilhn',  for  a  penny,  ay,  or 
for  a  farden.  An'  the  servant  that  was  here 
afore  me — a  clean,  good-natured  girl  she 
was,  in  throth — an'  got  married  to  a  black- 
smith, at  the  cross-roads  beyant — tould  me 
that  the  scrames.  an'  yells,  an'  howlLns,  and 
roarins — the  cursin'  and  blasphaymin'-^an' 
the  laughin',  that  she  said  was  worse  than 
all — an'  the  rattlin'  of  chains — the  Lord  save 
us — would  make  one  think  themselves  more" 
in  hell  than  in  any  place  upon  this  world. 
And  it  appears  the  villain  takes  deh'ght  in  itj 
an'  makes  lashins  of  money  by  the  trade.' 

"The  sorra.  give  him  good  of  it!"  ex- 
claimed Alley  ;  "  an'  I  can  tell  you,  it's  Lady 
Luej' — (divil  may  care,  thought  she — I'll 
make  a  lady  of  her  at  any  rat«— this  igno- 
rant creatru'e  doesn't  know  the  differ)  it's 
Lady  Lucy,  I  say,  that  wiU  be  sorry  to  hear 
of  this  same  maniage — for  you  must  know 
— what's  this  r/our  name  is  ?  " 

"Nancy  GaUaher,  dear." 

"  And  were  you  ever  married,  Nancy  ?  " 

"  If  I  wasn't  the  fau't  was  my  own,  ahagair ! 
but  I'U  tell  you  more  about  that  some  day. 
No,  then,  I  -was  not,  thank  God  !  " 

"Thank  God  !  Well,  throth,  it's  a  quare 
thing  to  thank  God  for  that,  at  any  rate." 
This,  of  course,  was  parenthetical.  "  Well, 
my  dear,"  jiroceeded  Alley,  "  you  must  know 
that  Mrs.  Scareman  before  her  marriage — 
of  course,  she  was  tlien  Miss  Norton — acted 
in  the  kippacity  of  tutherer  general  to  Lady 
Lucy,  except  durin'  three  moulhs  that  she 
was  ill,  and  had  to  go  to  England  .to  thry 
the  wathers." 

"  What  wathers  ?"  asked  Nancy.  "Haven't 
we  plenty  o'  wather,  an'  as  good  as  they 
have,  at  home  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  rej)lied  Alley,  who  some- 
times, as  the  reader  may  have  perceived, 
drew  upon  an  imagination  of  no  ordin.ary 
fertility ;  "  in  England  they  have  spakin' 
birds,  singin'  trees,  and  goolden  wather. 
So,  as  I  was  sayin',  while  she  went  to  thry 
the  goolden  wather " 

"  Troth,  if  ever  I  get  poor  health,  I'U  go 


450 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


there  myself,"  obsen'ed  Nancy,  with  a  gleam 
of  natural  humor  in  her  eleai-  blue  eye." 

"  Well,  while  she  went  to  thrj'this  goolden 
wather,  her  niotlier,  Mi's.  Norton,  came  in 
her  place  as  tutherer  general,  an'  that's  the 
way  they  became  acquainted — Lady  Lucj* 
and  her.  But,  my  dear,  I  want  to  tell  you 
a  saicret." 

We  are  of  opinion,  that  if  Nancy's  cap  had 
been  ofl'  at  the  moment,  her  two  ears  might 
have  been  observed  to  erect  themselves  on 
each  side  of  her  head  with  piu'e  and  unadul- 
terated curiosity. 

"Well,  Jliss  AJley,  what  is  it,  ahagur?" 

"  Now,  you  won't  breathe  this  to  any  hu- 
man creature  ?  " 

"Is  it  me?  An-ah !  little  you  know  the 
woman  you're  spakiu'  to.  DivU  a  mortal 
could  beat  me  at  keepin'  a  saicret,  at  any 
rate  ;  an'  when  you  tell  me  this,  maybe  I'll 
let  you  know  one  or  two  that'll  be  worth 
lieariu'." 

"  Well,"  continued  Alley,  "  it's  this — 
Never  call  my  mistress  Lady  Lucy,  because 
she  doesn't  like  it." 

This  was  an  ajjple  from  the  shores  of  the 
Dead  Sea.  Nancy's  face  bore  all  the  sudden 
traces  of  disappointment  and  mortification  ; 
and,  from  a  princijile  of  retaliation,  she  re- 
solved to  give  her  companion  a  morsel  from 
the  same  fi'uit. 

"Now,  Nancy,"  continued  the  former, 
"  what's  this  you  have  to  tell  us  ?  " 

"  But  you  swear  not  to  breathe  it  to  man, 
woman,  or  child,  boy  or  girl,  rich  or  poor, 
hvin'  or  dead  ?  " 

"  Sartainly  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  it's  this.  I  understand  that 
Docthor  Scareman  isn't  likely  to  have  a 
family.  Now,  ahagur,  if  you  spake,  I'm 
done,  that's  all." 

Having  been  then  called  away  to  make 
arrangements  necessai-y  to  Lucy's  comfort, 
their  dialogue  was  terminated  before  she 
could  worm  out  of  Alley  the  cause  of  her 
mistress's  visit. 

"  She's  a  cunnin'  ould  hag,"  said  the 
latter,  when  the  other  had  gone.  "I  see 
what  she  wants  to  get  out  o'  me  ;  but  it's  not 
for  nothing  Miss  Lucy  has  tmsted  me,  an'  I'm 
not  the  girl  to  betray  her  secrets  to  them 
that  has  no  right  to  know  them." 

This,  indeed,  was  true.  Poor  Alley  Mahon, 
though  a  very  neat  and  handsome  girl,  and 
of  an  appear;ince  decidedly  respectable,  was 
nevertheless  a  good  deal  vulgar  in  her  con- 
versation. In  lieu  of  this,  however,  not- 
withstanding a  large  stock  of  vanity,  she 
was  gifted  with  a  strong  attachment  to  her 
mistress,  and  had  exliibited  many  trying 
proofs  of  truthfulness  and  secrecy  under 
circumstivnces   where  most  females   in   her 


condition  of  life  would  have  given  way.  Ai 
a  matter  of  course,  she  was  obliged  to  re 
ceive  her  master's  bribes,  otherwise  slie 
would  have  been  instantly  dismissed,  as  on€ 
who  presumed  to  favor  Lucy's  interest  and 
oppose  his  own.  Her  fertility  of  fancy, 
however,  joined  to  deep-rooted  affection  foi 
his  daughter,  enabled  her  to  return  as  a  re 
compense  for  Sir  Thomas's  bribes,  that  de- 
scription of  one-sided  truth  which  transfuses 
fiction  into  its  own  character  and  spirit,  just 
as  a  drop  or  two  of  any  coloiing  fluid  wiE 
tinge  a  large  jjortion  of  water  with  its  o-rti 
hue.  Her  rejjUes,  therefore,  when  sifted 
and  examined,  always  bore  in  them  a  suffi- 
cient i^ortion  of  truth  to  enable  her,  on  the 
strong  point  of  veracity  on  which  she  boldly 
stood,  to  bear  herself  out  with  triumph ; 
owing,  indeed,  to  a  slight'  dash  in  her  de- 
fence of  the  coloring  we  have  described. 
Lucy  felt  thai,  the  agitation  of  mind,  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  the  agony  of  S23irit 
which  she  had  been  of  late  forced  to  strag- 
gle with,  had  affected  her  health  more  than 
she  could  have  anticijjated.  That  and  the 
unusual  fatigue  of  a  long  journey  in  a  night 
coach,  eked  out  by  a  jolting  di-ive  to  Wick- 
low  at  a  time  when  she  rec[uii-ed  refi'esh- 
ment  and  rest,  told  ujson  her  constitution, 
although  a  naturally  healthy  one.  For  the 
next  three  or  four  days  after  her  arrival  at 
Summerfeld  Cottage,  she  experienced  symp- 
toms of  shght  fever,  app;u'ently  nervous. 
Every  attention  that  coidd  be  jmid  to  her 
she  received  at  the  hands  of  Mrs.  !Mainwaring, 
and  her  own  maid,  who  seldom  was  a  mo- 
ment from  her  bedside.  Two  or  three 
times  a  day  she  was  seized  with  fits  of  mop- 
ing, diuing  which  she  dej^lored  her  melan- 
choly lot  in  Hfe,  feared  she  had  ofl'ended  hei 
kind  hostess  by  intruding,  without  either 
notice  or  announcement,  upon  the  quiet  har- 
mony of  her  family,  and  begged  her  again 
and  again  to  forgive  her ;  adding,  "  That  as 
soon  as  her  recoveiy  should  be  established, 
she  would  return  to  her  father's  house  to 
die,  she  hoped,  and  join  mamma;  and  this." 
she  said,  "  was  her  last  and  only  consola- 
tion." 

Mi-s.  Mainwaring  saw  at  once  that  her  com- 
plaint was  priuciijallv  on  the  nerves,  and  lost 
no  time  in  asking  permission  to  call  in  medi- 
cal advice.  To  this,  Liicy,  whose  chief  ob- 
ject was  to  remain  unknown  and  in  secrecy 
for  the  present,  strongly  objected  ;  but  by 
the  mild  and  affectionate  remonstrances  oi 
Mrs.  Mainwaring,  as  well  as  at  the  earnest 
entreaties  of  AUey,  she  consented  to  allow  a 
physician  to  be  called  in. 

This  stej)  was  not  more  judicious  than 
necessary.  The  physician,  on  seeing  her,  at 
once  pronounced   the   complaint  a  ueiTous 


THE  BLACK  BAROyET. 


451 


fever,  but  hoped  that  it  would  soon  jdeld  to 
proper  treatment.  He  ijrescribed,  and  saw 
her  every  second  day  for  a  week,  after  which 
she  gave  evident  symjstoms  of  imjirovement. 
Her  constitution,  as  we  have  said,  was  good  ; 
and  nature,  in  sjiite  of  an  anxious  mind  and 
disagreeable  reflections,  bore  her  completely 
out  of  danger. 

It  was  not  until  the  first  day  of  her  ap- 
pearance in  the  parlor  subsequent  to  her  ill- 
ness, that  she  had  an  opportimity  of  seeing 
Mr.  Mainwaring,  of  whom  his  wife  spoke  in 
terms  of  great  tenderness  and  afl'ectiou. 
She  found  him  to  be  a  gentlemanly  person 
of  great  good  sense  and  delicacy  of  feeling. 

"  I  regret,"  said  he,  after  the  usual  intro- 
duction had  taken  j)lace,  "  to  have  been  de- 
prived so  long  of  knowing  fi  young  lady  of 
whose  goodness  and  many  admirable  quah- 
ties  I  have  heard  so  much  from  the  lips  of 
Mi's.  Mainwaring.  It  is  time  I  knew  her  af- 
fectionate nature,"  he  added,  with  a  look  of 
more  than  kindness  at  his  wife,  "  and  I  al- 
lowed something  for  high  coloring  in  your 
case.  Miss  Gourlay,  as  well  as  in  others,  that 
I  could  name  ;  but  I  now  find,  that  with  all 
her  good-will,  she  sometimes  fails  to  do  jus- 
tice to  the  original." 

"  And,  my  dear  John,  did  I  not  tell  you 
so?"  replied  his  wife,  smUing  ;  "  but  if  you 
make  otlier  allusions,  I  am  siu-e  Miss  Gourlay 
can  bear  me  out." 

''She  has  more  than  borne  you  out,  my 
dear,"  he  rejilied,  purposely  misunderstand- 
ing her.  "  She  has  more  than  borne  you 
out ;  for,  truth  to  tell,  you  have  in  Miss 
Gourlay 's  case  fallen  far  short  of  what  I  see 
she  is." 

"  But,  Mr.  Mainwaring,"  said  Lucy,  smil- 
ing in  her  turn,  "  it  is  certainly  very  strange 
that  she  can  please  neither  of  us.  The  out- 
line she  gave  me  of  yoiu'  character  was  quite 
shockmg.  She  said  you  were — what's  this 
you  said  of  him,  Mi-s.  Mainwaring — oh,  it 
was  very  bad,  sir.  I  think  we  must  deprive 
her  of  all  claim  to  the  chai-acter  of  an  artist. 
Do  you  know  I  was  afraid  to  meet  the  origi- 
nal, in  consequence  of  the  gloomy  colors  in 
which  she  sketched  what  she  intended,  I  sup- 
pose, should  be  the  likeness." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Gourlay,"  observed 
Mrs.  Mainwaring,  "  now  that  I  have  failed  in 
doing  justice  to  the  portraits  of  two  of  my 
dearest  friends,  I  think  I  will  burn  my  pal- 
ette and  brushes,  and  give  up  portrait  paint- 
ing in  future." 

Mr.  Mainwaring  now  rose  up  to  take  his 
usual  stroll,  but  turning  to  Lucy  before  he 
went,  he  said, 

"At  all  events,  my  dear  Miss  Gourlay, 
what  between  her  painting  and  the  worth  of 
the   original,    permit   me   to   say   that  this 


house  is  your  home  just  as  long  as  you  wish. 
Consider  Mrs.  Mainwaring  and  me  as  par- 
ents to  you  ;  willing,  nay,  most  anxious,  in 
every  sense,  to  contribute  to  your  comfort 
and  hapi^iness.  We  are  not  poor,  Miss 
Gourlay  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  both  inde^ 
pendent  and  wealthy.  You  must,  therefore, 
want  for  nothing.  I  am,  for  as  long  as  may 
be  necessary,  your  jjarent,  as  I  ssiid,  and 
j'our  banker  ;  and  if  you  will  permit  me  the 
honor,  I  would  wish  to  add,  your  friend. 
Good-by,  my  dear  child,  I  am  going  to  take 
my  daily  ramble  ;  but  I  am  sure  you  are  in 
safe  hands  when  I  leave  you  in  my  dear 
Martha's.     Good-by,  my  love." 

The  amiable  man  took  his  golden-headed 
cane,  and  sauntered  out  to  amuse  himself 
among  the  fields,  oecasioually  going  into  the 
town  of  Wicklow,  taking  a  glance  at  the  pa- 
pers in  the  hotel,  to  which  he  generally  add- 
ed a  glass  of  ale  and  a  pipe. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  left  them  that  Lu- 
cy enjoyed  an  opportunity  of  i^ouring  out,  at 
full  length,  to  her  delicate-minded  and  faith- 
ful friend,  the  cause  of  her  flight  from  home. 
This  narrative,  however,  was  an  honorable 
proof  of  the  considerate  forbearance  she 
evinced  when  necess-uily  alluding  to  the 
character  and  conduct  of  her  father.  Were 
it  not,  in  fact,  that  Mrs.  Mainwaring  had  from 
personal  oj^portunity  been  enabled  to  thor- 
oughly understand  the  temper,  feelings,  and 
princiiJes  of  the  worthy  baronet,  she  would 
have  naturally  concluded  that  Lucy  was  a 
disobedient  girl,  and  her  father  a  man  who 
had  committed  no  other  error  than  that  of 
miscalculating  her  happiness  from  motives  of 
excessive  aftection. 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  heard  it  all  with  a  calm 
and  matronly  benignity  that  soothed  poor 
Lucy  ;  for  it  was  for  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
disclosed  the  actual  state  of  her  feehugs  to  any 
one,  with  the  exception  of  her  late  mother. 

"Now,  my  dear  jNIiss  Gom-lay " 

"  CaU  me  Lucy,  Mrs.  Mainwaring,"  said 
the  affectionate  girl,  wijiing  her  eyes,  for  we 
need  not  assure  our  readers  that  the  recital 
of  her  suftei'ings,  no  matter  how  much  soft- 
ened down  or  modified,  cost  her  many  a 
bitter  tear. 

"  I  will  indeed,  my  love,  I  wiU,  Lucy,"  si  a 
replied,  kissing  her  cheek,  "  if  it  gratifies 
you.  Why  should  I  not  ?  But  you  know 
the  distance  there  is  between  us." 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  no. 
AVhat  are  the  cold  forms  of  the  world  but 
disguises  and  masks,  under  which  the  har- 
dened and  heartless  put  themselves  in  a 
position  of  false  eminence  over  the  humble 
and  the  good.  The  good  are  all  equal  ovet 
the  earth,  no  matter  what  their  relative  sit- 
uations may  be  ;  and  on  this  account,  not 


452 


WILLIAM   CARLETOF'S    WORlvS. 


withstanding  my  rank,  I  am  scarcely  worthy  ' 
to  sit  at  j'our  feet. " 

Mrs.  Mainwariug,  with  a  kind  of  affection- 
ate enthusiasm,  put  her  hand  upon  the 
beautiful  girl's  hand,  and  was  about  to 
speak  ;  but  she  paused  for  more  than  half  a 
minute,  during  which  sjjace  her  serene  and 
benevolent  face  assumed  an  expression  of 
profound  thought  and  sex-iousuess.  At 
length  she  sighed  rather  deeply,  and  said, 

"  My  dear  Lucy,  it  is  too  bad  that  the 
happiness  of  such  a  girl  as  you  should  be 
wrecked  ;  but,  worst  of  all,  that  it  should  be 
wrecked  upon  a  most  unprincipled  profligate. 
You  know  the  humbleness  of  my  birth  ;  the 
daughter  of  a  decent  farmer,  wL  felt  it  a 
duty  to  give  his  children  the  only  boon,  ex- 
cept his  blessing,  that  he  had  to  bestow  upon 
them — a  good  education.  WeU,  my  dear 
child,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  be  dishearten- 
ed, nor  suffer  your  spirits  to  droop.  You 
will  look  surprised  when  I  teU  you  that  I 
think  it  more  than  jsrobable,  if  I  am  cajaable 
of  judging  your  father's  heart  aright,  that  I 
shall  be  able  by  a  short  inter^dew  wtli  him 
to  change  the  whole  current  of  his  ambition, 
and  to  biing  about  such  a  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing against  Lord  Dunroe,  as  may  prevent 
him  fi'om  consenting  to  your  union  with  that 
nobleman  under  any  circumstances.  Nay, 
not  to  stop  here  ;  but  that  I  shall  cause  him 
to  look  upon  the  breaking  ujj  of  this  con- 
templated marriage  as  one  of  the  greatest 
blessings  that  could  befaU  his  family." 

"  Such  an  event  might  be  jjossible,"  rejjlied 
Lucy,  "  were  I  not  unfortunately  satisfied 
that  papa  is  ah-eady  aware  of  Dunroe 's  loose 
habits  of  life,  which  he  views  only  as  the 
giddiness  of  a  young  and  buoyant  spirit  that 
marriage  would  reform.  He  says  Dunroe  is 
only  sowrug  his  wild  oats,  as,  with  false  in- 
dulgence, he  is  pleased  to  term  it.  Under 
these  circumstances,  then,  I  fear  he  would 
meet  you  with  the  same  arguments,  and  as 
they  satisfy  himself  so  you  will  find  him 
cling  to  the  dangerous  theory  they  estab- 
lish." 

"  But,  Lucy,  my  dear  chUd,  you  are  quite 
mistaken  in  your  estimate  of  the  arguments 
which  I  should  use,  because  you  neither  can 
know  nor  suspect  their  import.  They  apply 
not  at  all  to  Lord  Diruroe's  morals,  I  assui'e 
you.  It  is  enough  to  say,  at  present,  tliat  I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  disclose  them  ;  and,  in- 
deed, I  never  intended  to  do  so  ;  but  as  a 
knowledge  of  the  secret  I  possess  may  not 
only  promote  your  happiness,  but  reheve 
you  fi'om  the  persecution  and  misery  you 
endiu'e  on  this  young  nobleman's  account,  I 
think  it  becomes  my  duty  to  have  an  inter- 
view with  your  father  on  the  subject." 

'  Before  you  do  so,  my  dear  madam,"  re- 


i:)lied  Lucy,  "it  is  necessary  that  I  should 
jjut  you  in  jDOssession  of — of — "  there  was 
here  a  hesitation,  and  a  blush,  and  a  confu- 
sion of  manner,  that  made  Mrs.  Mainwaiing 
look  at  her  with  some  attention. 

"Take  care,  Lucy,"  she  said  smiling  ;  "a 
previous  engagement,  111  warrant  me.  I 
see  you  blush." 

"  But  not  for  its  object,  Mi-s.  Mainwai-ing," 
she  rephed.  "  However,  you  are  right ;  and 
jiajia  is  aware  of  it." 

'■  I  see,  Lucj^ ;  and  on  that  aecoimt  he 
wishes  to  himy  on  this  hated  marriage  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  And  what  pecuhar  dialike  has  papa 
against  the  object  of  your  choice? — are  you 
aware  ?  " 

"The  samehB  would  entertain  against  anv 
choice  but  his  own — his  great  ambition 
The  toil  and  labor  of  all  his  thoughts,  hojjes, 
and  calculations,  is  to  see  me  a  countess  befoi'e 
he  dies.  I  know  not  whether  to  consider 
this  as  affection  moved  by  the  ambition  of 
life,  or  ambition  stimidated  by  affection." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Lucy,  I  fear  verj'  much  that 
if  your  papa's  heart  were  analyzed  it  would 
be  found  that  he  is  more  anxious  to  gratify 
his  o\Mi  aml)ition  than  to  promote  your  haj)- 
piuess,  and  that,  cousequeutlj',  his  interest 
iu  the  matter  altogether  absorbs  yours.  But 
we  need  not  discuss  tliis  now.  You  say  he 
is  awai'e  of  your  attachment?" 

"  He  is  ;  I  myself  confessed  it  to  him." 

"Is  he  aware  of  the  name  and  condition  in 
life  of  your  lover  ?  " 

"  Alas,  no  !  Mrs.  Mainwariug.  He  has  seen 
him,  but  that  is  aU.  He  expressed,  how- 
ever, a  fierce  and  ungovernable  curiosity  to 
know  who  and  what  he  is  ;  but,  imfortuuate- 
ly,  mj-  lover,  as  you  call  him,  is  so  peculiarly 
circumstanced,  that  I  could  not  disclose 
either  the  one  or  the  other." 

"  But,  my  dear  Lucy,  is  not  this  secrecy, 
this  claudestime  conduct,  on  the  pari  of  your 
lover,  wrong?  Ought  you,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  entertain  an  attachment  for  any 
person  who  feels  either  afraid  or  ashamed  to 
avow  his  name  and  rank  ?  Pardon  me,  my 
love." 

Lucy  rose  uji,  and  Mrs.  Mainwai-ing  felt 
somewhat  alarmed  at  the  length  she  had 
gone,  especially  on  observing  that  the  lovely 
girl's  face  and  neck  were  oversjsread  ^rith  a 
deep  and  burning  blush, 

"  Pardon  you,  my  dear  madam  !  Is  it  for 
uttering  sentiments  worthy  of  the  purest 
friendship  and  att'ection,  and  such  only  as  I 
would  expect  to  proceed  fi-om  your  lips? 
But  it  is  necessary  to  state,  in  my  ovsti  de- 
fence, that  beloved  mamma  was  aware  of, 
and  sanctioned  our  attachment.  A  mystery 
there  is,   unquestionably,   about  my  lover; 


THE  BLACK  BAUONET. 


453 


but  it  is  one  with  wliicli  !<he  was  acquainted, 
for  she  told  me  so.  It  is  not,  however,  upon 
this  mystery  or  that  mystery — but  upon  the 
truth,  honor,  dehcacy,  disiuterestedliess,  of 
him  to  whom  I  liave  yielded  my  heart,  that  I 
si^eak.  Li  tiaie,  pure,  and  exalted  love,  my 
deal-  Mrs.  Maiuwaring,  there  is  an  intuition 
of  the  heart  which  enables  the  soul  to  see 
into  and  comprehend  its  ohject,  with  a  com- 
pleteness of  success  as  certain  and  effectual 
as  the  mission  of  an  angel.  When  such  love 
exists — and  such  only — all  is  soon  known — 
the  spirit  is  satisfied  ;  and,  except  those  les- 
sons of  happiness  and  delight  that  are  before 
it,  the  heart,  on  that  subject,  has  notliing 
more  to  learn.  This,  then,  is  my  reply  ; 
and  as  for  the  mysteiy  I  speak  of,  every  day 
is  bringing  us  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  dis- 
closiu'e,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  worth." 

Mrs.  Mainwai'ing  looked  on  with  wondei-. 
Lucy's  beauty  seemed  to  brighten,  as  it  were 
witJi  a  divine  hght,  as  she  uttered  these  glow- 
ing words.  In  fact,  she  apjDeared  to  undergo 
a  transfiguration  fi'om  the  mortal  state  to 
the  angelic,  and  exemplified,  in  her  own  per- 
son— now  radiant  with  the  highest  and  holi- 
est enthusiasm  of  love — all  that  divine  purity, 
all  that  noble  pride  and  heroic  devotedness 
of  heart,  by  which  it  is  actuated  and  inspired. 
Her  eyes,  as  she  proceeded,  filled  with  tears, 
and  on  concluding,  she  threw  heiself,  weep- 
ing, into  her  friend's  arms,  exclaiming, 

"  Alas  !  my  dear,  dear  Mi's.  Maiuwaring,  I 
am  not  worthy  of  him." 

Mr.s.  Maiuwaring  kissed,  and  cherished, 
and  soothed  her,  and  in  a  short  time  she  re- 
covered herself,  and  resumed  an  aspect  of 
her  usual  calm,  dignified,  yet  graceful 
beauty. 

"  Alas  ! "  thought  her  fi-iend,  as  she  looked 
on  her  with  mingled  compassion  and  admi- 
ration, "this  love  is  either  for  hapjainess  or 
death.  I  now  see,  after  all,  that  there  is 
much  of  the  father's  character  stamped  into 
her  spirit,  and  that  the  same  energy  with 
which  he  jim-sues  ambition  actuates  his 
daughter  in  love.  Each  wiU  have  its  object, 
or  die." 

"  Well,  my  love,"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  "  I 
am  sorry  we  jjermitted  our  conversation  to 
take  such  a  turn,  or  to  carry  us  so  far.  You 
are,  I  fear,  not  yet  strong  enough  for  any- 
thing calculated  to  ait'ect  or  agitate  you." 

"  The  introduction  of  it  was  necessary,  my 
dear  madam,"  rejjlied  Lucy ;  "  for  I  need 
not  say  that  it  was  my  object  to  mention  the 
subject  of  our  attachment  to  you  before  the 
close  of  oui'  conversation." 

"  Well,  at  all  events,"  rephed  IMrs.  Main- 
waring,  "  we  shall  go  and  have  a  walk 
through  the  fields.  The  sun  is  bright  and 
warm  ;  the  httle  burn  below,  and  the  thou- 


sand larks  above,  will  give  us  their  melody ; 
and  Cracton's  park — oiu-  own  little  three- 
cornered  j)addock — v\t11  present  us  with  one 
of  the  sweetest  objects  in  the  humble  laud- 
scajje — a  green  field  ahnost  white  with  dai' 
sies — pardon  the  little  blunder,  Lucy — thus; 
constitutmg  it  a  jjoem  for  the  heart,  written 
by  the  hand  of  nature  herself." 

Lucy,  who  enjoyed  natural  scenery  with 
the  high  enthusiasm  tliat  was  peculiar*  to  her 
character,  was  delighted  at  the  proposal,  and 
in  a  few  niiuutes  both  the  ladies  sauntered 
out  through  the  orchard,  which  was  now 
white  and  fi-agraut  with  blossoms. 

As  they  went  along,  Mrs.  Maiuwaring  be- 
gan to  mention  some  particulai's  of  her  mar- 
riage ;  a  circumstance  to  which,  owing  to 
Lucy's  iUuess,  she  had  not  until  then  had  an 
opiiortunity  of  adverting. 

"  The  truth  is,  my  dear  Lucy,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, "  I  am  naturally  averse  to  lead  what 
is  termed  a  solitar}'  hfe  in  the  world.  I  wish 
to  have  a  fiiend  on  whom  I  can  occasionally 
rest,  as  upon  a  support.  You  know  that  I 
kept  a  boarding-school  in  the  metropolis  for 
many  years  after  my  return  fi-om  the  Conti- 
nent. That  I  was  successful  and  saved  some 
money  are  facts  which,  perhaps,  you  don't 
know.  Loss  of  health,  however,  caused  ma 
to  resign  the  establishment  to  Emily,  your 
former  governess ;  but,  unfortunately,  her 
health,  like  mine,  gave  way  under  the  sever- 
ity of  its  duties.  She  accordingly  disposed 
of  it,  and  accepted  the  important  task  of 
j  superintending  the  general  course  of  your 
education,  aided  by  all  the  necessary  and 
usual  masters.  ,  To  this,  as  you  are  aware, 
she  appUed  herself  with  an  assiduity  that 
was  beyond  her  yet  infirm  state  of  health. 
She  went  to  Cheltenham,  where  she  recov- 
ered strength,  and  I  undertook  her  duties 
luitil  her  return.  I  then  sought  out  for 
some  c[uiet,  pretty,  secluded  sjiot,  where  I 
could,  upon  the  fruits  of  my  ot\ti  iudustiy, 
enjoy  innocently  and  peacefully  the  dechne 
of,  I  trust,  a  not  unuseful  life.  Fortunately, 
I  found  our  present  abode,  which  I  pm-chased, 
and  which  has  been  occasionally  honored  by 
your  presence,  as  well  as  by  that  of  yoiu' 
beloved  mamma.  Several  years  passed,  and 
the  widow  was  not  unhajJiay  ;  for  my  daugh- 
ter, at  my  sohcitation,  gave  up  her  profes- 
sion as  a  governess,  and  came  to  reside  with 
me.  In  the  meantime,  we  hapj)ened  to  meet 
at  the  same  party  two  individuals — gentle- 
men— who  had  subsequently  the  honor  of 
carrying  off  the  mother  and  daughter  with 
flying  colors.  The  one  was  Dr.  Scareman, 
to  whom  Emily— my  dear,  unfortunate  girl, 
had  the  misfortune  to  get  married.  He  was 
a  dark-faced,  but  handsome  man — that  is  to 
say,  he  could  beai-  a  first  glance  or  two,  but 


454 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


was  incaijable  of  standing  anj'tbing  like  a 
close  scrutiny.  He  passed  as  a  physician  in 
good  practice,  but  as  the  marriage  was — 
what  no  marriage  ought  to  be — a  hasty  one 
— we  did  not  discover,  until  too  late,  that  the 
practice  he  boasted  of  consisted  princii»Uy 
in  the  management  of  a  mad-house.  He  is, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  both  cruel  and  penurious 
— at  once  a  miser  and  a  t^Tant — and  if  his 
conduct,  to  my  child  is  not  kinder  and  more 
generous,  I  sliall  feel  it  my  duty  to  bring 
her  home  to  myself,  where,  at  all  events,  she 
can  calculate  upon  peace  and  affection.  The 
doctor  saw  that  Emily  W'as  beautiful — knew 
that  she  had  money — and  accordingly  hur- 
ried on  the  ceremony. 

"  Such  is  the  history  of  poor  Emily's  mar- 
riage.    Now  for  my  own. 

"  Mr.  Maiuwaring  was,  like  myself,  a  per- 
son who  had  been  engaged  in  ecbicating  the 
young.  For  many  years  he  had  conducted, 
with  great  success,  a  boarding-school  that 
soon  became  eminent  for  the  mmiber  of 
brUliaut  and  accomplished  men  whom  it  sent 
into  society  and  the  institutions  of  the  coun- 
try. Like  me,  he  had  saved  money — like  me 
he  lost  his  health,  and  like  me  his  destiny 
conducted  him  to  this  neighborhood.  We 
met  several  times,  and  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  good  deal  of  curiosity ;  he  anxious 
to  know  what  kind  of  animal  an  old  school- 
mistress was,  and  I  to  ascertain  with  what 
tribe  an  old  school-master  should  be  classed. 
There  was  something  odd,  if  not  comical,  in 
this  scratiny  ;  and  the  best  of  it  all  was,  that 
the  more  closely  we  inspected  and  investi- 
gated, the  more  acciu-ately  did  we  discover 
that  we  were  eounterjjarts — as  exact  as  the 
two  sides  of  a  tally,  or  the  teeth  of  a  rat-trap 
— with  pardon  to  dear  Mr.  Maiuwaring  for 
the  nasty  comparison,  whatever  may  have 
put  it  into  my  head.  He,  in  fact,  was  an 
old  school-master  and  a  widower ;  I  an 
old  school-mistress  and  a  widow  ;  he  wanted 
a  friend  and  companion,  so  did  I.  Each 
finding  that  the  other  led  a  solitary  life,  and 
only  required  that  solace  and  agreeable  so- 
ciety, which  a  kind  and  rational  companion 
can  most  assuredly  bestow,  resolved  to  take 
the  other,  as  the  good  old  phrase  goes,  for 
better  for  worse  ;  and  accordingly  here  we 
are,  thank  God,  with  no  care  but  that  which 
proceeds  from  the  unfortunate  mistake  which 
poor  Emily  made  in  her  marriage.  The  spirit 
that  cemented  our  hearts  was  friendship,  not 
love  ;  but  the  holiness  of  marriage  has  con- 
secrated that  friendship  into  affection,  which 
the  sweet  intercourse  of  domestic  hfe  has 
softened  into  something  still  more  agreeable 
and  tender.  My  perl's  man-iage,  my  dear 
Lucy,  is  the  only  painful  thought  that  tlu'ows 
its  shadow  across  our  happiness." 


"Poor  Emily,"  sighed  Lucy,  "how  littlfi 
did  that  calm,  sweet-temi^ered,  and  patient 
girl  desei-ve  to  meet  such  a  husband.  But 
perhaps  he  may  yet  improve.  If  gentleness 
and  afl'ection  can  soften  a  heart  by  time  and 
l^erseverance,  his  may  yet  become  human." 

Such  was  the  simple  history  of  this  ami- 
able couple,  who,  although  enjoying  as  mudi 
happiness  as  is  usuallj'  allotted  to  man  and 
woman,  were  not,  however,  free  from  those 
characteristic  traces  that  enabled  their  friends 
to  recognize  without  much  difficulty  the  jsre- 
vious  habits  of  their  lives. 

"Mrs.  Maiuwaring,"  said  Lucy,  "I  must 
write  to  my  father,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of 
the  anguish  he  will  feel  at  my  siidden  and 
mysterious  disappearance.  It  will  set  him 
distracted,  perhaps  cause  illness." 

"  Until  now,  my  dear  child,  you  know  you 
had  neither  time,  nor  health,  nor  strength 
to  do  so ;  but  I  agree  with  you,  and  think 
without  doubt  you  ought  to  make  his  mind 
as  easy  ujron  this  jjoint  as  possible.  At  the 
same  time  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  necessary 
for  you  to  give  a  clew  to  yoiu-  present  resi- 
dence. Perhaps  it  would  be  better  that  I 
should  see  him  before  you  think  of  returning; 
but  of  that  we  will  speak  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  or  during  to-moj-row,  when  ■oe  shall 
have  a  little  more  time  to  consider  the  mat- 
ter projjerly,  and  determine  what  may  be  the 
best  steps  to  take." 


CHAPTER    XXm. 

A  Lunch  in  Simimn-field  Coitnge. 

The  little  spot  they  strolled  in  was  beauti 
ful,  from  the  natural  simpUcity  of  the  sweet 
but  humble  scenery  around  them.  They 
traversed  it  in  eveiy  direction  ;  sat  on  the 
sunny  side  of  grassy  eminences,  gathered 
wild  flowers,  threw  pebbles  into  the  Httle 
prattling  stream  that  ran  over  its  stony  bed 
before  them  ;  hstened  to  and  talked  of  and 
enjoyed  the  music  of  the  birds  as  they  turned 
the  veiy  air  and  hedges  into  harmony.  Lucy 
thought  how  happy  she  could  be  in  such  a 
calm  and  delightful  retreat,  with  the  society 
of  the  man  .she  loved,  far  from  the  intrigue, 
and  pride,  and  vanity,  and  ambition  of  life  ; 
and  she  could  scarcely  hel])  shuddering  when 
she  reflected  upon  the  tr.ick  of  criminal  am- 
bition and  profligacy  into  which,  for  the  sake 
of  an  empty  and  perhaps  a  painful  title,  her 
father  ■\\dshed  to  drag  her. 

This  train  of  thought,  however,  was  dissi- 
pated by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Maiuwaring, 
who  had  returned  from  his  stroll,  and  came 
out  to  seek  for  them,  accompanied  by  a  young 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


455 


officer  of  very  elepfant  and  geutlemanly  ap- 
pearance, whom  he  inti-oduced  as  Captain 
Roberts,  of  the  33d,  then  quartered  in  Dub- 
lin, 

As  an  apology  for  the  fact  of  iMi'.  Main- 
waring  having  introduced  a  stranger  to  Lucy, 
under  circumstances  where  isrivacy  was  so 
desirable,  it  may  be  necessary  to  say  here, 
that  Mrs.  JIainwaring,  out  of  dehcacy  to 
Lucy,  forbore  to  acciuaint  him  even  with  a 
hint  at  the  cause  of  her  visit,  so  far  as  Lucy, 
on  the  morning  of  her  arrival,  had  hastily 
and  briefly  communicated  it  to  her.  This 
she  was  resolved  not  to  do  without  her  ex- 
press permission. 

"  Allow  me,  ladies,  to  present  to  you  my 
fi'iend.  Captain  Roberts,  of  the  33d — or,  as 
another  older  friend  of  mine,  his  excellent 
father,  terms  it,  the  three  times  eleven — by 
the  way,  not  a  bad  paraphrase,  and  worthj- 
of  a  retii-ed  school-master  hke  myself.  It 
is  turning  the  multiplication  table  into  a 
vocabulary  and  m;ikiug  it  perform  military 
duty." 

After  the  usual  formalities  had  been  gone 
through,  Mr.  Mainwaring,  wlio  was  in  pecu- 
liarly excellent  spirits,  proceeded  : 

"  Of  course  you  know,  every  officer  when 
introduced  or  travelling  is  a  captain — C.\p- 
TADJ — a  good  travelling  name  ! — Vide  the  play- 
books,  ^joi'stm.  My  young  friend,  however, 
is  at  the  present — you  remember  a.s  in  p/vs- 
enli,  Edward — only  an  ensign,  but,  please 
God,  old  as  some  of  us  are,  Mrs.  M.  to  wit 
— ahem  !  we  will  live  to  shake  hands  with 
him  as  cajstaiu  yet." 

"  You  mean,  of  course,  my  dear,"  said  his 
wife,  "  that  I  will  live  to  do  so  ;  the  youngest, 
as  the  jJroverb  has  it,  lives  longest.  No  man, 
Mr.  Roberts,  will  more  regret  the  improba- 
bihty  of  verifying  his  own  wishes  than  Mr. 
Main  waring." 

"  Ah,  Martha  !  you're  always  too  hard  for 
me,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "  But  you  must 
know  that  this  young  officer,  of  whom  I  feel 
so  proud,  is  an  old  pupU  of  mine,  and  re- 
ceived his  education  at  my  feet.  I  conse- 
quently feel  a  more  than  usual  interest  in 
him.  But  come,  we  lose  time.  It  is  now 
past  two  o'clock,  and,  if  I  don't  mistake, 
there's  a  bit  of  cold  ham  and  chicken  to  'ue 
had,  and  my  walk  has  prepared  me  for  lunch, 
as  it  usually  does,  and  besides,  Martha, 
there's  an  old  friend  of  mine,  liis  father, 
waiting  for  our  return,  to  whom  I  must  in- 
troduce you  both,  ladies,  as  a  samjile  of  the  ' 
dne  old  soldier,  who  is  a  eajsital  version  of 
human  nature."  j 

On  reaching  the  cottage  they  found  our  , 
worthy  friend,  old  Sam  Roberts,  in  the  gar- 
den,  tlu'owing  crumbs  of  bread  to  a  busy 
little  liock  of  sparrows,   behind  one  of  the 


i  back  windows  that  opened  into  it.  His 
honest  but  manly  face  was  lit  up  witli  all  the 
eager  and  boisterous  enjoyment  of  a  child 
whilst  observing  with  simple  delight  the 
fierce  and  angry  quarrels  of  the  parents,  as 
they  fought  on  behalf  of  their  young,  for  the 
good  things  so  providentially  cast  in  then' 
way. 

"Come,  now,"  said  S.im.  "I'm  commis- 
sary-general for  this  day,  and,  for  a  miracle, 
an  honest  one — fight  fair,  j-ou  WTetches — 
but  I  don't  wonder  at  the  sjiuuk  you  sliow, 
for  the  rations,  I  can  tell  you,  are  better, 
poor  things,  than  you  are  accustomed  to. 
Hello,  there  !  you,  su- — you  big  fellow — you 
hulk  of  a  cock — what  busmess  have  you 
here  ?  This  is  a  quarrel  among  the  ladies, 
sirrah,  who  are  mothers,  and  it  is  for  their 
young  ones — on  behalf  of  their  children  — 
they  are  showing  fight ;  and  you,  sir,  j'ou 
overgrown  glutton,  are  stuffing  yourself, 
hke  many  another  '  foul  bird '  before  you, 
■ft-ith  the  pubhc  property.  8hame,  you  little 
vulture  !  Don't  you  see  they  iiy  away  when 
they  have  gotten  an  allowance,  and  give  it 

to  their  starving  children  ?  D your  prin- 

cij^le,  sir,  it's  a  bad  one.  You  think  the 
strongest  ought  to  take  most,  do  you  'r 
Brafvo  !  WeU  done,  my  little  woman.  Go 
on,  you  have  right  and  natui-e  on  your  side 
— that's  it,  peck  the  glutton — he's  a  rascal 
— a  pubUc  officer — a  commissary-genend 
that — lay  on  him — well  done — never  mind 
military  discipline — he's  none  of  your  officer 
— he's  a  robber — a  bandit — and  neither  a 
soldier  nor  a  gentleman — by  fife  and  drum, 
that's  well  done.  But  it's  all  nature —all 
the  heart  of  man." 

"  Well,  old  friend,"  said  he,  "  and  so  this 
is  your  good  lady.  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  V 
By  fife  and  drum.  Mi-.  Mainwaring,  but  if.'; 
a  good  match.  You  were  made  for  one 
another.  And  this  young  lady  your  daugh- 
tei",  ma'am '?  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Main- 
waring  ?  " 

"My dear  Mr.  Roberts,"  said  Mainwaring, 
"  we  are  not  so  happy  as  to  claim  this  young 
lady  as  a  daughter.  She  is  Miss  Gourlay, 
daughter  to  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  of  Red  Hall, 
now  here  upon  a  visit  for  the  good  of  her 
health." 

"  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Gourlaj'  ?  I  am 
happy  to  say  that  I  have  seen  a  young  lady 
that  I  have  heard  so  much  of — so  much,  I 
ought  to  say,  that  was  good  of." 

Lucy,  as  she  replied,  blushed  deeply  at 
this  unintentional  mention  of  her  name,  and 
Mrs.  Mainwaiing,  signing  to  her  husband, 
by  putting  her  finger  on  her  lips,  hinted  to 
him  that  lie  had  done  wrong. 

Old  Sam,  however,  on  receiving  this  intel- 
ligence, looked  occi'sionidly,  with  a  great  deal 


956 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


of  interest,  from  Lucy  to  the  young  officer, 
and  again  from  the  young  otfieer  to  Lucy  ; 
and  as  he  did  it,  he  uttered  a  series  of  ejacu- 
lations to  himself,  which  were  for  the  most 
part  inaudible  to  the  rest.  "  Ha  ! — dear  me  ! 
— God  bless  me  ! — very  strange  ! — right,  old 
Corbet— right  for  a  thousand — natiu-e  will 
prove  it — not  a  doubt  of  it — God  bless  me  ! 
— how  very  like  they  ai'e  ! — perfect  brother 
and  sister  !— bless  me — it's  extraordinary — 
not  a  doubt  of  it.     Bravo,  Ned  !  " 

"  Come,  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Mainwaring  ; 
"  come,  my  friend,  old  Sam,  as  you  like  to 
be  called,  and  you,  Edward,  come  one,  come 
all,  tiU  we  try  the  cold  ham  and  chicken. 
Miss  Gou — ehem — come,  Lucy,  my  dear, 
the  short  cut  thi-ough  the  window  ;  you  see 
it  opens,  and  now,  Martha,  your  hand  ;  but 
there  is  old  Sam's.  Well  done,'  Sam  ;  your 
soldier's  ever  gallant.  Help  Miss — help  the 
young  lady  up  the  steps,  Edward.  Good  ! 
he  has  anticipated  me." 

In  a  few  mimites  they  were  enjoying 
thefr  hmch,  during  which  the  conversation 
became  very  agreeable,  and  even  animated. 
Young  Roberts  had  nothing  of  the  military 
puppy  about  him  whatsoever.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  dejjortment  was  modest,  manly, 
and  unassuming.  Sensible  of  his  father's 
humble,  but  yet  resjiectable  position,  he 
neither  attempted  to  swagger  himself  into 
importance  by  an  affectation  of  sujierior 
bi'eeding  or  contemj)t  for  his  parent,  nor 
did  he  manifest  any  of  that  sullen  tacitujr- 
nity  which  is  fr'eqviently  preseiTed,  as  a 
proof  of  superiority,  or  a  mask  for  conscious 
ignorance  and  bad  breeding  ;  the  fact  being 
generally  forgotten  that  it  is  an  exponent  of 
both. 

"  So,  Edwai'd,  you  like  the  army,  then  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Mainwaring. 

"  I  do,  sir,"  rejihed  young  Roberts  ;  "  it's  a 
noble  profession." 

"  Right,  Ned — a  noble  profession — that's 
the  word,"  said  old  Sam  ;  "  and  so  it  is,  my 
boy,  and  a  brave  and  a  generous  one." 

Lucy  Gomiay  and  the  young  soldier  had 
occasionally  glanced  at  each  other  ;  and  it 
might  have  been  observed,  that  whenever 
they  did  so,  each  seemed  surprised,  if  not 
actually  confused. 

"  Is  it  difficult,  Edwai'd,"  asked  Mainwar- 
ing, after  they  had  taken  wine  together,  "  to 
purchase  a  commission  at  jjresent  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  very  easy  to  procure  commis- 
sions just  now,"  repUed  the  other  ;  "  but 
you  know,  jMi-.  Mainwaring,  that  I  had  the 
honor  to  be  raised  from  the  ranks." 

"  Bravo,  Ned  !  "  exclaimed  old  Sam,  slap- 
ping hiui  him  on  the  back  ;  "  I  am  glad  to 
gee  that  you  talce  that  honor  in  its  trae  light. 
Thousands  may  have  monej- to  buy  a  com- 


mission, but  give  me  the  man  that  has  merit 
to  deserve  it ;  especially,  Ned,  at  so  young 
an  age  as  yours, ' 

"  You  must  have  distinguished  yourself, 
sir,"  observed  Lucy,  "  otherwise  it  is  quite 
unusual,  I  think,  to  witness  the  promotion 
from  the  ranks  of  so  young  a  man." 

"I  only  endeavored  to  do  my  duty, 
madam,"  rej^lied  Roberts,  bowing  modestly, 
whilst  something  Hke  a  blush  came  over  his 
cheek. 

"Never  mind  him.  Miss  Gourlay,"  ex- 
claimed Sam — "never  mind  ;  he  did  dis- 
tinguish himself,  and  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion, too,  and  well  deserved  his  promotion. 
When  one  of  the  British  Hags  was  seized  upon 
and  borne  ott',  after  the  brave  fellow  whose 
duty  it  was  to  defend  it  -with  his  hfe  had 
done  so,  and  was  cut  down  by  thi-ee  French 
soldiers,  our  gentleman  here,  for  all  so 
modest  as  he  looks,  pursued  them,  fought 
single-handed  against  the  three,  rescued  the 
flag,  and,  on  his  way  back,  met  the  general, 
who  chanced  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  exploit ; 
when  passing  near  him,  bleeding,  for  he 
had  been  smartly  wounded,  the  general  rides 
over  to  him.  '  Is  the  officer  who  bore  that 
flag  killed  ? '  he  asked.  '  He  is,  genei-al,'  re- 
phed  Ned. — 'You  have  rescued  it?' — 'I 
have,  sii".' — '  What  is  yoiu-  name  ? ' —  He 
told  him. — '  Have  you  received  an  educa- 
tion ? ' — '  A  good  education,  general.' — '  Very 
good,' proceeded  the  general.  'You  have 
recovered  the  flag,  you  say  ?  ' — '  I  considered 
it  my  duty  either  to  die  or  to  do  so,  general,' 
replied  Ned. — '  Well  said,  soldier,'  retin-ned 
the  general,  '  and  -n  eh  done,  too  :  as  for  the 
flag  itseK,  you  miist  only  keep  it  for  your 
pains.  Your  commission,  young  man,  shall 
be  made  oiit.  I  will  take  charge  of  that  my- 
self.'— There,  now,  is  the  history  of  his  pro- 
motion for  you." 

"It  is  highly  honorable  to  him  ui  every 
sense,"  obseiTed  Lucy.  "  But  it  was  an  aw- 
fril  risk  of  life  for  one  man  to  pursue  three." 

"  A  soldier,  madam,"  rejilied  Roberts,  bow- 
ing to  her  for  the  comj^liment,  "  in  the  mo- 
ment of  danger,  or  when  the  flag  of  his  sov- 
ereign is  hkely  to  be  sviUied,  should  never 
remember  that  he  has  a  life  ;  or  remember 
it  only  that  it  may  be  devoted  to  the  glory 
of  his  coimtry  and  the  maiuten;mce  of  her 
freedom." 

"  That's  well  said,  Edward,"  observed  Mr, 
Mainwta-ing  ;  "  very  well  ex^jressed  indeed. 
The  clauses  of  that  sentence  all  follow  in  a 
neat,  consecutive  ordsr.  It  is,  indeed,  as 
well  put  together  as  if  it  were  an  exorcise." 

Edward  could  not  help  smiUng  at  this  un- 
conscious trait  of  the  old  school-master  peep- 
ing out. 

"That   general    is    a    iiue   old    fffilow," 


THE  BLACK  BARORET. 


457 


srid  Sfiiii,  "  and  knew  liow  to  reward  true 
courage.  But  you  see,  Mr.  Maiuwaring 
and  ladies,  it's  all  natural,  all  the  heart  of 
man." 

"There's  Mr.  Mitchell,  oiir  clergyman," 
obsei-ved  Mrs.  Maiuwariug,  looking  out  of 
the  window;  "I  wish  he  would  come  in. 
Shall  I  caU  him,  dear?" 

"  Never  mind  now,  my  love,"  repUed  her 
husband.  "  I  like  the  man  well  enough  ;  he 
is  rehgious,  they  say,  and  charitable,  but 
his  earlj'  education  unfortunately  was  neg- 
lected. His  sermons  never  hang  well  to- 
gether ;  he  frequently  omits  the  exordium, 
and  often  winds  them  up  without  the  peror- 
ation at  all.  Then  he  mispronounces  shock- 
ingly, and  is  full  of  false  quantities.  It  was 
only  on  last  Sunday  that  he  laid  the  accent 
on  i  in  U;ililah.  Such  a  man's  sermons,  I 
i.m  sorry  to  say,  can  do  any  educated  man 
little  good.  Here's  a  note,  my  love,  from 
IVirs.  Fletcher.  I  met  the  servant  coming 
over  with  it,  and  took  it  from  him.  She 
wishes  to  hear  from  you  in  an  houi-  or  two  : 
it's  a  party,  I  think." 

He  threw  the  note  over  to  his  vdie,  wlio, 
after  apologizmg  to  the  company,  opened, 
and  began  to  I'ead  it. 

Honest  old  Maiuwaring  was  an  excellent 
man,  and  did  a  gi'cat  deal  of  good  in  a  quiet 
way,  considering  his  sphere  of  life.  In  at- 
tending to  the  sermon,  bowever,  when  at 
church,  he  laid  himself  back  in  his  pew,  .shut 
his  eyes,  ^lut  the  end  of  his  gold-headed  cane 
to  his  hps,  and  set  a  criticising.  If  all  the 
rhetorical  iiiles  were  duly  observed,  the  lan- 
guage clear,  and  the  parts  of  the  sermon 
well  arranged,  and  if,  besides,  there  was 
neither  fdse  accent,  nor  false  quantity,  nor 
any  bad  grammar,  he  pronounced  it  admirs/- 
ble,  and  praised  the  preacher  to  the  skies. 
Anything  short  of  this,  however,  he  looked 
upon  not  only  as  a  failure,  but  entertained 
strong  doubts  of  the  man's  orthodoxy,  as 
well  as  of  the  purity  of  his  doctrine. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Mainwaring, 
after  having  glanced  over  the  note,  "  you  are 
right ;  it  is  a  pai-ty  ;  and  we  are  both  asked  ; 
but  I  wonder,  above  all  things,  that  Miss 
Fletcher  should  never  cross  her  t's  ;  then 
the  tails  of  her  letters  are  so  long  that  they 
go  iuto  the  line  below  them,  which  looks  so 
slovenly,  and  shows  that  her  writing  must 
have  been  very  miich  neglected.  I  also 
know  another  fair  neighbor  of  ours  who 
actually  puts  'for '  before  the  infinitive  mood, 
and  flourishes  her  large  letters  like  copper- 
plate capitals  that  are  only  fit  to  appear  in  a 
merchant's  books." 

"  But  you  know,  my  dear,"  said  her  hus- 
band, "  that  she  is  a  grocer's  widow,  and, 
it  is  said,  used  to  keep  liis  accounts." 


"  That  is  very  obvious,  my  dear  ;  for,  in- 
deed, most  of  her  invitations  to  tea  are  more 
like  bills  duly  furnished  than  anything  else. 
I  remember  one  of  them  that  ran  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect : 

"  '  Mrs.  AIlsj)ice  presents  compliments  to 
Messrs.  Mainwaring  &  Co. — to  wit,  Miss 
Norton  '■ — this  was  my  daughter — '  begs  to 
be  favored,  jaer  return  of  post,  as  to  whethei 
it  will  suit  convenience /o;'  to  come  on  next 
Tuesday  evening,  half-past  seven,  to  take  a 
cup  of  the  best  flavored  soiichong,  7s.  Gd. 
per  lb.,  and  white  lump,  Jamaica,  Is.  per 
ditto,  with  a  nice  assortment  of  cakes,  manu- 
factured by  oui-selves.  Punctuality  to  ap- 
pointment expected.' " 

"  Well,  for  my  pai-t,"  said  Sam,  "I  must 
say  it's  the  entertainment  I'd  look  to  both  with 
hex- and  the  parson,  and  neither  the  language 
nor  the  writing.  IMi's.  Mainwaring,  vriH  you 
allow  me  to  propose  a  toast  ma'am  ?  It's  for 
a  fine  creatui'e,  in  her  way;  a  hly,  a  jewel." 

"  With  pleasure,  'Mi:  Koberts,"  said  that 
lady,  smiling,  for  she  knew  old  Sam  must  al- 
ways have  his  own  way. 

"  Well,  then,  fill,  fiU,  each  of  you.  Come, 
Miss  Goiu-lay,  if  only  for  the  novelty  of  the 
thing ;  for  I  dare  say  you  never  drank  a 
toast  before.  Ned,  fill  for  her.  You're  an 
excellent  woman,  Mi"s.  IMainwaring  :  and  he 
was  a  lucky  old  boy  that  got  you  to  smooth 
down  the  close  of  his  respectable  and  useful 
life — at  least,  it  was  once  useful — but  v/e 
can't  be  useful  always — well,  of  his  harmless 
life — ay,  that  is  nearer  the  thing.  Yes,  Mrs. 
Mainwaring,  by  all  accounts  you  are  a  most 
excellent  and  invaluable  woman,  and  deser\'e 
all  honor." 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  sat  with  a  comely  simper 
upon  her  good-natured  face,  looking  down 
with  a  pecuhar  and  modest  appreciation  of 
the  forthcoming  compliment  to  herself. 

"  Come  now,"  Sam  went  on,  "  to  your  legs. 
You  all,  I  suppose,  know  who  I  mean.  Stand, 
if  you  please.  Miss  Gourlay.  Head  well  up, 
and  shoulders  a  little  more  squared,  Main- 
waring.    Here  now,  are  you  all  ready  ?  " 

"  iUl  ready,"  resjjonded  the  gentlemen, 
highly  amused. 

"Well,  then,  here's  my  Beck's  health! 
and  long  hfe  to  her  !  She's  the  pearl  of 
wives,  and  deserves  to  live  forever !  " 

A  fit  of  good-humored  laughter  followed 
old  Sam's  toast,  in  which  Mrs.  Mainwaring 
not  only  came  in  for  an  ample  share,  but 
Joined  very  heartily  herself ;  that  worthy 
lady  taking  it  for  granted  that  old  Sam  was 
about  to  propose  the  health  of  the  hostess, 
sat  stiU,  wliiie  the  rest  rose ;  even  Lucy 
stood  up,  with  her  usual  gxace  and  good- 
nature, and  put  the  glass  to  her  li^js ;  and 
as  it  was  the  impression  that  the  compli- 


458 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


ment  was  meant  for  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  the 
thiug  seemed  very  -like  what  is  vulgarly 
called  a  bite,  upon  the  part  of  old  Sam,  who 
iu  the  meantime,  had  no  earthly  conception 
of  anj'tliiug  else  than  that  they  all  thorough- 
ly understood  him,  and  were  aware  of  the 
health  he  was  about  to  give. 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Sam,  on  witnessing 
their  mirth  ;  "by  fife  and  drum,  I  see  noth- 
ing to  laugh  at  in  anything  connected  with 
my  Beck.  I  iilways  make  it  a  point  to  drink 
the  old  girl's  health  when  I'm  from  home  ; 
for  I  don't  know  how  it  hapj^ens,  but  I  think 
I'm  never  half  so  fond  of  her  as  when  we're 
separated." 

"  But,  Mr.  Eobert;^,"  said  Mrs.  Mainwar- 
ing, laughing,  "I  assure  you,  fi'om  the 
comphments  you  jsaid  me,  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  it  was  my  health  you  were 
about  to  propose." 

"  Ay,  but  the  compliments  I  paid  you, 
ma'am,  were  all  in  compliment  to  old  Beck  ; 
but  next  to  her,  by  fife  and  drum,  you  de- 
serve a  bumper.  Come,  Mainwaring,  get  to 
legs,  and  let  us  have  her  health.  Attention, 
now  ;  head  well  up,  sir ;  shoulders  square  ; 
eye  on  j-our  wife." 

"  It  shall  be  done,"  replied  Mainwaring, 
entering  into  the  siJU'it  of  the  joke.  "  If  it 
were  ambrosia,  she  is  worthy  of  a  brimmer. 
Come,  then,  fill  youi-  glasses.  Edward,  at- 
tend to  Miss  Gourlay.  Sam,  help  Mrs. 
Mainwaring.  Here,  then,  my  dear  Mai'tha  ; 
like  two  winter  apples,  time  has  only  mel- 
lowed us.  We  have  both  run  parallel  cour- 
ses in  hfe  ;  you,  in  instructing  the  softer 
and  more  yielding  sex ;  I,  the  nobler  and 
more  manly." 

"  Keep  strictly  to  the  toast,  Matthew,"  she 
replied,  "  or  I  shall  rise  to  defend  our  sex. 
You  yielded  first,  you  know.     Ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

"As  the  stronger  yields  to  the  weakei", 
from  courtesy  and  compassion.  However, 
to  proceed.  W^e  have  both  conjugated  amo 
before  we  ever  saw  each  other,  so  that  our 
recuiTence  to  the  good  old  verb  seemed 
somewhat  like  a  Saturday's  rejoetition.  As 
for  docfo,  we  have  been  both  engaged  in 
enforcing  it,  and  successfully,  Martha" — here 
he  shook  his  purse — "  during  the  best  por- 
tion of  our  lives  ;  for  which  we  have  made 
some  of  the  most  brilhaut  members  of  so- 
ciety our  debtors.  Lego  is  now  one  of  our 
priucijaal  enjoyments  ;  sometimes  imder  the 
shadow  of  a  spreading  tree  in  the  orchai-d, 
during  the  serene  effulgence  of  a  siimmer's 
eve  ;  or,  what  is  still  more  comfortable,  be- 
fore the  cheering  blaze  of  the  winte'''s  fii'e, 
the  blinds  down,  the  shutters  close-l,  .the 
arm-chair  beside  the  table  — on  that  tf>ble  an 
open  book  and  a  warm  tumbler — and  IVVartha, 
the  best  of  wives- 


"  Attention,  Mainwaring ;  my  Beck's  ex< 
cepted." 

"Martha,  the  best  of  wives — old  Sam's 
Beck  always  excepted — sitting  at  my  side. 
As  for  audio,  the  truth  is,  I  have  been  forced 
to  experience  the  din  and  racket  of  that 
same  verb  during  the  greater  portion  of  my 
life,  in  more  senses  than  I  am  wilhng  to  de- 
scribe. I  did  not  imagine,  in  my  bachelor 
days,  that  the  fermenting  tumult  of  the 
school-room  could  be  surpassed  by  a  single 
instrument ;  but,  alas  ! — weU,  it  matters  not 
now  ;  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  never  saw  her — 
heard  I  mean,  for  I  am  on  audio — that  the 
performance  of  that  same  single  instrument 
did  not  furnish  me  with  a  ijainful  jH-axis  of 
the  nine  parts  of  speech  all  going  together  ; 
for  I  do  believe  that  nine  tongues  all  at 
work  could  not  have  matched  her.  But 
peace  be  with  her !  she  is  silent  at  last,  and 
cannot  hear  me  now.  I  thought  I  mj'self 
possessed  an  extensive  knowledge  of  the 
languages,  but,  alas  I  was  nothing ;  as  a 
Unguist  she  w'as  without  a  rival.  However, 
I  pass  that  over,  and  return  to  the  subject 
of  my  toast.  Now,  my  dear  Martha,  since 
heaven  gifted  me  with  you " 

"  Attention,  Mainwai-iug  !  Eyes  up  to  the 
ceiling,  sir,  and  thank  God  !  " 

Mainwaring  did  so  ;  but  for  the  life  of 
him  could  not  help  throwing  a  httle  comic 
spirit  into  the  action,  adding  ui  an  under- 
tone that  he  wished  to  be  heard.  "  Ah,  my 
dear  Sam,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  did  not 
bid  me  go  fartlier.  However,  to  proceed — 
No,  my  dear  Martha,  ever  since  our  most 
felicitous  conjugation,  I  hardlj"  know  what 
the  exemplary  verb  audio  means.  I  could 
scarcely  translate  it.  Ours  is  a  truly  gram- 
matical tmion.  Not  the  nominative  case 
W'ith  verb — not  the  relative  with  the  ante- 
cedent— not  the  adjective  with  the  substan- 
tive— affords  a  more  appropriate  illustration 
of  conjugal  harmony,  than  does  our  matri- 
monial existence.  Peace  and  quietness,  how- 
ever, are  on  your  tongue — aft'ectiou  and 
charity  in  yoiu-  heart — benevolence  in  your 
hand,  which  is  seldom  extended  emjity  to 
the  poor — and,  altogether,  you  are  worthy 
of  the  high  honor  to  w-hich," — this  he  added 
with  a  bit  of  good-natured  irony — "partly 
from  motives  of  condescension,  and  partly, 
as  I  said,  fi-om  motives  of  compassion,  I 
have,  in  the  fulness  of  a  benevolent  heai-t, 
exalted  you."    The  toast  was  then  drank. 

"  Attention,  ladies  ! "  said  Sam,  who  had 
been  looliiug,  as  before,  from  the  young  olfi- 
cer  to  Lucy,  and  vice  wr.s'n — "Mainwaring, 
attention  !  Look  upon  these  .two — ujion  Miss 
Govirlay,  here,  and  upon  Ned  Eolierts — and 
tell  me  if  you  don't  think  there's  a  strong 
likeness." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


459 


The  attention  of  the  others  was  instantly 
directed  to  an  examination  of  the  jjarties  in 
question,  and  most  certainly  they  were 
struck  with  the  extraordinary  resemblance. 

"It  is  very  remarkable,  indeed,  Mr.  Rob- 
erts," observed  theu*  hostess,  looking  at  them 
again;  "and  what  confirms  it  is  the  fact, 
that  I  noticed  the  cifcumstance  almost  as 
soon  as  Mi\  Roberts  joined  us.  It  is  cer- 
tainly very  strange  to  find  such  a  resem- 
blance in  persons  not  at  all  related." 

Lucy,  on  finding  the  eyes  of  her  friends 
upon  her,  could  not  avoid  blushing  ;  nor 
was  the  young  ofiicer's  comjJexion  without  a 
somewhat  deeper  tinge. 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  smiUng, 
"the  question  is,  which  we  are  to  consider 
complimented  h^  this  extraordinary  like- 
ness." 

"The  gentleman,  of  course,  Mrs.  Mainwar- 
ing," rephed  Sam. 

"  Unquestionablj',"  s:iid  Edward,  bowing 
to  Lucy  ;  "I  never  felt  so  much  flattered  in 
my  life  before,  nor  ever  can  again,  unless  by 
a  similar  comparison  with  the  same  fair 
object." 

Another  blush  on  the  part  of  Lucy  follow- 
ed this  deUcate  eomf>limeut,  and  old  Sam 
exclaimed : 

"  Attention,  Mainwaring !  and  you,  ma'am," 
— addressing  JNIrs.  Mainwaring.  "  Now  did 
vou  ever  see  brother  and  sister  more  like  ? 
eh !  " 

"  Very  seldom  ever  saw  brother  and  sister 
so  like,"  replied  Mainwaring.  "  Indeed,  it  is 
most  extraordinary." 

"  AVonderful !  upon  my  word,"  exclaimed* 
his  wife. 

"  Hum  ! — Well,"  proceeded  Sam,  "it  is,  I 
believe,  very  odd — very — and  may  be  not, 
either — may  be  not  so  odd.  Ahem  ! — and 
yet,  still — however,  no  matter,  it's  all  natu- 
r;il ;  all  the  heart  of  man — eh  !  Mainwaring '?  " 

■'  I  sujopose  so,  ill-.  Roberts  ;  I  supjiose  so." 

After  old  Sam  and  his  son  had  taken 
their  depai'ture,  Lucy  once  more  adverted  to 
the  dut}'  as  well  as  the  necessity  of  acquaint- 
ing her  father  with  her  safety,  and  thus  re- 
lieving his  mind  of  much  anxiety  and  trou- 
ble. To  this  her  friend  at  once  consented. 
The  baronet,  in  the  meantime,  felt  consider- 
ably the  worse  for  those  dreadfid  conflicts 
which  had  swept  do-\vn  and  anniliilated  aU 
that  ever  had  any  tendency  to  humanity  or 
goodness  in  his  heart.  He  felt  unwell — that 
is  to  say,  he  experienced  none  of  those  symp- 
uoms  of  ilhiess  which  at  once  determine  the 
nature  of  any  specific  malady.  The  sensa- 
tion, however,  was  that  of  a  strong  man,  who 
finds  his  frame,  as  it  were,  shaken — who  is 
aware  that  something  of  a  nameless  appre- 
hension connected   v.ith   his   health   hangs 


over  him,  and  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a 
sense  of  gloomy  dcjjression  and  restlessness, 
for  which  he  neither  can  account  nor  refer 
to  any  jsarticular  soui'ce  of  anxiety,  although 
such  in  reality  may  exist.  It  a2)peared  to  be 
some  terrible  and  gigantic  hypochondriasis 
— some  waking  nightmare — coming  over  him 
like  the  shadow  of  his  tlisappointed  ambition, 
blighting  his  strength,  and  warning  liim,  that 
when  the  heart  is  made  the  battle-field  of 
the  passions  for  too  long  a  jjeriod,  the  physi- 
cal i^owers  win  iiltimately  suffer,  until  the 
body  becomes  the  victim  of  the  spirit. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  this  feeling.  Sir 
Thomas's  mind  was  considerably  reheveo. 
Luej'  had  not  eloped  ;  but  then,  the  rumor 
of  her  elojjement  had  gone  abroad.  This, 
indeed,  was  bitter ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
time — cireimistances — the  reappearance  of 
this  most  mysterious  stranger — and  most  of 
aU,  Lucy's  high  character  for  all  that  was 
great  and  good,  deUcate  and  honorable, 
would  ere  long,  set  her  right  with  the  world. 
Nothing,  he  felt,  however,  woidd  so  quickly 
and  decidedly  effect  this  as  her  return  to  her 
father's  roof ;  for  this  necessary  step  would 
at  once  give  the  lie  to  calumny. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  ascertain,  if  possi- 
ble, the  place  of  her  present  concealment,  he 
resolved  to  remove  to  his  metropoHtan  resi- 
dence, having  taken  it  for  gi-anted  that  .sho 
had  sought  shelter  there  with  some  of  her 
fiiends.  Anxious,  nervous,  and  gloomy,  hi3 
ordered  his  carriage,  and  in  due  time  arrived 
in  Dublin. 

Thither  the  stranger  had  preceded  him. 
The  latter,  finding  that  BaUytrain  could  no 
longer  be  the  scene  of  his  operations,  also 
sought  the  metropolis.  Feuton  had  disaj)- 
l^eared — Lucy  was  no  longer  there.  His 
friend  Birney  was  also  in  to-svn,  and  as  in 
town  his  busmess  now  lay,  to  town  therefore 
he  went. 

In  the  meantime,  we  must  turn  a  little  to 
our  friend  Crackenfudge,  who,  after  the 
rough  handling  he  had  received  from  the 
baronet,  went  home,  if  not  a  sadder  and  a 
wiser,  at  least  a  much  sorer  man.  The  un- 
fortunate ■RTetch  was  sadly  basted.  The 
fririous  baronet,  knowing  the  creature  he 
was,  had  j)itched  into  him  in  awful  style. 
He  felt,  however,  when  cooled  dovna.  that  he 
had  gone  too  far  ;  and  that,  for  the  sake  of 
Lucy,  and  in  order  to  tie  ujd  the  miserable 
wretch's  babbling  tongue,  it  was  necessiiry 
that  he  should  make  some  apology  for  such 
an  unjustifiable  outrage.  He  accordingly 
viTote  him  the  foUowing  letter  before  he  went 
tottowu  : 

"  Dear  Sir, — The  nature  of  the  communi- 
cation which,  I  am  sure  from  kind  feehngs. 


460 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'^S  WORKS. 


you  made  to  rae  the  other  day,  had  such  an 
effect  upon  a  temj)er  naturally  choleric,  that 
I  fear  I  have  heen  guilty  of  some  violence  to- 
wai'd  you.  I  am,  unfortunately,  subject  to 
paroxj'sms  of  this  sort,  and  while  under  their 
influence  feel  utterly  tuiconscious  of  what  I 
do  or  say.  In  your  case,  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  let  me  know — whether  I  treated 
you  kindly  or  otherwise  ;  for  the  fact  is,  the 
paroxysm  I  speak  of  assumes  an  atlectionate 
character  as  well  as  a  violent  one.  Of  what  I 
did  or  said  on  the  occasion  in  question  I  have 
no  earthly  recollection.  In  the  meantime,  I 
have  the  satisfaction  to  assure  you  that  Miss 
Gourlay  has  not  elojjed,  but  is  residing  with 
a  friend,  in  the  metropolis.  I  have  seen  the 
gentleman  to  whom  you  alluded,  and  am  sat- 
isfied that  their  journey  to  town  was  ^--urely 
accidental.  He  knows  not  even  where  she 
is  ;  but  I  do,  and  am  quite  easy  on  the  sub- 
ject. Have  the  kindness  to  mention  this  to 
all  your  fi'iends,  and  to  contradict  the  rejjort 
of  her  elopement  wherever  and  whenever  you 
hesu'  it. 

"  Truly  j'ours, 

Thomas  Gourlay. 
"  Periwinkle  Crackenfudge,  Esq. 

"  P.  S. — In  the  meantime,  will  you  obhge 
me  by  sending  uj)  to  my  address  in  town  a 
list  of  youi-  claims  for  a  seat  on  the  magis- 
terial bench.  Let  it  be  as  clear  and  weU 
worded  as  you  can  make  it,  and  as  authentic. 
You  may  color  a  httle,  I  suppose,  but  let  the 
groundwork  be  truth — if  you  can  ;  if  not  truth 
— then  that  which  comes  as  neai-  it  as  jjossible. 
Truth,  you  know,  is  always  better  than  a  lie, 
unless  where  a  he  happens  to  be  better  than 
truth. 

"T.  G." 

To  this  characteristic  epistle  our  be- 
drubbed  friend  sent  the  following  reply : 

"My  dear  Sir  Thomas, — A'  would  give 
more  than  all  mention  to  be  gifted  with  your 
want  of  memory  respecting  what  occurred 
the  other  day.  Never  man  haJ  such  a  mem- 
ory of  that  dreadful  transaction  as  a"  have  ; 
from  head  to  heel  a'm  all  memory  ;  from 
heel  to  head  a'm  all  memory — uji  and  down 
— round — about — across — here  and  there, 
and  everywhere — a'm  all  memory  ;  but  in 
one  particular  jjlace.  Sir  Tliomas — ah  !  there's 
where  a'  suffer — however,  it  doesn't  make 
no  matter  ;  a'  only  say  that  you  taught  me 
the  luxury  of  an  easy  chau'  and  a  soft  cushion 
ever  since,  Sir  Tliomas. 

"  Your  letter.  Sir  Thomas,  has  given  fte 
great  comfort,  and  has  made  me  rejoice,  al- 
though it  is  with  groans  a'  do  it,  at  the 
whole  transaction.    If  you  succeed  in  getting 


me  the  magistracj-,  8u-  Thomas,  it  will  be 
the  most  blessed  and  delightfid  basting  that 
ever  a  lucky  man  got.  If  a'  succeed  in  being 
turned  into  a  bony  tidy  live  magistrate,  to  be 
called  '  your  worship,'  and  am  to  have  the 
right  of  lining  and  flogging  and  committing 
the  i^eople,  as  a'  wish  and  hojie  to  do, 
then  a'll  say  that  the  hand  of  Providence  was 
in  it,  as  well  as  yoiu-  foot.  Sir  Thomas.  Now, 
that  you  have  explained  the  circumstance,  a' 
feel  veiT  much  honored  by  the  drubbing  a' 
got.  Sir  Thomas ;  and,  indeed,  a'  don't 
doubt,  after  aU,  but  it  was  meant  in  kind- 
ness, as  you  say.  Sir  Thomas  ;  and  a'm  sure 
besides.  Sir  Thomas,  that  it's  not  every  one 
you'd  condescend  to  drub,  and  that  the  man 
you  would  drub,  Su'  Thomas,  must  I)e  a  per- 
son of  some  consequence.  A'  will  send  j'ou 
up  my  claims  as  a  magistrate  some  of  these 
days — that  is,  as  soon  as  a'  can  get  some 
long-headed  fellow  to  make  them  out  for 
me. 

"  And  have  the  honor  to  be,  my  dear  Sir 
Thomas,  your  much  obhged  and  favored 
humble  servant. 

"PERHVrNKLE    CrACKENFUDGE. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  Bart." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A)i  Iriih  WiitcJihouxe  in  the  time  of  the  •'■  Churlies.'^ 

Another  suliject  which  vexed  the  baronet 
not  a  little  was  the  loss  of  his  money  and 
pistols  by  the  robbery  ;  \mt  what  he  still  felt 
more  bitterly,  was  the  failure  of  the  authori- 
ties to  trace  or  arrest  the  robber.  The 
vengeance  which  he  felt  against  that  individ- 
ual lay  hke  a  black  venomous  snake  coiled 
round  his  heai't.  The  loss  of  the  money 
and  the  fire-arms  lie  might  overlook,  but  the 
man,  who,  in  a  few  moments,  taught  him  to 
know  himself  as  he  was — who  dangled  him, 
as  it  were,  over  the  very  i^recipice  of  hell — 
with  aU  his  iniquities  upon  his  head,  the 
m:xn  who  made  him  feel  the  crimes  of  a 
whole  lite  condensed  into  one  fearful  mo- 
ment, and  showed  them  to  him  dai'koned 
into  horror  by  the  black  hghtning  of  per- 
dition ;  such  a  man,  we  say,  he  could  never 
forgive.  It  was  in  vain  that  large  re^\  ards 
were  subscribed  and  offered,  it  was  in  vain 
that  every  efl'ort  was  made  to  discover  the 
culprit.  Not  only  was  there  no  trace  of  him 
got,  but  other  robberies  had  been  committed 
by  a  celebrated  higlivrayman  of  the  day, 
named  Finnerty,  whom  neither  bribe  nor 
law  could  reach. 

Our  readers  may  remember,  with  reference 
to  the  robbery  of  the  baronet,  the  fact  of 


THE  BLAC-R  BARONET. 


461 


Trailcudgel's  having  met  the  stranger  on  his 
way  to  disclose  all  the  circumstances  to  the 
priest,  and  that  he  did  not  proceed  farther 
on  that  occasion,  having  understood  that 
Father  M'Midion  was  fi-om  home.  Poor 
Traileudgel,  who,  as  the  reader  is  aware,  was 
not  a  robber  either  from  principle  or  habit, 
and  who  only  resorted  to  it  when  driven  by 
the  agonizing  instincts  of  nature,  felt  the 
guilt  of  his  crime  bitterly,  and  could  enjoy 
rsst  neither  night  nor  day,  until  he  had  done 
what  he  conceived  to  be  his  duty  as  a 
Christian,  and  which  was  all  he  or  any  man 
could  do  :  that  is,  repent  for  his  ci'ime,  and 
return  the  property  to  him  from  whom  he 
had  taken  it.  This  he  did,  as  it  is  usually 
done,  through  the  medium  of  his  pastor  ; 
and  on  the  very  day  after  the  baronet's  de- 
ixxrture  both  the  money  and  instols  were 
ileposited  in  Father  M'Mahon's  hands. 

in  a  few  days  afterwards  the  worthy  priest, 
finding,  on  inquiry,  that  Sir  Thomas  had 
gone  to  Dublin,  where,  it  was  said,  he  deter- 
mined to  reside  for  some  time,  made  up  his 
mind  to  follow  him,  in  order  to  restore  him 
the  property  he  had  lost.  This,  howevei', 
%v,is  not  the  sole  fim-pose  of  iiis  ^•isit  to  tlie 
inetroi^olis.  The  letter  he  had  given  the 
s'ranger  to  Corbet,  or  Dunpliy,  had  not,  he 
^vas  sorry  to  find,  been  ^jroductive  of  the 
object  for  which  it  had  been  written.  Per- 
il i])s  it  was  impossible  that  it  could  ;  but 
still  the  good  priest,  who  was  as  shrewd  in 
many  things  as  he  was  benevolent  and  chari- 
table in  all,  felt  stronglj^  impressed  vntli  a 
belief  that  this  old  man  was  not  wholly  ig- 
norant, or  rather  unconnected  with  the  dis- 
appearance of  either  one  or  the  other  of  the 
lost  children.  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may, 
he  prepared  to  see  the  baronet  for  the  j)ui-- 
pose  already  mentioned. 

He  accordingly  took  his  place — an  mside 
one — in  the  redoubtable  "Fly,"  which,  we 
may  add,  was  the  jiopular  vehicle  at  the 
time,  and  wrapping  himself  up  in  a  thick 
frieze  cloak,  or  great  coat,  with  standing 
collar  that  buttoned  up  across  his  face  to 
the  very  eyes,  and  putting  a  shirt  or  two, 
and  some  other  small  matters,  into  a  Uttle 
bundle — tying,  at  the  same  time,  a  cotton 
kerchief  over  his  hat  and  chin — he  started 
on  his  visit  to  the  metropolis,  having  very 
much  the  appearance  of  a  determined  char- 
acter, whose  dress  and  asjiect  wei-e  not, 
however,  such  as  to  disarm  suspicion.  He 
felt  much  more  careful  of  the  b:u'onet's 
pocket-book  than  he  did  of  his  own,  and 
contrived  to  place  it  in  an  inside  pocket, 
which  being  rather  small  for  it,  he  was 
obUged  to  rip  a  little  in  order  to  give  it  ad- 
mittance. The  case  of  pistols  he  slipped 
into  the  pockets  of  his  jock,  one  in  each, 


without  ever  having  once  examined  them,  ol 
satisfied  liimseK — simple  man — as  to  whether 
they  were  loaded  or  not.  His  own  j^oeket- 
book  was  carelessly  placed  in  the  right-hand 
pocket  of  the  aforesaid  jock,  along  with  one 
of  the  jjistols. 

The  night  was  agreeable,  and  nothing 
wpi*th  recording  took  place  until  they  had 

come  about  .five  miles  on  the  side  of ■, 

when  a  loud  voice  ordered  the  coachman  to 
stop. 

"  Stop  the  coach,  sir ! "  said  tlie  voice, 
with  a  good  deal  of  reckless  and  bitter  ex- 
pression in  it ;  "  stop  the  coach,  or  you  are  a 
dead  man." 

Several  pistols  were  instantly  leveled  at 
both  coachman  and  guard,  and  the  same 
voice,  which  was  thin,  distinct,  and  wiry, 
proceeded — "  Keep  all  steady  now,  boys, 
and  shoot  the  first  that  attemijts  to  move. 
I  wlU  see  what's  to  be  had  inside." 

He  went  immediately  to  the  door  of  the 
"  Fly,"  and  opening  it,  held  uj)  a  dark  lan- 
tern, which,  whilst  it  cle.'uiy  showed  him 
the  dress,  countenances,  and  condition  of  the 
passengers,  thoroughly  concealed  his  o^ti. 

The  priest  happened  to  be  nest  him,  and 
was  consequently  the  first  person  on  whom 
this  rather  cool  demand  was  made. 

"  Come,  sir,"  said  the  highwayman,  "  fork 
out,  if  you  please  ;  and  be  quick  about  it,  it 
you're  wise." 

"Give  a  body  time,  if  you  plaise,"  re- 
sponded the  priest,  who  at  that  moment  had 
about  him  all  the  marks  and  tokens  of  u 
farmei',  or,  at  least,  of  a  man  who  mshed  to 
jjass  for  one.  "  I  think,"  lie  added,  "  if  you 
knew  who  you  had,  j-ou'd  not  only  pass  me 
by,  but  the  very  coach  I'm  travehn'  in. 
Don't  be  unaisy,  man  ahve,"  he  proceeded  ; 
"have  i^atience — for  patience,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  a  virtue — do,  then,  have  patience, 
or,  maybe — oh  !  ay  ! — here  it  is — here  is 
what  you  want — the  very  thing,  I'll  be  bound 
— and  you  must  have  it,  too."  And  the  poor 
man,  in  the  hurry  and  alarm  of  the  moment, 
pulled  out  one  of  the  baronet's  pistols. 

The  robber  whipped  away  the  lantern,  and 
instantly  disappeared.  "  By  the  tarn,  boys," 
said  he,  "  it's  Finnerty  himself,  disguised 
like  a  farmer.  But  he's  mad  to  travel  in  a 
public  coach,  and  the  beaks  on  the  lookout 
for  him.  Hello  !  all's  right,  coachman  ;  drive 
on,  we  won't  disturb  you  Ihw  night,  at  all 
events.  Gee  hup  ! — off  you  go  ;  and  off  we 
go — with  empty  pockets." 

It  happened  that  this  language,  which  ^e 
robber  did  not  intend  to  iiave  reached  the 
ears  of  the  passengers,  was  heard  neverthe- 
less, and  from  this  moment  uiitd  tney  changed 

horses  at there  was  a  dead  silence  in 

the  coach. 


402 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


On  that  occasion  one  gentleman  left  it, 
and  he  had  scarcely  been  half  a  minute  gone 
when  a  person,  very  much  in  the  garb  and 
bearing  of  a  modern  detective,  j^ut  in  his 
head,  and  instantly  mthdi'ew  it,  exclaiming, 

" Curse  me,  its  a  hit — he's  inside  as  snug 
as  a  rat  in  a  traji.  Up  ^^ith  you  on  toj)  of 
the  coach,  and  we'U  pin  him  when  we  reafh 
town.  'Gad,  this  is  a  windfall,  for  the  re- 
ward is  a  heavy  one. — If  we  could  now  man- 
age the  baronet's  business,  we  were  made 
men." 

He  then  returned  into  the  coach,  and 
took  his  seat  right  oj)j)osite  the  priest,  in 
order  the  better  to  watch  his  motions,  and 
keep  him  comjjletely  under  his  eye. 

"  Dangerous  traveling  by  night,  sir,"  said 
he,  addressing  the  priest,  anxious  to  draw 
his  man  into  conversation. 

"By  night  or  by  day,  the  roads  are  not 
very  safe  at  the  present  time,"  rephed  his 
reverence. 

"  The  danger's  principally  by  night, 
though,"  observed  the  other.  "  This  Fin- 
nerty  is  j^hxying  the  devil,  they  say  ;  and  is 
hard  to  be  nabbed  by  all  accounts." 

The  observation  was  received  by  several 
hums,  and  hems,  and  has,  and  very'  signi- 
ficant ejaculations,  whilst  a  fat,  wealthy-look- 
ing fellow,  who  sat  beside  the  peace-officer 
— for  such  he  was — in  attemjiting  to  warn 
him  of  Finnerty's  presence,  by  pressing  on 
his  foot,  unfortunately  i^ressed  upon  that  of 
the  priest  in  mistake,  who  natiu-aUy  inter- 
preted the  hems  and  has  aforesaid  to 
apply  to  the  new-corner  instead  of  himself. 
This  cannot  be  matter  of  surprise,  inasmuch 
as  the  priest  had  liis  ears  so  completely  muf- 
fled uj)  with  the  coUar  of  his  jock  and  a  thick 
cotton  kerchief,  that  he  heard  not  the  allu- 
sions which  the  robber  had  made  outside 
the  coach,  when  he  mistook  him  for  Fin- 
nerty.  He  consequently  23eered  very  keenly 
at  the  last  speaker,  who  to  tell  the  truth, 
had  probably  in  his  viUanous  features  ten 
times  more  the  character  and  visage  of  a 
highwayman  and  cutthroat  than  the  re- 
doubtable Finnerty  himself. 

"  It's  a  wonder,"  said  the  priest,  "  that 
the  unfortunate  man  has  not  been  taken." 

"  Hum  !  "  exclaimed  the  ofJicer  ;  "  unfor- 
(unale  man.  My  good  fellow,  that's  very 
mild  talk  when  speaking  of  a  robber.  Don't 
you  know  that  all  robbers  deserve  the  gal- 
lows, eh  ?  " 

"  I  know  no  such  thing,"  replied  the  priest. 
"  Many  a  man  has  lived  by  robbing,  in  his 
day,  that  now  lives  by  catching  them  ;  and 
many  a  poor  fellow,  as  honest  as  e'er  an  in- 
di\idual  in  this  coach " 

"  That's  very  shocking  language,"  observed 
a  thin,  prim,  red-nosed  lady,  with  a  viuegai- 


aspect,  who  sat  erect,  and  apparently  fear- 
less^ in  the  comer  of  the  coach — "very 
shocking  language,  indeed.  Vhy,  my  good 
man,  should  you  form  any  such  wile  kim- 
parison  ?  " 

"Never  mind,  ma'am  ;  never  mind,"  said 
the  officer,  whose  name  was  Darby  ;  "let 
him  proceed  ;  from  what  he  is  about  to  say, 
I  shan't  be  surprised  if  he  justifies  robbery 
— not  a  bit — but  will  be  a  good  deal,  if  he 
don't.     Go  on,  my  good  fellow." 

"Well,"  ijroceeded  the  priest,  "I  was  go- 
ing to  say,  that  many  a  2'oor  wretch,  as 
honest  as  e'er  an  individual,  man  or 
woman " 

Here  there  was,  on  the  part  of  the  ladj', 
an  indignant  toss  of  the  head,  and  a  glance 
of  supreme  scorn  leveled  at  the  poor  priest ; 
whilst  Darby,  like  a  man  who  had  generously 
undertaken  the  management  of  the  whole 
discussion,  said,  with  an  air  of  conscious 
ability,  if  not  something  more,  "  never  mind 
him,  ma'am  ;  give  him  tether." 

"As  honest,"  persisted  the  priest,  "as  e'er 
an  individual,  man  or  woman,  in  this  coach 
— and  maybe,  if  the  truth  were  known,  a 
good  deal  honester  than  some  of  them." 

"Good,"  observed  the  officer;  "I  agi'ee 
with  you  in  that — right  enough  there." 

The  vinegar  lady,  now  apprehensive  that 
her  new  alty  had  scandalously  abandoned  her 
interests,  here  dropped  her  eyes,  and  crossed 
her  hands  ujion  her  breast,  as  if  she  had 
completelj"  withdrawn  herself  fi-om  the  con- 
versation. 

"I  finds,"  said  she  to  herself,  in  a  con- 
temptuous soliloquy,  "  as  how  there  aint  no 
gentleman  in  this  here  wehicle." 

"Just  p)ay  attention,  ma'am,"  said  the 
officer — "just  pay  attention,  that's  aU." 

This,  however,  seemed  to  have  no  eifect — 
at  least  the  lady  remained  in  the  same  atti- 
tude, and  made  no  reply. 

"  Sujajjose  now,"  proceeded  the  i^riest, 
"  that  an  unfortunate  father,  in  times  of 
scarcity  and  famine,  should  sit  in  his  miser- 
able cabin,  and  see  about  him  six  or  seven  of 
his  family,  some  dying  of  fever,  and  others 
dying  fi'om  want  of  food  ;  and  sujjpose  that 
he  was  driven  to  despair  by  reflecting  that 
unless  he  forced  it  from  the  rich  who  would 
not  out  of  theu"  abundance  prevent  his  chil- 
dren from  starring,  he  can  procure  them  re- 
lief in  no  other  way,  and  they  must  die  in 
the  agonies  of  hunger  before  his  face.  Sup- 
piose  this,  and  that  some  wealthy  man,  with- 
out sympathy  for  his  feUow-creatures.  regard- 
less of  the  cries  of  the  poor — heartless,  am- 
bitious, and  oppi'essive  ;  and  suppose  besides 
that  it  was  this  very  heartless  antl  oppressive 
man  of  wealth  who,  by  his  pride  and  tyranny, 
and  unchristian  vengeance,  drove  that  poor 


TJIE  BLACK  BARONET. 


463 


man  tond  his  wretched  family  to  the  state  I 
have  painted  them  for  yoii,  in  that  cold  and 
dreary  hovel ;  supi^ose  all  this,  I  say,  and 
that  that  wretched  poor  man,  his  heart 
bursting,  and  his  brain  whirlingc,  stimulated 
by  aifection,  goaded  by  hunger  and  in- 
describable misery ;  supi^ose,  I  say,  that  in 
the  madness  of  desj^air  he  sallies  out,  and 
happens  to  meet  the  very  indiAidual  who 
brought  him  and  his  to  such  a  dreadful  state 
— do  you  think  that  he  ought  to  let  him 
pass " 

"I  see,"  interrujjted  the  officer,  "without 
bleeding  him  ;  I  knew  you  would  come  to 
that — go  along." 

"  That  he  ought  to  let  that  wealthy  op- 
pressor pass,  and  allow  the  wife  of  his  bosom 
and  his  gasping  little  ones  to  perish,  whilst 
he  knows  that  taking  that  assistance  fi'om 
him  by  violence  which  he  ought  to  give 
freely  would  save  them  to  society  and  him  ? 
Mark  me,  I'm  not  justifying  robbeiy.  Every 
general  rule  has  its  exception  ;  and  I'm  only 
supijosing  a  case  where  the  act  of  robbei'y 
may  be  more  entitled  to  comj)assion  than  to 
punishment — but,  as  I  said,  I'm  not  defend- 
ing it." 

"  Ain't  you,  faith  ?  "  replied  the  officer  ;  "  it 
looks  de\ilish  hke  it,  though.  Don't  you 
think  so,  ma'am  ?  " 

"I  never  listens  to  no  nonsense  like  that 
ere,"  rej^hed  the  lady.  "All  I  say  is,  that  a 
gentleman  as  I've  the  honor  of  being  ac- 
quainted with,  'as  been  robbed  the  other 
night  of  a  pocket-book  stuffed  with  bank- 
notes, and  a  case  of  Hirish  jjistols  that  he 
kept  to  shoot  robbers,  and  sich  other  wulgar 
wretches  as  is  to  be  found  nowhere  but  in 
Hireland." 

"  Stuffed  !  "  exclaimed  the  priest,  disdain- 
fully ;  "as  much  stuffed,  ma'am,  as  you  are." 

The  officer's  very  veins  tingled  with  delight 
on  hearing  the  admission  which  was  involved 
in  the  simple  priest's  exclamation.  He  kept 
it,  however,  to  himself,  on  account  of  the 
large  rewai-d  that  lay  in  the  background. 

"  I  stuffed  !  "  exclaimed  the  indignant  lady, 
whose  thin  face  had  for  a  considerable  time 
been  visible,  for  it  was  long  past  dawn  ;  "I 
defv'  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  you  large,  nasty, 
Huish  farmer,  as  feeds  iipon  nothing  but  ta- 
ters.  I  stuii'ed  I — no  lady — you  nasty  farmer 
— goes  without  padding,  which  is  well  known 
to  any  man  as  is  a  gentleman.  But  stuffed  ! 
I  defy  j'ou,  nasty  Paddy  ;  I  was  never  stuffed. 
Those  as  stuff  use  'oss  'air  ;  now  I  never  uses 
'oss  'air." 

"  If  you  weren't  stuffed,  then,"  replied  the 
priest,  who  took  a  natural  disrehsh  to  her  af- 
fectation of  i^ride  and  haughtiness,  knowing 
her  as  he  now  did — "  many  a  better  woman 
was.     If  you  weren't,  ma'am,  it  wasn't  your 


own  fault.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  English 
cook  need  never  be  at  a  loss  for  jjlenty  to 
stuff"  herself  with." 

This  was  an  extinguisher.  The  heaven  of 
her  complexion  was  instantly  concealed  by  a 
thick  cloud  in  the  shape  of  a  veil.  She  Itiid 
herself  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,' 
and  maintained  the  silence  of  a  vanquished 
woman  duiiug  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

On  arriving  in  town  the  jaassengers,  as  is 
usual,  betook  themselves  to  their  respective 
destinations.  Father  M'Mahon,  with  his 
small  bundle  under  Jiis  arm,  was  about  to  go 
to  the  Brazen  Head  Tavern,  wlien  he  found 
liimseK  tapped  on  the  shoulder  by  our  friend 
Darby,  who  now  held  a  pistol  in  his  hand, 
and  said  : 

"  There  are  eight  of  us,  Mr.  Finnei-ty,  and 
it  is  useless  to  shy  Abraham.  You're  bagged 
at  last,  BO  come  off  quietly  to  the  office." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  replied  the 
jsriest,  who  certainly  felt  surjjrised  at  seeing 
himself  surrounded  by  so  many  constables, 
for  it  was  impossible  any  longer  to  mistake 
them.  "  What  do  you  mean,  my  fiiend'?  or 
who  do  you  suppose  me  to  be  ?  " 

The  constable  gave  him  a  knowing  v\inK, 
adding  with  as  knowing  an  air — "  It's  no  go 
here,  my  lad — safe's  the  word.  Tramp  for 
the  office,  or  we'U  clap  on  the  wrist-buttons. 
AVe  know  you're  a  shy  cock,  Mr.  Finuerfy, 
and  rather  modest,  too — that's  the  cut. 
Simpson,  keep  the  right  arm  fast,  and,  you, 
Gamble,  the  left,  whilst  we  bring  up  the 
rear.  In  the  meantime,  before  he  jsroceeds 
a  step,  I,  as  senior,  will  take  the  liberty  to — 
just. — see — what — is — here,"  whilst,  suiting 
the  word  to  the  action,  he  first  drew  a  jjistol 
from  the  left  jjocket,  and  immediately  after 
another  from  the  right,  and — shades  of  Fre- 
ney  and  O'Hanlon  ! — the  redoubtable  pocket- 
book  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  each  and  all 
marked  not  only  with  his  crest,  but  his  name 
and  title  at  fuU  length. 

The  priest  was  not  at  a  moment's  loss  how 
to  act.  Perceiving  their  mistake  as  to  his 
identity,  and  feeling  the  force  of  apj^earances 
against  him,  he  desired  to  be  conducted  at 
once  to  the  office.  There  he  knew  he  could 
think  more  calmly  upon  the  steps  necessary 
to  his  hberation  than  he  could  in  a  crowd 
which  was  enlarging  every  moment,  on  its 
being  understood  that  Finnerty,  the  cele- 
brated highwayman,  had  been  at  length 
taken.  Not  that  tlie  crowd  gave  expression 
to  any  feeling  or  ebullition  that  was  at  ail 
unfiiendly  to  him.  So  far  from  that,  it 
gathered  round- him  T\ith  strong  expressions 
of  sympathy  and  compassion  for  his  unhapp_y 
fate.  Many  were  the  anecdotes  reported  to 
each  other  by  the  spectators  of  his  human- 
ity— his   charity — his    benevolence    to    the 


464 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WOBIvS 


poor ;  aud,  above  all,  of  his  intrej)iditv  and 
courage  ;  for  it  may  be  observed  here — and 
we  leave  moralists,  metaphysicians,  and  ■^o- 
litical  economists  to  draw  whatever  inferences 
they  please  from  the  fact^ — but  fact  it  is — 
that  in  no  instance  is  any  man  who  has 
violated  the  law  taken  up  pubhcly,  on  L'ish 
ground,  whether  in  town  or  country,  that 
the  people  do  not  uniformly  express  the 
warmest  sympathy  for  him,  and  a  strong 
manifestation  of  enmity  agp.iiist  his  captors. 
Whether  this  may  be  intei-jjreted  favorably  or 
otherwise  of  our  countiymen,  we  shall  not 
undertake  to  determine.  As  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverly  said,  perhaps  much  might  be  ad- 
vanced on  both  sides. 

On  entering  the  watch-house,  the  heart  of 
the  humane  priest  was  painfully  opj)ressed 
at  the  scenes  of  uproar,  confusion,  debauch- 
ery, and  shameless  jirofligacy,  of  which  he 
saw  either  the  present  exliibition  or  the  im- 
questionable  evidences.  There  was  the  lost 
and  hardened  female,  uttering  the  wild 
screams  of  intoxication,  or  pouring  forth  from 
her  dark,  filthy  j^lace  of  confinement  torrents 
of  i^olluted  mirth  ;  the  juvenile  pickpocket, 
ripe  in  all  the  ribald  wit  and  traditional 
slang  of  his  profession  ;  the  ruffian  burglar, 
with  strong  animal  fi-ame,  daik  ej'ebrows, 
low  forehead,  and  face  full  of  coarseness  and 
brutaUty ;  the  open  robber,  reckless  and 
jocular,  indiiferent  to  consequences,  and 
holding  his  life  only  in  trust  for  the  hang- 
man, or  for  some  determined  ojjponent  who 
may  treat  him  to  cold  lead  instead  of  j)ure 
gold  ;  the  sneaking  thief,  cool  and  cowardly, 
ready-witted  at  the  extricating  falsehood — for 
it  is  well  known  that  the  thief  and  liar  are 
convertible  terms — his  eye  feeble,  cunning, 
and  circumsjiective,  and  his  whole  aj)j)ear- 
ance  redolent  of  dujilicity  and  fi-aud  ;  the 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  affecting  much  hon- 
est simplicity  ;  the  good  creatiu'e,  whether 
man  or  woman,  apj^arently  in  great  distress, 
and  wondering  that  industrious  and  unsus- 
pecting peojile,  struggling  to  bring  up  their 
families  in  honesty  and  decency,  should  be 
imposed  upon  and  taken  in  by  jaeople  that 
one  couldn't  think  of  suspecting.  There, 
too,  was  the  servant  out  of  jilace,  who 
first  a  forger  of  discharges,  next  became 
a  thief,  and  heroically  adventuring  to  the 
dignity  of  a  burglar  for  which  he  had  neither 
skill  nor  daring,  was  made  prisoner  in  the 
act ;  and  there  he  sits,  half  drunk,  in  that 
corner,  repenting  his  failure  instead  of  his 
crime,  forgetting  his  cowardice,  and  making 
moral  resolutions  with  himself,  that,  should 
he  escape  now,  he  will  execute  the  next 
burglary  in  a  safe  and  virtuous  state  of 
sobriety.  But  we  need  not  jOTOceed  :  there 
was  the  idle  and  drunken  mechanic,  or,  per- 


haps, the  wife,  whose  Saturday-  night  visits 
to  the  tap-room  in  order  to  fetcih  him  home, 
or  to  rescue  the  wages  of  his  industiy  fi-om 
the  imblican,  had  at  length  corrupted  her- 
self. 

Two  other  characters  were  there  which  we 
cannot  overlook,  both  of  whom  had  passed 
through  the  world  with  a  strong  but  holy 
scona  for  the  errors  and  failings  of  their 
fellow-creatures.  One  of  them  was  a  man  of 
gross,  camal-looking  features,  trained,  as  it 
seemed  to  the  uninitiated,  into  a  severe  and 
sanctified  expression  by  the  sheer  force  of 
rehgion.  His  face  was  full  of  godh'  intoler- 
ance against  everything  at  variance  with  the 
one  thing  needful,  whatever  that  was,  and 
against  all  who  did  not,  like  himself,  travel 
on  fearlessly  and  zealously  Zionward.  He 
did  not  feel  himself  justified  in  the  use  of 
common  and  f)rofane  language  ;  and,  con- 
seqiicntly,  his  vocnbulaiy  was  taken  princi- 
jjally  from  the  Bible,  which  he  called  "the 
Lord's  word."  Sunday  was  not  Sunday  with 
him,  but  "  the  Lord's  day  ; "  and  he  never 
went  to  church  in  his  life,  but  always  to 
"  service."  Like  most  of  his  class,  however, 
he  seemed  to  be  influenced  by  that  extraor- 
dinary anomaly  which  characteiizes  the 
saints — that  is  to  say,  as  great  a  revei'ence 
for  the  name  of  the  devil  as  for  that  of  God 
himself  ;  for  in  his  whole  hfe  and  conversa- 
tion he  was  never  known  to  pronounce  it  as 
we  have  viiitten  it.  Satan — the  enemy — the 
destroyer,  were  the  names  he  applied  to 
him  :  and  this,  we  presume,  lest  the  world 
might  suspect  that  there  subsisted  anj' 
private  familiarity  between  them.  His  gi-eat 
iTiling  principle,  however,  originated  in  what 
he  termed  a  godless  system  of  religious 
hberality  ;  in  other  words,  he  attributed  all 
the  calamities  and  scoiu-ges  of  the  land  to 
the  influence  of  Popeiy.  and  its  toleration 
bj'  the  powers  that  be.  He  was  a  big-boned, 
coarse  man,  with  black,  greasy  hair,  cut 
short ;  projecting  cheek-bones,  that  argued 
great  cruelty  ;  dull,  but  lascivious  eyes  ;  aud 
an  upper  lip  like  a  dropsical  sausage.  We 
forget  now  the  locality  in  which  he  had  com- 
mitted the  ofl'ence  that  had  caused  him  to  be 
brought  there.  But  it  does  not  much 
matter  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  was 
caught,  about  tln-ee  o'clock,  peramlnilatmg 
the  streets,  considerably  the  worse  for  liquor, 
and  not  in  the  best  society.  Even  as  it  was, 
and  in  the  very  face  of  those  who  had  de- 
tected him  so  circumstanced,  he  was  railing 
against  the  ungodliness  of  our  "  rulers,"  the 
degeneracy  of  human  nature,  and  the  awful 
scoiirges  that  the  existence  of  Popery  was 
bringing  on  the  land. 

As  it  happened,  however,  this  worthy  rep- 
resentative  of  his  class  was  not  without  a 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


465 


counteifsart  among  the  moral  inmates  of  the 
watch-house.  Another  man,  wlio  was  known 
among  his  friends  as  a  Cathohc  voteen,  or 
devotee,  happened  to  have  been  brougiit  to 
the  sime  e-;tabHshment,  much  in  the  same 
circumstances,  and  for  some  similar  oftence. 
Wlien  compared  together,  it  was  really  cu- 
rious to  observe  the  extraordinary  resem- 
blance which  these  two  men  bore  to  each 
otliei".  Each  was  dressed  in  sober  clothes, 
for  your  jmritan  of  every  creed  must,  like  his 
progenitors  the  Phai-isees  of  old,  have  some 
peculiarity  in  his  dress  that  will  gain  him 
credit  for  religion.  Their  features  were 
marked  by  the  siime  dark,  sullen  shade 
which  betokens  intolerance.  The  devotee  was 
thinner,  and  not  so  large  a  man  as  the  other  ; 
but  he  made  up  in  the  cunning  energy  which 
glistened  fi'om  his  eyes  for  the  want  of 
physical  strength,  as  compared  with  the 
Protestant  saint :  not  at  all  that  he  w.xs 
deficient  in  it  p«r  .sc,  for  though  a  smaller 
man,  he  was  better  built  and  more  compact 
than  his  brother.  Indeed,  so  nearly  identi- 
cal was  the  exjiression  of  their  features — the 
sensual  Slilesian  mouth,  and  naturally  amor- 
ous temjjerament,  hypoerisized  into  formal- 
ity, and  darkened  into  bitterness  by  bigotry 
— that  on  discovering  each  other  in  the 
watch-house,  neither  could  for  his  life  deter- 
mine whether  the  man  before  him  belonged 
to  idolatrous  Rome  on  the  one  hand,  or  the 
arch  heresy  on  the  other. 

There  they  stood,  exact  counterj^arts,  each 
a  thousand  times  more  anxious  to  damn  the 
other  than  tc  save  himself.  They  were  not 
long,  however,  in  discovering  each  other, 
and  in  a  moment  the  jargon  of  controversy 
rang  loud  and  high  amidst  the  uproar  and 
confusion  of  the  place.  The  Protestant 
saint  attribiited  aU  the  iniquity  by  which 
the  land,  he  said,  was  overflowed,  and  the 
judgments  under  which  it  was  righteously 
suffering,  to  the  guilt  of  our  rulers,  who  for- 
got God,  and  connived  at  Popery. 

The  Pojnsh  saint,  on  the  other  hand,  as- 
serted that  so  long  as  a  fat  and  oppressive 
heresy  was  permitted  to  trample  upon  the 
people,  the  countrj-  could  never  prosper. 
The  other  one  said,  that  idolatry — -Popish 
idolatiy — was  the  cause  of  all ;  and  that  it 
was  the  scourge  by  which  "  the  Lord  "  was 
inflicting  judicial  piinishment  upon  the  coun- 
try at  lai'ge.  If  it  were  not  for  that  he  would 
not  be  in  such  a  sink  of  Luiquity  at  that  mo- 
ment. Popish  idolatry  it  was  that  brought 
him  there  ;  and  the  abominations  of  the 
Romish  harlot  were  desolating  the  land. 

The  other  replied,  that  perhaps  she  was 
the  only  harlot  of  the  kind  he  would  run 
away  from  ;  and  maintained,  that  until  all 
heresy  was  abohshed,  and  rooted  out  of  the 


country,  the  curse  of  God  would  sit  upon 
them,  as  the  corrupt  law  church  does  now  in 
the  shape  of  an  overgrown  nightmare. 
What  brought  him,  who  was  ready  to  die 
for  his  persecuted  church,  here  ?  He 
coiild  tell  the  heretic  ; — it  was  Protestant 
ascendancy,  and  he  could  prove  it ; — yes, 
Protestant  ascendancy,  and  nothing  else,  was 
it  that  brought  him  to  that  house,  its  rep- 
resentative, in  which  he  now  stood.  He 
maintained  that  it  resembled  a  watch-house  ; 
was  it  not  full  of  wickedness,  noise,  and 
blasphemy  ;  and  were  there  any  two  creeds 
in  it  that  agreed  together,  and  did  not  fight 
like  devils? 

How  much  longer  this  fiery  discussion 
might  have  proceeded  it  is  diiticult  to  say. 
The  constable  of  the  night,  finding  that  the 
two  hj'poeritical  vagabonds  were  a  nuisance 
to  the  whole  place,  had  them  handculled  to- 
gether, and  both  jjlaced  in  the  black  hole  to 
finish  their  argument. 

Li  short,  there  was  around  the  good  man 
— vice,  with  all  her  discordant  sounds  and 
hideous  aspects,  clanging  in  his  ear  the  mul- 
titudinous din  that  arose  from  the  loud  and 
noisy  tumult  of  her  brut;il,  drunken,  and 
debauched  votaries. 

The  priest,  who  respected  his  cloth  and 
character,  did  not  lay  aside  his  jock,  nor  ex- 
pose himself  to  the  coarse  jests  and  niffianly 
insolence  \rith  which  the  vagabond  minions 
of  justice  were  in  those  days  accustomed  to 
treat  their  prisoners.  He  inquii-ed  if  lie 
could  get  a  person  to  carry  a  messige  from 
him  to  a  man  named  Corbet,  living  at  25 
Constitution  Hill ;  adding,  that  he  would 
compensate  him  fairly.  On  this,  one  of 
those  idle  loungers  or  orderlies  about  such 
places  offered  himself  at  once,  and  said  he 
would  bring  any  message  he  wished,  pro- 
vided he  forked  out  in  the  first  instance. 

"  Go,  then,"  said  the  priest,  handing  him 
a  piece  of  silver,  "  to  No.  25  Constitution 
HiU,  where  a  man  named  Corbet — what  am 
I  saying — Dmiphy,  lives,  and  tell  lum  to  come 
to  me  immediately." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Darby,  laying  his  finger  along 
his  nose,  as  he  spoke  to  one  of  his  associ- 
ates, "  I  smell  an  a/w.s  there.  Good  ;  first 
Corbet  and  then  Dunphj^.  What  do  you  cull 
that  ?  That  chap  is  one  of  the  connection. 
Take  the  message,  Skifiton  ;  mark  him  well, 
and  let  him  be  here,  if  j^ossible,  before  we 
bring  the  prisoner  to  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's." 

The  fellow  winked  in  rejjly,  and  ajiproach- 
ing  the  priest,  asked, 

"  What  message  have  you  to  send,  Mr.  Fin- 
nerty  ?  " 

"TeU  him  —  but  stay;  oblige  me  with 
a  slip  of  paper  and  a  pen,  I  will  write  it 
down." 


466 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Yes,  that's  better,"  said  Darby.  "  Noth- 
ing like  black  and  white,  you  know,"  he 
added,  aside  to  Skipton. 

Father  M'Mahon  then  wrote  down  his  of- 
fice onlj'  ;  simjjly  sajang,  '•  The  parish  priest 
of  Ballytrain  wishes  to  see  Aiithony  Dunphy 
as  soon  as  he  can  come  to  him." 

This  description  of  himself  excited  roars 
of  laughter  throughout  the  office  ;  nor  could 
the  good-natured  priest  himself  hel^J  smiling 
at  the  ludicrous  contrast  between  his  real 
character  and  that  which  had  been  affixed 
upon  him. 

"  Confound  me,"  said  Darby,  "but  that's 
the  best  aliuK  I  have  heard  this  many  a  day. 
It's  as  good  as  Tom  Green's  that  was  hanged, 
and  who  always  stuck  to  his  name,  no  mat- 
ter how  often  he  changed  it.  At  one  time 
it  was  Ivy,  at  another  Laurel,  at  another 
Yew,  and  so  on,  poor  feUow,  untUhe  swung." 
Skipton,  the  messenger,  took  the  shp  of  pa- 
lmer with  high  glee,  and  proceeded  on  his 
embassy  to  Constitution  HiU. 

He  had  scarcely  been  gone,  when  a  tumult 
reached  their  ears  from  outside,  in  which 
one  voice  was  heard  considerably  louder  and 
deeper  than  the  rest  ;  and  almost  immedi- 
ately afterwards  an  old  acquaintance  of  the 
reader's,  to  wit,  the  worthy  student,  Am- 
brose Gray,  in  a  very  respectable  state  of 
intoxication,  made  his  appearance,  charged 
with  drunkenness,  riot,  and  a  blushing  reluc- 
tance to  jjay  his  tavern  reckoning.  Mr.  Gray 
was  dragged  in  at  very  little  expense  of  cere- 
monj',  it  must  be  confessed,  but  with  some 
prospective  damage  to  his  tailor,  his  clothes 
having  received  considerable  abrasions  in 
the  scuffle,  as  well  as  his  complexion,  which 
was  beautifully  variegated  with,  tints  of  black, 
blue,  and  yellow. 

"Well,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  Darby,  "back 
once  more  I  see?  Why,  you  couldn't  live 
withoiu  us,  I  tliink.     W'hat's  this  now  ?  " 

"A  deficiency  of  assets,  most  jDotent,"  re- 
plied Gray,  with  a  hiccough — "  unable  to 
meet  a  rascally  tavern  reckoning  ; "  and  as 
Mr.  Graj'  spoke  he  thrust  his  tongue  into 
his  cheek,  intimating  by  this  significant  act 
his  high  respect  for  Mr.  Darby. 

"  You  had  better  remember,  sir,  that  you 
are  addressing  the  senior  officer  here,"  said 
the  latter,  higlily  offended. 

"  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  senior, 
I  don't  forget  it ;  nor  that  the  grand  senior 
can  become  a  most  gentlemanly  ruffian 
whenever  he  chooses.  No,  senior,  I  resi^ect 
your  ruffianship,  and  your  ruffianship  ought 
to  respect  me ;  for  well  you  wot  that  many 
a  time  before  now  I've  greased  that  absorb- 
ing palm  of  yours." 

"  Ah,"  replied  Darby,  "  the  hemp  is  grown 
for  you,  and  the  rope  is  purchased  that  will 


soon  be  greased  for  your  last  tug.      Wh} 
chdn't  you  pay  your  bill,  I  say  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  before,  most  potent,  that  that 
fact  originated  in  a  deficiency'  of  assets." 

"  I  rather  think,  JIi-.  Gray,"  said  Darby, 
"  that  it  originated  m  a  very  different  kind 
of  deficiency — a  deficiency  of  iueUnatiou,  my 
buck." 

"  In  both,  most  reverend  senior,  and  I  act 
on  scriptiu'al  principles  ;  for  what  does  pa- 
tient Job  say  ?  '  Base  is  the  slave  that 
pays.'  " 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  don't  pay, 
3'ou'U  be  aj)t  to  receive,  some  fine  day,  that's 
all,"  and  here  he  made  a  motion  M-ith  his 
arm,  as  if  he  were  administering  the  cat-o'- 
niue-tuils  ;  "  however,  this  is  not  my  busi- 
ness. Here  comes  jVirs.  Mulroonj'  to  make 
her  charge.  I  accordingly  shove  you  over 
to  Ned  Niglitcaj),  the  officer  for  the  night." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Gray,  "I  see,  most 
potent,  you  have  ojierated  before.  Kow-de- 
dow-de-dow,  my  boy.  There  was  a  profes- 
sional touch  in  that  jerk  that  couldn't  be 
mistaken  :  that  quiver  at  the  wiist  was  beau- 
tiful, and  the  position  of  the  arm  a  jJerfect 
triangle.  It  must  have  been  quite  a  jjleasure 
to  have  suflered  from  such  a  scientific  hand 
as  yours.  How  do  you  do  again,  Mrs.  ]\Iul- 
roony  ?  j\Irs.  Mulroony,  I  hope  you  did  not 
come  without  some  refreshment.  And  you'U 
withdraw  the  charge,  for  the  sake  of  futu- 
rity, Mrs.  Muh-oony." 

"If  you  do,  Mrs.  Jiluh-oouy,"  said  Darby, 
"I'm  afraid  you'U  have  to  look  to  futurity 
for  payment.  I  mean  to  that  part  of  it  com- 
monly called  'to-morrow  comenever.' — Make 
your  charge,  ma'am." 

Here  a  pale-faced,  sinister-looking  old 
fellow,  in  a  red  wooUeu  uightciqa,  with  baggy 
protuberances  hanging  under  his  red  bleared 
eyes,  now  came  to  a  little  half  door,  inside 
of  which  stood  his  office  for  recei\ang  all 
charges  against  the  various  delinqvients  that 
the  Charlies,  or  watchmen  of  the  jjeriod,  had 
conducted  to  him. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  in  a  hoarse,  hoUow  voice, 
"  what's  this — what's  this  ?  Another  charge 
against  you,  IVIr.  Gray  ?  Gai'vy,"  said  he, 
addressjing  a  watchman,  "  tell  them  vaga- 
bones  that  if  thej'  don't  keep  quiet  111  put 
them  in  irons." 

This  threat  was  received  with  a  chorus  of 
derision  by  those  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
and  the  noise  was  increased  so  furiouslj-, 
that  it  resembled  the  clamor  of  Babel. 

"Here,  Gar\'y,"  said  honest  Ned,  "tickle 
some  of  them  a  bit.  To\ich  uj)  that  bullet- 
headed  house-breaker  that's  drunk — Sara 
Stanoheou,  they  call  him — lave  o.  nate  im- 
pression of  the  big  kay  on  his  head  ; 
he'U  imdherstand  it,  you  know ;   and  there's 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


467 


Molly  Brady,  or  Emily  Howard,  as  she  calls 
herself,  give  her  a  clink  on  the  noddle  to 
stoj}  her  jinteeUtj'.  Bl-ist  her  pedigree  ; 
nothing  will  serve  her  but  she  must  he  a 
lady  on  oui-  hands.  Tell  her  I'll  not  lave  a 
copper  ring  or  a  glass  brooch  on  her  body  if 
she's  not  quiet." 

The  watchman  named  Gar\'y  took  the 
heavy  keys,  and  big  with  the  deputed  author- 
ity, swept,  like  the  destroying  angel  upon  a 
small  scale,  through  the  tumultuous  crew 
that  were  assembled  in  this  viUanous  pande- 
monium, thrashing  the  unfortunate  vaga- 
bonds on  the  naked  head,  or  otherwise,  as 
the  case  might  be,  without  regard  to  age, 
sex,  or  condition,  leaving  bumj)s,  welts, 
cuts,  oaths,  curses,  and  execrations,  ad  in- 
finitum, behind  him.  Owmg  to  this  distri- 
biition  of  official  justice  a  partial  calm  was 
restored,  and  the  charge  of  INIrs.  Mukoony 
was  opened  in  form. 

"  Well,  ]\Irs.  Mulroony,  what  charge  is 
this  you  have  against  Jlisther  Gray  ?  " 

"  Because,"  rephed  Ambrose,  "  I  wasn't 
in  possession  of  assets  to  pay  her  own. 
Had  I  met  her  most  iniquitous  charge  at 
home,  honest  Ned,  I  should  have  escaped 
the  minor  one  here.  You  know  of  old,  Ned, 
how  she  lost  her  conscience  one  nightj  about 
ten  years  ago ;  and  the  poor  woman,  al- 
though she  put  it  in  the  '  Hue  and  Cry,'  by 
way  of  novelty,  never  got  it  since.  None  of 
the  officers  of  justice  knew  of  such  a  com- 
modity ;  ergo,  Ned,  I  sutler. " 

Here  jVIr.  Ambrose  winked  at  Ned,  and 
touched  his  breeches  j)ocket  sig-nificautly, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "the  bribe  is  where  you 
know." 

Ned,  however,  was  strictly  impartial,  and 
dechned,  with  most  commendable  \irtue,  to 
recognize  the  signal,  until  he  saw  whether 
Mrs.  Mulroony  did  not  understand  "  gener- 
osity "  as  well  as  Mi'.  Gray. 

"  Misther  Gray,  I'll  thank  you  to  button 
youi"  lip,  if  you  plaise.  It's  all  very  right,  I 
suppose  ;  but  in  the  manetime  let  daicent 
Mrs.  Muh-oony  tell  her  own  storj'.  How  is 
it,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Faith,  plain  enough,"  she  replied  ;  "he 
came  in  about  half  past  five  o'clock,  with 
three  or  four  skips  fi-om  college " 

"  Scamps,  Mrs.  Mulroony.  Be  just,  be 
correct,  ma'am.  We  were  all  gentlemen 
scamps,  Ned,  from  college.  Everybodj' 
knows  that  a  college  scamp  is  a  respectable 
character,  especially  if  he  be  a  divinity  stu- 
dent, a  class  whom  we  are  proud  to  place  at 
our  head.  You  are  now  corrected,  Mi-s. 
Muh'oony — j^roceed." 

"  Well ;  he  tould  me  to  get  a  dinner  for 
five  ;  but  first  asked  to  see  what  he  called 
'  tlie  bill  of  hau\ '  " 


"  In  your  hands  it  is  anything  but  a  bill 
of  rights,  Mrs.  Muli'oony." 

"  I  tould  him  not  to  trouble  himself  ;  that 
my  dinner  was  as  good  as  another's,  which 
I  thought  might  satisfy  him ;  but  instead 
o'  that,  he  had  the  assui-ance  to  ask  me  if  1 
could  give  them  hair  soup.  I  knew  very 
well  what  the  skij)  was  at." 

"  Seam}),  ma'am,  and  .you  will  oblige  me. " 

"For  if  grief  for  poor  Andy  (weeping), 
that  suffered  mainly  for  what  he  was  as  in- 
nocent of  as  the  unborn  child — if  grief,  an 
every  one  knows  it  makes  the  harr  to  fall ; 
an'  afther  all  it's  only  a  bit  of  a  front  I'm 
weariu'  ; — ah,  you  \Tllain,  it  was  an  ill-heart- 
ed cut,  that." 

"  It  wasn't  a  cut  did  it,  Sirs.  Mulroonj-  ; 
it  fell  off  naturally,  and  by  instalments — or 
rather  it  loaa  a  cut,  and  that  was  what  made 
you  feel  it ;  that  youthful  old  gentleman. 
Time,  gave  it  a  touch  with  a  certain  scythe  he 
carries.  No  such  ci'opjiy  as  old  Time,  j\Irs. 
Mulroony."  On  concluding,  he  winked  again 
at  old  Ned,  and  touched  his  pocket  as  before. 

"  Mr.  Amby,  be  quiet,"  said  Ned,  ratlier 
complacently  though,  "  an"  let  daicent  Mrs. 
Muh'oony  go  on." 

"'Well,  then,'  says  he,  'if  you  haven't 
'  hair-soup,'  which  was  as  much  as  to  say — 
makin'  his  o\ni  fun  before  the  strangers — 
that  I  ought  to  boil  my  verj^  wig  to  plaise 
him — my  fi'ont,  I  mane,  '  maybe,'  says  he, 
'  you  have  oxtail.'  Well,  flesh  and  blood 
could  hardly  bear  that,  and  I  said  it  was  a 
scandal  for  him  to  treat  an  industrious,  un- 
■projected  widow  in  such  a  way  ; '  if  you  want 
a  dinner,  Mr.  Gray,'  says  I,  'I  can  give  you 
and  your  friends  a  jacketful  of  honest  corned 
beef  and  gi'eens.'     Well,  my  dear " 

At  this  insinuating  expression  of  tender- 
ness, old  Ned,  aware,  for  the  first  time,  that 
she  was  a  widow,  and  kept  that  most  con- 
venient of  estabhshments,  an  eating-house, 
cocked  his  nightcap,  with  gi-eat  spirit  and 
significance,  and  with  an  attemjjt  at  a  leer, 
which,  from  the  force  of  habit,  made  him  look 
upon  her  rather  as  the  criminal  than  the  ac- 
cuser, he  said — "It  was  scandalous,  Mrs. 
Mulroony  ;  and  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  unpro- 
tected, ma'am  ;  it's  a  pity,  too,  to  see  sich  a 
woman  as  you  are  without  somebody  to 
talve  care  of  her,  and  esj^ecially  one  that  id 
undherstand  swindh'n'.  But  what  hajspened 
next,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Viliy,  my  dear — indeed,  I  owe  you  many 
thanks  for  your  kindness — you  see,  my 
deal'," — the  nightcap  here  seemed  to  move 
and  erect  itself  instinctively — "  this  fellow 
turns  roimd,  and  says  to  the  other  four  skip.i 
— '  Gentlemen,'  says  he,  '  could  you  conde — 
condescend,'  I  think  it  was — yes — '  could 
you  condescend  to  dine  upon  corned  beei 


468 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


greens 


?      Tbev    snid,    not    unless    it 


would  oblip;e  him  ;  and  then  he  said  it 
wasn't  to  oblige  him,  but  to  sai-ve  the  house 
he  did  it.  k50,  to  miike  a  long  story  short, 
tliey  filled  themselves  with  my  victuals, 
di'ank  seven  tumblers  of  punch  each,  kept 
playin'  cards  the  whole  night,  and  then  fell 
a  fightin' — smashed  glass,  deU't,  and  every- 
thing ;  and  when  it  was  morniu',  shpped 
out,  one  by  one,  tOl  I  caught  my  skip  here, 
the  last  of  them " 

"  Scamp,  Mrs.  Eoony ;  a  gentleman 
scamp,  knowTi  to  every  one  as  a  most  re- 
spectable character  on  towii." 

"  When  I  caught  him  going  oif  without 
payment,  he  fairly  laughed  in  my  face,  and 
ofl'ered  to  toss  me." 

"  Oh,  the  villain  !  "  said  Ned  ;  "I  only 
wish  I  had  been  there,  Mrs.  Muh'oony, 
and  you  wouldn't  have  wanted  what  I  am 
sorry  to  see  you  do  want — a  protector.  The 
villain,  to  go  to  toss  such  a  woman — to  go 
to  take  such  scandalous  liberties  !  Go  on, 
ma'am — go  on,  my  dear  Mi-s.  Muli-oonv." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  he  offered,  as  I  said,  to 
toss  me  for  it — double  or  quits — and  when  I 
wouldn't  stand  that,  he  asked  me  if  I  would 
c'dlow  him  to  kiss  it  in,  at  so  many  kisses  a- 
day  ;  but  I  told  him  that  coin  wouldn't  pass 
wid  me." 

"  He's  a  swindler,  ma'am  ;  no  doubt  of  it, 
and  you'U  never  be  safe  till  you  have  some 
one  to  25rotect  you  that  understands  swindUn' 
and  imposition.  Well,  ma'am — well,  my 
dear  ma'am,  what  next  ?  ' 

"Why,  he  then  attempted  to  escape  ;  but' 
as  I  happened  to  have  a  stout  ladle  in  my 
hand,  I  thought  a  good  basting  wouldn't  do 
him  any  harm,  and  while  I  was  layin'  on  him 
two  sailors  came  in,  and  they  took  him  out 
of  my  hands." 

"  Out  of  the  fryincj-pau  into  the  fire,  you 
ought  to  say,  Mi's.  Mulroony." 

"  So  he  and  they  fought,  and  smashed  an- 
other lot  of  glass,  and  then  I  set  out  and 
charged  him  on  the  watch.  Oh,  murdher 
sheery — to  tlunk  the  waj'  my  beautiful  beef 
and  greens  went !  " 

Here  Mr.  Ambrose,  approaching  Mrs. 
Mulroony,  whispered — "  My  dear  Mrs.  Mul- 
roony, remember  one  word — FtiTmtrrY  ;  heir 
apparent — heir  dii-ect ;  so  be  moderate,  and 
a  short  time  will  place  you  in  easy  circum- 
stances. The  event  that's  coming  will  be  a 
stunner." 

"  What's  that  he's  sayin'  to  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Mulroony  ?  "  asked  Ned  ;  "  don't  hsten 
to  him,  he'll  only  soodher  and  palaver  you. 
I'll  take  your  charge,  and  lock  him  up." 

"  Darby,"  said  Mr.  Gray,  now  approach- 
mg  that  worthy,  "  a  single  word  with  you — 
we  understand  one  another — I  intended  to 


bribe  old  Ned,  the  %-iUaLn  ;  but  you  shall 
have  it." 

"Very  good,  it's  a  bargain,"  rejiUed  the 
virtuous  Darby  ;  "  fork  out." 

"Here,  then,  is  ten  shUlings,  and  bring 
me  out  of  it." 

Darby  pnvately  pocketed  the  money,  and 
mo\'iug  toward  Ned,  whisi^ered  to  him — 
"  Don't  take  the  charge  for  a  few  minutes. 
I'U  lleece  them  both.  Amby  has  given  me 
half-a-crowTi ;  another  from  her,  and  then 
half  and  hiilf  between  us.  ili-s.  Mulroony, 
a  word  with  you.  Listen — do  you  wish  to 
succeed  in  this  business  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  do  ;  why  not  ?  " 
"  Well,  then,  if  you  do,  slip  me  five  shil- 
lings, or  yovi're  dished,  Hke  one  of  yoiu-  own 
dinners,  and  that  ^Vmby  Gray  will  slice  you 
to  pieces.  Ned's  liis  friend  at  heart,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Well,  but  you'U  see  me  rightified  ?  " 
"  Hand  the  ndtoney,  ma'am  ;  do  j-ou  know 
who  you're  speaking  to  ?     The  senior  of  the 
office." 

On  receiving  the  money,  the  honest  senior 
whispers  to  the  honest  officer  of  the  night — 
"  A  crown  fi'om  both,  that  is,  haK  from  each  ; 
and  now  act  as  you  like  ;  but  if  you  take 
the  widow's  charge,  we'll  have  a  free  plate, 
at  all  events,  whenever  we  caU  to  see  her, 
you  know." 

Honest  Ned,  feeling  indignant  that  he 
was  not  himself  the  direct  recipient  of  tlie 
bribes,  and  also  anxious  to  win  favor  in  tbe 
widow's  ej'es,  took  the  chai-ge  against  Mr. 
Gray,  w^ho  was  very  soon  locked  up,  with 
the  "  miscellanies,"  in  the  black  hole,  untD 
bail  could  be  prociued. 

On  finding  that  matters  had  gone  against 
him,  Gray,  who,  although  unaffected  in 
speech,  was  yet  rather  tipsy,  assumed  a  look 
of  siugulai-  importance,  as  if  to  console  him- 

;  self  for  the  degi'adation  he  was  about  to 
undergo  ;  he  composed  his  face  into  an  ex- 
pression that  gave  a  ludicrous  travesty  of 

■  dignity. 

;      "  Well,"  said  he,  with  a  solemn  swagger, 

!  nodding  his  head   from  side  to  side  as  he 

I  sjooke,  in  order  to  impress  what  he  uttered 
with  a  more  mysterious  emphasis — "you 
are  all  acting  in  ignorance,  quite  so  ;  Httle 

:  you  know  wiio  the  person  is  that's  before 

j  you  ;  but  it   doesn't   signify — I   am    some- 

,  body,  at  all  events." 

"A  gentleman  in  disguise,"  said  a  voice 
from  the  black  hole.  "  You'U  find  some  of 
j'our  friends  here." 

"You   are   right,    my   good   feUow — you 

i  are  perfectly  right  ; "  said  Ambrose,  nodding 
with    di'unken    giwity,    as   before  :    "  high 

I  blood  runs  in  my  veins,  and  time  wiU  soon 
teU  that ;  I  shall  stand  and  be  returned  for 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


469 


the   town  of  Ballytrain,  as   soon   as   there 
comes  a  dissolution  ;  I'm  bent  on  that." 

"  Bravo  !  hurra  !  a  verj'  proper  member 
you'll  make  for  it,"  from  the  black  hole. 

"  And  I  shall  have  the  Auj>ean  stables  of 
these  corrupt  offices  swjpt  of  their  filth. 
Ned,  the  scoundrel,  shall  be  sent  to  the  right 
aljout  ;  Ml-.  Dai'by,  for  his  honesty,  shall 
have  each  wrist  embraced  by  a  namesake." 

Here  he  was  shoved  by  Gravvy,  the  watch- 
man, head  foremost  into  the  black  hole, 
after  having  received  an  imiDulse  fi'om  be- 
hind, kmdlj'  intended  to  facihtate  his  iugi-ess, 
ivliich,  notwithstanding  his  drunken  ambi- 
tion, the  boast  of  his  high  blood,  and  mighty 
promises,  was  made  with  extraordinary  want 
')f  dignity. 

Although  we  have  described   this   scene 
nearly   in   consecutive    order,    without   the  | 
breaks  and  interruptions  which  took  plice 
whilst  it  proceeded,  yet  the  reader  should  '■ 
imagine  to  himself  the  outrage,  the  yelling,  \ 
the  clamor,  the   by-battles,   and   scurrilous 
."ontests  in  the  lowest  description  of  black- 
guardism with  which  it  was  garnished  ;  thus  : 
causing  it  to    occupy  at   least    four   times 
the   period   we   have   ascribed   to   it.     The 
simple-minded  priest,  who  could  never  have 
dreamt  of  such  an  exhibition,  scarcely  knew 
whether  he  was  asleep  or  awake,  and  some-  ) 
times   asked   himself    whether   it   was   not  I 
some  terrible  phantasm  by  which   he   was 
stai'tled  and  oppi-essed.     Tiie  horrible  im-  I 
press  of  naked  and  hai-dened  villany — the  1 
light  and  mirthful  delirium  of  crime — the  j 
wanton   manifestations   of    vice,    in   all   its  j 
shapes,    and   the   unblushing  front   of  de-  ^ 
b  luehei-y  and  profligacy — constituted,  when  I 
brought  together  in  one  hideous  grouj),  a  i 
sight  which  made  his  heart  groan  for  human 
nature  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  corruption  | 
of  human  law  on  the  other. 

"  The  contamination  of  vice  here,"  said  he  1 
to  himself,  "is  so  concentrated  and  deadly,  I 
that  innocence  or  virtue  could  not  long  re- 
sist its  influence.     Alas  !  alas  !  "  I 

Old  Dunphy  now  made  his  appearance  ; 
but  he  had  scarcely  time  to  shake  hands 
with  the  priest,  when  he  heard  himself  ad- 
dressed from  between  the  bars  of  Graj-'s 
Umbo,  with  the  words, 

'■I  say,  old  Coi-bet,  or  Dunphy,  or  what- 
ever the  devil  they  call  you  ;  here's  a  rela- 
tion of  yours  by  the  mother's  side  only,  you 
old  dog — mark  that ;  here  I  am,  Ambrose 
Gray,  a  gentleman  in  disguise,  as  you  well 
know  ;  and  I  want  j^ou  to  bail  me  out." 

"An' a  respectable  way  you  ax  it,"  said 
Dunphy,  putting  on  his  spectacles,  and  look- 
ing at  him  through  the  bars. 

"  Respect !  'Uliat,  to  a  beggai-ly  old  huck- 
ster and  kidnapijer !     ^Miy,  you  peniuious 


sheer  of  musty  bacon — you  iniquitous  dealer 
in  light  weights — what  respect  are  you  en- 
titled to  fi'om  me?  You  know  who  I  am — 
and  you  must  bail  me.  Otherwise  never 
expect,  when  the  time  comes,  that  I  shaU 
recognize  j"ou  as  a  base  relative,  or  suffer 
you  to  show  your  ferret  face  in  my  presence. " 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  bitterly  ; 
"the  blood  is  in  you." 

"  Right,  mj'  old  potatomonger  ;  as  true  as 
gosijel,  and  a  great  deal  truer.  The  blood 
IS  in  me." 

"Ay,"  replied  the  other,  "the  blood  of 
the  oppressor — the  blood  of  the  -Ndllain — the 
blood  of  the  unjust  tp-ant  is  in  you,  and  no- 
thing else.  If  you  had  his  power,  you'd  be 
what  he  is,  and  maybe,  worse,  if  the  thing 
was  i^ossible.  Now,  hsten  ;  I'U  make  the 
words  you  just  said  to  me  the  bitterest  and 
blackest  to  yoiu-self  that  you  ever  spoke. 
That's  the  last  information  I  have  for  you  ; 
and  as  I  know  that  you're  just  where  you 
ought  to  be,  among  the  companions  you 
are  fit  for,  there  I  leave  you." 

He  then  turned  toward  the  priest,  and 
left  Gray  to  get  bail  where  he  might. 

^^^len  Skipton,  the  messenger,  who  re- 
turned with  Dunphy,  or  Corbet,  as  we  shall  in 
future  call  him,  entered  the  watch-house, 
he  drew  Darby  aside,  and  held  some  private 
conversation  with  him,  of  which  it  was  evi- 
dent that  Corbet  was  the  subject,  fi'om  the 
significant  glances  which  each  turned  upon 
him  fi-om  time  to  time. 

In  the  meantime,  the  old  man,  recogniz- 
ing the  jjriest  rather  by  his  voice  than  his 
appearance,  lost  no  time  in  acquainting  the 
officers  of  justice  that  they  were  completely 
mistaken  in  the  individual.  The  latter  had 
briefly  mentioned  to  him  the  cu'cumstance 
and  cause  of  his  arrest. 

"I  want  3'ou,"  said  the  priest,  "to  go  to 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  directly,  and  tell  him 
that  I  have  his  money  and  i^istols  quite  safe, 
and  that  I  was  on  my  way  up  to  town  with 
them,  when  this  unj)leasant  mistake  took 
place." 

"I  will,  your  reverence,"  said  he,  "with- 
out loss  of  time.  I  see,"  he  added,  address- 
ing Darby  and  the  others,  "  that  you  have 
made  a  mistake  here." 

"^\Tiat  mistake,  my  good  man?"  asked 
Darby. 

"  WTiy,  simply,  that  instead  of  a  robber. ' 
you  have  beeu  shai-p  enough  to  take  up  a 
most  resjiectable  Cathohc  clergyman  from 
BaUytrain. " 

"  ^\^lat,"  said  Dai-by,  "  a  Popish  priest ! 
Curse  me,  but  that's  as  good,  if  not  better, 
than  the  other  thing.  No  Papist  is  allowed, 
under  the  penalty  of  a  felony,  to  carry  arms, 
and  here  is  a  Popish  jn'iest  traveUing  with 


470 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WOEKS. 


pistols.  The  other  thing,  Skipton,  was  only 
for  the  magistrates,  but  this  is  a  govern- 
ment afiau-." 

"  He  may  be  Finnerty,  after  all,"  replied 
Skipton,  aside  ;  "this  old  fellow  is  no  au- 
thority as  to  his  identity,  as  you  may  guess 
from  what  I  told  you." 

*  At  all  events,"  replied  Darby,  "we  shall 
soon  know  which  he  is — jjriest  or  robber  ; 
but  I  hope,  for  our  own  sakes,  he'll  prove  a 
priest  on  our  hands.  At  any  rate  the  magis- 
trates are  now  in  the  oifice,  and  it's  fuU  time 
to  bring  his  reverence  iip." 

Corbet,  in  the  meantime,  had  gone  to  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay's  with  his  reverence's  mes- 
sage, and  in  a  few  minutes  afterwards  the 
prisoner,  strongly  guarded,  was  conducted  to 
the  pohce  oifice. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  Police  Office — Sir  Spigot  Sputter  and  Mr. 
Coke — An  Unfortunate  Trandator — Decision  in 
"a  Law  Case." 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  detail  the  history 
of  occurrences  that  are  calculated  to  fill  the 
mind  with  sorrow,  not  unmingled  with  dis- 
gust, or  to  describe  scenes  that  must  neces- 
sarily lower  our  estimate  of  both  man  and 
woman.  On  the  bench  sat  two  magistrates, 
of  whom  we  maj'  say  that,  from  ignorance  of 
law,  want  of  temper,  and  impenetrable  stu- 
pidity, the  whole  circle  of  commercial  or 
professional  life  could  not  produce  a  pair 
more  signally  unqualified  for  the  important 
offices  they  occupied.  One  of  them,  named 
S^jutter,  Sii-  Spigot  Sputter,  was  an  old  man, 
with  a  red  face  and  perpetual  grin,  whose 
white  hair  was  cropped  close  ;  but  in  com- 
pensation for  this  he  wore  powder  and  a 
queue,  so  that  his  head,  except  in  vivacity  of 
motion,  might  not  inappropriately  be  com- 
pared to  an  overgrown  tadpole  struggling  to 
get  fi-ee  from  Ids  shoulders,  and  escape  to 
the  nearest  marsh.  He  also  wore  a  false  eye, 
which  gave  him  a  perennial  blink  that  was 
sadly  at  variance  with  magisterial  dignity. 
Indeed  the  consequences  of  it  were  sometimes 
ludicrous  enough.  "When,  for  instance,  one 
of  those  syrens  who  perambulate  our  fashion- 
able streets  after  the  sun  has  gone  do^vai, 
happened  to  be  brought  up  to  answer  some 
charge  that  came  under  his  jurisdiction,  Sir 
Spigot's  custom  always  was  to  put  his  glass 
to  the  safe  eye,  and  peer  at  her  in  the  dock  ; 
which  act,  wherf  taken  in  connection  with 
the  grin  and  the  droop  of  the  glass  eye, 
seemed  to  the  spectators  as  if  he  and  ,slie 
understood  each  other,  and  that  the  wink  in 


question  was  a  kind  of  telegraphic  dispatch 
sent  to  let  her  know  that  she  had  a  fi-iend 
on  the  bench.  Sir  Spigot  vias  deaf,  too,  a 
fehcitous  circumstance,  which  g.^.ve  him 
pecuhar  facihty  in  the  decision  of  his 
cases. 

The  name  of  his  brother  on  the  bench  was 
Coke,  who  acted  iu  the  capacity  of  what  is 
teimed  a  law  magistrate.   It  is  enough,  how- 
ever, to  say,  that  he  was  a  thin  man,  with  a 
long,  dull  face,  a  dull  eye,  a  dull  tongue,  a 
dull  ear,  and  a  dull  brain.      His  talents  for 
ambiguity  were  surprising,  and  it  always  re- 
quired a  hint  from  the  senior  of  the  office, 
Darby,  to  enable  him  to  understand  his  own 
decisions.     This,  however,  was  not  without 
some  beneficial  consequences  to  the  Uidivid- 
iials  before  him  ;  as  it  often  happened,  that 
when  he  seemed  to  have  conmiitted  some 
hardened  ofiender,  after  the  infliction  of  a 
long,  laborious,   obscure  harangue,  lie  has 
immediately  ordered  him  to  be  discharged. 
And,  on  the  contrary,  when  some  innocent 
]  individual  heard  mth  dehght  the  sentence  of 
;  the  court  ajjpareutly  in  his  favor,  judge  of 
^vhat  he  must  have  felt  on  finding  himself 
':  sent   otf  to   Newgate,    Ivilmainham,   or  the 
;  Penitentiary.     In  this  instance,  however,  the 
advantage  to  the  pubUc  was  nearly  equal ; 
I  for  if  the  guilty  escaped  in  one  e:;se,  so  did 
the  innocent  in  another.    Here  now  is  Mhei'e 
'<  Darby  became  useful ;   for  Darby,  who  was 
\  weU  acquainted  with  his  style,  and  with  his 
meaning,  when  he  had  any,  always  intcriu-et- 
ed  his  decisions  to  him,  and  told  him  in  a 
v\hisper,  or  on  a  shp  of  paper,  whether  he  had 
convicted  the  jjrisoner,  or  not.  • 

i  We  shall  detail  one  case  which  occurred 
this  morning.  It  happened  that  an  amiable 
i  and  distinguished  htenuy  gentleman,  an 
LL.D.,  and  a  barrister,  had  lost  from  liis  li- 
brary a  book  on  which  he  placed  great  vidue, 
and  he  found  this  book  on  a  stall  not  very 
far  from  the  office.  On  seeing  the  volume 
he  naturallj'  claimed  it.  and  the  woman  who 
h;id  received  it  from  the  thief,  who  was  a 
servant,  refused  to  give  it  up,  unless  the 
money  she  had  jsaid  for  it  were  returned  to 
her.  Neither  woiild  the  wretch  disclose  the 
name  of  the  thief,  but  snapped  her  fingers  in 

Dr.  A 's  face,  saying  she  defied  him,  and 

that  he  could  only  bring  her  before  'Mi: 
Coke,  who,  she  knew  very  well,  would  see 
justice  done  her.  She  lived  by  buying 
books,  she  said,  and  by  selling  books  ;  and 
as  he  lived  by  writing  books,  she  thought  it 
wasn't  handsome  of  him  to  insult  the  jirofes- 
sion  by  bringing  such  a  blackg-u;u-d  charge 
against  them  in  Iter  name. 

He  summoned  her,  however,  and  the  case 
was  one  of  the  first  called  on  the  morning  in 
question.     The  receiver  of  the  stolen  book 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


471 


came  forward,  with  much  awsiu'ance,  as  de- 
fendant, and  modest  Dr.  A as  plaintiff ; 

wbeu  Sir  Spigot,  jjutting  his  glass  to  his 
e^-e,  and  looking  from  the  one  to  the  other 
with  his  wink  aiid  gxiu  as  usual,  said  to 
D.u-b.v: 

"  What  is  tliis  man  here  for  ?  " 

"  It's  a  law  case,  your  worship,"  replied  the 
■ssnior  officer. 

Coke,  who  sat  solemn  and  silent,  looked  at 
the  doctor,  and  said  : 

"  WeU,  sir,  what  is  j'our  case  ?  Please  to 
state  it." 

The  case,  being  a  very  plain  and  brief  one, 
was  soon  stated,  the  woman's  replj'  was  then 
heard,  after  which  Sir.  Coke  looked  grr.ver 
than  before,  and  proceeded  somewhat  to  the 
following  effect : 

"Thii  is  a  case  of  deep  iiiterest  to  that 
important  portion  of  the  bibiiiopoiist  pro- 
fession who  vend  their  wares  on  st'^Us." 

"  Thank  your  'worship,"  said  the  woman, 
with  a  coiu'tesy. 

"  This  most  respectable  body  of  persons, 
the  booksellers — [another  courtesy  from  the 
woman] — are  divided  into  several  classes; 
first,  those  who  sell  books  in  large  and  splen- 
did shops ;  next,  those  who  sell  them  in 
shops  of  less  pretension  ;  thirdly,  those  Yv-ho 
sell  them  on  stalls  in  thoroughfai-es,  and  at 
the  corners  of  streets  ;  fourthly,  those  who 
carry  them  in  baskets,  and  who  pass  from 
{jlace  to  place,  and  combine  with  the  book- 
selling business  that  of  %ing  stationer  ;  and 
fifthly,  those  who  do  not  sell  them  at  all,  but 
only  read  them  ;  and  as  those  who  read,  un- 
less they  steal  or  borrow,  must  jnirchase,  I 
accordingly  class  them  as  booksellers  indi- 
rectly, inasmuch  as  if  they  don't  sell  books 
themselves,  they  cause  others  to  do  so.  For 
this  reason  it  is  evident  that  every  man 
Uving,  imd  woman  too,  capable  of  reading  a 
book,  is  a  bookseller  ;  so  that  society  at  large 
is  nothing  but  one  great  bookselling  firm. 

"Having  thus  estabhshed  the  immense 
extent  and  importance  of  the  business,  I 
now  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  the  case 
before  us.  To  steal  a  book  is  not  in  every 
case  an  oflence  against  the  law  of  libel,  nor 
against  the  law  of  arson,  nor  against  the  law 
of  insurrection,  nor  against  the  law  of 
primogeniture  ;  in  fact,  it  is  only  against  the 
law  of  theft — it  offends  only  one  law — and 
is  innocent  with  respect  to  all  the  others. 
A  person  stealing  a  book  could  not  be  in- 
dicted under  the  statute  of  limitations,  for 
instance  ;  except,  indeed,  in  so  far  as  he  may 
be  supx^osed  to  limit  the  property  of  the 
person  from  whom  he  stole  it.  But  on  this 
point  the  oi)iuion  of  the  learned  Folderol 
would  go  pretty  far,  were  it  not  for  the 
opinion  of  another  great  man,  which  I  shall 


presently  quote.  Folderol  lays  it  down  as  a 
fixed  j^iinciplo  in  an  able  treatise  upon  the 
law  of  weathercocks,  that  if  property  be 
stolen  from  an  individual,  without  the  aggre- 
gate of  that  property  suffering  reduction  or 
diminution,  he  i.s  not  robbed,  and  the  crime 
of  theft  has  not  been  committed.  The  other 
authority  that  I  alluded  to,  is  that  of  his 
great  and  equally  celebrated  ojDponent, 
Tolderol,  who  lays  it  down  ou  tlie  other 
hand,  that  when  a  thief,  in  the  act  of  stealing, 
leaves  more  behind  him  than  he  found  there 
at  first,  so  that  the  m.i,n  stolen  from  becomes 
richer  by  the  act  of  theft  than  he  had  been 
before  it,  the  crime  then  becomes  dupUcU 
delicti,  or  one  of  harum-scarum,  according  tc 
Doodle,  and  the  thief  deser^'es  transportatior 
or  the  gallows.  And  the  reason  is  obvious 
if  the  property  of  the  person  stolen  from, 
under  the  latter  category,  were  to  be  ex- 
amined, and  that  a  larger  portion  of  it  was 
found  there  than  projierly  had  belonged  to 
him  before  the  theft,  he  might  be  suspected 
of  theft  himself,  and  in  this  case  a  doublo 
conviction  of  the  parties  would  ensue  ;  that 
is,  of  him  who  did  not  take  wliat  he  ought, 
and  of  huu  who  had  more  than  he  was  en- 
titled to.  This  opinion,  which  is  remarkable 
for  its  per.sjiicuity  and  soundness,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  one  hundred  and  second  foho 
of  Logerhedius,  tome  six  hundred,  page 
9768. 

"  There  is  another  case  bearing  strongly 
upon  the  present  one,  in  '  Snifter  and 
Snivell's  Eejsorts,'  vol.  86,  page  liSO,  in 
which  an  old  woman,  who  was  too  poor  to 
purchase  a  Bible,  stole  one,  and  was  prose  ■ 
cuted  for  the  theft.  The  counsel  for  tho 
prosecution  and  the  defence  were  bot)j 
equally  eminent  and  able.  Counsellor  Sleet 
was  for  the  prosecution  and  Kant  for  the 
defence.  Sleek,  who  was  himself  a  religious 
bari'ister,  insisted  that  the  /oc(^^■  delicti  aggra- 
vated the  offence,  inasmuch  as  she  had  stolen 
the  Bible  out  of  a  chiirch  ;  but  Rant  main- 
tained that  the  locus  delicti  was  &  prima  facift 
evidence  of  her  innocence,  inasmuch  as  she 
only  complied  with  a  jsrecept  of  rehgion, 
which  enjoins  all  sinners  to  seek  such  assist- 
ance toward  their  spiritual  welfare  as  the 
church  can  afford  them. 

"  Sleek  argued  that  the  principle  of  theft 
must  have  been  innate  and  strong,  when  the 
respect  due  to  that  sacred  edifice  was  insuffi- 
cient to  restrain  her  from  such  an  act — an 
act  which  constituted  sacrilege  of  a  very  ag- 
gravated kind. 

"  Rant  rejslied,  that  the  motive  and  not 
the  act  constituted  the  crime.  There  was 
prima  facie  proof  that  she  stole  it  for  pious 
purposes — to  wit,  that  she  might  learn  there- 
from a  correct  principle  for  -^c  conduct  oi 


472 


WILLIAM.    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


her  life.  It  was  not  proved  that  the  woman 
had  sold  tlie  book,  or  pledged  it,  or  iu  any 
other  way  disijosed  of  it  for  her  coi-poral  or 
temporal  heiiefit ;  the  inference,  therefore, 
was,  that  the  motive,  in  the  first  place,  justi- 
fied the  act,  which  was  in.  sc  a  pious  one  ; 
and,  besides,  had  the  woman  been  a  thief, 
she  would  have  stolen  the  plate  and  huen 
belonging  to  the  altar  ;  but  she  did  not, 
therefore  there  existed  on  her  part  no  con- 
sciousness nor  intention  of  wrong. 

"  Sleek  rejoined,  that  if  the  woman  had 
felt  any  necessity  for  rehgious  advice  and  in- 
structiou,  she  would  have  gone  to  the  min- 
ister, whose  duty  it  was  to  give  it. 

"  Rant  repUed,  that  upon  Sleek's  own 
principles,  if  the  minister  had  properly  dis- 
charged his  duty,  the  Vi'oman  would  have 
been  under  no  necessity  for  taking  the  Bible 
at  aU  ;  and  that,  consequently,  in  a  strict 
upirit  of  justice,  the  theft,  if  theft  it  could  be 
'■ailed,  was  not  the  theft  of  the  old  woman, 
■»)ut  that  of  the  minister  himself,  who  had 
lailed  to  give  her  proi^er  instructions.  It 
was  the  duty  of  the  minister  to  liave  gone  to 
the  old  woman,  and  not  that  of  the  old 
woman  to  have  gone  to  the  minister ;  but, 
perhaps,  had  the  woman  been  young  and 
handsome,  the  minister  might  have  admin- 
istered consolation. 

"  I  find  that  Sleek  here  made  a  long  speech 
about  rehgion,  which  he  chai'ged  Rant  v»ith 
insulting  ;  he  regretted  that  a  false  human- 
ity had  rejDealed  some  of  those  stringent  but 
wholesome  laws  that  had  been  enacted  for 
the  preservation  of  holy  things,  and  was 
truly  sorry  that  this  sacrilegious  old  wretch 
could  not  be  brought  to  the  stake.  Ke  did 
not  envj-  his  learned  friend  the  sneering  con- 
*.empt  for  rehgion  that  ran  through  his  vihole 
U'gument. 

"  Rant  bowed  and  smiled,  and  replied 
that,  in  his  opinion,  the  only  stake  the  poor 
woman  ought  to  be  brought  to  was  a  beef- 
iteak ;  for  he  always  wished  to  see  the  law 
administered  with  mercy. 

"  Sleek  was  not  surjsrised  at  hearing  such 
a  carnal  argument  brought  to  the  defence  of 
such  a  crime,  and  concluded  by  pressing  for 
the  severest  i)unishment  the  law  could  inflict 
against  this  most  iniquitous  ciimiual,  who — 
and  he  dared  even  Rant  himself  to  deny  the 
fact — came  before  that  court  as  an  old  oSiend- 
er  ;  he  therefore  pressed  for  a  conviction 
against  a  j)erson  who  had  acted  so  flagrantly 
uonira  bmio^  moras. 

"  Rant  R  id,  she  could  not  or  ought  not  to 
be  con\icted.  This  Bible  was  not  individual 
property  ;  it  was  that  of  a  parish  that  con- 
tained better  than  eighteen  thousand  in- 
habitants. Now,  if  any  individvial  were  to 
estabhsh  his  right  of  property  in  the  Bible, 


and  she  herself  was  a  jn-oprietress  as  well  as 
any  of  them  the  amount  would  be  far  beneath 
any  current  coin  of  the  realm,  consequentlj' 
there  existed  no  legal  symbol  of  jiroperty  for 
the  value  of  v.'hich  a  conviction  could  be 
had. 

"  As  I  perceive,  however,"  added  Mr.  Coke, 
"  that  the  abstract  of  the  arguments  in  this 
important  case  mns  to  about  five  hundred 
pages,  I  shall  therefore  recapitulate  Judge 
iNodwell's  charge,  which  has  been  considered 
a  veiy  brilliant  sjjecimen  of  legal  acumen  and 
jurhcial  eloquence. 

"  'This,  gentlemen  of  the  jui-y,'  said  his 
lordship,' is  a  case  of  app;u-eutly  some  diffi- 
culty, and  I  cannot  heljs  admiring  the  singular 
talent  and  high  jnincijjles  disjolayed  by  the 
leai'ned  counsel  on  both  sides. wiio  so  ably  ar- 
gusd  it.  Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  th?,t  no  con- 
sciousness of  rehgious  ignorance,  no  privation 
of  religious  knowledge,  could  ever  incluce  my 
learned  friend  Sleek  to  commit  such  a  theft. 
Rather  than  do  so,  I  am  sure  he  would  be 
conscientious  enough  to  pass  through  the 
world  without  any  religion  at  all.  As  it  is. 
we  all  know  that  he  is  a  great  hght  in  that 
respect ' 

"  '  He  would  be  a  burning  light,  too,  my 
lord,'  observed  Rant. 

"  No  ;  his  reverence  for  the  Bible  is  too 
gi-eat,  too  sine;  re  to  jirofune  it  by  such  vulgar 
fierasal  as  it  may  have  received  at  the  hands 
of  that  destitute  old  woman,  who  probably 
thumbed  it  day  and  night,  without  regard 
f  ither  to  dog-ears  or  binding,  or  a  consider- 
ation of  how  she  was  treating  the  properly 
of  the  jjarish.  The  fact,  however,  gentlemen, 
seems  to  be,  that  the  old  woman  either  alto- 
gether forgot  the  institutions  of  society,  or 
resolved  society  itself  iu  her  ovm  mind  into 
first  principles.  Now,  gentlemen,  we  cannot 
go  behind  first  princijJes,  neither  can  we  go 
behind  the  old  woman.  AVe  must  keeji  her 
before  us,  but  it  is  not  np;:-cssary  to  keep  the 
Bible  so.  It  has  been  foimd,  indeed,  that 
she  did  not  sell,  pledge,  bestow,  or  otherwise 
make  the  book  subservient  to  her  temporal  or 
corporal  wants,  as  ]\Ii-.  Rant  veiy  ingeniously 
argTied.  Neither  did  she  take  it  to  jilace  m 
her  library — for  she  had  no  liljrary  ;  nor  for 
ostentation  in  her  haU — for  she  had  no  hall, 
as  my  jiious  friend  Counsellor  Sleek  has. 
But,  gentlemen,  even  if  this  old  woman  by 
reading  the  Bible  leai-ned  to  rejient,  and  felt, 
conversion  of  heart,  you  are  not  to  infer  that 
the  act  which  brought  her  to  grace  and  re- 
pentance may  not  hav.'^  been  a  hardened  tio- 
tfdion  of  the  law.  Bewaa-e  of  this  eiTor,  gen- 
tlemen. The  old  woman  by  steahng  this 
Bible  mav  have  repented  her  of  her  sins,  it 
is  true  ;  but  it  is  your  business,  gentlemen, 
to  make  her  repent  of  the  law  also.  The  law 


THE  BLACK  BAROXET. 


473 


is  as  great  a  source  of  repentance  as  tlie 
Bible  any  day,  and,  I  am  proud  to  say,  has 
caused  more  liuman  tears  to  be  slied,  and 
bitterer  ones,  too,-  than  the  Word  of  God 
ever  did.  Even  although  justified  in  the 
sight  of  heaven,  it  does  not  follow  that  this 
woman  is  to  escajje  here.  It  is  the  ad,  and 
not  the  hi'arl,  that  the  law  deals  T^ith.  The 
puritv  of  her  motives,  her  repentance,  are 
nothing  to  the  liw  ;  but  the  law  is  everything 
to  the  person  in  whom  they  operate  ;  be- 
cause, althciugh  the  heart  may  be  innocent, 
the  individual  person  must  be  pimisheil.  A 
penitent  heart,  or  a  consciousness  of  the 
pardon  of  God,  are  not  fit  considerations  for 
a  jury-box.  You  are,  therefore,  to  exclude 
the  motive,  and  to  take  nothing  into  consid- 
eration but  the  act ;  for  it  is  only  that  by 
which  the  law  has  been  violated. 

"  '  But  is  there  no  such  thing  as  mercy, 
my  lord  ? '  asked  a  juror. 

"  In  the  administration  of  the  law  there 
is  such  a  fiction — a  beautiful  negation,  indeed 
— ^but  we  know  that  Justice  always  holds  the 
first  place,  and  when  she  is  satisfied,  then 
we  call  in  Mercy.  Such,  at  least,  is  the 
wholesome  practice  and  constitutional  sjiirit 
of  British  law.  I  hare  now,  gentlemen,  ren- 
dered you  everj'  assistance  in  my  power.  If 
you  think  this  old  woman  guilty,  you  wUl 
find  accordingly  ;  if  not,  you  will  give  her 
the  benefit  of  any  doubt  in  her  favor  'which 
you  may  entertain. 

"  The  woman,"  continued  Coke,  "  was  con- 
\'icted,  and  here  follows  the  sentence  of  the 
judge. 

"Martha  Dotinghed — you  have  been  con- 
victed bj'  the  verdict  of  twelve  as  intelligent 
and  resj^ectable  gentlemen  as  I  ever  saw  iu 
a  jury-box  ;  convicted,  I  am  sori-y  to  say, 
very  properly,  of  a  most  heinous  crime,  that 
'>f  attempting  to  work  out  your  salvation  in 
lu  improper  manner — to  wit,  by  making  il- 
'egally  fi-ee  with  the  Word  of  God. 

"'In  troth,  my  lord,'  replied  the  culprit, 
'  the  Word  of  God  is  become  so  scarce  now- 
adays, that  imless  one  steals  it,  they  have 
but  a  poor  chance  of  coming  by  it  honestlj', 
or  hearing  it  at  all." 

"  You  have  been  convicted,  I  say,  notwith- 
statiding  a  most  able  defence  by  your  coun- 
sel, who  omitted  no  argument  that  could 
prove  availal)le  for  your  acquitt  d  ;  and  I  am 
soiTv  to  he:u'  from  yoiu'  own  lips,  that  you 
are  iu  no  degree  jienitent  for  the  crime  you 
have  committed.  You  say,  the  Word  of  God 
is  scarce  nowadays — ^but  that  fact,  uuhaj^ipy 
woman,  only  aggravates  your  guilt — for  in 
proportion  to  the  scarcity  of  the  Word  of 
God,  so  is  its  value  increased — and  we  all  | 
know  that  the  greater  the  value  of  that  which 
is  stolen,  the  deeper,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  j 


is  the  crime  of  the  thief.  Had  you  not  given 
utterance  to  those  impenitent  expressions, 
the  court  would  have  been  anxious  to  deal 
mercifidly  with  you.  As  it  is,  I  tell  you  to 
prepare  for  the  heaviest  punishment  it  can 
intiict,  which  is,  that  you  be  compelled  to 
read  some  one  of  the  Commentaries  upon  the 
Book  you  have  stolen,  once,  at  least,  before 
you  die,  should  you  live  so  long,  and  may 
God  have  mercy  on  you  ! 

"  Here  the  prisoner  fell  into  strong  hys- 
terics, and  was  taken  away  in  a  state  of  in- 
sensibility from  the  dock. 

"  Now,"  proceeded  Coke,  closing  the  pon- 
derous tome,  "  I  read  this  case  fi'om  a  feel- 
ing that  it  bears  very  strongly  upon  that  be- 
fore us.  Haponificus,  the  learned  and  ani- 
mated civUian,  in  his  reply  to  the  celebrated 
treatise  of  '  Eigramarolius  de  Libris  prig- 
gatis,'  commonly  called  his  Essay  on  Stolen 
Books,  asserts  that  there  never  yet  was  a 
book  printed  but  was  more  or  less  stolen  ; 
and  society,  he  argues,  iu  no  shape,  iu  none 
of  its  classes — neither  in  the  prison,  lockuj^, 
blackhole,  or  penitentiary — presents  us  with 
such  a  set  of  impenitents  and  irreclaimable 
thieves  as  those  who  ^vrite  books.  Theft  is 
their  profession,  and  gets  them  the  dishonest 
bread  by  which  they  Hve.  These  may  always 
read  the  eighth  commandment  by  leaving 
the  negative  out,  and  then  take  it  iu  an  in- 
junctive sense.  Such  jsersoiis,  in  prosecuting 
another  for  stealing  a  book,  cannot  come  in- 
to coiu-t  with  clean  hands.  Felons  in  Htera- 
tui-e,  therefore,  appear-  here  with  a  very  bad 
grace  in  prosecuting  others  for  the  very 
crime  which  they  themselves  are  iu  the  habit 
of  committing." 

"  But,    your  worship,"    said   Dr.  A , 

"  this  charge  against  authors  cannot  ajiply 
to  me  ;  the  book  in  question  is  a  transla^ 
tion." 

"Pooh  !  "  exclaimed  Coke,  "only  a  trans- 
lation !  But  even  so,  has  it  notes  or  com- 
ments?" 

"  It  has,  your  worship  ;  but  they " 

"  And,  sir,  could  you  declare  solemnly, 
that  there  is  nothing  stolen  in  the  notes 
and  comments,  or  introduction,  if  there  is 
any  ?  " 

The  doctor,  "  Ehem  !  hem  ! " 

"  But  in  the  meantime,"  proceeded  Coke, 
"  here  have  I  gone  to  the  trouble  of  gi\ing 
such  a  profound  decision  upon  a  mere  trans- 
lation ! !  !     \\\\o  is  the  translator?  " 

"  I  am  myself,  your  worship  ;  and  in  this 
case  I  am  both  plaintiff  and  translator." 

"  That,  however,"  said  Coke,  shaking  his 
head  solemnly,  "makes  the  case  against  you 
still  worse." 

"  But,  your  worship,  there  is  no  case 
against  me.     I  have  aheady  told  you  that  ] 


474 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


am  plaintiff  and  translatoi- ;  and,  with  great 
respect,  I  don't  think  you  have  yet  given  any 
decision  whatever." 

"I  have  decided,  sii',"  replied  Coke,  "and 
taken  the  case  I  read  for  you  as  a  prece- 
dent." 

"  But  in  that  case,  your  worsliiij,  the  "wo- 
man was  convicted." 

"And  so  she  is  in  this,  sir,"  rej)lied  Coke. 
"  OfKcer,  j)ut  Biddy  Corcoran  forward.  Bidr 
dy  Coicoran,  you  are  an  old  woman,  which, 
indeed,  is  evident  from  the  nature  of  your 
offence,  and  have  been  convicted  of  the  egre- 
gious foUj'  of  purchasing  a  translation,  which 
this  gentleman  says  was  comisiled  or  got  up 
by  himself.  This  is  conduct  which  the  court 
cannot  overlook,  inasmuch  as  if  it  were  per- 
sisted in,  we  might,  God  helj^  us,  become 
inimdated  with  translations.  I  am  against 
translations — I  have  ever  been  against  them, 
and  I  shall  ever  be  against  them.  They  are 
immoral  in  themselves,  and  render  the  same 
injury  to  literature  that  persons  of  loose 
morals  do  to  society.  In  general,  they  are 
nothing  short  of  a  sacrilegious  j)rofanation 
of  the  dead,  and  I  would  almost  as  soon  see 
the  ghost  of  a  depai'ted  fiieud  as  the  trans- 
lation of  a  defunct  author,  for  they  bear  the 
same  relation.  The  regaihu'  translator,  in 
fact,  is  nothing  less  than  a  hterary  ghoul, 
who  hves  ujion  the  mangled  carcasses  of  the 
defiarted — a  mere  sack-'em-up,  who  disinters 
the  dead,  and  sells  their  remains  for  money. 
You,  sir,  might  have  been  better  and  more 
honestly  employed  than  in  wasting  your 
time  upon  a  translation.  These  are  works 
that  no  men  or  class  of  men,  except  bishojis, 
chandlers,  and  pastrycooks,  ought  to  have 
anything  to  do  v\-ith  ;  and  as  you,  I  presume, 
are  not  a  bishop,  nor  a  chancUer,  nor  a  2>as- 
tiycook,  I  recommend  you  to  spare  your 
coimtrymen  in  future.  Biddy  Corcoran,  as 
the  coiirt  is  determined  to  jiuuish  you  se- 
verely, the  penalty  against  you  is,  that  you  be 
compelled  to  read  the  translation  in  ques- 
tion oxic  b  a  week  for  the  next  three  months. 
I  had  intended  to  send  you  to  the  treadmill 
for  the  same  space  of  time  :  biit,  on  lool^ing 
more  closely  into  the  nature  of  your  offence, 
I  felt  it  my  duty  to  visit  you  with  a  much 
severer  punishment." 

"  That,  your  worship,"  replied  the  trans- 
lator, "is  no  iiuuishment  at  all  ;  instead  of 
that,  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  read  my  trans- 
lation, and  as  you  have  j)ronounced  her  to  be 
guilty,  it  goes  in  the  very  teeth  of  your  de- 
cision." 

"  What — what — what  kind  of  language  is 
this,  sir  ? "  exclaimed  Sir  Sj)igot  Sj^utter. 
"  Tliis  is  disrespect  to  the  court,  sii'.  In  the 
teeth  of  his  decision  !  His  worship's  decision, 
sLi',  has  no  teeth." 


"  Indeed,  on  second  thoughts,  1  think  not, 
sir,"  replied  the  indignant  wit  and  transla-< 
tor;  "it  is  indeed  a- very  toothless  deci- 
sion, and  exceedingly  appropriate  in  pass- 
ing sentence  upon  an  old  woman  in  the  same 
stato." 

"Eh — eh,"  said  Sir  Spigot,  "which  old 
woman?  who  do  you  mean,  sir?  Yourself 
or  the  culprit  ?    Eh  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  Your  worship  forgets  that  there  are  four 
of  us,"  rejjlied  the  translator. 

"Well,  sir!  well,  sir!  But  as  to  the  cul- 
•^xxi—that  old  woman  there — having  no  teeth, 
that  is  not  her  fault,"  replied  Sir  Sijigot ; 
"if  she  hasn't  teeth,  she  has  gum  enough — 
eh  !  eh  !  you  must  admit  that,  sir." 

"  You  ah.  apijear  to  have  gum  enough,"  re- 
plied the  wit,  "  and  nothing  hut  gum,  only 
it  is  (iiim.  arahic  to  me,  I  know." 

"  You  have  treated  this  court  v.ith  disre- 
spect, sir,"  said  Coke,  veiy  solemuh';  "  but 
the  court  will  ujshold  its  dignity.  In  the 
meantime  you  are  fined  half-a-crown." 

"But,  your  worship,"  whis^iered  Darby, 
"  this  is  the  celebrated  Dr.  A ,  a  very  em- 
inent man." 

"I  have  just  heard,  sir,"  proceeded  Coke, 

"  from  the  senior  officer  of  tlie  court,  that 

you  are  a  very  eminent  man  ;  it  may  be  so, 

and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  1  have  never  heard 

your  name,  however,  nor  a  syllable  of  your 

literarj'  reputation,  before  ;  but  as  it  seems 

you  are  an  eminent  man,  I  take  it  for  grant- 

I  ed  that  it  must  be  in  a  private  and  conlideu- 

i  tial  way  among  your  jDai'ticular  friends.     I 

j  will  fine  you,  however,  another  half-crown  for 

the  eminence." 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"I  have  heard  of  many  'wise  saws  and  mod- 
ern instances,' but " 

"  Wiat  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  said  Sir  Spigot. 
"  Another  insult !  You  asserted,  sir,  already, 
that  Ml'.  Coke's  decision  had  teeth " 

"  But  I  admitted  my  error,"  replied  the 
other. 

"  And  now  you  mean  to  insinuate,  I  sup- 
pose, that  his  worship's  saws  are  handsaws. 
You  are  fined  another  half-crown,  sir,  for  the 
handsaw." 

"And  another,"  said  Coke,  " for  the  ,7in>i 
ariihlc." 

The  doctor  fearing  th.it  the  fines  would 
increase  thick  and  threefold,  fovthnith  paid 
them  all,  and  retired  indignantly  from  the 
court. 

And  thus  was  the  author  of  certninly  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  translations  in  any 
language,  at  least  in  his  ova\  opinion,  treated 
by  these  two  worthj'  administrators  of  the 
law.  * 


*  A  fact. 


THE  BLACK   BARONET. 


:(0 


CH.1PTER  XXVI. 

The  Priext  Returns  Sir  Thomas's  Money  and  Pistols 
— A  Bit  of  Controversy — A  Neic  Light  Begins  to 
Appear. 

Verv  fortunately  for  the  priest  be  was  not 
subjected  to  an  examination  before  these 
worthies.  Sir  Thomas  Gonrlay,  having 
heard  of  his  arrest  and  the  cause  of  it,  sent 
a  note  with  his  cimiohmeuts,  to  request  that 
he  might  be  con  lusted  directly  to  his  resi- 
dence, together  with  his  pocket-book  and 
pistols,  assuring  them,  at  the  s:mie  time, 
that  their  oificers  had  committed 
mist.'Lke  as  to  his  person. 

This  was  Cjuite  sufficient,  and  ere  the 
lajjse  of  twenty  minutes  Father  M'Mahon, 
accompanied  by  Slcipton  and  another  officer, 
found  himself  at  the  baronet's  hall-door.  On 
entering  the  hall.  Sir  Thomas  himself  was 
in  the  act  of  passing  from  the  breakfast  par- 
lor to  his  study  above  stairs,  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  Gibson,  the  footman,  looking  at 
the  same  time  pale,  nervous,  and  unsteady 
upon  his  limbs.  The  moment  Skipton  saw 
him,  he  started,  and  exclaimed,  as  if  to  him- 
self, but  loud  enough  for  the  priest  to  hear 
him  : 

"  'Gad  !  I've  seen  him  before,  once  upon  a 
time  ;  and  well  I  remember  the  face,  for  it 
is  not  one  to  be  foi'gotten." 

The  baronet,  on  looking  round,  saw  the 
priest,  and  desired  him  to  follow  them  to 
his  study. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Thomas,"  said 
the  officer,  "  we  now  place  his  reverence 
safely  m  your  hands ;  here,  too,  is  yoiu- 
pocket-book  and  jjistols." 

"Hand  them  to  him,  sir,"  repHed  the 
baronet,  nodding  toward  the  priest ;  "  and 
that  is  enough." 

"  But,  Sir  Thomas " 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?  Have  j'ou  not  done 
j'our  dutj'  ?  " 

"  I  hojje  so,  sir ;  but  if  it  would  not  be 
troublesome,  sir,  perhaps  you  would  give  us 
a  receii^t ;  an  acknowledgment,  sir." 

"For  what?" 

"For  the  j)i'iest's  body,  sir,  in  the  first 
place,  and  then  for  the  pocket-book  and 
pistols." 

".f  I  were  a  httle  stronger,"  replied  the 
baronet,  in  an  angry  voice,  "I  would  wiite 
the  receipt  upon  your  own  body  with  a 
strong  horsewhip  ;  begone,  you  impudent 
scoundrel !  " 

Skipton  turned  ujjon  him  a  bitter  and 
vindictive  look,  and  replied,  '  Oh,  very  well, 
"sir — come,  Tom,  you  are  witness  that  I  did 
my  duty." 

Su-  Thomas  on  entering  the   study  threw 


himself  listlessly  on  a  sofa,  and  desired  Gib. 
son  to  retu'e. 

"  Take  a  seat,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing 
Father  M'Mahon.  "  I  am  ftu*  from  well,  and 
must  rest  a  little  before  I  speak  to  you  ;  I 
know  not  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  but  I 
feel  all  out  of  sorts." 

He  then  drew  a  long  breath,  and  laid  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  to  recover  more 
clearly  the  powers  of  his  mind  and  intellect. 
His  eyes,  full  of  tliought  not  unmingled 
with  anxiety,  were  fixed  upon  the  carpet, 
and  he  seemed  for  a  time  wrapped  in  deep 
and  painful  abstraction.  At  lengli  he  raised 
himself  up,  and  drawing  his  breath  appar- 
ently with  more  freedom  began  the  conver- 
sation. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  that  im- 
j)lied  more  of  authority  and  haughtiness 
than  of  courtesy  or  gentlemanly  feeling;  "it 
seems  the  property  of  which  I  have  been 
robbed  has  come  into  your  possession." 

"It  is  true,  sir:  and  allow  me  to  place 
it  in  your  own  hands  exactly  as  I  got  it.  I 
took  the  precaution  to  .seal  the  pocket-book 
the  moment  it  was  returned  to  me,  and  al- 
though it  was  for  a  short  time  in  jjossession 
of  the  officers  of  justice,  yet  it  is  untouched, 
and  the  seal  I  placed  on  it  unbroken." 

The  baronet's  hand,  as  he  took  the 
pocket-book,  trembled  with  mi  agitation 
which  he  could  not  repre.'js,  although  he 
did  everything  in  his  jsower  to  subdue  it ; 
his  eye  glittered  with  animation,  or  rather 
with  delight,  as  he  broke  the  seal. 

"  It  was  very  i^rudently  and  correctly  done 
of  you,  su',  to  seal  up  the  pocket-book  ;  very 
well  done,  indeed  :  and  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you  so  far,  although  we  must  have  some 
conversation  upon  the    m.atter  immediate- 

"  I  only  did  what,  as  a  Catholic  clergyman. 
Sir  Thomas,  and  an  honest  man,  I  conceived 
to  be  my  duty." 

"What — what — what's  this?"  exclaimed 
the  bai'onet,  his  eye  blazing  with  rage  and 
disappointment.  "In  the  name  of  hell's  fire, 
sir,  what  is  this  ?  My  money  is  not  all  liere ! 
There  is  a  note,  sir,  a  one  pound  note  want- 
ing ;  a  peeuHar  note,  sir  ;  a  marked  note ; 
for  I  always  put  a  marked  note  among  my 
money,  to  provide  against  tlie  contiiigeney  of 
such  a  robbery  as  I  sustained.  Pray,  sir, 
what  has  become  of  that  note  ?  I  say,  priest, 
the  whole  pocket-book  ten  times  multijjlied, 
was  not  worth  a  fig  coraj^ared  with  the  value 
I  placed  upon  that  note." 

"How  much  did  you  lose,  Sir  Thomas?" 
asked  tlie  priest  calmly. 

"  I  lost  sixty-nine  pounds,  sir  " 

"  Well,  then," continued  the  other,  "would 
it  not  be  well  to  see  whether  that  sum  is  in 


476 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'H   WORKS. 


tlie  pockel^book.  You  have  not  yet  reck- 
oned the  money." 

"  The  note  I  speak  of  was  in  a  separate 
compartment ;  in  a  diiferent  fold  of  the 
book  ;  ajjart  from  the  rest." 

"But  perhaps  it  has  got  among  them? 
Had  you  not  better  try,  sir  ?  " 

"  True,"  rephed  the  other  ;  and  with  eager 
and  trembling  hands  he  examined  them 
note  by  note  ;  but  not  finding  that  for  wliieh 
he  sought,  he  stamped  with  rage,  and  dash- 
ing the  pocket-book,  notes  and  all,  against 
the  floor,  he  ground  his  teeth,  and  approach- 
ing the  i^riest  with  the  white  froth  of  jjas- 
sion  rising  to  his  lips,  exclaimed,  "  Hark 
you,  jjriest,  if  you  do  not  j^roduce  the  miss- 
ing note,  I  shall  make  you  bitterly  repent 
it !     You  know  where  it  is,  sir  !     You  could 

understand  from  the  note  itself "     He 

paused,  however,  for  he  felt  at  once  that  he 
might  be  treading  dangerous  ground  in 
»!ntering  into  particulars.  "I  say,  sir,"  he 
})roceeded,  with  a  look  of  menace  and  fmy, 
"  if  you  refuse  to  produce  the  note  I  speak 
of,  or  to  procure  it  for  me,  I  shall  let  you 
know  to  your  cost  what  the  power  of  British 
law  can  effect." 

The  priest  rose  up  with  dignity,  his  cheek 
heightened  with  that  slight  tinge,  which  a 
sense  of  unmerited  insult  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  integrity  render  natural  to 
man — so  long  as  he  is  a  man. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  he  i:)roceeded, 
"  upon  your  conduct  and  want  of  gentle- 
manly temper  since  I  have  entered  this 
aj^artment  it  is  not  my  intention  to  make 
any  comment ;  but  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
the  minister  of  God  is  received  iu  Christian 
society  with  the  respect  due  to  his  sacred 
oiSce." 

"  Jliuister  of  the  devil,  sir,"  thundered 
the  baronet ;  "  do  you  think  that  I  shall  be 
influenced  by  this  slavish  cant  ?  Where  is 
the  note  I  sjieak  of  ?  If  you  do  not  produce 
it,  I  shaU  consider  you  an  accomplice  after 
the  fact,  and  will  hold  you  responsible  as 
such.  Remember,  you  are  but  a  Poj)igh 
priest." 

"  That  is  a  fact,  sir,  which  I  shall  always 
recollect  v^dth  an  humble  sense  of  my  own 
unwortliiness  ;  but  so  long  as  I  discharge 
its  duties  conscientiously  and  truly,  I  shall 
also  recollect  it  with  honor.  Of  the  note 
you  allude  to  in  such  unbecoming  words,  I 
know  notliing  ;  and  as  to  your  threats,  I 
value  them  not." 

"  If  you  know  nothmg  of  the  note,  sir, 
you  do  certainly  of  the  lobber." 

"  I  do,  Sir  Thomas  ;  I  know  who  the  man 
is  that  robbed  you." 

"  Well,  sir,"  repUed  the  other,  triumph- 
antly, "  I  am  glad  you  have   acknowledged 


so  much.  I  shall  force  you  to  produce  him. 
At  least  I  shall  take  care  that  the  law  will 
make  j'ou  do  so." 

"  Sir  Thomas  Goui'lay,  I  beg  you  to  under- 
stand that  there  is  a  law  beyond  and  above 
your  law — the  law  of  God — tjie  law  of  Chris- 
tian duty  ;  and  Diat  you  shall  never  force  me 
to  transgress.  The  man  who  robbed  you 
in  a  moment  of  desj)air  and  madness,  re- 
pented him  of  the  crime  ;  and  the  knowledge 
:  of  that  crime,  and  its  consequent  repentance 
i  were  disclosed  to  me  iu  one  of  the  most 
holy  ordinances  of  oar  rehgion." 

"  Is  it  one  of  tne  jwivileges  of  your  re- 
ligion to  thiow  its  veil  over  the  commission 
of  crime  ?     If  so,  the  sooner  your  rehgion  is 
extirjaated  out  of  the  land   the   better   for 
j  society." 

]       "  No,  sir,  our  religion  does  not  throw  its 
;  veil  over  the  criminal,  but  over  the  jjenitent. 
I  We  leave  the  law.s  of  the  land  to  their  own 
;  resources,  and  aid  them  when  we  can  ;  but 
i  in   the   case   before  us,  and  in  all   similar 
t  cases,  we  are  the  administrators  of  the  laws 
of  God  to  those  who  are  truly  penitent,  and 
to  none  others.     The  test  of  repentance  con- 
sists in  refoi-mation  of  Ufe,  and  in  making 
I  restitution  to  those  who*  have  been  inj'ared. 
The  knowledge  of  this  comes  to  us  iu   !id- 
ministering   the   sacred   ordinance    of  jieii- 
ance   in   the   tribunal   of    confession ;    and 
sooner   than   violate   this    solemn   compact 
between  the  mercy  of  God  and  a  penitent 
heart,  we  would  wiUiugly  lay  down  oiu'  hvcs. 
It  is  the  most  sacred  of  iill  trusts." 

"  Such  an  ordinance,  sir,  is  a  bounty  and 
provocative  to  crime." 

"It  is  a  bountj'  and  provocative  to  repen- 
tance, sir  ;  and  society  has  gained  much  and 
lost  nothing  by  its  operation.  Eemember, 
sir,  that  those  who  do  not  rejoent,  never 
come  to  lis  to  avow  theii'  crimes,  in  which 
case  we  are  ignorant  both  of  the  crime  and 
crimmal.  Here  there  is  neither  rejsentance, 
on  the  one  hand,  nor  restitution,  on  the 
other,  and  society,  of  course,  loses  every- 
thing and  gains  nothing.  In  the  other  case, 
the  person  sustaining  the  injury  gains  that 
which  he  had  lost,  and  society  a  penitent 
and  reformed  member.  If,  then,  this  sacred 
refuge  for  the  jDenitent — not  for  the  crimimxl, 
remember-  —had  no  existence,  those  restitu- 
tions of  property  which  take  place  in  thou- 
sands of  cages,  could  never  be  made." 

"  Still,  sir,  you  shield  the  criminal  from 
liis  just  ijunisliment." 

"  No,  sir  ;  we  never  shield  the  criminal 
from  his  just  punishment.  God  has  j^rom- 
ised  mercy  to  him  who  re23ents,  and  we 
merely  administer  it  without  any  reference- 
to  the  operation  of  the  law.  It  often  hnp- 
l^cns.   Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  that   a  person 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


who  has  repeuted  and  made  restitution,  is 
taken  hold  of  by  the  law  and  i^unished. 
This  ordinance,  therefore,  does  wA  stand 
between  the  law  and  its  Tictim  ;  it  only  deals 
between  him  and  his  God,  leaving  him,  li,ke 
any  other  offender,  to  the  law  he  has  vio- 
lated." 

"  I  am  no  theologian,  sir  ;  but  without  any 
reference  to  your  priestly  cant,  I  simplj'  say, 
that  the  man  who  is  cognizant  of  another's 
crime  against  the  law,  either  of  God  or  man, 
and  wdio  wiU  shield  him  from  justice,  is 
■pavlicrps  criminiif,  and  I  don't  care  a  fig  what 
your  obsolete  sacerdotal  dogmas  may  assert 
to  the  contrary.  You  say  you  know  the 
man  who  unjustly  deprived  me  of  my  prop- 
erty ;  if  then,  acknowledging  this,  you  re- 
fuse to  deliver  him  up  to  justice,  I  hold  you 
guilty  of  his  crime.  Supjiose  he  had  taken 
my  life,  as  he  was  near  doing,  how,  pray, 
would  you  have  made  restitution  ?  Bring 
me  to  hfe  again,  I  suj^pose,  by  a  miracle. 
Away,  sir,  with  this  cant,  wliich  is  only  fit 
for  the  barbarity  of  the  dark  ages,  when 
your  church  was  a  mass  of  crime,  cruelty, 
and  ignorance  ;  and  when  a  cunning  and 
rapacious  priesthood  usurped  an  authority 
over  both  soul  and  body,  ay,  and  property 
too,  that  oppressed  and  degraded  human 
natiu'e." 

"  I  will  reason  no  longer  with  you,  sir," 
replied  the  priest  ;  "  because  you  talk  in 
ignorance  of  the  subject  we  are  discussing — 
but  having  now  discharged  an  important 
duty,  I  will  take  my  leave." 

"  You  may  of  me,"  replied  the  other ; 
"but  you  will  not  so  readily  shift  yourself 
out  of  the  la\v." 

"  Any  charge,  su-,  which  either  law  or 
justice  may  bring  against  me,  I  shall  bo 
ready  to  meet ;  and  I  now,  for  your  informa- 
tion, beg  to  let  you  know  that  the  law  you 
threaten  me  with  affords  its  protection  to 
me  and  the  class  to  which  I  belong,  in  the 
discharge  of  this  most  sacred  and  important 
trust.  Your  threats.  Sir  Thomas,  conse- 
quently, I  disregard." 

"  The  more  sliame  for  it  if  it  does,"  re- 
plied the  baronet ;  "  but,  hark  you,  .sir,  I  do 
not  wish,  after  aU,  that  you  and  I  should 
part  on  rmfriendly  terms.  You  refuse  to 
give  up  the  robber  ?  " 

"  I  would  give  up  my  life  sooner." 

"  But  could  you  not  jjrocui'e  me  the  miss- 
ing note  ?  " 

"  Of  the  missing  note,  Sir  Thomas  Gour- 
lay,  I  know  nothing.  I  consequently  neither 
can  nor  will  make  any  promise  to  restore  it." 

"  You  may  tell  the  robber  from  me,"  j'ur- 
Kued  the  baronet,  "  that  I  will  give  him  the 
full  amount  of  his  burglary,  provided  he  re- 
stores me  that  note.     The  other  sixty-nine 


pounds  shall  be  his  on  that  condition,  and 
no  questions  asked." 

"  I  have  already  told  you,  sir,  that  it  wag 
under  the  seal  of  confession  the  knowledge 
of  the  crime  came  to  me.  Out  of  that  seal  I 
cannot  revert  to  the  subject  without  betray- 
ing my  trust ;  for,  if  he  acknowledged  his 
guilt  to  me  luider  any  other  circumstances, 
it  would  become  my  duty  to  hand  him  over 
to  the  law." 

"  Curse  upon  all  priests  !  "  said  the  other 
indignantly  ;  "  they  are  all  the  same  ;  a 
crew  of  cunning  scoundrels,  who  attem23t  to 
subjugate  the  ignorant  and  the  credulous  to 
theu'  sway  ;  a  pack  of  spiritual  swindlers,  who 
get  possession  of  the  consciences  of  the  peo- 
jsle  tlu-ough  pious  fi-aud,  and  then  make 
slavish  instruments  of  them  for  their  own 
selfish  purposes.  Jn  the  meantime  I  shall 
keep  my  eye  upon  you,  Mr.  M'Mahon,  and, 
believe  me,  if  I  can  get  a  hole  in  your  coat  I 
shall  make  a  rent  of  it." 

"It  is  a  poor  j)rivilege,  sir,  that  of  insult- 
ing the  defenceless.  You  know  I  am  doubly 
so — defenceless  from  age,  defenceless  in  vir- 
tue of  my  sacred  profession  ;  but  if  I  am 
defenceless  against  your  insults.  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay,  I  am  not  again.st  your  threats, 
which  I  despise  and  defy.  The  integrity  of 
my  life  is  beyond  your  power,  the  serenity 
of  my  conscience  bej'ond  your  vengeance. 
You  are  not  of  my  flock,  but  if  you  were,  I 
would  say.  Sir  Thomas,  I  fear  you  are  a  bold, 
bad  man,' and  have  much  to  rei^ent  of  in  con- 
nection with  your  j)ast  and  present  life—  • 
much  rej)aration  to  make  to  your  fellow- 
creatures.  Yes  ;  I  would  say.  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay,  the  deep  tempest  of  strong  passions 
within  you  has  shaken  yoiu'  jJowerfui  frame 
until  it  totters  to  its  fall.  I  would  say,  be- 
ware ;  repent  while  it  is  time,  and  be  not 
unjjrepared  for  the  last  great  event.  That 
event,  Sir  Thomas,  is  not  far  distant,  if  I 
read  aright  the  foreshadowing  of  death  and 
dissolution  that  is  evident  in  your  counte- 
nance and  frame.  I  speak  these  words  in,  I 
trust,  a  charitable  and  forgiving  spirit.  Hay 
they  sink  into  your  heart,  and  work  it  to  a 
sense  of  Christian  feeling  and  duty  ! 

"This  I  would  say  were  you  mine — this  I 
do  say,  knowing  that  you  are  not ;  for  my 
charity  goes  beyond  my  church,  and  em- 
braces my  enemy  as  well  as  my  friend  ; "  and 
as  he  spoke  he  prepai'ed  to  go. 

"  You  may  go,  sir,"  replied  the  baronet, 
with  a  sneer  of  contempt,  "  only  you  have 
mistaken  your  man.  I  am  no  subject  for 
your  craft — not  to  be  deceived  by  your 
hyjioerisy — and  laugh  to  scorn  your  ominous 
but  impotent  croaking.  Only  lipfore  you  go, 
remember  the  conditions  I  have  offered  the 
scoundi-el  who  robbed  me  ;  and  if  the  theo< 


478 


^VILLIAM    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


logiciJ  intricacies  of  your  crooked  creed  will 
permit  you,  try  aud  get  him  to  accept  them. 
It  will  be  better  for  him,  and  better  for  you 
too.  Do  this,  aud  you  may  cease  to  look 
ujjou  Sir  Thomas  Gom-lay  as  an  enemy." 

The  priest  bov/ed,  aud  without  returning 
■  any  reply  left  the  apartment  and  took  his 
immediate  departure. 

Sii'  Thomas,  after  he  had  gone,  went  to 
the  glass  and  surveyed  himself  steadUj-.  The 
words  of  the  priest  were  uttered  with  much 
solemnity  and  earnestness ;  but  withal  in 
such  a  tone  of  kind  regret  and  good  feeling, 
that  their  import  and  impressiveness  were 
much  heightened  by  this  very  fact. 

"There  is  certainly  a  change  upon  me,  and 
not  one  for  the  better,"  he  said  to  himself  ; 
"  but  at  the  same  time  the  priest,  cunning  as 
he  is,  has  been  taken  in  by  ajspearances.  I  am 
just  sufficiently  changed  in  my  looks  to 
justify  aud  give  verisimilitude  to  the  game  I 
am  playing.  "When  Lucy  hears  of  my  ilhiess, 
which  must  be  a  serious  one,  nothing  on 
earth  will  keep  her  fi'om  me  ;  and  if  I  cannot 
gain  any  trace  to  her  residence,  a  short 
paragniph  in  the  pajjers,  intimating  and  re- 
gretting the  dangerous  state  of  my  health, 
wiU  most  probably  reach  her,  and  have  the 
desired  eliect.  If  she  were  once  back,  I 
know  that,  under  the  ek'cumstances  of  my 
Ulness,  and  the  imj)ression  that  it  has  been 
occasioned  by  her  refusal  to  marry  Dunroe, 
she  will  yield  ;  especially  as  I  shall  put  the 
sole  chances  of  my  recovery  upon  her  com- 
pliance. Yet  why  is  it  that  I  urge  her  to  an 
act  which  wiU  jjrobably  make  her  unhajjpy 
during  life  ?  But  it  will  not.  She  is  not 
the  fool  her  mother  was  ;  and  yet  I  am  not 
certain  that  her  mother  was  a  fool  either. 
We  did  not  agree  ;  we  could  not.  She 
always  refused  to  coincide  with  rue  almost 
in  everything  ;  and  when  I  wished  to  teach 
Lucy  the  useful  lessons  of  worldly  policy, 
out  came  her  siUy  maxims  of  conscience,  re- 
ligion, and  such  stuff.  But  yet  religious 
people  are  the  best.  I  have  always  found  it 
so.  That  wretched  priest,  for  instance, 
would  give  up  his  hfe  sooner  than  violate 
what  he  calls — that  is,  what  he  thinks — his 
duty.  There  must  be  some  fiction,  however, 
to  regulate  the  multitude  ;  and  that  fiction 
must  be  formed  bj,  and  founded  on,  the 
necessities  of  society.  That,  unquestionably, 
is  the  origin  of  all  law  and  aU  religion. 
Only  religion  uses  the  stronger  and  the 
wiser  argument,  by  thi'eatening  us  with  an- 
other world.  "Well  done,  religion !  You 
acted  ujjon  a  fixed  principle  of  nature.  The 
force  of  the  enemy  we  see  not  may  be  mag- 
nified aud  exaggerated  ;  the  enemy  we  see 
not  we  fear,  especially  when  described  in  the 
most  teiTible  colors  by  men  who  are  paid 


for  their  misrepresentations,  although  these 
same  imjDostors  have  never  seen  the  enemy 
they  sjieak  of  themselves.  But  the  enemy 
we  see  we  can  understand  and  grapple  with  ; 
ergo,  the  influence  of  religion  over  law ; 
I'lyo,  -the  influence  of  the  priest,  who  deals 
in  the  imagiuaiy  and  ideal,  over  the  legis- 
lator and  the  magisti'ate,  who  deal  only  in 
the  tangible  and  reaL  Yes,  this  indeed  is 
the  principle.  How  we  do  fear  a  ghost ! 
What  a  shiver,  what  a  horror  runs  through 
the  frame  when  we  think  we  see  one  ;  and 
how  different  is  this  fi'om  our  terror  of  a 
living  enemy.  Away,  then,  with  this  im- 
jjosture,  I  will  none  of  it.  Yet  hold  :  what 
was  that  I  saw  looking  into  the  wudow  of 
the  carriage  that  contained  my  brother's  son  ? 
What  was  it  ?  ^liy  a  form  created  by  my 
o^\'n  fears.  That  creduloiis  nurse,  old 
mother  Corbet,  stufted  me  so  comi)letely 
with  suiJerstition  when  I  was  young  and 
cowardlj',  that  I  cannot,  in  manj-  instances, 
shake  myseK  free  from  it  yet.  Even  the 
words  of  th;it  priest  alarmed  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. This,  however,  is  merely  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature- — the  efiect  of  unreal 
phantasms  that  influence  the  reason  wlule 
we  are  awake,  just  as  that  of  dreams  does 
the  imagination  while  we  are  asleeji.  Away, 
then,  ye  idle  brood  !     I  wiU  none  of  you." 

He  then  sat  himself  down  on  the  sofa, 
and  rang  for  Gibson,  but  stiU  the  train  of 
thought  pursued  him. 

"  As  to  Lucy,  I  think  it  is  still  possible  to 
force  her  into  the  jjosition  for  which  I  des- 
tined her — quite  jiossible.  She  reasons  like 
a  girl,  of  course,  as  I  told  her.  She  reasons 
like  a  girl  who  looks  xx^on  that  sillj'  non- 
sense called  love  as  the  great  business  of 
life  ;  and  acts  accordingly.  Little  she  thinks, 
however,  that  love — her  love — ^u'.s  love — both 
their  loves — will  never  meet  twelve  months 
after  what  is  termed  the  honey-moon.  No, 
they  will  i^art  north  and  south.  Aud  yet 
the  honey-moon  has  her  sharjj  ends,  as  well 
as  every  other  moon.  When  love  jiasses 
away,  she  wiU  find  that  the  great  business 
of  life  is,  to  make  as  many  as  she  can  feel 
that  she  is  above  them  in  the  estimation  of 
the  world ;  to  impress  herself  iqjon  her 
equals,  until  they  shall  Jje  forced  to  ackno\\l- 
edge  her  superiority.  And  although  this 
may  be  sometimes  done  by  intellect  and 
IDrinciple,  yet,  in  the  society  in  which  she 
must  move,  it  is  always  done  by  rank,  by 
high  position,  and  by  pride,  that  jealous 
vindictive  pride  which  is  based  upon  the 
hatred  of  oiu-  kind,  and  at  once  smiles  and 
scorns,  ^^^lat  would  I  be  if  I  were  not  a 
baronet  ?  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  passes  where 
Mr.  Gourlay  would  be  spm-ned.  This 
is   the  game  of  hfe,  and  we   shnll   jslay  it 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


47'j 


with  the  right  weapons.  Many  a  cringing 
scoundrel  bows  to  the  baronet  who  despises 
the  man  ;  and  for  this  reason  it  is  that  I 
have  alwaj's  made  myself  to  be  felt  to  some 
purpose,  and  so  shall  Luej',  if  I  should  die 
for  it.  I  hate  society,  because  I  know  that 
Gociety  hates  me  ;  and  for  that  reason  I 
shall  so  fai-  exalt  her,  that  she  wOl  have  the 
base  compound  at  her  feet,  and  I  shall  teach 
her  to  scorn  and  trample  upon  it.  If  I 
thought  there  were  hapjjiness  in  any  partic- 
ular rank  of  life,  I  would  not  press  her  ;  but 
I  know  there  is  not,  and  for  that  reason  she 
loses  nothing,  and  gains  the  privilege — the 
power — of  extorting  homage  from  the  proud, 
the  insolent,  and  the  worthless.  This  is 
the  triumph  she  shall  and  must  enjoy." 

Gibson  then  entered,  and  the  baronet,  on 
hearing  his  foot,  threw  himself  into  a  lan- 
guid and  iiivahd  attitude. 

"Gibson,"  said  he,  "I  am  very  unwell; 
I  apprehend  a  serious  attack  of  iUness." 

"  I  trust  not,  sir." 

"  If  any  person  should  call,  I  am  ill,  ob- 
serve, and  not  in  a  condition  to  see  them." 

"Very  weU,  sir." 

"Unless  you  should  suspect,  or  ascertain, 
that  it  is  some  person  on  behalf  of  Miss 
Gourlay ;  and  even  then,  mark,  I  am  very 
ill  indeed,  and  yon  do  not  think  me  able  to 
speak  to  any  one  ;  but  'oill  come  in  and  see." 

"  Yes,  su- ;  certainly  sir." 

"  There,  then,  that  wiU  do." 

The  priest,  on  leaving  the  baronet's  resi- 
dence, was  tui-niug  his  steps  toward  the  ho- 
tel in  which  the  stranger  had  put  up,  when 
his  m'es.^enger  to  Constitution  HOI  approach- 
ing put  his  hand  to  his  hat,  and  respectfully 
saluted  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  he,  "and  I 
am  sorry,  now  that  I  know  who  you  are,  for 
the  troulile  you  got  into." 

"  Th.ank  you,  my  friend,"  said  the  priest ; 
"  I  felt  it  wouldn't  signify,  knowing  in  mj"^ 
consfience  that  I  was  no  robber.  In  the 
meantime,  I  got  one  glimpse  of  youi-  met- 
ropolitan life,  as  they  call  it,  and  the  Lord 
knows  I  never  wish  to  get  another.  Troth, 
I  was  once  or  twice  so  confounded  with  the 
noise  and  racket,  that  I  thought  I  had  got 
into  purgatory  by  mistake." 

"  Tut,  sir,  that's  nothing,"  rei^lied  Skip- 
ton  ;  "  we  were  very  calm  and  peaceable  </hs 
morning  ;  but  with  respect  to  that  baronet, 
he's  a  niggardly  fellow.  Only  think  of  him, 
never  once  oflering  us  the  shghtest  compen- 
sation for  bringing  him  home  his  property  ! 
There's  not  another  man  in  Ireland  would 
send  us  off  empty-handed  as  he  did.  The 
thing's  always  usual  on  recovering  prop- 
ei-ty." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  in  the  singular  num- 


ber, if  you  plaise  ;  you  don't  imagine  that  J 
wanted  compensation." 

"  No,  SU-,  certainly  not ;  but  I'm  just 
thinking,"  he  added,  after  curiously  examin- 
ing Father  M'Mahon's  face  for  some  time. 
"  that  you  and  I  met  before  somewhere. ' 

"  Is  that  the  memory  you  have  V  "  said  the' 
priest,  "  when  you  ought  to  recollect  that 
we  met  this  morning,  much  against  my  will, 
I  must  say." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  said  the  man  ;  "but 
I  think  I  saw  you  once  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"  Me,  in  a  lunatic  asylum?  "  exclaimed  the 
good  priest,  somewhat  iudignantly.  "  The 
thing's  a  bounce,  my  good  man,  before  you 
go  farther.  The  httle  sense  I've  had  has 
been  sufficient,  thank  goodness,  to  keep  me 
free  from  such  establishments." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  sir,"  replied  the  other, 
smihng,  "  but  if  I  don't  mistake,  j'ou  once 
brought  a  clergyman  of  our  persuasion  to 
the  lunatic  asylum  in ." 

"Ay,  indeed,"  returned  the  priest ;  "poor 
Quin.  Kis  was  a  case  of  monomania ;  he 
imagined  himself  a  gridiron,  on  which  all 
heretics  were  to  be  roasted.  That  young 
man  was  one  of  the  finest  scholars  in  the 
thi'ee  kingdoms.  But  how  do  vou  remem- 
ber that?" 

"Why  for  good  reasons  ;  because  I  was  a 
servant  in  the  establishment  at  the  time. 
Well,"  he  added,  pausing,  "  it  is  cuiious 
enough  that  I  should  have  seen  this  very 
morning  three  persons  I  saw  in  that  asylum." 

"  If  I  had  been  much  longer  in  that  watch- 
house,"  replied  the  other,  "  I'm  not  quite 
certain  but  I'd  soon  be  qualified  to  pay  a 
pei-manent  visit  to  some  of  them.  Who 
were  the  three  j)ersons  you  saw  there,  in  the 
j  mane  time  ?  " 

I      "  That   messenger   of  yours  was  one    of 
j  them,    and  that  niggardly  baronet  was  the 
other ;    yourself,    as    I    said,    making    the 
third." 

The  priest  looked  at  him  seriously  ;  "  you 
mane  Corbet,"  said  he,  "  or  Dunpy  as  he  is 
called  ?  " 

"I  do.  He  and  the  baronet  brought  a 
slip  of  a  boy  there  ;  and,  ujjon  mj'  con- 
science, I  think  there  was  bad  woi'k  between 
them.  At  aU  events,  poor  Mr.  Quin  and  he 
were  inseparable.  The  lad  promised  that  he 
would  allow  himself  to  be  roasted,  the  very 
first  man,  upon  the  reverend  gridu'on  ; — and 
for  that  reason  Quin  took  him  into  hand  ; 
and  gave  him  an  excellent  education." 

"  And  no  one,'  rej^hed  the  priest,  "  was 
better  qualified  to  do  it.  But  what  bad 
work  do  you  suspect  between  Corbet  and 
the  baronet  ?  " 

"  AMiy,  I  have  my  suspicions,"  replied  the 
man.     ''  It's  not  a  month  since  I  heard  that 


tso 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  son  of  that  very  baronet's  brother,  who 
was  heir  to  the  estate  and  titles,  disapisear- 
ed,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  Now, 
all  the  water  in  the  sea  wouldn't  wash  the 
pau"  of  them  clear  of  what  I  suspect,  which 
is — that  both  had  a  hand  in  removing  that 
boy.  The  biu'onet  was  a  young  man  at  the 
time,  but  he  has  a  face  that  no  one  could  ever 
forget.  As  for  Coi'bet,  I  remember  him  weU, 
as  why  jihouldu't  I  ?  he  came  there  often.  I'll 
take  my  oath  it  would  be  a  charity  to  bilng 
the  afi'aii-  to  light." 

"  Do  you  think  the  boy  is  there  still  ?  " 
asked  the  j)riest,  suppressing  all  appearance 
of  the  interest  which  he  felt. 

"No,"  replied  the  other,  "he  escaped 
about  two  or  three  years  ago  ;  but,  poor  lad, 
when  it  was  discovered  that  he  led  too  easy 
a  life,  and  had  got  educated,  his  treatment 
was  changed  ;  a  straight  waistcoat  was  put 
on  him,  and  he  was  placed  in  solitary  con- 
finement. At  first  he  was  no  more  mad  than 
I  am ;  but  he  did  get  occasionally  mad 
afterwards.  I  know  he  attempted  suicide, 
and  nearly  cut  his  throat  with  a  j^iece  of 
glass  one  dny  that  his  hands  got  loose  while 
they  were  changing  his  linen.  Old  Rivet 
died,  and  the  establishment  was  purchased 
by  Tickleback,  who,  to  \m  own  knowledge, 
had  him  regularly  scoui'ged." 

"And  how  did  he  escape,  do  you  Imow?" 
inquired  the  j)riest. 

'■I  could  tell  you  that,  too,  maybe,"  re- 
plied Skipton  ;  "  but  I  think,  sir,  I  have  told 
you  enough  for  the  present.  If  that  young 
man  is  living,  I  would  swear  that  he  ought 
to  stand  in  Su-  Thomas  Gourlay's  shoes. 
And  now  do  you  think,  sir,"  he  inquired,  com- 
ing at  last  to  the  real  object  of  his  commu- 
nication, "that  if  his  i-ight  could  be  made 
clear,  any  one  who'd  help  him  to  his  own 
mightn't  esjaect  to  be  made  comfortable  for 
life?" 

"  I  don't  think  there's  a  doubt  about  it," 
replied  the  priest.  •'  The  j)roj)erty  is  large, 
and  he  could  well  afford  to  be  both  gener- 
ous and  grateful." 

"I  know,"  rctiuTied  the  man,  "  that  he  is 
both  one  and  the  other,  if  he  had  it  in  his 
power." 

"  Well,"  said  the  priest,  seriously  ;  "  mark 
my  words — this  may  be  the  most  fortunate 
day  you  ever  saw.  In  the  mane  time,  keep 
a  close  mouth.  The  friends  of  that  identi- 
cal boy  are  on  the  search  for  him  this  mo- 
ment. They  had  given  him  uj)  for  dead  ; 
but  it  is  not  loug  since  they  discovered  that 
he  was  Uving.  I  will  see  you  again  on  this 
subject." 

"I  am  now  a  constable,"  said  the  man, 
"  attached  to  the  office  yoii  were  in  to-day, 
Rud  I  can  be  heai'd  of  any  time." 


"Very  well,"  repUed  the  priest,  "you 
shall  hear  either  from  me  or  from  some 
person  interested  in  the  recovei-y  of  the  boy 
that's  lost." 


CHAPTER  XXVU. 

Bir  Thomas,  who  sliatns  Illness,  is  too  sharp  for  Mrs, 
Mainwaring,  whovints  Him — Lvci/  culls  upon  La- 
dy Oourlay,  where  she  meets  her  lj)cer — Affecting 
interview  between  Lucy  and  Lady  Gourlay. 

Lucy  Go'uelat,  anxious  to  relieve  her  fath- 
er's mind  as  much  as  it  was  in  her  power  to 
do,  wrote  to  him  the  day  after  the  visit  of 
Ensign  Roberts  and  old  Sam  to  Summer- 
field   Cottage.     Her  letter  was  affectionate, 
and  even  tender,  and  not  v\Titten  without 
many  tears,  as  was  evident  by  the  blots  and 
blisters  which  they  produced  upon  the  jjaper. 
She  fully  con'oborated  the  stranger's  explana- 
tion to  her  father  ;  for  although  ignorant  at 
the  time  that  an  inter\dew  had  taken  place  be- 
tween them,  she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  toward 
;  all  jjarties  to  prevent,  as  far  as  her  testimony 
could  go,  the  po.ssibility  of  any  misiuider- 
'  standing  upon  the  subject.     This  letter  was 
I  posted  in  Dublin,  fi'om  an  ajipreheusion  lest 
the  local  f)Ost-office  might  furnish  a  clew  to 
j  her  present  abode.     The  trath  was,  she  fear- 
j  ed  that  if  her  father  coidd  trace  her  out,  he 
would  claim  her  at  once,  and  force  her  home 
by  outrage  and  violence.     In  this,  however, 
she  was  mistaken  ;  he  had  faUen  xrpon  quite 
j  a  different  and  far  more  successful  plan  for 
that  purpose.     He  knew  his  daughter  well, 
and   felt  that  if  ever  she  might  be  forced 
to  depart  fi-om  those  strong  convictions  of 
the   unhapjsiness   that  must  result  fi'om  a 
^  union  between  baseness  and  honor,  it  must 
I  be  by  an  assumjjtiou  of  tenderness  and  af- 
fection toward  her,  as  well  as  ])y  a  show  of 
sidamission,  and  a  concession  of  his  own  ^"ill 
to  hers.     This  was  calculating  at  once  ujion 
I  her  affection  and  generosity.     He  had  form- 
j  ed  this  j)lan  before  her  letter  reached  him, 
and  on  perusing  it,  he  felt  stiU  more  deter- 
mined to  make  this  ti-eacherous  experiment 
uj)on  her  very  virtues — thus  most  unscru- 
pulously causing  them  to  lay  the  groundwork 
of  her  own  permanent  misery. 

Li  the  meantime,  Mi-s.  Mainwaring,  hav- 
ing much  confidence  in  the  efl'ect  which  a 
knowledge  of  her  disclosure  must,  as  she 
calculated,  necessai-ily  produce  on  the  am- 
bitious baronet,  resolved  to  lose  no  time  in 
seeing  him.  On  the  evening  befiu-e  she 
went,  however,  the  following  brief  conver- 
sation took  jilace  between  her  and  Lucy  : 
"  i.Iy  dear  Lucy,"  said  she,  "  a  thought  lias 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


481 


Just  struck  me.  Your  situation,  excepting 
always  your  residence  with  us,  is  one  of  both 
pain  and  difficulty.  I  am  not  a  woman  who 
has  ever  been  much  disposed  to  rely  on  my 
own  judirment  in  matters  of  imjjortance." 

"  But  there,  my  dear  Mrs.  Main  waring,  you 
do  yoiu'self  injustice." 

"No,  my  dear  child." 

"But  what  is  your  thought?"  asked  Lu- 
cy, who  felt  some  unaccountable  apprehen- 
sion at  what  her  fiieud  was  about  to  say. 

"  You  tell  me  that  neither  you  nor  youi- 
aunt,  Lady  Gourlay,  have  ever  met." 

"Never,  indeed,"  rej)Ued  Lucy;  "nor 
do  I  think  we  should  know  each  other  if  we 
did." 

"  Then  suppose  you  were,  without  either 
favor  or  csremouy,  to  call  ujion  her — to  pre- 
sent yourself  to  her  in  virtue  of  your  rela- 
tionship— in  virtue  of  her  high  character  and 
admirable  princij^les — in  virtue  of  the  pain- 
ful position  in  which  you  are  placed — to 
claim  the  benefit  of  her  esijerieuce  and  wis- 
dom, and  ask  her  to  ad\'ise  you  as  she  would 
a  daughter." 

Lucy's  eyes  gUstened  vrith  delight,  and, 
stooping  down,  she  imprinted  a  kiss  upon 
the  forehead  of  her  considerate  and  kind 
fi'iend. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mainwaring," 
she  exclaimed  :  "  a  thousand  thimks  for  that 
admirable  suggestion.  Many  a  time  has  my 
heart  yearned  to  know  that  extraordinary 
woman,  of  whose  virtues  the  world  taUcs  so 
much,  and  who.se  great  and  trusting  spirit 
even  sorrow  and  calamity  cannot  j^rostrate. 
Yes,  I  wlU  follow  your  ad\ice  ;  I  wll  call  up- 
on her  ;  for,  even  setting  aside  all  selfish 
considerations,  I  should  wish  to  know  her 
for  her  own  worth." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  I  am  going  in  to  see 
your  father  to-morrow — had  you  not  better 
come  with  me?  I  shall  leave  you  at  her 
house,  and  can  call  for  you  after  my  inter- 
view witJi  him  sh:dl  have  been  concluded.  I 
sha-U  order  a  chaise  fi'om  the  hotel  to  be 
with  us  in  the  morning,  so  that  you  may 
run  little  or  no  risk  of  being  seen  or  known." 

•'  That  will  be  dehghtftd,"  replied  Lucy  ; 
"  for  I  am  sure  Lady  Gourlay  will  be  a  kind 
and  aft'ectionate  friend  to  me.  Li  seeking 
her  acquaintance — may  I  hope,  her  friend- 
ship— I  am  not  conscious  of  violatmg  any 
command  or  duty.  Ever  since  I  recollect,  it 
was  a  well-known  fact,  that  the  families,  that 
is  to  say,  my  father  and  uncle,  never  met, 
nor  visited — mamma  knew,  of  course,  that 
to  keep  up  an  intimacy,  under  such  circum- 
stances, would  occasion  much  domestic  dis- 
quietude. This  is  all  I  know  about  it ;  but 
I  never  remember  having  lieai'd  anj-  injimc- 
tion  not  to  visit." 


"No,"  replied  Mi-s.  Mainwaring;  "such 
an  injunction  would  resemble  that  of  a  man 
who  should  desire  his  child  not  to  forget  to 
rise  next  morning,  or,  to  be  sure  to  breathe 
through  his  lungs.  I  can  very  well  under- 
stand why  such  a  proliibition  was  never  giv- 
en in  that  case.  Well,  then,  we  shall  start 
pretty  eai-ly  in  the  morning,  please  God  ;  but 
remember  that  you  must  give  me  a  full  detail 
of  youi'  reception  and  interview." 

The  next  day,  about  the  hour  of  two 
o'clock,  a  chaise  di-ew  up  at  the  residence  of 
Lady  Goiuiay,  and  on  the  hall-door  being 
opened,  a  steady,  respectable-looking  old 
footman  made  his  apjjearance  at  the  chaise 
door,  and,  in  reply  to  their  inquiries,  stated, 
"  that  her  ladyshijj  had  been  out  for  some 
time,  but  was  then  expected  everj' moment." 

"  WTiat  is  to  be  done  ?  "  said  Lucy,  in  some 
perplexity  ;  "  or  how  am  I  to  bestow  myself 
if  she  does  not  return  soon  ?  " 

"  We  expect  her  ladyship  every  moment, 
madam,"  rephed  the  man  ;  "  and  if  you  v>ill 
have  the  goodness  to  allow  me  to  conduct 
you  to  the  drawing-room,  you  will  not  have 
to  wait  long — I  may  assure  you  of  that. " 

"  You  had  better  go  in,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Mainwaiing,  "  and  I  shall  call  for  you  in 
about  an  hour,  or,  perhaps,  a  little  better." 

It  was  so  arranged,  and  Lucy  went  in  ac- 
cordingly. 

We  must  novr  follow  Mrs.  Mainwaiing, 
who,  on  inquirhig  if  she  could  see  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay,  was  informed  by  Gibsoii, 
who  had  got  his  cue,  that  he  was  not  in  a 
condition  to  see  any  one  at  present. 

"  My  business  is  somewhat  imijortaut," 
replied  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  with  a  good  deaj 
of  confidence  in  the  truth  of  what  she  said. 

Gibson,  however,  approached  her,  and, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  in  posses- 
sion of  the  secrets  of  the  family,  said,  "Per- 
haps, ma'am,  you  come  on  behalf  of  IMiss 
Gourlay  ?  " 

"Whatever  my  business  may  be,"  she  re- 
j)Ued,  indignantly,  "  be  it  important  or  other- 
wise, I  never  communicate  it  through  the 
medium  of  a  servant ;  I  mean  you  no  ofl'ence," 
she  proceeded  ;  "  but  as  I  have  ah-eady  stat- 
ed that  it  is  of  importance,  I  trust  that  will 
be  sufficient  for  the  present." 

"Excuse  me,  mr.'am,"  replied  Gibson,  "I 
only  put  the  question  by  Sir  Thomas's  ex- 
press orders.  His  state  of  health  is  such, 
that  unless  upon  that  subject  he  can  see  no 
one.  I  will  go  to  him,  however,  and  mention 
what  you  have  said.  He  is  very  ill,  however, 
exceedingly  iU,  and  I  fear  wUi  not  be  able  to 
see  you  ;  but  I  shall  tiy." 

Sir  Thomas  was  seated  t.pon  a  sofa  read- 
ing some  book  or  o+'i---  when  Gibson  reap- 
peared. 


482 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


"Well,  Gibson,  who  is  this?  " 

"  A  lady,  sir  ;  and  she  says  she  wishes  to 
«?ee  yoii  on  very  important  business." 

"  Hum  ! — do  you  think  it  anything  connect- 
ed with  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  I  put  the  question  to  her,  sir,"  rephed 
the  other,  "  and  she  bridled  a  good  deal — I 
should  myself  suppose  it  is." 

"  Well,  then,  thi'ow  me  over  my  dressing- 
gown  and  nightcap  ;  here,  pull  it  up  be- 
hind, you  blockhead  ; — there  now — how  do  I 
look  ?  " 

"  Why,  ahem,  a  little  too  much  in  health. 
Sir  Thomas,  if  it  coidd  be  avoided." 

"  But,  you  stupid  rascal,  isn't  that  a  sign 
of  fever?  and  isn't  my  complaint  fuhiess 
about  the  head — a  tendency  of  blood  there  ? 
That  will  do  now  ;  yes,  the  plethoric  com- 
plexion to  a  shade  ;  and,  by  the  way,  it  is  no 
joke  either.      Send  her  up  now." 

When  Mrs.  Main  waring  entered,  the  worthy 
invalid  was  lying  incumbeut  upon  the  sofa, 
his  head  raised  high  upon  pillows,  vsdth  his 
dressing-gown  and  night-cap  on,  and  his 
arms  stretched  along  by  his  sides,  as  if  he 
were  enduring  gi'eat  pain. 

"  Oh,  Mi-s.  Norton,"  said  he,  after  she  had 
coiu'tesied,  "how  do  you  do?" 

"  I  am  Sony  to  see  you  ill,  Sir  Thomas," 
she  rejihed,  "I  hope  there  is  nothing  serious 
tjie  matter." 

"  I  wish  I  myself  could  hojDe  so,  Mrs. 
Norton." 

"  Excuse  me.  Sir  Thomas,  I  am  no  longer 
Sirs.  Norton  ;  Mi's.  Mainwaiing,  at  your  ser- 
vice." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  Then  you  have  changed 
your  condition,  as  they  say.  Well,  I  hope  it 
is  for  the  better,  Mi-s.  Mainwaring  ;  I  wish 
you  all  joy  and  happiness  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  Sir  Thomas,  it  »s  for  the  bet- 
ter ;  I  am  very  happily  married.'' 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it — I  am  very  glad  to 
hear  it  ;  that  is  to  say,  if  I  can  be  glad  at 
anything.  I  feel  very  ill,  SIi-s.  Mainwaring, 
very  ill,  indeed  ;  and  this  blunt,  islain-spoken 
doctor  of  mine  gives  me  but  httle  comfort. 
Not  i.hat  I  care  much  about  any  doctor's 
opinion— -it  is  what  I  feel  myself  that  trou- 
bles me.  You  are  not  aware,  perhaps,  that 
my  daughter  has  aljandoned  me — deserted 
me — and  left  me  soUtary — sick — ill ;  -nithout 
care-^without  attendance — without  conso- 
lation ; — and  all  because  I  wished  to  make 
her  happy." 

"  This,  Sir  Thomas,"  replied  Mrs.  Main- 
waring, avoiding  a  dii-ect  reply  as  to  her 
knowledge  of  Lucy's  movements,  "is,  I  pre- 
sume, with  reference  to  her  marriage  with 
Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  young  women  will  not,  now-a- 
days,  allow  a  parent  to  form  any  opinion  as  to 


!  what  constitutes  their  happiness  ;  but  I  can- 
not be  angi-y  with  Lucy  now ;  indeed,  1  am 
not.  I  only  regret  her  absence  from  my 
sick  bed,  as  I  may  term  it ;  for,  indeed,  it  is 
in  bed  I  ought  to  be." 

'  "  Sir  Thomas,  I  came  to  speak  with  you 
ver}'  seriously,  upon  the  subject  of  her  union 
with  that  young  nobleman." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  not  in  a  condition,  Mrs. 
Mainwaiing,  to  enter  ujjon  such  a  topic  at 
present.  The  doctor  has  forbidden  me  to 
speak  ujjon  any  subject  that  might  excite 
me.  You  must  excuse  me,  then,  madam  :  1 
really  cannot  enter  upon  it.  I  never  thought 
I  loved  Lucy  so  nmch  ; — I  only  want  my 
child  to  be  with  me.  She  and  I  are  all  that 
are  left  together  now  ;  but  she  has  deserted 
me  at  the  last  moment,  for  I  fear  I  am  near  it." 

"  But,  Sir  Thomas,  if  you  would  only  hear 
me  for  a  few  minutes,  I  could  satisfy  you 
that " 

"  But  I  cannot  hear  you,  Mrs.  Mainwaring; 
I  cannot  hear  you  ;  I  am  not  in  a  state  to  do 
so  ;  I  feel  feverish,  and  exceedingly  ill." 

"Five  minutes  would  do,  Sii-  Thomas." 

"  Five  minutes  !  five  centuries  of  torture  ! 
I  must  ring  the  bell,  IVIi'S.  Mainwarmg,  if  you 
attempt  to  force  this  subject  on  me.  I  should 
be  Sony  to  treat  you  rudely,  but  you  must 
see  at  once  that  I  am  quite  unable  to  talk  of 
anything  calculated  to  disturb  me.  I  have  a 
tendency  of  blood  to  the  head — I  am  also 
nervous  and  irritable.  Put  it  ott",  my  dear 
madam.  I  trust  you  shall  have  another  and 
a  better  opportunity.  Do  ring,  and  desire 
Lucy  to  come  to  me." 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  really  became  alarmed 
at  the  situation  of  the  baronet,  and  felt,  fi'om 
this  request  to  have  hi.s  daughter  sent  to 
him,  which  looked  like  delirium,  that  he  ■>vp.'? 
not  in  a  state  to  enter  ujion  or  hear  anj'thiug 
that  might  disappoint  or  distui'b  him.  She 
consequently  rose  to  take  her  leave,  which 
she  did  after  having  expressed  her  sincere 
regret  at  his  indisjiosition,  as  she  termed  it. 

"  I  wish  it  was  only  indisposition,  ]\Lrs. 
Mainwaring,  I  wish  it  was.  Present  my  re- 
spects to  your  husband,  and  I  wish  you  and 
him  all  happiness  ; "  and  so  vaih.  another 
courtesy,  Mrs.  Mainwaring  took  her  leave. 

After  she  had  gone,  Gibson  once  more  at- 
tended the  bell. 

"Well,  Gibson,"  said  his  master,  sitting 
up  and  Hinging  his  nightcap  aside,  "  did  you 
see  that  old  grindi-ess?  Zounds  and  the  devil, 
what  are  women  ?  The  old  mantrai)  has  got 
m mied  at  tl.ese  years  !  Thank  heaven,  n,\y 
grandmother  is  dead,  or  God  knows  what  the 
devil  might  jjut  into  her  old  noddle." 

"  Women  are  very  strange  cattle,  certainly, 
sir,"  replied  Gibson,  -with  a  smirk,  "and  not 
age  itself  wiU  keep  them  fi-om  a  husband." 


THE  BLACK  BAROXET. 


483 


"  Lucy — Miss  Gourlaj,  I  mean — is  with 
tier  ;  I  am  certain  of  it.  Tlie  girl  was  always 
very  much  attached  to  her,  and  I  know  the 
sly  old  devil  has  been  sent  to  negotiate  with 
me,  but  I  declined.  I  knew  better  than  to 
involve  myself  in  a  controversy  with  an  old 
she  i^rig  who  deals  in  nothing  but  maxims, 
and  morals,  and  points  of  duty.  I  conse- 
quentlj'  sent  her  otf  in  double  quick  time,  as 
they  say.  Get  me  some  bui-gimdy  and 
■water.  I  really  am  not  well.  There  i-i  some- 
thing wrong,  Gibson,  whatever  it  is  ;  but  I 
think  it's  nothing  but  anxiety.  Gibson,  Us- 
ten.  I  have  never  been  turned  fi-om  my 
puq)ose  yet,  and  I  never  shall.  Miss  Gour- 
lay  must  be  Coimtess  of  Cullamore,  or  it  is  a 
stiiiggle  for  life  and  death  between  her  and 
me  ;  either  of  us  shall  die,  or  I  shall  have 
my  way.  Get  me  the  burgundy  and  water," 
and  Gibson,  -ndth  his  sleek  bow,  went  to  at- 
tend his  orders. 

ill's.  Mainwaring  having  some  purchases 
to  make  and  some  visits  to  pay,  and  feeling 
that  her  unexpectedly  brief  visit  to  Sir 
Thomas  had  allowed  her  time  for  both,  did 
not  immediately  return  to  call  upon  Lucy, 
fearing  that  she  might  onlj'  disturb  the  inter-  1 
riew  between  her  and  Ladj'  Gourlay. 

Lucy,  as  the  servant  said,  was  shown  up  to  | 
the  drawing-room,  where  she  amused  her-  \ 
self  as  well  as  she  could,  by  examining  some 
fine  paintings,  among  which  was  one  of  her 
late  uncle.     The  features  of  this  she  studied 
with  considerable   attention,  and   could  not 
help  observing  that,  although  they  resembled 
collectively  those  of  her  father,  the  deformity 
of  the  one  e_ye  only  excepted,  yet  the  geuei-al  \ 
result  was  strikingly  different.     All  that  was 
harsh,  and  coai-se,  and  repulsive  m  the  counte- 
nance of  her  father,  was  here  softened  down  ' 
into  an  expression  of  gentleness,  firmness,  \ 
and   singular   candor,  whilst,   at   the   same  | 
time,  the  family  likeness  coiild  not  for  a  mo- 
ment be  cjuestioned  or  mistaken. 

\Miilst  thus  occupied,  a  foot  was  heard,  as  ■ 
if  entering  the  drawing-room,  and  natui-aUy 
turning  roimd,  she  beheld  the  stranger  be-  \ 
fore  her.     The  suii^rise  of  each  was  mutual, 
for  the  meeting  was  perfectly  unexpected  by  j 
either.     A  deep  blush  overspread  Lucy's  ex-  j 
quisite  featiu-es,  which  almost  in  a  moment 
gave  way  to  a  paleness  that  added  a  new  and 
equally  delightful  phase  to  her  beauty.  I 

"  Good  heavens,  my  dear  Lucy,"  exclaimed  ! 
the  stranger,  "do  I  find  you  here  !  I  had 
heard  that  the  families  were  estranged  ;  but 
on  that  very  account  I  feel  the  more  deeply 
delighted  at  your  presence  under  Lady 
Gourla3''s  roof.  This  happiness  comes  to  j 
me  with  a  double  sense  of  enjoyment,  from  I 
the  fact  of  its  being  unexpected." 

Tlie  alternations  of  red   and   white  stiR  I 


continued  as  Lucj-  replied,  her  sparkhng  eya 
chastened  down  by  the  veil  of  modesty  as 
she  spoke:  "I  am  under  Lady  Gourlay "s 
roof  for  the  first  time  in  my  hfe.  Indeed,  1 
have  come  here  to  make  an  experiment,  if  I 
may  use  the  exjiression,  upon  the  goodness 
of  her  heart.  The  amiable  lady  with  whom 
I  now  reside  suggested  to  me  to  do  so,  a 
suggestion  which  I  embraced  with  dehglit. 
I  have  been  here  only  a  few  minutes,  and 
await  her  ladyshiji's  return,  which  they  tell 
me  may  be  expected  immediately." 

"  It  ■nould  indeed  be  luifortunate,"  rephed 
the  stranger,  "  that  two  iiidiriduals  so  near- 
ly connected  by  family,  and  what  is  more, 
the  possession  of  simiLir  yirtues,  should  not 
be  known  to  each  other." 

This  eomi^hment  brought  a  deeper  tinge 
of  color  to  Lucy's  cheek,  who  simply  replied, 
"I  have  often  wished  most  sincerely  for  the 
j)leasure — the  honor,  I  should  say — of  her 
acquaintance  ;  but  unfortunately  the  iU-feel- 
iug  that  has  subsisted  between  the  families, 
or  rather  between  a  portion  of  them,  has 
liitherto  prevented  it.  If  I  were  now  under 
my  father's  roof  a  visit  here  were  out  of  the 
question  ;  but  you  know,  Charles,  I  cannot, 
and  I  ought  not,  to  inherit  his  resentments." 

"  True,  my  dear  Lucy,  and  I  am  glad  to 
see  you  here  for  many,  many  reasons.  No, 
your  father's  resentments  would  perish  for 
want  of  uiu'ture  in  a  heart  Hke  yours.  But, 
Luc_y,  there  is  a  subject  in  which  I  trust  we 
both  feel  a  dearer  and  a  deeper  interest  than 
that  of  family  feud.  I  am  aware  of  this 
hatefid  union  which  yoiu*  father  wishes  to 
bring  about  between  you  and  this  Lord 
Dunroe.  I  have  been  long  aware  of  it,  as 
you  know  ;  but  need  I  say  that  I  place  every 
rehance,  all  honorable  confidence,  in  your 
truth  and  attachment  ?  " 

He  had  approached,  and  gently  taking 
her  hand  in  his  as  he  sjjoke,  he  uttered 
these  words  in  a  tone  so  full  at  once  of  ten- 
derness and  that  sympathy  to  which  he 
knew  her  suileriugs  on  this  point  had  en- 
titled her,  that  Lucy  was  considerably  affect- 
ed, although  she  restrained  her  emotions  as 
weU  as  she  could. 

"If  it  were  not  so,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice 
whose  melody  was  made  more  touchingly 
beautiful  bj'  the  sUght  tremor  which  she  en- 
deavored to  repress,  "if  it  were  not  so, 
Charles,  I  would  not  now  be  a  fugitive  from 
my  father's  roof." 

Tlie  stranger's  eye  sparkled  with  the  rap- 
turous enthusiasm  of  love,  as  the  gentle 
girl,  all  blushes,  gave  exjiression  to  an 
assurance  so  gratifj'ing,  so  delicious  to  his 
heai-t. 

"Dearest  Lucy,"  said  he,  "I  fear  I  am 
unworthy  of  you.     Oh,  could  you  but  know 


*S4 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


how  those  words  of  yours  have  made  my 
heart  tremble  with  an  excess  of  transport 
which  language  fails  to  exjDress,  you  would 
also  know  that  the  affection  with  which  I 
love  you  is  as  tender,  as  pure,  as  unselfish, 
as  ever  warmed  the  heart  of  man.  And  j'et, 
as  I  said,  I  fear  it  is  luiworthy  of  you.  I 
know  yoiu-  father's  character,  his  determina- 
tion, the  fierce  force  of  his  will,  and  the 
energy  with  which  he  fiursues  every  object 
on  which  he  sets  his  heart  or  ambition.  I 
say  I  know  all  this,  and  I  sometimes  fear  the 
consec^uences.  What  can  the  will  of  only 
one  pure,  gentle,  and  delicate  heart  avail 
against  the  united  powers  of  ambition, 
authority,  persuasion,  force,  determina- 
tion, fierhaps  violence '?  What,  I  repeat,  can 
a  gentle  heai-t  like  yovirs  ultimately  avail 
agauist  such  a  host  of  d  fficulties?  And  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  say  I  am  unworthy  of 
you,  for  I  fear — and  you  know  that  jjerfeet 
love  casteth  out  all  fear." 

"  My  dear  Charles,  if  love  were  without 
fear  it  would  lose  half  its  tenderness.  An 
eternal  sunshme,  would  soon  sicken  the 
world.  But  as  for  youi'  apprehensions  of 
my  solitary  heart  failing  against  such  diffi- 
ciilties  as  it  must  encounter,  you  seem  to  omit 
one  slight  element  in  calculating  your  ter- 
rors, and  that  simple  element  is  a  ho.st  in 
itself." 

"Which  is?" 

"  Love  for  you,  dear  Charles.  I  know 
you  may  j)robably  feel  that  this  avowal 
oaglit  to  be  exj)ressed  with  more  hesitation, 
veiled  over  by  the  hypocrisy  of  language, 
disguised  by  the  hackneyed  forms  of  mere 
sentiment,  uttered  like  the  assertions  of  a 
coquette,  and  degraded  by  that  tamjJering 
vrith  truth  which  makes  the  heart  he  unto 
itself.  Oh,  yes ! — perhaps,  Charles,  you 
may  think  that  because  i  fail  to  exjiress 
what  I  feel  in  that  sjjirit  of  ambiguity  which 
a  love  not  confident  in  the  truth,  jsurity, 
and  rectitude  of  its  own  f)rinciples  must  al- 
ways borrow — that  because  my  heart  fails 
to  apj)roach  yours  by  the  usual  circuitous 
route  with  which  ordinary  hearts  do  ai> 
proach — yes,  you  may  imagine  for  all  these 

reasons  that  my  affection  is  not — but " 

and  here  she  checked  herself — "  why,"  she 
added,  with  dignity,  whUst  her  cheeks 
glowed  and  lier  eyes  sparkled,  "  why  should 
I  apologize  for  the  avowal  of  a  love  of  which 
I  am  not  ashamed,  and  which  has  its  strong- 
est defence  in  the  worth  and  honor  of  its 
object  ?  " 

Tears  of  enthusiasm  rushed  down  her 
cheeks  as  she  spoke,  and  her  lover  could 
only  say,  "Dearest  Lucy,  most  beloved  of 
my  heart,  your  language,  your  sentiments, 
j'oui-   feelings  -so   pure,    so    noble,    so    far 


above  those  commonplaces  of  your  sex,  onlT 
caijse  me  to  shrink  almost  into  nothing 
when  I  comjjare  or  contrast  myself  ^^■ith  you. 
Let,  however,  one  prineiisle  gaiide  us — the 
confidence  that  our  love  is  mutual  and  can- 
not be  distm'bed.  I  am  for  the  present 
placed  in  circumstances  that  are  exceedingly 
Ijainful.  In  point  of  fact,  I  am  wrajjped  in 
obscurity  and  shadow,  and  there  exists,  be- 
sides, a  possibility  that  I  may  not  become, 
in  point  of  fortune,  such  a  man  as  you  might 
possibly  vvish  to  look  upon  as  your  hus- 
band." 

"  If  you  are  now  suffering  your  fine  mind, 
Charles,  to  become  unconsciously  warped  by 
the  common  prejudices  of  life,  I  beseech  you 
to  reflect  upon  the  heart  to  which  you  ad- 
dress yourself.  Society  presents  not  a  single 
prejudice  which  in  anj-  degree  aids  or  sup- 
ports virtue,  and  truth,  and  honor,  that  I  do 
not  cherish,  and  wish  you  to  cherish  ;  but  if 
you  imagine  that  you  will  become  less  dear 
to  me  because  you  may  faU  to  acquire  some 
of  the  artificial  dignities  or  honors  of  life, 
then  it  is  clear  tliat  you  know  not  how  to 
estimate  the  spirit  and  character  of  Lucy 
Gomiay." 

"I  know  you  will  be  severely  tried,  my 
dear  Lucj-." 

"Know  me  alight,  Charles.  I  /i«(v  been 
severely  tried.  Many  a  girl,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  would  forget  Dunroe's  iirotligaey  in  his 
rank.  Many  a  girl,  in  c()iitem]ilating  the 
man,  could  see  nothing  but  the  coronet ;  for 
ambition — the  jDoorest,  the  vainest,  and  the 
most  worthless  of  all  kinds  of  ambition — that 
of  rank,  title,  the  right  of  precedence — is 
unfortunately  cultivated  as  a  virtue  in  the 
world  of  fashion,  and  as  euch  it  is  felt.  Be 
it  so,  Charles  ;  let  me  remain  unfashionable 
and  vulgar.  Perish  the  title  if  not  aceom- 
jjimied  by  worth  ;  fling  the  gaudy  coronet 
aside  if  it  covers  not  the  brow  of  jirobitj-  and 
honor.  Eetain  those,  dear  Charles — retain 
worth,  j^robity,  and  honor — and  you  retain 
a  heart  that  looks  ujDon  them  as  the  only 
titles  tliat  confer  true  rank  and  true  dignitj'." 

The  sti-anger  gave  her  a  long  gaze  of  ad- 
miration, and  exclaimed,  deej^ly  afiected  , 

"Alas,  my  Lucy,  you  are,  I  feai-,  unfit  for 
the  world.  Your  spirit  is  too  pure,  too 
noble  for  common  hfe.  Like  some  priceless 
gem,  it  spai'kles  with  the  brilliancy  of  too 
many  virtues  for  the  ordinary  mass  of  man- 
kind to  appreciate." 

"  No  such  thing,  Charles  :  you  quite  over- 
rate me  ;  but  God  forbid  that  the  possession 
of  ^^rtue  and  good  dispositions  should  ever 
become  a  disqualification  for  this  world.  It 
is  not  so  ;  but  even  if  it  were,  provided  I 
shine  in  the  estimation  of  my  o^ii  little 
world,  by  which  I  mean  the  aii'ectiou  of  him 


THE  BLACK  BAROJET. 


485 


to  whom  1  shtill  unite  my  f;ite,  then  I  am 
satislied  :  his  love  ami  his  approbation  shall 
constitute  my  coronet  and  my  honor." 

The  stranger  was  absolutely  lost  in  admi- 
ration and  love,  for  he  felt  that  the  force  of 
truth  and  sincerity  had  imparted  an  elo- 
quence and  an  energy  to  her  language 
til  it  were  perfectly  fascinating  and  iiTesisti- 
ble. 

"My  dear  life,"  said  he,  "the  music  of 
your  words,  clothing,  as  it  does,  the  divine 
princiiales  they  utter,  must  surely  resemble 
the  melody  of  heaven's  own  voices.  For  my 
part,  I  feel  relaxed  in  such  a  dehcious  rajiture 
as  I  have  never  either  felt  or  dreamt  of 
before — entranced,  as  it  were,  in  a  sense  of 
your  wonderful  beauty  and  goodness.  But, 
dearest  Lucy,  allow  me  to  ask  on  what  terms 
are  you  with  your  father  ?  Have  you  heai'd 
fi'om  him  ?  Have  you  written  to  him  ?  Is 
he  aware  of  your  present  residence  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied ;  "  he  is  not  aware  of 
my  present  residence,  but  I  have  written  to 
him.  I  wished  to  set  his  mind  at  rest  as 
well  as  I  could,  and  to  diminish  his  anxiety  as 
fiU'  as  in  me  laj'.  Heaven  knows,"  she 
added,  bui-sting  into  tears,  "  that  this  un- 
natural estrangement  between  father  and 
daughter  is  most  distressing.  I  am  anxious 
to  be  with  papa,  to  render  him,  in  every 
sense,  all  the  duties  of  a  child,  provided  only 
he  will  not  persist  in  building  up  the  super- 
sti-ucture  of  rank  ujaon  my  own  unhapiaiuess. 
Have  yon  seen  him  V  "  she  inquu-ed,  drying 
her  e3'es,  a  t;isk  in  which  she  was  tenderly 
assisted  by  the  stranger. 

"I  saw  him,"  he  repUed,  "for  a  short 
time  ; "  but  the  terms  in  which  he  explained 
the  nature  of  the  interview  between  himself 
and  the  baronet  were  not  such  as  could  afford 
her  a  distinct  impression  of  aU  that  took 
place,  simply  because  he  wished  to  sj>are  her 
the  infliction  of  unnecessary  pain. 

"And  now,  Lucy,"  he  added,  "I  feel  it 
necessary  to  claim  a  large  jjortion  of  youi" 
approbation." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile,  but 
awaited  his  explanation. 

"  Yo  I  will  scarcely  credit  me  when  I 
assure  you  that  I  have  had  a  clew  to  your 
place  of  residence,  or  concealment,  or  what- 
ever it  is  to  be  termed,  since  the  first  morn- 
ing of  your  arrival  there,  and  yet  I  disturbed 
you  not,  either  by  letter  or  visit.  Thus  you 
ma}'  perceive  how  sacred  your  hghtest  wish 
is  to  me." 

"And  do  you  imagine  that  I  am  insensible 
to  this  dehcate  generosity  ? "  she  asked — 
"  oh,  no ;  indeed,  I  fully  appreciate  it ; 
but  now,  Charles,  will  you  permit  me  to 
ask  how,  or  when,  or  where  you  have 
been  acquainted  ^-ith  my  aimt  Gourlay,  for 


I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  kuo^Ti  each 
other  ?  " 

"  This,  my  dear-  Lucy,"  he  repUed,  smil- 
ing, "  you  shall  have  cleared  up  along  wdth 
aU  my  other  mysteries.  Like  every  riddle, 
idthough  it  may  seem  difficult  now,  it  will  be 
plain  enough  when  told." 

"It  matters  not,  dear  Charles;  I  have 
every  confidence  in  your  truth  and  honor, 
and  that  is  sufficient." 

He  then  informed  her  briefly,  that  he 
should  be  under  the  necessity  of  going  to 
France  for  a  short  space,  upon  business  of 
the  deejsest  importance  to  himself. 

"My  stay,  however,"  he  added,  "will  not 
be  a  very  long  one  ;  and  I  trust,  that  after 
my  return,  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  speak 
out  my  love.  Indeed,  I  am  anxious  for  this, 
dear  Lucy,  for  I  know  how  strong  the  love  of 
truth  and  candor  is  in  your  great  and  gener- 
ous heai't.  And  j-et,  for  the  sake  of  one 
good  and  amiable  individual,  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  of  two,  the  object  of  my  journey 
to  France  will  not  be  accompUshed  isdthout 
the  deejJcst  pain  to  myself.  It  is,  I  may  say 
here,  to  spare  the  feehugs  of  the  two  indi- 
vidu;ils  in  question,  that  I  have  preserved 
the  strict  incognito  which  I  thought  necessaiy 
since  mj'  arrival  in  this  eouutiw." 

"  Farewell  imtil  then,  my  dear  Charles  ; 
and  in  whatever  object  you  may  be  engaged, 
let  me  beg  that  yoix  ^^•ill  not  inffict  a  wanton 
or  unnecessaiy  wound  upon  a  good  or  ami- 
able heart ;  but  I  know  you  will  not — it  is 
not  in  your  nature." 

"I  tru.st  not,"  he  added,  as  he  took  his 
leave.  "  I  cannot  wait  longer  for  lady  Gouf- 
lay  ;  but  before  I  go,  I  will  write  a  short 
note  for  her  in  the  hbrary,  which  ■niU,  for 
the  present,  answer  the  same  jrai-pose  as 
seeing  her.  Farewell,  then,  dearest  and 
best  of  girls  ! — farewell,  and  be  as  happy  as 
you  can  ;  would  that  I  could  say,  as  I  wish 
you,  until  we  meet  again." 

And  thus  they  sepai-ated. 

The  scene  that  had  just  taken  place  ren- 
dered every  effort  at  composure  necessary 
on  the  part  of  Lucy,  before  the  retui-n  of 
Lady  Gourlay.  This  lady,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  she  had  yet  never  seen  or  met,  and 
she  now  began  to  reflect  upon  the  nature  of 
the  visit  she  had  made  her,  as  well  as  of  the 
reception  she  might  get.  If  it  were  possible 
that  her  father  had  made  away  with  her  child 
on  the  one  hand,  could  it  be  possible,  on  the 
other,  that  Lady  Gourl  ly  would  withhold  her 
resentment  from  the  d  lugliter  of  the  man 
who  had  made  her  childless  ?  But,  no  ;  her 
generous  heart  could  not  for  a  moment  admit 
the  former  possibility.  She  reasoned  not 
from  what  she  had  felt  at  his  hands,  but  as 
a  daughter,  who,  because  she  abhoiTed  the 


486 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


crime  imputed  to  him,  could  not  suppose 
him  capable  of  committing  it.  His  ambition 
■was  aU  for  herself.  Neither,  she  felt,  would 
Lady  Gourlay,  even  allowing  for  the  fuU  ex- 
tent of  her  susj)ieions,  confound  the  innocent 
daughter  with  the  oftending  jjai-ent.  Then 
her  reputation  for  meekness,  benevolence, 
patience,  charity,  and  all  those  vrrtues  which, 
without  eflbrt,  so  strongly  impress  themselves 
ujion  the  general  sjm'it  of  social  life,  si^oke 
with  a  thousand  tongues  on  her  behalf.  Yes, 
she  was  glad  she  came  ;  she  felt  the  sj)irit  of 
a  virtuous  relationship)  strongly  in  her  heart ; 
and  in  that  heart  she  thanked  the  amiable 
IVIi's.  Mainwaring  for  the  advice  she  had  giv- 
en her. 

A  gentle  and  diffident  tap  at  the  door  in- 
terrujited  the  course  of  her  reflections  ;  and 
the  next  moment,  a  lady,  gxave,  but  elegant 
in  appearance,  entered.  She  courtesied  with 
peculiar  grace,  and  an  air  of  the  sweetest  be- 
nignity, to  Lucy,  who  retvu-ned  it  with  one  in 
which  humilitj-,  reverence,  and  dignitj',  vv'ere 
equally  blended.  Neither,  indeed,  could  for 
a  single  moment  doubt  that  an  accomjiUshed 
and  educated  gentlewoman  stood  before  her. 
Lucy,  however,  felt  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
speak  first,  and  account  for  a  visit  so  imex- 
pected. 

"I  know  not,"  she  said,  "as  yet,  how  to 
measure  the  a25ology  which  I  ought  to  make 
to  Lady  Gourlay  for  my  jiresence  here.  Mj' 
heart  tells  me  that  I  have  the  honor  of  ad- 
dressing that  lady." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  madam,  that  unhapi)y  wo- 
man." 

Lucy  approached  her,  and  said,  "  Do  not 
reject  me,  madam  ;  jDardon  me — love  me — 
pitj-  me  ; — I  am  Lucy  Gourlay." 

Lady  Gourlay  opened  her  arms,  exclaim- 
ing, as  she  did  it,  in  a  voice  of  the  deepest 
emotion,  "My  dear  niece — my  child — my 
daughter  if  you  will  ;"  and  they  wept  long 
and  affectionately  on  each  other's  bosoms. 

"You  are  the  only  living  individual,"  said 
Lucy,  after  some  time,  "  whom  I  could  ask 
to  j)ity  me  ;  but  I  am  not  ashamed  to  sohcit 
yoiu-  sympathy.  Dear,  dear  aunt,  I  am  very 
unhappy.  But  this,  I  fear,  is  wrong  ;  for  why 
should  I  add  my  sorrows  to  the  weight  of 
misery  which  you  yourself  have  been  com- 
pelled to  bear  ?  I  fear  it  is  selfish  and  un- 
generous to  do  so." 

"  No,  my  child;  whatever  the  weight  of 
gi'ief  or  miseiT  which  we  are  forced,  perhaps, 
for  -udse  purj)oses,  to  bear,  it  is  ordained,  for 
purposes  ecjually  wise  and  beneficent,  that 
every  act  of  sympathy  with  another's  sorrow 
lessens  our  own.  Dear  Lucy,  let  me,  if  j- ou 
can,  or  will  be  permitted  to  do  so,  be  a  lov- 
ing mother  to  yo>i,  and  stand  to  my  heart  in 
relation  to  the  child  I  have  lost ;  or  think 


that  jour  awa.  deai-  mother  stiU  sui'sives  lU 
me." 

This  kindness  and  affection  fairly  overcame 
Lucy,  who  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  and  wept 
bitterly.  Lady  Gourlay  herself  was  deejily 
affected  for  some  minutes,  but,  at  length,  re- 
suming composiu'e,  she  B:it  beside  Lucy; 
and,  taking  her  hand,  said:  "I  can  under- 
stand, mj'  deal-  child,  the  nature  of  yoiu"  grief; 
but  be  comforted.  Your  heart,  which  was  \)\xx- 
dened,  vv^iil  soon  become  lighter,  and  better 
spirits  win  return ;  so,  I  ti-ust,  wiU  better 
times.  It  is  not  from  the  transient  and  un- 
steady, and  too  often  painful,  incidents  of  life, 
that  we  should  attempt  to  draw  consolation, 
but  fiom  a  fixed  and  firm  confidence  in  the 
unch.r.ngeable  jiurjaoses  of  God."' 

"  I  wish,  dear  Lady  Gourlay  —  dear 
aunt " 

"  Yes,  that  is  better,  my  love." 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  before  ;  of  late 
I  have  been  alone — with  none  to  advise  or 
guide  me  ;  for,  she,  whose  afl'ectionale  heai't, 
whose  tender  look,  and  whose  gentle  moni- 
tion, were  ever  with  me — she — alas,  my  dear 
aunt,  how  few  know  what  the  bitterness  is 
— when  forced  to  struggle  against  strong  but 
misguided  wills,  whether  of  our  own  or 
others';  to  feel  that  we  are  without  a  mother 
— that  that  gentle  voice  is  silent  forever  ;  that 
that  well  in  the  desert  of  life — a  mother's 
heart — is  forever  closed  to  us  ;  that  that  pro- 
tecting angel  of  our  steps  is  dejjarted  £oiu 
us — never,  never  to  return." 

As  she  uttered  these  words  in  deep  grief, 
it  might  have  been  obseiTcd,  that  Lady  Gour- 
lay shed  some  quiet  but  apparenllj-  bitter 
tears.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  enter  into 
the  heart,  or  its  reflections  ;  but  it  is  not,  we 
think,  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  while 
Lucy  dwelt  so  feelingly  upon  the  loss  of  her 
mother,  the  other  may  have  been  thinking 
upon  that  of  her  child. 

"  My  dear  gii'l,"  she  exclaimed,    "  let  the 

afTectionate  compact  which  I  have  just  pro- 

jiosed  be  ratified  between  us.  Mij  heart,  at  all 

events,  has  ah'eady  ratified  it.     I  shall  be  as 

a  mother  to  you,  and  you  sh;ill  be  to  me  as 

a  daughter." 

I       "I know  not,  my  dear  ainit,"  rei^licd Lucy, 

I  "  whether  to  consider  you  more  afi'ectionate 

!  than  generous.     How  few  of  our  sex,    after 

— after — that  is,  considering  the  enmities^- 

in  fact,  how  a  relative,  placed  as  you  unhaj)- 

pily  are,  woidd  take  me  to  her  heai't  as  you 

have  done." 

"  Perhaps,  my  child,  I  were  incapable  of 
it,  if  that  heart  had  never  been  touched  ami 
softened  by  affliction.  As  it  is,  Lucy,  let  me 
say  to  you,  as  one  who  probably  knows  the 
world  better,  do  not  look,  as  mo.st  young  per- 
sons like  you  do,  upon  the  trials  you  are  at 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


487 


present  forced  to  suffer,  as  if  they  were  the 
sharpest  and  heaviest  iu  the  world.  Time, 
my  love,  and  perhips  other  trials  of  a  still 
severer  character,  may  one  day  teach  you  to 
think  that  your  grief  and  impatience  were 
out  of  proi:)ortiou  to  what  you  then  under- 
went. May  He  who  aftiicts  his  people  for 
their  good,  prevent  that  this  ever  should  be 
so  in  your  case  ;  but,  even  if  it  should,  re- 
member that  God  lovetli  whom  he  chasten- 
eth.  And  above  all  ■  things,  my  dear  child, 
never,  never,  never  despair  in  his  isrovidence. 
Dry  your-  eyes,  my  love,"  slie  added,  with  a 
smile  of  aflection  and  encouragement,  that 
Lucy  felt  to  be  contagious  by  its  cheering  in- 
fluence iipou  her ;  "  dry  your  tears,  and  turn 
round  to  the  light  until  I  contemplate  more 
clearly  and  distinctly  that  beauty  of  which  I 
have  heard  so  much." 

Lucy  obeyed  her  with  all  the  simplicity  of  a 
child,  and  turned  round  so  as  to  j)lace  her- 
self in  the  position  required  by  the  aunt ; 
but  whUst  she  did  so,  need  we  say  that  the 
blushes  followed  each  other  beautifully  and 
fast  over  her  timid  but  sparkling  counte- 
nance ? 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  my  dear  girl,  that 
public  rumor  has  borne  its  ample  testimony 
to  your  beauty.  I  have  never  seen  either  it 
or  your  figure  surpassed  ;  but  it  is  here,  my 
dear,"  she  added,  placing  her  hand  upon 
her  heart,  "  where  the  jewel  that  gives  value 
to  so  fair  a  casket  lies." 

"  How  happy  I  am,  my  dear  aunt,"  re- 
plied Lucy,  anxious  to  change  tlie  subject, 
'  since  I  kuow  you.  The  very  consciousness 
of  it  is  a  consolation." 

"And  I  trust,  Lucy,  we  shall  aU  yet  be 
happy.  When  tlie  disjDensations  ripen,  then 
comes  the  harvest  of  the  blessings." 

The  old  footman  now  entered,  saying  : 
"  Here  is  a  note,  my  lady,"  and  he  present- 
ed one,  "  which  the  gentleman  desii-ed  me 
to  deliver  on  yoiu"  ladyship's  return." 

Lady  Gourlay  took  the  note,  saving : 
"Will  you  excuse  me,  my  dear  niece? — 
this,  I  believe,  is  on  a  subject  that  is  not 
merelj'  near  to,  but  in  the  innermost  re- 
cesses of  my  heart." 

Lucy  now  took  that  ojsportunity  on  lier 
part  of  contemphiting  the  features  of  her 
aunt  ;  but,  as  we  have  already  descrilied 
them  elsewhere,  it  is  unnecessary  to  do  so 
here.  She  was,  however,  much  struck  witli 
their  chaste  but  melancholy  beauty  ;  for  it 
cannot  be  disputed,  that  sorrow  and  aflfiic- 
tion,  while  they  impair  the  complexion  of 
the  most  lovely,  very  frequently  communi- 
cate to  it  a  charm  so  deep  and  toucliing, 
that  in  j)oint  of  fact,  the  heart  that  suffers 
within  is  tavight  to  spaak  in  tlie  mournful, 
grave,    and  tender  e.-.j^rcysiou,   which   they 


leave  behind  them  as  their  traces.  As  Lucy 
surveyed  her  aunt's  features,  which  had 
been  moulded  by  calamity  into  an  expres' 
sion  of  settled  sorrow — an  esjJressiou  whicJs 
no  cheerfulness  could  remove,  however  if 
might  diminish  it,  she  was  surjarised  to  ob- 
serve at  first  a  singular  degree  of  sweetness 
aj)pear  ;  next  a  mild  serenity  ;  and  lastly, 
she  saw  that  that  serenity  gradually  kiudleA 
into  a  radiance  that  might,  in  the  hands  of 
a  j)aiuter,  have  expressed  the  joy  of  the 
Vu'gin  Motlier  on  tinding  her  lost  Son  iu 
the  Temple.  This,  however,  Vias  again  suc- 
ceeded by  a  jialeuess,  that  for  a  moment 
alarmed  Lucy,  but  which  was  soon  lost  in  a 
gush  of  joyful  tears.  On  looking  at  her 
niece,  who  did  not  presume  to  make  any 
inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  this  extraordinai'v 
emotion.  Lady  Goui'lay  saw  that  her  eyes  at 
least  were  seekmg,  by  the  wonder  they  ex- 
pressed, for  the  cause  of  it. 

"May  the  name,"  she  exclaimed,  "of  the 
just  and  merciful  God  be  praised  forever  ! 
Here,  my  darhng,  is  a  note,  in  Vvhich  I  am 
informed  upon  the  best  authority,  that  my 
child — my  boy,  is  yet  ahve — and  was  seen 
but  very  recently.  Dear  God  of  all  good- 
ness, is  my  weak  and  worn  heart  capa- 
ble of  bearing  this  returning  tide  of  happi- 
ness !  " 

Nature,  however,  gave  way ;  and  after 
several  struggles  and  throljbings,  she  sank 
into  insensibility.  To  ring  for  assistance,  to 
ajjply  all  kinds  of  restoratives  ;  and  to  tend 
her  until  she  revived,  and  afterwards,  were 
offices  which  Lucy  discharged  with  equal 
Ijroinptitude  and  tenderness. 

On  recovering,  she  took  the  hand  of  the 
latter  in  hers,  and  said,  with  a  smile  fuU  of 
gratitude,  joy,  and  sweetness,  "  Our  hrst 
thanks  are  always  due  to  God,  and  to  him 
my  heart  offers  them  ujs ;  but,  oh,  how 
feebly !  Thanks  to  you,  also,  Lucy,  for 
your  kindness  ;  and  many  thanks  for  your 
goodness  iu  giving  me  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  you.  I  trust  that  we  shaU  both 
see  and  enjoy  better  and  happier  days. 
Your  visit  has  been  propitious  to  me,  and 
brought,  if  I  may  so  say,  an  unexpected 
dawn  of  happiness  to  the  widowed  mother's 
heart." 

Lucy  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  old 
footman  came  to  say  that  the  lady  who  hsid 
accompanied  her.  was  waiting  below  iu  the 
chaise.  She  accordingly  bade  her  farev.'ell, 
only  for  a  time  she  said,  and  after  a  tender 
embrace,  she  went  down  to  Mrs.  Mainwaring 
who  respectfully  declined  on  that  occasion 
to  be  presented  to  Lady  Gourlay,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  number  of  purchases  she  liad 
yet  to  make,  and  the  time  it  would  occupj 
to  make  them. 


t88 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S   WORKS. 


CHAPTEE  XX\Tn. 

Xnrocence  and  Affection  overccms  b//  Fraud  and 
Hypocrisy — Lvcy  yields  at  Last. 

Not  many  miuiites  after  Mrs.  Mainwar- 
ing's  interview  with  the  baronet,  Gibson 
entered  the  hbrary,  and  handed  liim  a  letter 
on  which  was  stamped  the  Ballj'traiu  post- 
mark. On  looking  at  it,  he  paused  for  a 
moment  : 

"  Who  the  d can  this  come  from  ?  "  he 

said.  "lam  not  aware  of  having  any  par- 
ticular corresjiondence  at  present,  in  or 
about  Ballytrain.     Here,  however,  is  a  seal ; 

let  me  see  what   it   is.     What   the   d , 

again?  are  these  a  pair  of  asses'  ears  or 
wings  ?  Certainly,  if  the  imj^ressiou  be  cor- 
rect, the  former  ;  and  what  is  here  ?  A  fox. 
Very  good,  perfectly  intelligible  ;  a  fox,  with 
a  pair  of  asses'  ears  upion  him  !  intimating  a 
combination  of  knavery  and  folly.  'Gad, 
tliis  must  be  from  Crackenfudge,  of  whom  it 
is  the  type  and  exponent.  For  a  thousand, 
it  contains  a  list  of  his  c[ualilication8  for  the 
magisteiial  honors  for  which  he  is  so  ambi- 
tious. Well,  well ;  I  beUeve  every  man  has 
an  ambition  for  something.  Mine  is  to  see 
my  daughter  a  countess,  that  she  may 
trample  with  velvet  slippers  on  the  necks  of 
those  who  would  trample  on  hers  if  she  were 
beneath  them.  This  fellow,  now,  who  is 
both  slave  and  tjTaut,  will  play  all  sorts  of 
oppressive  pranks  upon  the  jJoor,  by  whom 
he  knows  that  he  is  desjjised ;  and  for 
that  very  reason,  along  with  others,  will  he 
punish  them.  That,  however,  is,  after  all, 
but  natural  ;  and  on  this  very  account,  curse 
me,  but  I  shall  try  and  shove  the  lieggarly 
scoundrel  up  to  the  point  of  his  jsaltry  am- 
bition. I  hke  ambition.  The  man  who 
has  no  object  of  ambition  of  anj'  kind  is  un- 
fit for  life.  Come,  then,  '  wax,  deUver  up 
thy  trust.' " 

With  a  dark  grin  of  contemj^t,  and  a  kind 
of  sarcastic  gratification,  he  perused  the  doc- 
ument, which  ran  as  follows  : 

"  My  de-\r  Sir  Tomas, — In  a  letter,  which 
a'  had  the  honer  of  receiving  fi-om  you,  in 
consequence  of  j'our  very  great  kindness  in 
condescending  to  kick  me  out  of  your  house, 
on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  to  Red  Hall, 
you  were  j)leased  to  express  a  wish  that  a' 
would  send  you  up  as  arthentic  a  list  as  a' 
could  coinviuciiflij  make  up  of  my  qualifica- 
tions for  the  magistracey.  Deed,  a'm  sore 
yet.  Sir  Tomas,  and  wouldn't  it  be  a  good 
joke,  as  my  friend  Dr.  Twig  says,  if  the  sore- 
ness should  remain  until  it  is  cured  by  the 
Knmission,  wh'ch  he  thinks  would  wipe  out 
all  recollectiou    if  the  jjain  and   the  punish- 


ment. And  he  says,  too,  that  this  appUca^ 
tion  of  it  would  be  putting  it  to  a  most  prop- 
er and  legutimate  use  ;  the  only  use,  he  in- 
sists, to  which  it  ought  to  be  put.  But  a' 
don't  go  that  far,  because  a'  think  it  would 
be  an  honerable  dockiment,  not  only  to  my 
posterity,  meaning  my  legutimate  progen- 
itors, if  a'  should  happen  to  have  any  ;  but, 
also  and  moreover,  to  the  good  taste  and 
judgment,  and  respect  for  the  honer  and  in- 
tegrity of  the  Bench,  manifested  by  those  who 
attributed  to  place  me  on  it. 

"A'  now  come  to  Klaim  No.  I,  for  the  mag- 
istracey :  In  the  first  j^lace  a'm  not  without 
expeyrience,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  act- 
ing as  a  magistrate  in  a  private  way,  and  up- 
on my  own  responsibility,  for  several  years. 
A'  established  a  kourt  in  a  little  vilage, 
which — and  this  is  a  strong  point  in  my  feav- 
or  now-a-daj's — which  a'  meself  have  depopi- 
lated  ;  and  a'  trust  that  the  deptopilation 
won't  be  overlucked.  To  this  kourt  a'  com- 
peled  aU  me  tenints  to  atend.  They  were 
obliged  to  summon  one  another  as  often  as 
they  kould,  and  much  oftener  than  they  wish- 
ed, and  for  the  slightest  kauses.  A'  j^resid- 
ed  in  it  pi(?\seonally  ;  and  a'll  teU  you  why. 
My  system  was  ajiiw  system,  indeed.  That 
is  to  say,  a'  fined  them  ether  on  the  one  side 
or  the  tother,  but  most  generally  on  both, 
and  then  a'  put  the  fines  into  my  ovnti  pocet. 
My  tenints  a'  know  didn't  like  tliis  kind  of 
law  very  much — but  if  the}/  didn't  a  did  ; 
and  a'  made  them  feel  that  a'  was  their  land- 
lord. No  man  was  a  faverite  with  me  that 
didn't  frecjuent  my  kourt,  and  for  this  resin, 
in  order  to  stand  well  with  me,  they  fought 
like  kat  and  dog.  Now,  you  know,  it  was 
my  bisness  to  enkorage  this,  for  the  more 
they  fought  and  disputed,  the  more  a'  fined 
them. 

"  In  fact,  a'  done  eveiything  in  my  power, 
to  enlitin  my  tenints.  For  instance,  a' 
taught  them  tlie  doktrine  of  tresjjiss.  If  a' 
found  that  a  stranger  tuck  the  sheltrv  side  of 
my  hedge,  to  blow  his  nose,  I  fined  him  half- 
a-erown,  as  can  be  proved  by  projjer  and  un- 
deniable testomony.  A'  mention  all  these 
matters  to  satisfy  you  that  a'  have  practis 
as  a  magistrate,  and  won't  have  my  duties 
to  lern  when  a'm  called  upon  to  discharge 
them. 

"  Klaim  No.  U  is  as  follows  :  A'm  veiy 
unpopilar  with  the  jieo])^,  which  is  a  great 
thing  in  itself,  as  a'  think  no  man  ought  to 
be  risen  to  the  bench  that's  not  unjxjpilar  ; 
because,  when  jjopilar,  he's  likely  to  feavor 
them,  and  symperthize  with  them — wherein 
his  first  duty  is  always  to  konsider  them  in 
the  rong.  Nether  am  a'  pojnlar  with  the 
gentry  and  magistrates  of  the  kountry,  be- 
cause they  despise  me^  and  say  that  a'm  this, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


489 


that  and  tother  ;  tlaat  a'm  mean  and  tyranni- 
cal ;  that  a'  changed  mj'  name  from  pride, 
and  that  a'm  overbeai'iug  and  ignorant.  Now 
this  last  cliarge  of  ignorance  brings  me  to 
Klaim  No.  HI. 

"  Be  it  ^o^^'n  to  you,  then,  Sir  Tomas,  that 
a'  received  a  chollege  eddycation,  which  is  an 
anaer  in  fuU  to  the  play  of  ignorance.  In 
fact,  a'  devoted  meself  to  eddycation  till  my 
very  brain  began  to  go  round  like  a  whiu'li- 
gig  ;  and  many  jjeojjle  say,  that  a'  never  re- 
kovered  the  jiroper  use  of  it  since.  Hundres 
will  tell  you  that  they  would  shed  their 
blood  upon  the  trath  of  it ;  but  let  any  one 
that  thinks  so  transact  bisness  with  me,  or 
bekome  a  tenint  of  mine,  and  he'll  find 
that  a'  can  make  him  bleed  in  proving  the 
reverse. 

"  A'  could  prove  many  other  klaims  equal- 
ly strong,  but  a'  hope  it's  not  necessary  to  se- 
duce any  more.  A'  do  think,  if  the  Lord 
Chanceseller  knew  of  my  qualificatious,  a' 
wouldn't  be  long  off  the  bench.  If,  then.  Sir 
Tomas,  you,  who  have  so  much  influence, 
would  wi'ite  on  my  behalf,  and  rekomend  me 
to  the  custiia  rascalorum  as  a  projaer  kandi- 
date,  I  could  not  fail  to  sukc--ed  in  reaching 
the  great  j^oint  of  my  ambit' on,  which  is,  to 
be  accommadated  with  a  seat — anything 
would  satisfy  me — even  a  c'-ise-stool — upon 
the  magisterial  bench.  Am-m,  Sir  Tomas. 
"  And  have  the  hoii'.^r  to  be, 

"  Your  obedient  and  mnch  obhged,  and 
7ery  thankful  servant  for  wdat  a'  got,  as  weU 
as  for  what  a' expect,  Su-  'Comas, 

''  Periwink»'«  Ceackenfudge." 


Sir-  Thomas — having  T)??used  this  precious 
document,  which,  by  the  way,  contains  no 
single  fact  that  could  Dot  be  substantiated 
by  the  clearest  testimony,  so  httle  are  they 
at  head-quaiters  acquainted  with  the  jJranks 
that  are  j^lfiy^d  off  on  the  unfortunate  j)eo- 
ple  by  multitudes  of  petty  tvi'ants  in  remote 
districts  of  the  country — Sir  Thomas,  we  say, 
having  perused  the  aforesaid  document, 
grinned — ahnost  laughed — with  a  satirical 
enjoyment  of  its  contents. 

"Vei-y  good,"  said  he;  "excellent:  con- 
found me,  but  Crackejjiudge  must  get  to  the 
bench,  if  it  were  only  for  the  novelty  of  the 
thing.  I  will  this  moment  recommend  him 
to  Lord  CuUamore,  who  is  custos  rofulorum 
for  the  county,  and  who  would  as  soon,  by 
the  way,  cut  his  richt  hand  off  as  recom- 
mend him  to  the  Chancellor,  if  he  knew  the 
extent  of  his  'klaims,'  as  the  miserable  devil  j 
spells  it.  Yes.  I  will  recommend  him,  if  it 
were  only  to  nex  my  brother  Ijaronet,  Sir 

James  B -.  wlio  is  humane,  and  kind,  and  i 

pojjular,  fovfjooth,  and  a  staunch  advocate  for 
purity  of  che   bench,   find  justice  to  the  peo-  ! 


pie !  No  doubt  of  it ;  I  shall  recommend 
you,  Crackenfiidge,  and  cheek  by  jowl  with 
the  best  among  them,  ujjon  the  same  magis- 
torial  bench,  shtill  the  doughty  Crackenfudge 
sit." 

He  instantly  sat  down  to  his  writing-desk, 
and  penned  as  strong  a  recommendation  as 
he  could  jjossibly  c^omjiose  to  Lard  CuUa- 
more, after  which  he  threw  himself  again 
ujjon  the  sofa,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Well,  that  act  is  done,  and  an  iniquitous 
one  it  is  ;  but  no  matter,  it  is  gone  off  to 
the  jJost,  and  I'm  rid  of  him.  Now  for 
Luc}',  and  mi/  ambition  ;  she  is  unquestion- 
ably witli  that  shameless  old  woman  who 
could  think  of  mariymg  at  such  an  age. 
She  is  with  her  ;  she  will  hear  of  my  iUness, 
and  as  certain  as  life  is  hfe,  and  death 
death,  she  will  be  here  soon." 

Li  this  he  calculated  aright,  and  he  felt 
that  he  did  so.  IVIi's.  Mainwariug,  on  the 
evening  of  their  visit  to  the  city,  considered 
it  her  duty  to  disclose,  fuUy  and  candidly, 
to  Lucy,  the  state  of  her  father's  health,  that 
is,  as  it  appeared  to  her  on  their  interview. 
Lucy,  who  knew  that  he  was  subject  to  sud- 
den attacks  upon  occasions  of  less  moment, 
not  only  became  alarmed,  but  experienced  a 
feelin*like  remorse  for  having,  as  she  said, 
abandoned  him  so  undutifully. 

"  I  will  return  immediately,"  she  said, 
weeping  ;  "he  is  ill :  you  say  he  sjjeaks  of 
me  tenderly  and  affectionately — oh,  what 
have  I  done !  Should  this  illness  prove 
seriou.s — fatal — my  piece  of  mind  were  gone 
forever.  I  should  consider  myself  as  a  j)arri- 
eide — as  the  direct  cause  of  his  death.  My 
God  !  perhaps  even  now  I  am  miserable  for 
hfe — forever — forever  !  " 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  soothed  her  as  well  as 
she  could,  but  she  refused  to  hear  comfort, 
and  having  desired  Alley  Mahon  to  prejiare 
their  slight  luggage,  she  took  an  affection- 
ate and  tearful  leave  of  ilrs.  Mainwaring, 
bade  adieu  to  her  husband,  and  was  about 
to  get  into  the  chaise,  which  had  been  or- 
dered from  the  inn  in  Wieklow,  when  Mrs. 
Mainwaring  said  : 

"  Now,  my  dear  Lucy,  if  your  father 
should  recover,  and  have  recourse  to  any 
abuse  of  his  authority',  by  attemjoting  again 
to  force  your  inclinations  and  con.summate 
your  misery,  remember  that  my  door,  my 
arms,  my  heart,  shall  ever  be  open  to  you. 
I  do  not,  you  will  observe,  suggest  any  act 
of  disobedience  on  j'ovu-  part ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  am  of  opinion  that  you  should  suffer 
everything  short  of  the  last  resort,  by  which 
I  mean  this  hateful  marriage  with  Dunroe, 
sooner  than  abandon  your  father's  roof. 
This  union  is  a  subject  on  which  I  must  see 
him  again.     Poor  Lord  CuUamore  I  respect 


490 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


and  venerate,  for  I  have  reason  to  believe 
iiiat  he  has,  for  one  contemplated  error,  had 
an  unhapjjy  if  not  a  remorseful  life.  In  the 
meantime,  even  in  ojjpositiou  to  your  father's 
wishes,  I  say  it,  and  in  confirmation  of  yom- 
strongest  prejudices " 

"  It  amounts  to  antipathy,  Mrs.  Main- 
waring — to  hatred,  to  abhorrence." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  in  confirmation  of 
them  all,  I  implore,  I  entreat,  I  conjure,  and 
if  I  had  authority,  I  would  say,  I  command 
you  not  to  unite  your  fate  with  that  young 
profligate." 

"  Do  not  fear  me,  Mrs.  Mainwaring  ;  but 
at  present  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  p)oor 
j)apa  and  his  illness  ;  I  tremble,  indeed,  to 
think  how  I  shaU  find  him  ;  and,  my  God, 
to  reflect  that  I  am  the  guilty  cause  of  all 
this  !  " 

They  then  sejjarated,  and  Lucy,  accom- 
panied by  Alley,  proceeded  to  town  at  a  pace 
as  rapid  as  the  animals  that  bore  them  could 
jjossibly  accomplish. 

On  arriving  in  town,  she  was  about  rush- 
ing upstairs  to  throw  herself  in  her  father's 
arms,  when  Gibson,  who  observed  her,  ap- 
proached  respectfully,  and  said : 

"  This  haste  to  see  your  father.  Miss 
Gourlay,  is  very  natiu-al ;  but  perhsi^s  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  wait  a  few  moments, 
until  he  is  jjrepared  to  receive  you.  The 
doctor  has  left  strict  orders  that  he  shall 
not  see  any  person  ;  but,  above  all  things, 
without  being  announced." 

"But,  Gibson — first,  how  is  he?  Is  he 
very  ill  ?  " 

Gibson  assumed  a  melancholy  and  very 
solemn  look,  as  he  replied,  "He  is,  indeed, 
ill,  Miss  Gourlay  ;  but  it  would  not  become 
me  to  distress  you — especially  as  I  hojje 
3'our  presence  wiU  comfort  him  ;  he  is  per- 
petually calling  for  you." 

"  Go,  Gibson,  go,"  she  exclaimed,  whilst 
tears,  which  she  could  not  restrain,  gushed  to 
her  eyes.   "  Go,  be  quick  ;  tell  him  I  am  here. " 

"I  will  break  it  to  him,  madam,  as  gently 
as  possible,"  replied  this  sedate  and  oily 
gentleman  ;  "  for,  if  made  acquainted  with 
it  too  sviddenly,  the  unexpected  joj'  might 
injure  him." 

"Do  not  injure  him,  then,"  she  exclaimed, 
earnestly  ;  "  oh,  do  not  injure  him — but  go  ; 
I  leave  it  to  your  own  discretion." 

Lucy  immediately  proceeded  to  her  own 
room,  and  Gibson  to  the  library,  where  he 
found  the  baronet  in  his  nightcap  and  morn- 
ing gown,  reading  a  new.^paper. 

"  I  have  the  paragrajah  drawn  np,  Gibson," 
said  he,  with  a  grim  smile,  "  stating  that  I 
am  dangerously  ill ;  take  and  copy  it,  and 
see  that  it  be  inserted  in  to-morrow's  pubU- 
cation." 


"  It  will  not  be  necessary,  sir,"  replied  the 
footman  ;  "  Miss  Gourlay  is  here,  and  im- 
patient to  see  you." 

"  Here  !  "  exclaimed  her  father  with  a 
start ;  "  you  do  not  say  she  is  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  She  has  just  arrived,  su-,  and  is  now  in 
her  own  room." 

"Leave  me,  Gibson,"  said  the  bai'onet, 
"and  attend  promptly  when  I  ring;"  and 
Gibson  withdrew.  "  Why,"  thoughi:  he  to 
himself,  "  why,  do  I  feel  as  I  do  ?  Glad  that  I 
have  her  once  more  in  my  power,  and  this 
is  only  natiu"al ;  but  why  tliia  kiud  of  ten-or 
— this  awe  of  that  extraordinary  girl  ?  I 
dismissed  that  prying  scoundrel  of  a  foot- 
man, because  I  could  not  bear  that  he  should 
observe  and  sneer  at  this  hyp)ocrisy,  al- 
though I  know  he  is  aware  of  it.  What 
can  this  uncomfortable  sensation  which 
checks  my  joy  at  her  return  mean  ?  Is  it  that 
involuntary  homage  which  they  say  vice  is 
comiDelled  to  j^ay  to  j>u)'ity,  truth,  and  vir- 
tue ?  I  know  not ;  but  I  feel  disturbed, 
humbled  with  an  impression  like  that  of 
guilt — an  imjiression  which  makes  me  feel 
as  if  there  actually  were  stich  a  thing  as 
conscience.  As  my  objects,  however,  are 
for  the  foolish  girl's  advancement,  I  am  de- 
termined to  play  the  game  out,  and  for  that 
purjiose,  as  I  know  now  by  experience  that 
neither  harshness  nor  violence  will  do,  I 
shall  have  recourse  to  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion. I  must  touch  her  heart,  excite  her 
sympathy,  and  throw  myself  altogether  uj^on 
her  generosity.  Come  then — and  now  for 
the  assumption  of  a  new  character." 

Having  concluded  this  train  of  meditation, 
he  rang  for  Gibson,  who  apj^eared. 

"  Gibson,  let  Miss  Goiu-lay  know  that,  ill 
as  I  am,  I  shall  tiy  to  see  her :  be  jii-ecise 
in  the  message,  sir  ;  use  my  own  words." 

"Certainly,  Sh-  Thomas," replied  the  foot- 
man, who  immediately  withdi-ew  to  deUver 
it. 

The  baronet,  when  Gibson  went  out  again, 
took  a  pair  of  jjiUows,  with  which  the  sofa 
was  latterly  furnished,  in  order  to  maintain 
tlie  appearance  of  illness,  whenever  it  might 
be  necessary,  and  having  placed  them  under 
his  head,  laid  himself  down,  pulled  the  night- 
cap over  his  brows,  and  affected  all  the  spn})- 
toms  of  a  man  who  was  attempting  to  strug- 
gle against  some  serious  and  severe  attack. 

In  this  state  he  lay,  when  Lucy  entering 
the  room,  apj^roached,  in  a  flood  of  tears, 
exclaiming,  as  she  knelt  by  the  sofa,  "  Oh, 
papa— dear  papa,  forgive  nie  ; "  and  as  she 
spoke,  she  put  her  arfus  round  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  att'ectionately.  "  Dear  papa,' 
she  proceeded,  "  you  ai-e  01 — very  iU,  I  feai- ; 
but  will  you  not  forgive  your  poor  child  for 
having  abandoned  you  as  she  did  ?     I  have 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


491 


returned,  however,  to  stay  with  you,  to  tend 
you,  to  soothe  and  console  you  as  fcir  as  any 
and  every  effort  of  mine  can.  You  shall 
have  no  nurse  but  me,  papa.  All  that  hu- 
man hands  can  do  to  give  you  ease — all  that 
the  sincerest  affection  can  do  to  sustain  and 
cheer  you,  your  own  Lucy  will  do.  But 
speak  to  me,  papa  ;  am  I  not  your  own  Lucy 
stiU  ?  " 

Her  father  turned  round,  as  if  by  a  painful 
effort,  and  havinpf  looked  upou  her  for  some 
time,  replied,  feebly,  "  Yes,  you  are — you  ai'e 
my  own  Lucy  still." 

This  admission  brought  a  fresh  gush  of 
tears  fi'om  the  affectionate  girl,  who  again 
exclaimed,  "Ah,  paj)a,  I  fear  you  are  very 
iU  ;  but  those  words  are  to  me  the  sweetest 
that  ever  proceeded  from  your  lips.  Ai'e 
you  glad  to  see  me,  p  visa  ? — but  I  forget  my- 
self ;  perhaps  I  am  disturbing  you.  Only  say 
how  you  feel,  and  if  it  will  not  injure  you, 
what  your  complaint  is." 

"  My  complaint,  dear  Lucy,  most  affec- 
tionate child — for  I  see  you  ai'e  so  still,  not- 
withstanding reports  and  ajspearances " 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  am,  pajja — indeed  I  am." 

"  My  complaint  was  brought  on  by  anx- 
iety and  distress  of  mind — I  will  not  say 
why — I  did,  I  know,  I  admit,  wi.sh  to  see 
you  iu  a  position  of  life  equal  to  your  merits  ; 
but  I  cannot  talk  of  that — it  would  disturb 
me;  it  is  a  subject  on  which,  alas!  I  am 
without  hope.  I  am  threatened  with  apo- 
plexy or  paralysis,  Lucy,  the  doctor  cannot 
say  which  ;  but  the  danger,  he  says,  proceeds 
altogether  from  the  state  of  my  mind,  adting, 
it  is  true,  upon  a  plethoric  system  of  body  ; 
but  I  care  not,  dear  Lucy — I  care  not,  now  ; 
I  am  indifferent  to  hfe.  All  my  expectations 
— all  a  father's  brilliant  plans  for  his  child, 
are  now  over.  The  doctor  says  that  ease  of 
mind  mkjhl  restore,  but  I  doubt  it  now  ;  I 
fear  it  is  too  late.  I  only  wish  I  was  better 
prepared  for  the  change  which  I  know  I  shall 
soon  be  forced  to  make.  Yet  I  feel,  Lucy, 
as  if  I  never  loved  you  until  now — ^I  feel 
how  dear  yoxi  are  to  me  now  that  I  know  I 
must  part  %^ith  you  so  soon." 

Lucy  was  utterly  incapable  of  resisting 
this  teuvlerness,  as  the  unsuspecting  girl 
beUeved  it  to  be.  She  again  threw  her  arms 
around  him,  and  wept  as  if  her  very  heart 
w  ould  break. 

"  This  agitation,  my  darling,"  he  added, 
"  is  too  muL-h  for  us  both.  My  head  is  easi- 
ly disturbed  ;  but — but — send  for  Lucy,"  he 
exclaimed,  as  if  touched  by  a  passing  deliri- 
um, "  send  for  my  daughter.  I  must  have 
Lucy.  I  have  been  harsh  to  her,  and  I  can- 
not die  without  her  forgiveness." 

"  Here,  papa — dearest  papa  !  Recollect 
youi-aeK ;  Lucy  is  with  you  ;  not  to  forgive 


you  for  anything,  but  to  ask,  to  implore  to 
be  forgiven." 

"  Ha  !  "  he  said,  raising  his  head  a  little, 
and  looking  round  hke  a  man  awakening 
fi'om  sleep.  "  I  fear  I  am  beginning  to  wan- 
der. Dear  Lucy — yes,  it  is  you.  Oh,  I  re- 
collect. Withdr.aw,  my  darling  ;  the  sight 
of  you — the  joy  of  your  very  a2ipearanee — eh 
— eh — yes,  let  me  see.  Oh,  yes  ;  withdraw, 
my  dai-ling ;  this  interview  has  been  too 
much  for  me — I  fear  it  has — but  rest  and 
silence  will  restore  me,  I  hoi^e.  I  hope  so — 
I  hope  so." 

Lucy,  who  feared  that  a  continuance  of 
this  interview  might  very  much  aggravate 
his  illness,  immediately  took  her  leave,  and 
retired  to  her  own  room,  whither  she  sum- 
moned Alley  Mahou.  This  blunt  but  faith- 
ful attendant  felt  no  sui-prise  iu  witnessing 
her  grief;  for  indeed  she  had  done  little  else 
than  weep,  ever  since  she  heard  of  her  fath- 
er's illness. 

"  Now  don't  cry  so  much,  miss,"  she  said  ; 
"  didn't  I  teU  you  that  your  grief  will  do 
neither  you  nor  him  any  good  ?  Keep  your- 
self cool  and  quiet,  and  sjjake  to  him  hke  a 
raisonable  crayture,  what  yoa  are  not,  ever 
since  you  hard  of  his  being  sick.  It  isn't 
by  shedding  tears  that  you  can  expect  to 
comfort  him,  as  you  intend  to  do,  but  by  be- 
ing calm,  and  considerate,  and  attentive  tc 
him,  and  not  allowin'  him  to  see  what  you 
suff'er." 

"That  is  very  true,  Alice,  I  admit,"  re- 
plied Lucy  ;  but  when  I  consider  that  it  was 
my  undutifiil  flight  from  him  that  occasioned 
this  attack,  how  can  I  free  myself  from 
blame  ?  My  heart,  Alice,  is  di^-ided  between 
a  feeMng  of  remorse  for  having  deserted  him 
without  sufficient  cause,  and  grief  for  his  ill- 
ness, and  in  that  is  involved  the  apprehen- 
sion of  his  loss.  After  all,  Alice,  you  must 
admit  that  I  have  no  fi-ieud  in  the  world  but 
my  father.  How,  then,  can  I  tliiuk  of  losmg 
him  ?  " 

"And  even  if  God  took  him,"  replied  Al- 
ley,  "  which  I  hox^e  after  all  isn't  so  like- 

ly — " 

"  "What  do  you  mean,  girl  ?  "  asked  Lucy, 
ignorant  that  AUey  only  used  a  form  of 
speech  peculiar  to  the  people,  "what  lan- 
guage is  this  of  my  father  '? " 

"Why,  I  hope  it's  but  the  truth,  miss," 
replied  tlie  maid  ;  "  for  if  God  was  to  call 
him  to-morrow — which  may  God  forbid ! 
you'd  iuid  friends  that  would  take  care  of 
you  and  protect  you." 

"  Yes  ;  but,  Alice,  if  pa^ia  died,  I  should 
have  to  reproach  myself  with  his  death  ;  and 
that  consideration  would  drive  me  distracted 
or  kill  me.  I  am  beginning  to  think  that 
obedience  to  the  wiU  of  a  parent  is,  under 


492 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


all  circumstances,  the  first  cUit.y  of  a  child. 
A.  parent  knows  better  what  is  for  our  good 
chan  we  can  be  su23posed  to  do.  At  all 
events,  whatever  excej)tions  there  may  be  to 
tills  rule,  I  cai'e  not.  It  is  enough,  and  too 
much,  for  me  to  reflect  that  my  conduct  has 
been  the  cause  of  papa's  illness.  His  great 
object  in  life  was  to  j)romote  my  haiDpiness. 
Now  this  was  affection  for  me.  I  grant  he 
may  have  been  mistaken,  but  stiU  it  was  af- 
fection ;  and  consequently  I  cannot  help  ad- 
mitting that  even  his  harshness,  and  cer- 
tainljf  all  that  he  suffered  through  the  verj' 
violence  of  his  own  passions,  arose  from  the 
same  soui'ce — affection  for  me." 

" Ah,"  rejilied  Alley,  "it's  aisy  seen  that 
your  heart  is  softened  now  ;  but  in  truth, 
miss,  it  was  quare  affection  that  would  make 
his  daughter  miserable,  bekase  he  wanted 
her  to  become  a  gi-eat  lady.  If  he  was  a 
kind  and  raisonable  father,  he  would  not 
force  j'ou  to  be  unhappy.  An  affectionate 
father  would  give  up  the  i:ioint  rather  than 
make  you  so ;  but  no  ;  the  truth  is  simply 
this,  he  wanted  to  gratify  himself  more 
than  he  did  you,  or  why  would  he  act  as  he 
did?" 

"  Alice,"  replied  Lucy,  "remember  that  I 
will  not  suffer  you  to  speak  of  my  father 
with  disrcsi^ect.  You  forget  yourself,  girl, 
and  learn  from  me  now,  that  in  order  to  re- 
store him  to  peace  of  mind  and  health,  in 
order  to  rescue  him  fi-om  death,  and  oh," 
she  exclaimed  involuntarily,  "  above  all 
things  from  a  death,  for  which,  jDerhaps,  he 
is  not  sufficiently  i^rejjared — as  who,  alas,  is 
for  that  terrible  event ! — yes  in  order  to  do 
this,  I  am  ready  to  jdeld  an  implicit  obedi- 
ence to  his  wishes  :  and  I  pray  heaven  that 
this  act  on  my  ^lart  may  not  be  too  late  to 
restore  him  to  his  health,  and  relieve  his 
mind  from  the  load  of  care  which  presses  it 
down  upon  my  account." 

"  Good  Lord,  Miss  Gourlay,"  exclaimed 
poor  Alley,  absolutely  fi-ightened  by  the  de- 
termined and  vehement  spirit  in  which  these 
words  were  uttered,  "  surely  you  wouldn't 
think  of  makin'  a  saickerfice  of  yourself  that 
way  ?  " 

"  That  may  be  the  word,  Aline,  or  it  may 
not  ;  but  if  it  be  a  sacrifice,  and  if  the  sacri- 
fice is  'necessary,  it  shall  be  nmde — I  shall 
make  it.  My  disobedience  shall  never  break 
my  father's  heart." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  speak  disrespectfully  of 
your  father,  miss  ;  but  I  think  he's  an  am- 
bitious man." 

"  And  perhaps  the  ambition  which  he  feels 
is  a  virtue,  and  one  in  which  I  am  deficient. 
You  and  I,  Alice,  know  but  little  of  life  and 
the  maxims  by  which  its  great  social  princi- 
ples ai-e  regulated." 


"  Faith,  sjiake  f^)r  yourself,  miss  ;  as  foi 
me,  I'm  the  very  gii-1  that  has  had  my  ex- 
perience. No  less  than  three  did  I  man- 
fully refuse,  in  spite  of  both  father  and 
mother.  First  there  was  big  Bob  Broghan, 
a  giant  of  a  fellow,  with  a  head  and  pluck 
upon  him  that  would  till  a  mess-pot.  He 
had  a  chaj)e  farm,  and  could  afford  to  wallow 
like  a  swine  in  filth  and  laziness.  And  well 
becomes  the  old  couple,  I  must  niiUTV  him, 
whether  I  would  or  not.  Be  aisy,  s;iid  I,  it's 
no  go  ;  when  I  marry  a  man,  it'll  be  one 
that'll  know  the  use  of  soap  and  wather,  at 
all  events,  ^^'ell,  but  I  must ;  I  did  not 
know  what  was  for  my  own  good  ;  he  was 
rich,  and  I'd  lead  a  fine  life  with  him. 
Scrajje  and  claue  him  for  somebody  else, 
says  I ;  no  such  walkin'  duugheap  for  me. 
Then  they  came  to  the  cudgel,  and  fliiked 
me  ;  but  it  was  in  a  good  eaiise,  and  I  touid 
them  that  if  I  m  ust  die  a  marthj-r  to  cleanU- 
ness,  I  must ;  and  at  hist  they  drojjped  it, 
and  so  I  got  free  of  Bob  Broghan. 

"  The  next  was  a  httle  fellow  that  kept  a 
small  shoi^  of  hucksthery,  and  some  grocer- 
ies, and  the  like  o'  that.  He  was  a  near, 
penurious  devil,  hard  and  scraggy  lookin', 
with  hunger  in  his  face  and  in  his  heart, 
too  ;  ay,  and  besides,  he  had  the  name  of  not 
bein'  honest.  But  then  his  shop  was  gettin' 
bigger  and  bigger,  and  himself  richer  and 
richer  every  day.  Here's  yoru:  man,  says 
the  old  couple.  Maybe  not,  says  I.  No 
shingmni  that  deals  in  hght  weights  and 
short  measures  for  me.  My  husband  must 
be  ah  honest  man,  and  not  a  keen  sha\dng 
rogue  like  Barney  Buckley.  Well,  miss,  out 
came  the  cudgel  again,  and  out  came  I  with 
the  same  answer.  Lay  on,  says  I ;  if  I  must 
die  a  marthyr  to  honesty,  whj- 1  must ;  and 
may  God  have  mercy  on  me  for  the  same,  as 
he  will.  Then  they  saw  that  I  was  a  rock, 
and  so  there  was  an  end  of  Barney  Buck- 
ley, as  well  as  Bob  Broghan. 

"  Well  and  good ;  then  came  number 
three,  a  fine  handsome  young  man,  by  name 
Con  Coghlan.  At  tii-st  I  didn't  much  hke 
him,  bekase  he  had  the  name  of  being  too 
fond  of  money,  and  it  was  well  known  that 
he  had  disappointed  three  or  four  girls  that 
couldn't  show  guinea  for  guinea  with  him. 
The  sleeveen  gained  upon  me,  however,  and 
I  did  get  fond  of  him,  and  tould  him  to 
speak  to  my  father,  and  so  he  did,  and  they 
met  once  or  twice  to  make  the  match  ;  but, 
ah,  miss,  every  one  has  their  troubles.  On 
the  last  meetin',  when  he  found  that  my  for- 
time  wasn't  what  he  expected,  he  shogged  oft' 
wid  liimseK  ;  and,  mother  o'  mercy,  did  ever 
I  think  it  would  come  to  that "?  "  Here  she 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  then  with  fi-esh  spirit 
proceeded,   ''  He  jilted  me,  Miss — the  desate- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


493 


fill  villain  jilted  me  ;  but  if  be  did,  I  had  my 
revenge.  In  less  than  a  year  he  came 
sneakin'  back,  and  tould  my  father  that  as 
he  couldn't  i^et  me  out  of  his  head,  he  would 
take  me  with  whatever  portion  they  could 
give  me.  The  fellow  was  rich.  Miss,  and  so 
the  ould  couple,  ready  to  bounce  at  him, 
came  out  again.  Come,  Alley,  here's  Con 
•Coghlan  back.  Well,  then,  says  I,  he  knows 
the  road  home  again,  and  let  him  take  it. 
One  good  turn  desarves  another."  When  he 
could  get  me  he  wouldn't  take  me,  and  now 
when  lie  would  take  me,  he  wont  get  me  ;  so 
I  think  we're  even. 

"  Out  once  more  came  the  cudgel,  and  on 
they  laid  ;  but  now  I  wasn't  common  stone 
but  whitestoue.  Lay  on,  say  I  ;  I  see,  or 
rather  I  feel,  that  the  crown  is  before  me. 
If  I  must  die  a  marthyr  to  a  dacent  spirit, 
why  I  mvist ;  and  so  God's  blessing  be 
with  you  all.  I'll  shine  in  heaven  for  this 
yet. 

"  I  think  now,  IMiss.  you'U  grant  that  I 
know  something  about  life." 

"  Alice,"  replied  Lucy,  "  I  have  often  heard 
it  said,  that  the  humblest  weeds  which  grow 
contain  \'irtues  that  are  valuable,  if  they  were 
only  known.  Your  experience  is  not  with- 
out a  moral,  and  your  last  lover  was  the 
worst,  because  he  was  mean  ;  but  when  / 
think  of  him — the  delicate,  the  generous,  the 
disinterested,  the  faithful,  the  noble-hearted 
— alas,  Ahce  !  "  she  exclaimed,  throwing  her- 
self in  a  fi-esh  jsaroxj-sm  of  gi'ief  upon  the 
bosom  of  her  maid,  "you  know  not  the  in- 
credible pain — the  hopeless  agony — of  the 
sacrifice  I  am  about  to  make.  IVIy  father, 
however,  is  the  author  of  my  being,  and  as 
his  very  life  depends  upon  my  strength  of 
mind  now,  I  shall,  rather  than  see  him  die 
whilst  I  selfishly  gratify  my  own  wiU — yes, 
Alice,  I  shall — I  shall — and  may  heaven  give 
me  strength  for  it ! — I  shall  sacrifice  love  to 
duty,  and  save  him  ;  that  is,  if  it  be  not 
already  too  late." 

"And  if  he  does  recover,"  rejilied  Alice, 
whose  tears  flowed  along  with  those  of  her 
mistress,  but  whose  pretty  eye  began  to 
brighten  with  indignant  energy  as  she  sjjoke, 
"  if  he  does  recover,  and  if  ever  he  tiu-ns  a 
cold  look,  or  uses  a  harsh  word  to  you,  may 
I  die  for  lieaven  if  he  oughtn't  to  be  put  in 
the  public  stocks  and  made  an  example  of  to 
the  world." 

"  The  scene,  however,  •will  be  changed  then, 
Alice  ;  for  the  subject  matter  of  all  our  mis- 
understandings mU  have  been  removed. 
Yet,  Alice,  amidst  all  the  darkness  and  suf- 
fering that  lie  before  me,  there  is  one  conso- 
lation " — and  as  she  uttered  these  words, 
there  breathed  throughout  her  beautiful 
features   a   spirit   of    sorrow,    so   deej),    so 


mournful,  so  resigned,  and  so  touching,  that 
Alley  in  turn  laid  her  head  on  her  bosom, 
exclaiming,  as  she  looked  iip  into  her  eyes, 
"  Oh,  may  the  God  of  mercj'  have  pity  on 
you,  my  darling  mistress !  what  woiildu't 
your  faithful  Allej^  do  to  give  you  relief  ? 
and  she  can't ; "  and  then  the  affectionate 
creatiu-e  wept  bitterly.  "  But  what  is  the 
consolation  ?  "  she  asked,  hoping  to  extract 
from  the  melancholy  gui  some  thought  or 
view  of  her  position  that  might  iusjju-e  them 
with  hojje  or  comfort. 

"  The  consolation  I  allude  to,  Alice,  is  the 
well-known  fact  that  a  broken  heart  cacnot 
long  be  the  subject  of  sorrow  ;  and,  besides, 
my  farewell  of  Life  will  not  be  painful  ;  for 
then  I  shall  be  able  to  reflect  witli  peace 
that,  difficult  as  was  the  duty  inijiosed  upon 
me,  I  shall  have  performed  it.  Now,  dear 
Alice,  withdraw  ;  I  wish  to  be  alone  for  some 
time,  that  I  may  reflect  as  I  ought,  and  en- 
deavor to  gain  strength  for  the  saciifice  that 
is  before  me." 

Her  eye  as  she  looked  upon  Alley  was, 
though  filled  A^-ith  a  melancholy  lustre,  ex- 
pressive at  the  same  time  of  a  sjiirit  so  lofty, 
calm,  and  determined,  that  its  whole  char- 
acter partook  of  absolute  sublimity.  Alley, 
in  obedience  to  her  words,  withdrew ;  but 
not  without  an  anxious  and  earnest  effort  at 
imparting  comfort. 

When  her  maid  had  retired,  Lucy  began 
once  more  to  examine  her  j)osition.  in  all  its 
dark  and  23ainful  asjsects,  and  to  rt-fiecc  ujjon 
the  destiny  which  awaited  her,  frai.ght  with 
unexampled  misery  as  it  was.  Though  well 
aware,  from  former  experience,  of  her  father's 
hypocritical  disguises,  she  was  too  full  of  gen- 
erosity and  caud'jr  to  allow  her  heart  to 
entertain  suspicion.  Her  natiu-e  was  one  of 
great  simphcitv,  artlessness,  and  tmth. 
Truth,  above  all  things,  was  her  predominant 
virtue  ;  and  we  need  not  saj',  that  wherever 
it  reside.^  it  is  certain  to  become  a  guarantee 
for  the  possession  of  all  the  rest.  Her  cruel- 
hearted  father,  himself  false  and  deceitful, 
dreaded  her  for  this  love  of  tiiith,  and  was 
so  well  acquainted  with  her  utter  want  of 
susjiicion,  that  he  never  scrupled,  though 
frequently  detected,  to  impose  upon  her, 
when  it  suited  his  piu'ijose.  This,  indeed, 
was  not  difficult ;  for  sucli  was  his  daughter's 
natural  candor  and  trutli  fulness,  that  if  he 
deceived  her  by  a  falsehood  to-day,  she  was 
as  ready  to  believe  him  to-morrow  as  ever. 
His  last  heartless  act  of  h\']iocrisy,  therefore, 
was  such  a  dehberate  violation  of  truth  as 
amounted  to  a  species  of  sacrilege  ;  for  it 
robbed  the  pure  shrine  of  his  own  daughter's 
heart  of  her  whole  happiness.  Nay,  when 
we  consider  the  relations  in  which  they  stood, 
it  might  be  termed,  as  is  beautifully  said  in 


494 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


Scripture,  "  a  seething  of  the  kid  iu  the 
mother's  miLk." 

As  it  was,  however,  her  father's  iUiiess  dis- 
armed her  generous  and  forgiving  sjjiiit  of 
every  argument  that  stood  iu  the  way  of  the 
determination  she  had  made.  His  conduct 
she  felt  might,  indeed,  be  the  result  of  one 
of  those  great  social  errors  that  create  so 
much  misery  in  life  ;  that,  for  instance,  of 
supposing  that  one  must  ascend  through 
certain  orders  of  society,  and  reach  a  par- 
ticular elevation  before  they  can  enjoy  hapjDi- 
ness.  This  notion,  so  much  at  variance  with 
the  goodness  and  mercy  of  God,  who  has 
not  confined  happiness  to  any  particular 
class,  she  herself  rejected  ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  the  modest  estimate  which  she  formed 
of  her  own  capacity  to  reason  upon  or  analyze 
aU  speculative  opinions,  led  her  to  suppose 
that  she  might  be  wrong,  and  her  father 
right,  in  the  inferences  which  they  resj)ec- 
tively  drew.  Perhaps  she  thought  her  reluc- 
tance to  see  this  individual  case  through  hix 
medium,  arose  fi'om  some  peculiar  idiosj-n- 
crasy  of  intellect  or  temperament  not  com- 
mon to  others,  and  that  she  was  setting  a 
particular  instance  against  a  universal  truth. 

That,  however,  which  most  severely  tested 
her  fortitude  and  noble  sense  of  what  we  owe 
a  parent,  resulted  from  no  moral  or  meta- 
physical distmctions  of  human  duty,  but 
simply  and  directly  from  what  she  must  suf- 
fer by  the  contemj)lated  sacrifice.  She  was 
born  in  a  position  of  life  sufficiently  dignified 
for  ordinary  ambition.  She  was  siuToimded 
by  luxuiy — had  received  an  enlightened  edu- 
cation— had  a  heart  formed  for  love — for  that 
pure  and  exalted  passion,  which  comprehends 
and  brings  into  action  aU  the  higher  quaUties 
of  our  being,  and  enlarges  aU  our  capacities  for 
happiness.  God  and  nature,  so  to  sf)eak, 
had  gifted  her  mind  with  extraordinary  feel- 
ing and  intellect,  and  her  person  with  un- 
usual grace  and  beauty  ;  yet,  here,  by  this 
act  of  self-devotion  to  her  father,  she  renounc- 
ed all  that  the  human  heart  with  such  strong 
claims  upon  the  legitimate  enjoyments  of 
life  could  expect,  and  vohuitai'Uy  entered  in- 
to a  destiny  of  suffering  and  misery.  She 
reflected  u^jon  and  felt  the  bitterness  of  all 
this  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  contem- 
plation of  a  father  dying  in  consequence  of 
her  disobedience — dj'ing,  too,  probably  iu  an 
unprepared  state — whose  heart  was  now  full 
of  love  and  tenderness  for  her  ;  who,  in  fact, 
was  in  grief  and  sorrow  in  consequence  of 
what  he  had  caused  her  to  suffer.  We  say 
she  contemplated  all  this,  and  her  great  heart 
felt  that  this  was  the  moment  of  mercy. 

"  It  is  resolved  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  wUl 
disturb  him  for  a  little.  There  is  no  time 
now  for  meanly  wresthng  it  out,  for  ungen- 


erous hesitation  and  delay.  Suspense  may 
kill  him  ;  and  whilst  I  deliberate,  he  may  be 
lost.  Father,  I  come,  Never  agam  shidl  you 
rejsroaeh  me  with  disobedience.  Though 
your  ambition  may  be  wrong,  yet  who  else 
than  I  should  become  the  victim  of  an  error 
which  originates  in  afl'eetion  for  myself  ?  I 
yield  at  last,  as  is  my  duty  ;  now  your  situ- 
ation malies  it  so  ;  and  my  heart,  though 
crushed  and  broken,  shaU  be  an  offering  of 
jseace  between  us.  Farewell,  now,  to  love — 
to  love  legitimate,  jjure,  and  holy  ! — farewell 
to  all  the  divine  charities  and  tendernesses  of 
life  which  follow  it — farewell  to  peace  of 
heart — to  the  wife's  ijride  of  eye,  to  the  hus- 
band's tender  glance — farewell — farewell  to 
everything  in  this  wretched  life  but  the  hopes 
of  heaven  !  I  come,  my  father — I  come.  Eut 
I  had  forgotten,"  she  said,  "  I  must  not  see 
him  without  permission,  nor  unannounced,  as 
Gibson  said.     Stay,  I  shall  ring  for  Gibson." 

"  Gibson,"  said  she,  when  he  had  made 
his  appearance, "  try  if  your  master  could  see 
me  for  a  moment ;  say  I  reqiiest  it  particular- 
ly, and  that  I  shall  scarcely  disturb  him. 
Ask  it  as  a  favoi',  unless  he  be  very  iU  indeed 
— and  even  then  do  so." 

Whilst  Gibson  went  with  this  message, 
Lucy,  feeling  that  it  might  be  dangerous  to 
agitate  her  father  bj*  the  exliibition  of  emo- 
tion, endeavored  to  comjjose  herself  as  much 
as  she  could,  so  that  by  the  time  of  Gibson's 
return,  her  ajspearance  was  calm,  noble,  and 
majestic.  In  fact,  the  greatness — the  heroic 
spirit— of  the  coming  sacrifice  emanated  like 
a  beautifid  but  solemn  Ught  from  her  coun- 
tenance, and  on  being  desired  to  go  in,  she 
ajspeared  fuU  of  unusual  beauty  and  com- 
posure. 

On  entermg,  she  found  her  father  much 
in  the  same  position  :  his  head,  as  before, 
vipon  the  pillows,  and  the  nightcap  drawn 
over  his  heavy  brows. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  my  dear  Lucy. 
Have  you  any  favor  to  ask,  my  child  ?  If  so, 
ask  whilst  I  have  recollection  and  conscious- 
ness to  gi-ant  it.  I  can  refiise  you  nothing 
now,  Lucy.  I  was  WToug  ever  to  struggle 
with  you.  It  was  too  much  for  me,  for  I  am 
now  the  victim  ;  but  even  that  is  well,  for  I 
am  glad  it  is  not  you." 

"When  he  mentioned  the  word  victim, 
Lucy  felt  as  if  a  j^oniard  had  gone  through 
her  heart ;  but  she  had  ah-eady  resolved 
that  what  must  be  done  should  be  done 
generously,  consequently,  without  any  os- 
tentation of  feeling,  and  with  as  little 
api^earance  of  self-sacrifice  as  j^ossible. 

It  is  not  for  us,  she  said  to  herself,  to  ex- 
aggerate the  value  of  the  gift  which  we 
bestow,  but  rather  to  depreciate  it,  for  it  is 
never  generous  to  magnify  an  obUgation. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


495 


"I  Lave  a  favor  to  ask,  pajja,"  said  the 
a^eneroiis  and  considerate  girl. 

"It  is  granted,  mj'  dai-ling  Lucy,  before  I 
hear  it,"  Jie  replied.  "  What  is  it  ?  Oh 
how  hajjpy  I  feel  that  you  have  returned  to 
me  ;  I  shall  not  now  pass  awaj'  my  last  mo- 
ments en  a  sohtary  deathbed.  But  what  is 
your  request,  my  love  ?  " 

"You  have  to-day,  papa,  told  me  that  the 
danger  of  your  f)resent  attack  proceeds  from 
the  anxious  state  of  your  mind.  Now,  my 
request  is,  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  make 
that  state  easier ;  to  remove  that  anxiety, 
and,  if  j^ossible,  all  other  anxiety  imd  cai'e 
that  firess  upon  j'ou.  You  know,  papa,  the 
tojDic  ujjou  which  we  have  always  differed  ; 
now,  rather  than  any  distress  of  feehng  con- 
nected with  it  should  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  recovery,  I  wish  to  say  that  you  may 
count  upon  my  most  perfect  obedience." 

"  You  mean  the  Duni-oe  business,  dear 
Lucy  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  Dunroe  business,  papa." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  j'ou  are 
willing  and  ready  to  marry  him  ?  " 

The  rejjly  to  this  was  indeed  the  coming 
away  of  the  branch  by  which  she  had  hung 
on  the  precipice  of  life.     On    hearing   the  { 
question,  therefore,  she  paused  a  httle  ;  but  j 
the  pause  did  not  proceed  fi'om  any  indis-  1 
})Osition  to  answer  it,  but  simj^ly  from  what 
seemed   to  be   the   i^fusal   of  her   uatiu-al  ' 
powers  to  enable  her  to  do  so.    When  about  • 
to  speak,  she  felt  as  if  all  her  j>hysical  strength  ; 
had  abandoned  her  ;  as  if  her  will,  jwevious- 
ly  schooled  to  the  task,  had  become  recu- 
sant.    She  experienced  a  general  chOl  and  i 
coldness  of  her  whole  body  ;  a  cessation  for  { 
a  moment  or  two  of  the  action  of  the  heart,  I 
whilst  her  very  sight  became  dim  and  indis-  ! 
tinct.      She  thought,  however,   in  this  im- 
utterable  moment  of  agony  and  despau-,  that 
she  must  ad ;    and  without  feeling  able  to 
analyze  either  her  thoughts  or  sensations,  in 
this  terrilile  tumult  of  her  spirit,  she  heard 
herself  repeat  the  reply,   "I  am,  papa." 

For  a  moment  her  father  forgot  his  part, 
and  started  up  into  a  sitting  postui-e  with  as 
much  api>arent  energy  as  ever.  Another 
moment,  however,  was  sufficient  to  make 
him  feel  his  error. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "what  have  I  done?  Let 
me  pause  a  little,  my  dear  Lucy  ;  that  effort 
to  express  the  joy  you  have  jioured  into  my 
heart  was  nearly  too  much  for  me.  You 
make  this  promise,  Lucy,  not  with  a  view 
merely  to  ease  my  iniud  and  contribute  to 
my  recovery  ;  but,  should  I  get  well,  with  a 
firm  intention  to  carry  it  actually  into  exe- 
cution ?  " 

"Such,  pipa,  is  my  intention — my  fixed 
detemiiuation,  I  should  say  ;  but  I  ought  to 


add,  that  it  is  altogether  for  your  sake,  dear 
23apa,  that  I  make  it.  Now  let  your  mind 
feel  tranquillity  and  ease ;  dismiss  ever}- 
anxiety  that  distresses  you,  pajJa ;  for  you 
may  believe  your  daughter,  that  there  is  no 
earthly  sacrifice  compatible  with  her  duties 
as  a  Chi'istian  which  she  would  not  make  for 
your  recover}'.  This  interview  is  now,  per- 
haps, as  much  as  your  state  of  health  can 
bear-.  Think,  then,  of  what  I  have  said,  pa- 
pa ;  let  it  console  and  strengthen  ;  and  then 
it  will,  I  trust,  help  at  least  to  bring  about 
j-our  recovery.  Now,  permit  me  to  with- 
cU'aw." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  my  child.  It  is  right 
that  you  should  know  the  effect  of  j'our 
goodness  before  you  go.  I  feel  already  as 
if  a  mountain  were  removed  from  my  heart 
— even  now  I  am  better.  God  bless  you, 
my  ovm  dearest  Lucy  ;  you  have  saved  your 
father.  Let  this  consideration  comfort  you 
and  sustain  you.  Now  you  may  go,  my 
love." 

^Vhen  Lucy  withdrew,  which  she  did  with 
a  tottering  steiJ,  she  proceeded  to  her  own 
chamber,  which,  now  that  the  energy  neces- 
sary for  the  struggle  had  abandoned  her,  she 
entered  almost  unconsciously,  and  with  a 
feeling  of  rapidly-increasing  weakness.  She 
approached  the  bell  to  ring  for  her  maid, 
which  she  was  able  to  do  with  difficulty  ; 
and  having  done  so,  she  attempted  to  reach 
the  sofa  ;  but  exhausted  and  overwrought 
nature  gave  way,  and  she  fell  just  sufficiently 
near  it  to  have  her  fall  broken  and  her  head 
supported  by  it,  as  she  lay  there  appai-ently 
hfeless.  In  this  state  Alley  Mahon  found 
her  ;  but  instead  of  ringing  an  alarm,  or 
attempting  to  collect  a  crowd  of  the  servants 
to  Tftdtness  a  scene,  and  being  besides  a  stout 
as  well  as  a  disca-eet  and  sensible  girl,  she  was 
able  to  raise  her  up,  place  her  on  a  sofa, 
until,  by  the  assistance  of  cold  water  and 
some  patience,  she  succeeded  in  restoring 
her  to  life  and  consciousness. 

"  On  opening  her  eyes  she  looked  about, 
and  Alley  observed  that  her  Ups  were  parch- 
ed and  dry. 

"Here,  my  darling  mistress,"  siid  the 
affectionate  girl,  who  now  wept  bitterly, 
"  here,  swallow  a  Uttle  cold  water  ;  it  will 
moisten  yoiir  Ui3s,  and  do  you  good." 

She  attempted  to  do  so,  but  Allj'  saw  that 
her  hand  trembled  too  much  to  bring  the 
water  to  her  own  lips.  On  swallowing  it,  it 
seemed  to  relieve  her  a  little  ;  she  then  look- 
ed ujD  into  Alley's  face,  with  a  smile  of 
thanks  so  unutterably  sweet  and  sorrowful, 
that  the  poor  girl's  tears  giishcd  out  afresh. 

"Take  courage,  my  darling  mistress,"  she 
rephed  ;  "I  know  that  something  jiaiuful 
has  happened  ;  but  for  Christ's  blessed  sake. 


■196 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOIiltS. 


don't  look  so  sorrowful  and  broken-hearted, 
or  you  will " 

"  Alice,"  said  sbe,  interruj)ting  her,  in  a 
calm,  soft  Toice,  like  low  music,  "  ojjeu  my 
bosom — oj)en  my  bosom,  Alice  ;  you  Mill 
find  a  miniature  there  ;  take  it  out  ;  I  wish 
to  look  upon  it." 

"  O  thin,"  said  the  gii-1,  as  she  proceeded 
to  obey  her,  "  happy  is  he  that  rests  so  near 
that  pure  and  innocent  and  sorrowful  heart ; 
and  great  and  good  must  he  be  that  is 
worthy  of  it." 

There  was  in  the  look  which  Lucy  cast 
upon  her  when  she  had  uttered  these  words 
a  spirit  of  gentle  but  affectionate  reproof ; 
but  she  sjjoke  it  not. 

"Give  it  to  me,  AUce,"  she  said;  "biit 
unlock  it  iirst ;  I  feel  that  my  hands  are  too 
feeble  to  do  so." 

Ahce  unlocked  the  minipture,  and  Lucy 
then  taking  it  fi-om  her,  looked  upon  it  for 
a  moment,  and  then  j^ressing  it  to  her  li^js 
■with  a  calm  emotion,  in  which  grief  and 
despair  seemed  to  mingle,  she  exclaimed, 

"  Alas !  mamma,  how  much  do  I  now 
stand  in  need  of  your  advice  and  cousola- 
tion  !  The  shrine  in  which  your  affection 
and  memory  dwelt,  and  against  whose 
troubled  pulses  yoiu-  sweet  and  serene  im- 
age lay,  is  now  broken.  There,  dearest 
mamma,  you  mil  find  notlung  in  fixture  but 
affliction  and  desjjair.  It  has  been  said,  that 
I  have  inherited  your  graces  and  your  vir- 
tues, most  beloved  parent  ;  and  if  so,  alas ! 
in  how  remote  a  degree,  for  who  could  eqvial 
you  ?  But  how  would  it  have  v\Tung  your 
gentle  and  loving  heart  to  know  that  I  should 
have  inherited  your  secret  griefs  and  suffer- 
ings ?  Yes,  mamma,  both  are  painted  on 
that  serene  brow  ;  for  no  art  of  the  limner 
could  conceal  their  mournful*  traces,  nor  re- 
move the  veil  of  sorrow  which  an  unhapj)y 
destiny  threw  over  yom-  beauty.  There,  in 
that  cleai'  and  gentle  eye,  is  still  the  image 
of  your  love  and  sj'mpathy — there  is  that 
smile  so  full  of  sweetness  and  suffering. 
Alas,  alas  !  how  closely  do  we  resemble  each 
other  in  aU  things.  Sweet  and  blessed  saint, 
if  it  be  permitted,  descend  and  let  your 
spirit  be  with  me — to  guide,  to  soothe,  and 
to  sujjport  me  ;  your  task  will  not  be  a  long 
one,  beloved  parent.  From  this  day  forth 
my  only  hope  wiU  be  to  join  you.  Life  has 
nothing  now  but  solitude  and  soitow.  There 
is  no  heart  mth  which  I  can  hold  com- 
munion ;  for  my  gi'ief,  and  the  act  of  duty 
which  occasions  it,  must  be  held  sacred  from 
all. 

She  kissed  the  miniature  once  more,  but 
without  tears,  and  after  a  little,  she  made 
Alley  place  it  where  she  had  ever  kept  it — 
next  her  heart. 


"Alice,"  said  she,  "I  trust  I  will  soon  be 
with  mamma." 

"  My  dear  mistress,"  rejjlied  Ahce,  "  don't 
spake  so.  I  hope  there's  many  a  happy  and 
pleasant  day  before  you,  in  spite  of  all  that 
has  come  and  gone,  yet." 

She  turned  upon  the  maid  a  look  of  in- 
credulity so  hopeless,  that  AUey  felt  both 
alarmed  and  depressed. 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  suffer,  Alice," 
she  replied,  "  but  I  know  it.  This  miuiiitui'e 
of  mamma  I  got  jsaiuted  unknown  to — un- 
known to — "  (here  we  need  not  say  that  she 
meant  her  father) — "  any  one  except  mamma, 
the  artist,  and  myself.  It  has  laid  next  my 
heart  ever  since  ;  but  since  her  death  it  has 
been  the  dearest  thing  to  me  on  earth — one 
only  other  object  perhaps  excepted.  Yes," 
she  added,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "I  hojie  I  shall 
soon  be  with  you,  mamma,  and  then  we 
shall  never  be  separated  any  more  !  " 

Alley  regi-etted  to  jjerceive  that  her  grief 
now  had  settled  down  into  the  most  wasting 
and  dangerous  of  all ;  for  it  was  of  that  dry 
and  silent  kind  which  so  soon  consumes  the 
lamp  of  life,  and  dries  uj)  the  strength  of 
those  who  unhappily  fall  under  its  mahgnant 
blight. 

Lucy's  joru'ney,  however,  fi-om  Wicklow, 
the  two  interviews  with  her  father,  the  .sac- 
rifice she  had  so  nobly  made,  and  the  con- 
sequent agitation,  aU,  overcame  her,  and 
after  a  painful  straggle  between  the  alterna- 
tions of  forgetfulness  and  memory,  she  at 
length  feU  into  a  troubled  slumber. 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

Lord  Btinroe's  Affectmi  for  his  Father — Olimpse  oj 
a  new  Chnraetev — Lord  Cullamore's  Rebuke  to  his 
Son,  who  greatly  refuses  to  give  up  his  Friend. 

A  coNsroEK.AiLE  period  now  elapsed,  during 
which  there  was  little  done  that  could  con- 
tribute to  the  progress  of  our  narrative 
Summer  had  set  in,  and  the  CuUamore 
family,  owing  to  the  failing  henlth  of  the  old 
nobleman,  had  retiirned  to  his  Dublin  resi- 
dence, with  an  intention  of  removing  to 
Glenshee,  as  soon  he  should  receive  the 
advice  of  his  physician.  From  the  day  on 
which  his  brother's  letter  reached  him,  his 
lordship  seemed  to  fall  into  a  more  than 
ordinary  desjiondency  of  mind.  His  health 
for  j'ears  had  been  very  infirm,  but  from 
whatsoever  cause  it  proceeded,  he  now  ap- 
peai-ed  to  labor  under  some  secret  jjresenti- 
ment  of  calamity,  against  whicli  he  struggled 
in  vain.  So  at  least  he  himself  admitted.  It 
is  true  that  age  and  a  constitution  enfeebled 


THE  BLACK  BAEOXET. 


497 


liy  delicate  liealtli  might  alone,  in  a  disposi- 
tion uaturallj'  hisisochondriac,  occasion  such 
anxiety  ;  as  ^ve  know  they  frec[nently  do  even 
in  the  youthful.  Be  this  as  it  may,  one 
tiling  was  evident,  his  lordship  began  to  sink 
more  rapidly  than  he  had  ever  done  before  ; 
and  Uke  most  invalids  of  his  class,  he  became 
wilful  and  olistiuate  in  his  OTvn  opinions. 
His  doctor,  for  instance,  advised  him  to  re- 
move to  the  delightful  air  of  Glenshee 
Castle  ;  but  this,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
he  peremptorily  refused  to  do,  and  so  long 
as  he  chose  to  remain  in  town,  so  long  were 
Lady  EmUy  and  her  aunt  resolved  to  stay 
with  him.  Duuroe,  also,  was  pretty  regxdar 
in  inquiries  after  his  health  ;  but  whether 
from  a  jsrinciple  of  filial  aflection,  or  a  more 
flagitious  motive,  will  appear  from  the  follow- 
ing conversation,  which  took  place  one 
morning  after  breakfast,  between  himseK 
and  Norton. 

"  How  is  your  father  this  morning,  my 
lord  ?  "  inriuired  that  worthy  gentleman.  "  I 
hope  he  is  better." 

"A  lie,  Norton,"  rephed  his  lordship — "a 
lie,  as  usual.  You  hope  no  such  thing.  The 
agency  which  is  to  follow  on  the  respectable 
old  peer's  demise  bars  that — eh  ?  " 

"  I  give  you  my  honor,  my  lord,  you  do 
me  injustice.  I  am  in  no  hurry  with  him 
on  that  account ;  it  would  be  unfeeUug  and 
selfish." 

"Now,  Tom,"  replied  the  other,  in  that 
kind  of  coutemjJtuous  famiUarity  which 
slavish  minions  or  adroit  knaves  like  Norton 
must  always  put  up  with  from  such  men, 
"  now,  Tom,  my  good  fellow,  you  know  the 
case  is  this — you  get  the  agency  to  the  Cul- 
lamore  property  the  moment  my  right 
honorable  dad  makes  his  exit.  If  he  should 
delay  that  exit  for  seven  years  to  come,  then 
you  will  be  exactly  seven  years  short  of  the 
period  in  which  you  vdll  fleece  me  and  my 
tenants,  and  piit  the  wool  on  yourself." 

"  Only  your  tenants,  my  lord,  if  you  jslease. 
I  may  shear  Ihein  a  little,  I  tnist ;  but  you 
can't  sujiiJose  me  capable  of  shearing " 

"My  lordship.  No,  no,  you  are  too 
honest ;  only  you  wul  allow  me  to  insiniiate, 
in  the  meantime,  that  I  beheve  you  have 
fleeced  me  to  some  j^ui-pose  ah-eady.  I  do 
not  allude  to  your  gambling  debts,  which, 
with  my  own,  I  have  been  obhged  to  paj' ; 
but  to  other  opportunities  which  have  come 
in  your  way.  It  doesn't  matter,  however ; 
you  are  a  pleasant  and  a  useful  fellow,  and  I 
believe  that  although  you  chp  me  yourself  a 
little,  yoii  would  permit  no  one  else  to  do 
so.  And,  by  the  way,  talking  of  the  respect- 
able old  peer,  he  is  anything  but  a  friend  of 
yours,  and  virged  me  strongly  to  send  you  to 
the  devO,  as  a  cheat  and  impostor." 


"  How  is  that,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  Norton, 
with  an  interest  which  he  could  scarcely  dis- 
guise. 

"  Wliy,  he  mentioned  something  of  a  con- 
versation you  had,  in  which  you  told  him, 
/ou  impudent  dog — and  coolly  to  his  face, 
too — that  you  patronized  his  son  while  in 
Friince,  and  introduced  him  to  several  distin- 
guished French  noblemen,  not  one  of  whom, 
he  had  reason  to  beheve,  ever  existed  except 
in  j'our  own  fertile  and  Ij'ing  imagination." 

"And  was  that  all?  "asked  Norton,  who 
began  to  entertain  apprehensions  of  Morty 
O'Flaherty ;  "  did  he  mention  nothing 
else '? " 

"  No,"  replied  Dunroe  ;  "  and  j'ou  scoun- 
drel, was  not  that  a  d — d  deal  too  much  ?  " 

Norton,  now  feeUng  that  he  was  safe  from 
Morty,  laughed  very  heartily,  and  replied, 

"  It's  a  fact,  sure  enough  ;  but  then,  wasn't 
it  on  your  lordship's  account  I  bounced  ? 
The  He,  in  point  of  fact,  if  it  can  be  called 
one,  was,  therefore,  more  your  lordship's  lie 
than  mine." 

"  How  do  you  mean  by  '  if  it  can  be  called 
one ' ? " 

"  Why,  if  I  did  not  introduce  you  to  real 
noblemen,  I  did  to  some  spurious  specimens, 
gentlemen  who  taught  you  all  the  arts  and 
etiquette  of  the  gaming-table,  of  which,  you 
know  very  well,  my  lord,  you  were  then  so 
shamefully  ignorant,  as  to  be  quite  unlit  for 
the  society  of  gentlemen,  especially  ou  the 
continent." 

"  Yes,  Tom,  and  the  state  of  my  proi^ei'ty 
now  tells  me  at  what  cost  you  taught  ine.  You 
see  these  tenants  say  they  have  not  money, 
plead  hard  times,  failure  of  crops,  and  de- 
j)reciation  of  property." 

"  Ay,  and  so  they  will  jjlead,  until  /  take 
them  in  hand." 

"  And,  upon  my  soul,  I  don't  care  how 
soon  that  may  be." 

"Monster  of  disobedience,"  said  Norton, 
ironically,  "  is  it  thus  you  speak  of  a  beloved 
parent,  and  that  parent  a  resj^ectable  old 
23eer  ?  In  other  words,  you  wish  him  in 
kingdom  come.  Eepient,  my  lord — retract 
those  words,  or  dread  'the  raven  of  the 
valley.' " 

"  Faith,  Tom,  there's  no  use  in  concealing 
it.  It's  not  that  I  wish  him  gone  ;  but  that 
I  long  as  much  to  touch  the  property  at 
large,  as  you  the  agency.  It's  a  de\'Llish 
tough  afl'air,  this  illness  of  his." 

"  Patience,  my  lord,  and  filial  afl'ection." 

"  I  wish  he  would  either  hve  or  die  ;  for, 
in  the  first  case,  I  could  marry  this  brave  and 
wealthy  wench  of  the  baronet's,  which  I  can't 
do  now,  and  he  m  such  a  state  of  health.  If 
I  could  once  touch  the  Gourlay  cash,  I  were 
satisfied.     The  Gourlay  estates  will  come  to 


498 


WILLI  A  Bf  CAR  LET  UN'S   WORKS. 


me,  too,  because  there  is  no  heir,  and  they 
go  with  this  wench,  who  is  a  brave  wench, 
for  that  reason." 

"  So  she  has  consented  to  have  von  at 
last?" 

"Do  yon  think,  Tom,  she  ever  had  any 
serious  intention  of  dechning  the  coronet  ? 
No,  no  ;  she  wouldn't  be  her  father's  daugh- 
ter if  she  had." 

"  Yes  ;  but  your  lordship  suspected  that 
the  fellow  who  shot  j'ou  had  made  an  im- 
pression in  that  quarter." 

"  I  did  for  a  time — that  is.  I  was  fool 
enough  to  think  so  ;  she  is,  however,  a  true 
W'Oman,  and  only  plaj'ed  him  ott'  against 
ine." 

"  But  why  does  she  refuse  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  She  hasn't  refused,  man  ;  her  health, 
they  tell  me,  is  not  good  of  late  ;  of  course, 
she  is  only  waiting  to  gain  strength  for  the 
intei-view,  that  is  all.  Ah,  Tom,  my  dear 
fellow,  I  understand  women  a  devilish  deal 
better  than  you  do." 

"  So  you  ought ;  you  have  had  greater 
experience,  and  paid  more  for  it.  What 
will  you  do  with  the  fair  blonde,  though.  I 
suppose  the  matrimonial  compact  wUl  send 
her  adrift." 

"Suppose  no  such  thing,  then.  I  had 
her  before  matrimony,  ancl  I  wdll  have  her 
after  it.  No,  Tom,  I  am  not  ungrateful ;  fore 
or  aft,  she  shall  be  retained.  She  shaU 
never  say  that  I  acted  unhandsomely  by 
her,  esjjecially  as  she  has  become  a  good 
girl  and  repented.  I  know  I  did  her  injustice 
about  the  jdayer-man.  On  that  jjoint  she 
has  thoroijghly  satisfied  me,  and  I  was 
wrong." 

Norton  gave  him  a  peculiar  look,  one  of 
those  looks  which  an  adept  in  the  ways  of 
life,  in  its  crooked  paths  and  unprincipled 
impostures,  not  unfrequently  bestows  upon 
the  poor  aristocratic  dolt  whom  he  is  jjhm- 
dering  to  his  face.  The  look  we  sjjeak  of 
might  be  mistaken  for  sur2)rise — it  might 
be  mistaken  for  f)ity — but  it  was  meant  for 
conteKijJt. 

"Of  course,"  said  he,  "you  are  too  well 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  my  lord, 
and  especially  in  those  of  the  fair  sex,  to  be 
imposed  ujjon.  If  ever  I  met  an  individual 
who  can  read  a  man's  thoughts  by  looking 
into  his  face,  your  lordship  is  the  man.  By 
the  way,  when  did  you  see  youi-  father-in- 
law  that  is  to  be  ?  " 

"  A  couple  of  days  ago.  He,  too,  has  been 
ill,  and  looks  somewhat  shaken.  It  is  true, 
I  don't  like  the  man,  and  I  beUeve  nobody 
does  ;  but  I  like  very  weU  to  hear  him  talk  of 
deeds,  settlements,  and  marriage  articles. 
He  begged  of  me,  however,  not  to  insist  on 
seeing  his  daughter  until  she  is  fully  recov- 


ered, which  he  expects  will  be  very  soon  ; 
and  the  moment  she  is  prepared  for  an  in- 
terview, he  is  to  let  me  know.  But,  harkee, 
Tom,  what  can  the  old  earl  want  with  me 
this  morning,  think  you  V  '' 

"I  cannot  even  guess,"  replied  the  other, 
"  unless  it  be  to  prejsare  you  for " 

"For  what?" 

"Why,  it  is  said  that  the  fair  lady  with 
whom  you  are  about  to  commit  the  crime  of 
matrimony  is  virtuous  and  religioiis,  as  well 
as  beautiful  and  so  forth  ;  and,  in  that  case, 
perliaps  he  is  about  to  jjrepare  you  for  the 
exjjected  conference.  I  cannot  guess  any- 
thing else,  unless,  jierhaps,  it  may  be  the  ava- 
rice of  age  about  to  i-ebirke  the  profusion  and 
generosity  of  youth.  In  that  case,  my  lord, 
keej)  youi'  temper,  and  don't  comiiromise 
your  friends. " 

"  Never  fear,  Tom  ;  I  have  already  fought 
more  battles  on  your  account  than  you 
could  dream  of.  Perhaps,  after  aU,  it  is  noth- 
ing. Of  late  he  has  sent  for  me  occasion- 
ally, as  if  to  speak  upon  some  matter  of 
importance,  when,  after  chattmg  upon  the 
news  of  the  day  or  lectui-ingme  for  support- 
ing an  impostor — meaning  j'ou — he  has 
said  he  would  defer  the  subject  on  which  he 
wished  to  sjieak,  until  another  opportimity. 
Whatever  it  is,  he  seems  afraid  of  it,  or  per- 
haps the  respectable  old  peer  is  doting." 

"I  dare  say,  my  lord,  it  is  veryuatiu-al  he 
should  at  these  years  ;  but  if  he,"f>roceeded 
Norton,  laughing,  "  is  doting  now,  what 
will  you  be  at  his  years  ?  Here,  however,  is 
his  confidential  man,  Morty  O'Flaherty." 

O'Flaherty  now  entered,  and  after  making; 
a  bow  that  stiU  smacked  strongly  of  Tippe- 
raiy,  delivered  his  message. 

"  My  masther.  Lord  CuUamore,  wishes  to 
see  you,  my  lord.  He  has  come  down 
stairs,  and  is  facing  the  sun,  the  Lord  be 
praised,  in  the  back  dra\rin"-room." 

"  (to,  my  lord,"  said  Norton  ;  "  perhaps  he 
wishes  you  to  make  a  third  luminary.  Go 
and  help  him  to  face  the  sun." 

"  Be  my  sowl,  Mr.  Norton,  if  I'm  not 
much  mistaken,  it's  the  father  he  11  have  to 
face.  I  may  as  well  give  you  the  hai'd  word, 
my  lord — troth,  I  think  yovi  had  better  be 
on  yoiu'  edge  ;  he's  as  dark  as  midnight^ 
although  the  sun  is  in  his  face." 

His  lordshij)  went  out,  after  haring  given 
two  or  three  yawns,  .stretched  himself,  and 
slunigged  his  shoulders,  like  a  man  who  was 
about  to  enter  upon  some  imijleasant  busi- 
ness with  manifest  reluctance. 

"  All,"  excLiimed  Morty,  looking  after 
him,  "there  goes  a  cute  boy — at  laste,  God 
forgive  him,  he's  of  that  opinion  himself. 
What  a  pity  there's  not  more  o'  the  family ; 
they'd  ornament  the  counthi-y." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


499 


"  Say,  rather,  Mortj-,  that  there's  one  too 
many." 

"  Faith,  and  I'm  sure,  Barney,  yon  oughtn't 
to  think  so.     Beg  pardon — ]\Ir.  Norton." 

" Morty,  curse  you,  ■uill  you  be  cautious ? 
But  why  shoul  1 1  not  think  so  ?  " 

"  For  sound  raisous,  that  no  man  knows 
better  than  yourself." 

"I'm  not  the  only  person  that  thinks 
there's  one  too  many  of  the  family,  Morty. 
In  that  opinion  I  am  ably  supported  by  his 
lordship,  just  gone  out  tliere." 

"  Where  !  Ay,  I  see  wliereabouts  you  ai-e 
now.  One  too  many — faith,  so  the  blessed 
pair  of  you  think,  no  doubt." 

"Eight,  Morty;  if  the  devU  had  the 
agencj'  of  the  ancient  eiu-l's  soul,  I  would 
soon  get  that  of  his  ancient  jjroperty  ;  but 
whilst  he  lives  it  can't  be  accomplished. 
What  do  you  imagine  the  old  bawble  wants 
with  the  young  one '? " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  I'm  hammeriu'  upon 
that  for  some  time  past,  and  can't  come  at  it." 

"Come,  then,  let  us  get  the  materiiils  fir.st, 
and  then  put  them  on  the  anvU  of  my  im- 
agination. InqjiimLf — which  means,  Morty, 
in  thefirM  place,  have  you  heard  anjiihing  ?  " 

"  No  ;  nothing  to  sjjeak  of." 

"  Well,  in  the  second  place,  have  you  seen 
or  ohaert-ed  anything  ?  " 

"Why,  no  ;  not  much." 

"  Which  means — both  your  answers  in- 
cluded— that  you  have  both  heard  and  seen 
■ — so  I  interjsret  '  nothing  to  speak  of,'  on  the 
one  hand,  and  your  '  not  much,'  on  the  other. 
Out  with  it  ;  two  heads  are  better  than  one  : 
what  yon  miss,  I  may  hit." 

"  The  de\irs  no  match  for  you,  Bar — Mr. 
Norton,  and  it's  hard  to  expect  Diuiroe 
should.  I'll  tell  you,  then — for,  in  troth, 
I'm  as  anxious  to  come  at  the  meanin'  of  it 
myself  as  you  can  be  for  the  life  of  you. 
Some  few  months  ago,  when  we  were  in 
Loudon,  there  came  a  man  to  me." 

"  Name  him,  Morty." 

"  His  name  was  M'Bride." 

"  M'Bride — proceed." 

"  His  name  was  M'Bride.  His  face  was 
tanned  iuto  mahogany,  just  as  every  man's 
is  that  has  hved  long  ui  a  hot  country'.  '  Your 
name,'  says  he,  'is  O'Flaherty,  I  under- 
stand ?  ' " 

"  'Morty  O'Flaherty,  at  your  sarvice,'says 
I,  '  and  liow  are  you,  sir  ?  I'm  happy  to  see 
you  ;  only  in  the  mane  time  you  have  the 
advantage  of  me.' " 

"  '  Many  thanks  to  you,'  said  he,  '  for  your 
kind  inquiries  ;  as  to  the  advantage,  I  won't 
keeji  it  long  ;  only  you  don't  seem  to  know 
your  relations.' " 

"  '  Maybe  not,'  says  I,  'they  say  it's  a  wise 
man  that  does.     Are  you  one  o'  them  ?  '  " 


"  'I'm  one  o'  them.  Did  you  ever  hear  oi 
ould  liid  Flahertv  ? ' " 

" '  Well,  no  ;  but  I  did  of  Buck  Flaherty, 
that  always  went  in  boots  and  buckskin 
breeches,  and  wore  two  watches  and  a  silver- 
mounted  whip.' " 

"  'Well,  you  m'lst  know  that  Kid  was  a 
son  ' — and  here  he  pointed  his  thumb  over 
his  left  shoulder  wid  a  knowin'  grin  upon 
him — '  was  a  son  of  the  ould  Buck's.  Tl;e 
ould  Buck's  wife  was  a  Murtagh  ;  now  she 
again  had  a  cousin  named  M'SliaugluMn,  who 
was  married  upon  a  man  by  name  MFaddle. 
M'Faddle  had  but  one  sisther,  and  she  was 
cousin  to  Frank  M'Fud,  that  suffered  for — 
but  no  matther — the  M'Swiggius  and  the 
M'Fuds  were  cleaveens  to  the  third  cousins 
of  Kid  Flaberty's  first  wife's  sister-in-law, 
and  she  again  was  married  in  upon  the 
M'iiirides  of  Newton  Nowhere — so  that  you 
see  you  and  I  are  thirty-second  cousins  at 
all  events.'" 

"  'Well,  anyway  he  made  out  some  relation- 
ship between  us,  or  at  least  I  thought  he  did 
— and  maybe  that  was  as  good — and  faith 
may  be  a  great  deal  better,  for  if  ever  a  man 
had  the  look  of  a  schemer  about  him  the 
same  customer  had.  At  any  rate  we  had 
some  drink  together,  and  went  on  veiy  well 
j  till  we  got  befuddled,  which,  it  seems,  is  his 
besetting  sin.  It  was  clearly  his  intention, 
I  could  see,  to  make  me  tipsy,  and  I  dare 
say  he  might  a  done  so,  only  for  a  shght 
mistake  he  made  in  fii-st  gettmg  tipsy  him- 
self." 

"  Well,  but  I'm  not  mixch  the  wiser  of 
this,"  observed  Norton.  "  What  are  you 
at?" 

"  Neither  am  I,"  replied  Morty  ;  "  and  as 
to  what  I'm  at — I  dunna  what  the  devU  I'm 
at.     That's  just  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Go  on,"  said  the  other,  "we  must  have 
patience.  Who  did  this  feUow  turn  out  to 
be?" 

"  He  insisted  he  was  a  relation  of  my  own, 
as  I  toiild  you." 

"  WTio  the  de\dl  cares  wliether  he  was  or 
not !     117(0/  was  he,  then '?  " 

"  Ay  ;  what  was  he  ? — that's  what  I'm  askin' 
you." 

"  Proceed,"  said  Norton  ;  "  teU  it  your 
own  way." 

"  He  said  he  came  fi-om  the  Aist  Indies 
beyant  ;  that  he  knew  some  members  of  his 
lordship's  family  there  ;  that  lie  had  been  in 
Paris,  and  that  whUe  he  was  there  he  lamed 
to  take  French  lave  of  his  masther." 

"  But  who  was  his  master?/' 

"  That  he  would  not  tell  me.  However, 
he  said  he  had  been  in  Ireland  for  some 
time  before,  where  he  saw  an  aunt  of  his, 
that  was  h.olf  mad  ;  and  then  he  went  on  to 


500 


WILLIAM  UARLETON'S  WOllICS. 


tell  me  that  lie  had  been  once  at  saiTice  vriiT 
my  masther,  and  that  if  he  liked  he  could 
tell  him  a  secret  ;  Imt  then,  he  said,  it 
wouldn't  be  worth  his  while,  for  that  he 
would  soon  know  it." 

"  Very  clear,  perfectly  transparent,  nothing 
can  be  plainer.  What  a  Tipjserary  si^hinx 
you  ai'e  ;  an  enigma,  half  man,  half  beast, 
although  there  is  Kttlc  enigma  in  that,  it  is 
plain  enough.  In  the  meantime,  you  bog- 
trotting  oracle,  say  whether  you  are  hum- 
bugging me  or  not." 

"  De^^l  a  bit  I'm  humbuggin'  you ;  but 
proud  as  yoii  sit  there,  you  have  trotted 
more  bogs  and  horses  than  ever  I  did." 

"Well,  never  mind  that,  Morty.  What  did 
this  end  in  ?  " 

"  End  in  ! — why  upon  my  conscience  I 
don't  think  it's  j^rojjerly  begun  yet." 

"  Good-by,"  exclaimed  Norton,  rising  to 
go,  or  at  least  pretending  to  do  so.  "  Many 
thanks  in  the  meantime  for  your  information 
— it  is  jireeious,  invaluable." 

"  Well,  now,  wait  a  minute.  A  few  days 
ago  I  seen  the  same  schemer  skulkin'  about 
the  house  as  if  he  was  afeared  o'  bein'  seen  ; 
and  that  beef  and  mutton  maybe  my  jjoison, 
wid  health  to  use  them,  but  I  seen  him 
steahn'  out  of  his  lordshijj's  own  room.  So, 
now  make  money  o'  that ;  only  when  you  do, 
don't  be  j)uttiu'  it  in  circulation." 

"  No  danger  of  that,  Morty,  in  any  sense. 
At  all  events,  I  don't  deal  in  base  coin." 

"Don't  you,  faith.  I  wondher  what  do 
you  call  imposin'  Barney  Bryan,  the  horse- 
jockey,  on  his  lordship,  for  Tom  Norton,  the 
gentleman?  However,  no  matther — that's 
your  o'wai  aftair  ;  and  so  long  as  you  let  the 
good  oiild  lord  alone  among  you — keeji  your 
secret — I'm  not  goin'  to  interfere  wid  you. 
None  of  your  travellers'  tricks  upon  Mm, 
though." 

"No,  not  on  him,  Morty  ;  but  concerning 
this  forthcoming  marriage,  if  it  takes  jjlace, 
I  dare  say  I  must  travel ;  I  can't  depend  up- 
on Dimroe's  word." 

"  Why,  unhkelier  things  has  happened, 
Mr.  Norton.  I  think  you'll  be  forced  to  set 
out." 

"  Well,  I  only  say  that  if  Mr.  Norton  can 
prevent  it,  it  won't  happen.  I  can  wind 
this  puppy  of  a  lord,  who  has  no  more  will 
of  his  o-wn  than  a  goose,  nor  hdf  so  much  ; 
I  say  I  can  wind  him  round  my  finger  ;  and 
if  I  don't  get  him  to  make  himself,  in  any 
intenaew  he  may  have  with  her,  so  egi-egi- 
ously  ridiculous,  as  to  disgnist  her  thor- 
oughly, my  name's  not  Norton — hem — ha, 
ha,  ha !  " 

•'  Well,  your  name's  not  Norton — very 
good.  Li  the  mane  time  more  power  to 
70U  in  that ;  for  by  all  accounts  it's  a  sin 


and  a  shame  to  thi-ow  away  such  a  girl  ujjon 
him." 

Norton  now  having  gained  all  he  could 
from  his  old  acquaintance,  got  uj),  and  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Morty,  look- 
ing at  him  signiticantly,  asked, 

"  AMiere  are  you  bound  for  now,  if  it's  a 
fair  question  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  you,  then,  Morty — upon  an 
affair  that's  anything  but  pleasant  to  me, 
and  withal  a  little  dangerous  :  to  buy  a 
horse  for  Dunroe." 

"  Troth,  you  may  well  say  so  ;  in  God's 
name  keep  away  fi-om  horses  and  jockey.s, 
or  you'll  be  found  out ;  but,  above  all  things, 
don't  show  your  face  on  the  Curragh." 

"  Well,  I  don't  kjiow.  I  believe,  after  all, 
there's  no  such  vast  distinction  there  be- 
tween the  jockeys  and  the  gentlemen.  Some- 
times the  jockey  swmdles  himself  iip  into  a 
gentleman,  and  sometimes  the  gentleman 
swintUes  himself  doTvu  to  a  jockey.  So  f;u- 
there  would  be  no  great  mistake  ;  the  only 
thing  to  be  dreaded  is,  discovery,  so  far  as 
it  aft'ects  the  history  which  I  gave  of  myself 
to  Dunroe  and  his  father.  Then  there  is 
the  sale  of  some  racies  against  me  on  that 
most  elastic  sod  ;  and  I  fear  they  are  not  yet 
forgotten.  Yes,  I  shall  avoid  the  Curragh  ; 
but  you  know,  a  fit  of  illness  will  easily  man- 
age that.  However,  jDass  that  by  ;  I  wish  I 
knew  what  the  old  loeer  and  the  young  one 
are  discussing." 

"  What  now,"  said  Norton  to  himself, 
after  Morty  h;xd  gone,  "  can  this  M'Bride  be 
schemmg  about  in  the  family  V  There's  a 
secret  here,  I'm  certain.  Something  troubles 
the  old  peer  of  late,  whatever  it  is.  Well, 
let  me  see  ;  I'll  tlu'ow  myself  in  the  way  of 
this  same  M'Bride,  and  it  wiU  go  hard  with 
me  or  I'U  worm  it  out  of  him.  The  knowl- 
edge of  it  may  serve  me.  It's  a  good  thing 
CO  know  family  secrets,  especially  for  a 
hanger-on  like  myself.  One  good  eft'ect  it 
may  produce,  and  that  is,  throw  worthy 
Lord  Dunroe  more  into  my  jjower.  Yes,  I 
will  see  this  M'Bride,  and  then  let  me  alone 
for  playing  my  card  to  some  purpose." 

Dunroe  foimd  his  father  much  as  Morty 

had    described    him — enjoying     the    fi-esh 

!  breeze  and  blessed  light  of  heaven,  as  both 

I  came  in  upon  him  through  the  open  window 

[  at  which  he  sat. 

j  The  appearance  of  the  good  old  man  was 
much  changed  for  the  worse.  His  face  was 
:  paler  and  more  emaciated  than  when  we 
!  last  described  it.  His  chin  iilmost  rested 
on  his  breast,  and  his  aged-looking  hands 
were  worn  away  to  skin  and  bone.  Still 
there  was  the  same  dignity  about  him  as 
ever,  only  that  the  traces  of  age  and  iUness 
M^e  to  it  something  that  was  still  more  vcn- 


THE  BLA  CK  BA  R  ONET. 


501 


erable  and  impressive.  Like  some  portrait, 
by  an  old  master,  time,  whilst  it  mellowed 
and  softened  the  colors,  added  tliat  depth  and 
truthfulness  of  chai-acter  by  wliieh  the  value 
is  at  once  known.  He  was  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair, with  a  jiillow  for  his  head  to  rest 
upon  when  he  wished  it  ;  and  on  his  son's 
entriuice  he  asked  him  to  wheel  it  round 
nearer  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  let  down 
the  window. 

"I  hope  you  are  better  this  morning,  my 
lord  ?  "  inquired  Dunroe. 

"John,"  said  he  in  rejjlj',  "  I  cannot  say 
that  I  am  better,  but  I  can  that  I  am  worse." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  my  lord," 
replied  the  other,  "  the  season  is  remark- 
ablj'  tine,  and  the  air  mild  and  cheerful." 

' '  I  would  much  rather  the  cheerfulness 
were  here"  rephed  his  father,  putting  his 
wasted  hand  upon  his  heart;  "but  I  did 
not  ask  you  here  to  talk  about  myself  on 
this  occasion,  or  about  my  feelings.  Jliss 
Gourlay  has  consented  to  marry  you,  I 
know." 

"  She  has,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  I  did  her  father  in- 
justice for  a  time.  I  ascribed  his  extraor- 
dinary anxiety  for  this  match  less  to  any 
predilection  of  hers — for  I  thought  it  was 
otherwise — than  to  his  ambition.  I  am  glad, 
however,  that  it  is  to  be  a  marriage,  although 
I  feel  you  are  utterly  unworthy  of  her  ;  and 
if  I  did  not  hope  that  her  influence  may  in 
time,  and  in  a  short  time,  too,  succeed  in 
bringing  about  a  wholesome  reformation  in 
your  life  and  morals,  I  would  oppose  it  stiU 
a^;  far  as  lay  in  my  power.  It  is  upon  this 
subject  I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

Lord  Dunroe  bowed  with  an  appeai-ance 
of  all  due  respect,  but  at  the  same  time 
wished  in  his  heai't  that  Norton  could  be 
present  to  hear  the  lecture  which  he  had  so 
correctly  prognosticated,  and  to  witness  the 
abiUty  with  which  he  should  bamboozle  the 
old  peer. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  lord,"  he  replied,  "  I 
am  very  willing  and  anxious  to  hear  and  be 
guided  by  everything  you  shall  say.  I  know 
I  have  been  wild — indeed,  I  am  veiy  sorry 
for  it ;  and  if  it  will  satisfy  you,  my  lord, 
I  will  add,  without  hesitation,  that  it  is  time 
I  should  turn  over  a  new  leaf — hem  !  " 

"  You  have,  John,  been  not  merely  wild — 
for  wilduess  I  could  overlook  without  much 
severity — but  you  have  been  profligate  in 
morals,  profligate  iu  expenditure,  and  profli- 
gate iu  your  dealings  with  those  who  trusted 
in  your  integrity.  You  have  been  intem- 
perate ;  you  have  been  licentious  ;  you  have 
been  dishonest  ;  and  as  you  have  not  yet 
abandoned  any  one  of  these  frightful  vices, 
I  look  upon  your  union  with  Miss  Gourlay 


as  !in  association  between  pollution  and 
purity." 

"  You  are  very  severe,  my  lord." 

"  I  meant  to  be  so  ;  but  am  I  unjust  ?  Ah, 
John,  let  your  own  conscience  answer  that 
question." 

"  Well,  my  lord,  I  trust  you  will  be  grati- 
fied to  hear  that  I  am  perfectly  sensible  oi 
the  life  I  have  led — ahem  V  " 

"  And  what  is  that  but  admitting  that 
you  know  the  full  extent  of  your  vices "? — 
unless,  indeed,  you  have  made  a  firm  reso- 
lution to  give  them  iip." 

"  I  have  made  such  a  resolution,  my  lord, 
and  it  is  my  inteutiou  to  keep  it.  I  know 
I  can  do  little  of  myself,  but  I  trust  that 
where  there  is  a  sincere  disposition,  all 
will  go  on  s\vimmiugly,  as  the  Bible  saj's-- 
ahem  !  " 

"  Where  does  the  Bible  say  that  all  will  go 
on  swipiminyli/  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember  the  exact  eliai:)ter  and 
verse,  my  lord,"  he  repKed,  affecting  a  very 
grave  aspect,  "  bvit  I  know  it  is  somewhere 
in  the  Book  of  Solomon — ahem  ! — ahem  ! 
Either  iu  Solomon  or  Exodus  tlie  Prophet, 
I  am  not  certain  wliich.  Oh,  no,  by  the  by, 
I  believe  it  is  in  the  difdogue  that  occurs  be- 
tween Jonah  and  the  whale." 

His  father  looked  at  him  as  if  to  ascertain 
whether  his  worthy  son  were  abandoned 
enough  to  tamper,  in  the  first  place,  \\-ith  a 
subject  so  solemn,  and,  in  the  next,  wth  the 
anxietj'  of  his  own  parent,  while  laboring, 
under  age  and  infirmity,  to  wean  him  from 
a  course  of  dissipation  and  vice.  Little  in- 
deed did  he  suspect  that  his  virtuous  oif- 
spring  was  absolutely  enacting  his  part,  for 
the  i3uii")ose  of  having  a  good  jest  to  regale 
Norton  with  iu  the  course  of  their  evening's 
potations. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  we  are  over- 
stepping the  modesty  of  nature  in  this  scene. 
There  is  scarcely  any  one  acquainted  with  life 
who  does  not  know  that  there  are  hundreds, 
thousands,  of  hardened  profligates,  who 
would  take  delight,  under  similar  circum- 
stances, to  quiz  the  governor — as  a  parent  is 
denominated  by  this  class — even  at  the  risk 
of  incurring  his  lasting  displeasure,  or  of  al- 
together forfeiting  his  aft'ection,  rather  than 
lose  the  ojiportunity  of  having  a  good  joke 
to  teU  their  licentious  companions,  when 
they  meet.  The  present  age  has  as  much  of 
this,  perhajjs,  as  any  of  its  predecessors,  if 
not  more.     But  to  retui-n. 

"  I  know  not,"  observed  Lord  Cullamore, 
"  whether  this  is  an  ironical  affectation  of  ig- 
norance, or  ignorance  itself  ;  but  on  which- 
ever horn  of  the  dilemma  I  hang  you,  Dunroe, 
you  are  equally  contemptible  and  guilty.  A 
heart  must  be  deeply  corrupted,  indeed,  that 


502 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


can  tempt  its  owner  to  profane  sacred  things, 
and  cast  an  aged  and  afflicted  parent  into 
ridicule.  You  are  not  aware,  unfortunate 
young  man,  of  the  precijjice  on  which  you 
stand,  or  the  dismay  with  which  I  could  till 
your  hardened  heart,  by  two  or  three  words 
speaking.  And  only  that  I  was  not  a  con- 
scious party  in  circumstances  which  may 
operate  terribly  against  us  both,  I  wovild 
mention  'them  to  you,  and  make  you  shud- 
der  at   the    fate    that    is   probably  before 

"I  really  think," rejslied  his  son,  now  con- 
siderably alarmed  by  what  he  had  heard, 
"  that  you  are  dealing  too  severely  with  me. 
I  am  not,  so  fai-  as  I  luiow,  profaning  any- 
thing sacred  ;  much  less  would  I  attemjit  to 
ridicule  your  lordship.  But  the  truth  is,  I 
know  little  or  nothing  of  the  Bilile,  and  con- 
sequently any  mistaken  references  to  it  that 
I  may  sincerely  make,  ought  not  to  be  un- 
charitably misinterj)reted — ahem  !  '  We  are 
going  on  swimmingly  as  Jonah  said  to  the 
whale,'  or  the  whale  to  Jonah,  I  cannot  say 
which,  is  an  expression  which  I  have  fi-e- 
quently  heard,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  that 
it  was  a  scriptiu-al  quotation.  Your  lordship 
is  not  aware,  besides,  that  I  am  afflicted  with 
a  very  bad  memory." 

"  Perfectly  aware  of  it,  Dunroe  :  since  I 
have  been  forced  to  observe  that  you  forget 
every  duty  of  hfe.  What  is  there  honorable 
to  yourself  or  your  position  in  tlie  world, 
that  you  ever  have  remembered  ?  And  .sup- 
posing now,  on  the  one  hand,  that  you  may 
for  the  iwesent  only  affect  a  temporai-y  re- 
formation, and  put  in  practice  that  worst  of 
vices,  a  moral  expediency,  and  taking  it  for 
granted,  on  the  other,  that  your  resolution 
to  amend  is  sincere,  by  what  act  am  I  to  test 
that  sincerity  ?  " 

"  I  will  begin  and  read  the  Bible,  my  lord, 
and  engage  a  parson  to  instruct  me  in  virtue. 
Isn't  that  generally  the  first  steji  ?  " 

"I  do  not  forbid  you  the  Bible,  nor  the 
instructions  of  a  pious  clergyman  ;  but  I  beg 
to  propose  a  test  that  will  much  more  satis- 
factorily estalilish  that  sincerity.  First,  give 
up  yoTir  dissipated  and  immoral  habits  ;  con- 
tract youi-  expenditure  wthin  reasonable 
limits  ;  pay  your  just  debts,  by  which  I 
mean  your  debts  of  honesty,  not  of  honor — 
unless  they  have  been  lost  to  a  man  of  honor, 
and  not  to  notorious  swindlers  ;  forbear  to 
associate  any  longer  with  shai-jiers  and  black- 
legs, whether  aristocratic  or  plebeian  ;  and 
as  a  first  proof  of  the  sincerity  yoii  claim, 
dismiss  forever  from  your  society  that  fellow, 
Norton,  who  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  your  bosom 
ft'iend  and  boon  companion." 

"  With  every  condition  you  have  proposed, 
my  lord,  I  am  willing  and  ready  to  comply, 


the  last  only  excepted.  I  am  soiTj'  tc  find 
that  you  have  conceived  so  strong  and  un- 
founded a  prejudice  against  Mr.  Norton. 
You  do  not  know  his  value  to  me,  my  lord. 
He  has  been  a  Mentor  to  me — saved  nici 
thousands  by  liis  ability  and  devotion  to  my 
interests.  The  fact  is,  he  is  my  friend. 
Now  I  am  not  prejsared  to  give  up  and 
abandon  my  friend  without  a  just  cause  ; 
and  I  regret  that  any  persuasion  to  such  an 
act  should  proceed  from  you,  my  lord.  In 
all  your  other  propositions  I  shall  obey  you 
implicitly  ;  but  in  this  your  lordship  must 
excvise  me.  I  cannot  do  it  with  honor,  and 
therefore  cannot  do  it  at  all." 

"Ah,  I  see,  Dunroe,  and  !•  bitterly  regret 
to  see  it — this  fellow,  this  Norton,  has  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  over  you  that  iniquitous 
ascendancy  which  the  talented  knave  gains 
over  the  weak  and  unsuspicious  fool.  Par- 
don me,  for  I  speak  plainly.  He  has  studied 
your  disposition  and  habits  ;  he  has  catered 
for  your  enjoyments  ;  he  has  availed  himself 
of  your  weaknesses  ;  he  has  ilattered  your 
vanity  ;  he  has  mixed  himself  up  in  the  man- 
agement of  yoiu"  afi'airs  ;  and,  in  fine,  made 
himself  necessary  to  your  existence  ;  yet  you 
will  not  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  reply  to  you  m  one  word — hk 

IS  MY  FRIEND." 

A  shade  of  bitterness  passed  over  the  old 
man's  face  as  he  turned  a  melancholy  look 
u2ion  Dunroe. 

"  May  you  never  Uve,  Diuiroe,"  he  said,  "  to 
see  your  only  sou  refuse  to  comjily  with  your 
dying  request,  or  to  listen  with  an  obedient 
sj)irit  to  your  jiarting  admonition.  It  is  true, 
I  am  not,  I  trust,  immediately  dying,  and 
yet  why  should  I  regret  it  ?  But,  at  the 
same  time,  I  feel  that  my  steps  are  w^Gn  the 
very  threshold  of  death — a  consideration 
which  ought  to  insure  obedience  to  my  wish- 
es in  any  heaii  not  made  callous  by  the  worst 
experiences  of  life." 

"  I  would  comply  with  your  wishes,  my 
lord,"  replied  Dunroe,  "  with  the  sincerosfc 
pleasure,  and  deny  myself  anything  to  oblige 
you  ;  but  in  what  you  ask  there  is  a  princi- 
ple involved,  which  I  cannot,  as  <i  man  of 
honor,  violate.  And,  besides,  I  rcallj'  could 
not  afford  to  part  with  him  now.  ]\Iy  afi'airs 
are  in  such  a  state,  and  he  is  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  them,  that  to  do  so  would  ruin 
me." 

His  father,  who  seemed  wrapt  in  some 
painful  refiection,  paid  no  attention  to  this 
reply,  which,  in  point  of  fact,  contained,  so 
fiU'  as  Norton  was  concerned,  a  confirmation 
of  the  old  man's  worst  suspicions.  His  chin 
had  sunk  on  his  breast,  aaid  looking  into  the 
palms  of  his  hands  as  he  held  them  clasped 
together,  he  could  not  prevent  the  tears  fi'om 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


503 


rolling  slowly  down  Lis  furrowed  cheeks.  At 
length  he  exclaimed  : 

"  My  child,  Emily,  mj'  child  I  how  will  I 
look  upon  thee  !  My  innocent,  my  affeetion- 
ate  angel ;  what,  what,  oh  what  vill  become 
of  Ihee  ?  But  it  cannot  be.  My  guilt  was 
not  premeditated.  What  I  did  I  did  in  ig- 
norance ;  and  why  should  we  suffer  through 
the  arts  of  others  ?  I  shall  opjjose  them  step 
by  step  should  they  jiroceed.  I  shall  leave 
no  earthly  resource  untried  to  frustrate  their 
designs  ;  and  if  they  are  successful,  the  cruel 
sentence  may  be  i^ronounced,  but  it  will  be 
over  my  grave.  I  could  never  live  to  witness 
the  sufferings  of  my  darling  and  innocent 
child.  My  lamp  of  life  is  already  all  but 
exhausted — this   would   extiujnush    it    for- 


He  tlien  raised  his  head,  and  after  wijjing  I 
away  the  tears,  spoke  to  his  son  as  follows  :   j 

"  Dunroe,  be  advised  by  me  ;  reform  your  | 
life  ;  set  your  house  in  order,  for  you  know  | 
not,  you  see  not,  the  cloud  which  is  likely  to 
burst  over  our  heads."  ; 

"I  don't  understand  you,  my  lord." 

"  I  know  you  do  not,  nor  is  it  my  inten- 
tion that  you  should  for  the  present ;  but  if 
you  are  ■wise,  you  will  be  guided  by  mj'  in-  ■ 
structions  and  follow  my  advice." 

When  Dunroe  left  him,  which  he  did  after 
some  formal  words  of  encouragement  and 
comfort,  to  which  the  old  man  paid  little  at- 
tention, turning  toward  the  door,  which  liis 
son  ou  going  out  had  shut,  he  looked  as  if 
his  eye  followed  him  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
room,  and  exclaimed  :  i 

"  Alas  !  why  was  I  not  born  above  the  or- 
dinary range  of  the  domestic  affections  ?  Yet 
so  long  as  I  have  my  darling  child — who  is 
aU  affection — why  should  I  complain  on  this 
account  ?  Alas,  my  Maria,  it  is  now  that  | 
thou  art  avenged  for  the  neglect  you  experi- 
enced at  my  hands,  and  for  the  ambition 
that  occasioned  it.  Cursed  ambition  !  Did 
the  coronet  I  gained  l)y  my  neglect  of  you, 
beloved  object  of  my  first  and  only  affection, 
console  my  heart  under  the  cries  of  con- 
science, or  stitie  the  grief  which  returned  for 
you,  when  that  ambition  was  gratified  ?  Ah, 
that  false  and  precipitate  step  !  How  much 
miserj'  has  it  not  occasioned  me  since  I 
awoke  from  my  dream  !  Your  gentle  spirit 
S£«med  to  haunt  me  through  hfe,  but  ever 
with  that  melancholy  smile  of  tender  and 
affectionate  reproach  with  which  your  eye 
always  encountered  mine  while  living.  And 
thou,  wicked  woman,  what  has  thy  act  ac- 
comi^lished,  if  it  should  be  successful  ?  What 
has  thy  fi-audulent  contrivance  effected? 
Sorrow  to  one  who  was  ever  thy  friend — 
grief,  shame,  and  degradation  to  the  inno- 
cent !  " 


Whilst  the  old  man  indulged  in  these 
painful  and  melancholy  reflections,  his  son, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  not  wit  bout  his  own 
speculations.  On  retiring  to  his  dressing- 
room,  he  began  to  ponder  over  the  admoni- 
tory if  not  projihetic  words  of  his  father. 

"What  the  deuce  can  the  matter  be?  "  he 
exclaimed,  surveying  hirdself  in  the  glass  ; 
"  a  good  style  of  face  that,  in  the  meantime. 
Gad,  I  knew  she  would  surrender  in  form, 
and  I  was  right.  Something  is  wrong  with 
— that  gold  button — yes,  it  looks  better 
plain — the  old  gentleman — something's  in 
the  wind — in  the  meantime  I'll  raise  this 
window — or  why  should  he  talk  so  lugubri- 
ously as  he  does  ?  Upon  my  soul  it  was  the 
most  painful  interview  I  ever  had.  There  is 
nothing  on  earth  so  stupid  as  the  twaddle  of 
a  sick  old  lord,  especially  when  repenting  for 
his  sins.  Eepentance  !  I  can't  at  all  under- 
stand that  word  ;  but  I  think  the  style  of  the 
thing  in  the  old  fellow's  hands  was  decidedly 
bad — inartistic,  as  they  say,  and  without 
taste  ;  a  man,  at  all  events,  should  repent 
like  a  gentleman.  As  far  as  I  can  guess  at 
it,  I  think  there  ought  to  be  considerable 
elegance  of  manner  iu  rejientance — a  kind  of 
genteel  ambiguity,  that  should  seem  to  jkiz- 
zle  the  world  as  to  whether  you  weep  for  or 
against  the  sin  ;  or  perhaps  repentance  should 
say — as  I  suppose  it  often  does — '  D — n  me, 
this  is  no  humbug  ;  this,  look  you,  is  a  grand 
process — I  know  what  I'm  about ;  let  the 
world  look  on  ;  I  have  committed  a  great 
many  naughty  things  during  my  past  life  ;  I 
am  now  able  to  commit  no  more  ;  the  power 
of  doing  so  has  abandoned  me  ;  and  I  call 
gods  and  men  to  witness  that  I  am  very  sorry 
for  it.' — Now,  that,  in  my  opinion,  would  be 
a  good  style  of  thing.  Let  me  see,  however, 
what  the  venerable  earl  can  mean.  I  am 
thi'eatened,  am  I?  Well,  but  nothing  can 
affect  the  title  ;  of  that  I'm  sure  when  the 
cue,  'exit  old  peer,'  comes;  then,  as  to  the 
property  ;  why,  he  is  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  the  Irish  peerage,  although  he  is  an 
English  one  also.  Then,  what  the  deuce  can 
his  thi'eats  mean  ?  I  don't  know — j)erhaps  he 
does  not  know  himself ;  but,  in  any  event, 
and  to  guard  against  all  accidents,  I'll  push 
on  this  marriage  as  fast  as  j^ossible  ;  for,  in 
case  anything  unexpected  and  disagreeable 
should  happen,  it  will  be  a  good  move  to  have 
something  handsome — something  certain,  to 
fall  back  upon." 

Having  dressed,  he  ordered  his  horse,  and 
rode  out  to  the  Phoenix  Park,  accompanied 
by  his  shadow,  Norton,  who  had  returned, 
and  heard  with  much  mirth  a  full  history  of 
the  interview,  with  a  glowing  description  oi 
the  stand  wliich  Dunroe  made  for  him- 
self. 


504 


WILLIA2I  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


CHiVPTEE  XXX. 

A  Courtsliip  on  Novel  Principles. 

Having  stated  that  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
requested  Duuroe  to  postpone  an  interview 
with  Lucv  imtil  her  health  should  become 
reestablished,  we  feel  it  necessaiy  to  take  a 
glance  at  the  kind  of  life  the  unfortunate 
girl  led  from  the  day  she  made  the  sacrifice 
until  that  at  which  we  have  arrived  in  this 
nai'rative.  Since  that  moment  of  unutter- 
able anguish  her  spirits  comjiletely  aban- 
doned her.  Naturally  healthy  she  had  ever 
been,  but  now  she  began  to  feel  what  the 
want  of  it  meant ;  a  feeling  which  to  her,  as 
the  gradual  jsrecursor  of  death,  and  its  con- 
sequent release  fi-om  sorrow,  brought  some- 
thing like  hope  and  consolation.  Yet  this 
was  not  much  ;  for  we  know  that  to  the 
young  heart  entering  upon  the  world  of  life 
and  enjoyment,  the  prospect  of  early  disso- 
lution, no  matter  by  what  hojoes  or  by  what 
resignation  sujjported,  is  one  so  completely 
at  variance  with  the  mysterious  gift  of  exis- 
tence and  the  natural  tenacity  with  which 
we  cling  to  it,  that,  like  the  drugs  which  we 
so  reluctantly  take  diuing  illness,  its  taste 
uj)on  the  sijirit  is  little  else  than  bitterness 
itself.  Lucy's  appetite  failed  her  ;  she  could 
not  endure  society,  but  courted  solitude, 
and  scarcely  saw  any  one,  unless,  indeed, 
her  father  occasionally,  and  her  maid  Alley 
Mahon,  when  her  attendance  was  necessary. 
She  became  pale  as  a  shadow,  began  to  have 
a  wasted  a2:>pearance,  and  the  very  fountains 
of  her  heart  seemed  to  have  dried  up,  for 
she  found  it  impossible  to  shed  a  tear.  A 
Sty,  cold,  impassive  agony,  silent,  insidious, 
and  exhausting,  appeared  to  absorb  the  very 
elements  of  life,  and  reduce  her  to  a  condi- 
tion of  such  physical  and  morbid  incapacity 
as  to  feel  an  utter  inability,  or  at  aU  events 
disinclination,  to  complain. 

Her  father's  interviews  with  her  were  not 
frec^uent.  That  worthy  man,  however,  looked 
upon  aU  her  sufferings  as  the  mere  piniugs 
of  a  self-wiUed  girl,  lovesick  and  sentimental, 
such  as  he  had  sometimes  heard  of,  or  read 
in  booljs,  and  only  worthy  to  be  laughed  at 
and  treated  with  contempt.  He  himself  was 
now  ^progressing  in  an  o25posite  direction,  so 
far  as  health  was  concerned,  to  that  of  his 
daiighter.  In  other  words,  as  she  got  ill,  he 
gradually,  and  with  a  progress  beautifully 
adapted  to  the  accomjiUshment  of  liis  i>ro- 
jects,  kejit  on  recovering.  This  fact  was 
Lucy's  principal,  almost  her  sole  consola- 
tion ;  for  here,  although  she  had  sacrificed 
herself,  she  experienced  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  that  the  sacrifice  was  not  iu  vain. 

But,  after   all,   and    notwitlistanding   his 


base  and  ungodly  riews  of  life,  let  us  ask, 
had  the  baronet  no  painful  visitations  of  re- 
morse in  contemplating  the  fading  form  and 
the  silent  but  hopeless  agony  of  his  daugh- 
ter ?  Did  conscience,  which  in  his  bosom  ot 
stone  indulged  in  an  almost  unbroken  slum- 
ber, never  awaken  to  scourge  his  hardened 
spirit  with  her  whip  of  snakes,  and  raise  the 
gloomy  curtain  that  concealed  from  him  the 
dark  and  tumultuous  fires  that  await  pre- 
meditated guilt  and  impenitence?  "We  an- 
swer, he  was  man.  Sometimes,  especially  in 
the  solemn  hours  of  night,  he  experienced 
brief  periods,  not  of  remorse,  much  less  of 
repentance,  but  of  dark,  diabolical  guilt — 
conscious  guilt,  unmitigated  by  either  jjeui- 
tence  or  remorse,  as  might  have  taught  his 
daughter,  coiild  she  have  known  them,  how 
little  she  herself  suft'ered  in  comparison  with 
him.  These  dreadful  moments  remmd  one 
of  the  heavings  of  some  mighty  volcano, 
when  occasioned  by  the  internal  strugghugs 
of  the  fire  that  is  raging  within  it,  the  power 
and  fury  of  which  may  be  estimated  by  the 
terrible  glimpses  which  rise  up,  blazing  and 
smouldering  from  its  stormy  crater. 

"  What  am  I  about  ? "  he  would  say 
"  "WTiat  a  black  jjrospect  does  life  i^resent  to 
me  !  I  fear  I  am  a  bad  man.  Could  it  be 
possible  now,  that  there  ai'e  thousands  of 
persons  in  life  who  have  committed  gi-eat 
crimes  in  the  face  of  society,  who,  neverthe- 
less, are  not  responsible  for  half  my  guilt  ? 
Is  it  jjossible  that  a  man  may  pass  through 
the  world,  looking  on  it  with  a  jjlausible 
asjiect,  and  yet  become,  from  the  natui-al 
iniquity  of  his  disi^osition  and  the  habitual 
influence  of  present  and  jierpetual  evil  ■nithin 
him,  a  man  of  darker  and  more  extended 
guilt  than  the  murderer  or  robber  ?  Is  it, 
then,  the  isolated  crime,  the  crime  that 
springs  fi'om  impulse,  or  passion,  or  provo- 
cation, or  revenge  ? — or  is  it  the  black  un- 
broken iniquity  of  the  spu'it,  that  consti- 
tutes the  greater  ofl'euce,  or  the  greater 
offender  against  society "?  Am  I,  then,  one  of 
those  reprobates  of  life  in  whom  there  is 
everything  adverse  to  good  and  friendly  to 
evil,  yet  who  jiass  through  existence  with  a 
high  head,  and  look  upon  the  public  criminal 
and  felon  witli  abhorrence  or  affected  comjjas- 
sion?  But  why  investigate  myself?  Here  I 
am  ;  and  that  fact  is  the  utmost  limit  to  whieh 
m_y  inquiries  and  investigations  can  go.  I 
am  what  I  am  :  besides,  I  did  not  form  nor 
create  myself.  I  am  difi'ercut  from  my 
daiighter,  she  is  different  fi'om  me.  I  am 
different  from  most  people.  In  what  ?  May 
I  not  have  a  destined  purpose  in  creation  to 
fulfil ;  and  is  it  not  probable  that  mj-  natu- 
ral disposition  has  been  bestowed  upon  ms 
for  the  purpose  of  fulfilluig  it  ?    Yet  if  idl 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


SOS 


were  right,  how  account  for  these  dreadful 
and  agonizing  ghmpses  of  my  inner  life 
which  occasionaHy  visit  me  ?  But  I  dare  say 
every  man  feels  them.  "WTiat  are  they,  after 
all,  but  the  superstitious  operations  of  con- 
science— of  that  grim  spectre  which  is  con- 
jured up  by  the  ridiculous  fables  of  the 
priest  and  nurse  ?  Conscience  !  "SATiy,  its 
fearful  tribunal  is  no  test  of  truth.  The 
wi-etched  anchorite  v^dll  often  exf)erience  as 
much  remorse  if  he  neglect  to  scourge  his 
miserable  carcass,  as  the  murderer  who 
sheds  the  blood'  of  man — or  more.  Away 
with  it !  I  am  but  a  fool  for  allowing  it  to 
disturb  me  at  all,  or  mar  my  projects." 

In  this  manner  would  he  attempt  to  reason 
himself  out  of  these  dreadful  visitations,  by 
the  shallow  sophistry  of  the  scejjtic  and 
infidel. 

The  time,  however,  he  thought,  was  now 
approaching  when  it  was  necessary  that 
something  should  be  done  with  resjiect  to 
Lucy's  approaching  marriage.  He  accord- 
ingly sent  for  her,  and  having  made  very 
affectionate  inquiries  after  her  health,  for  he 
had  not  for  a  moment  changed  the  aft'ected 
tenderness  of  his  manner,  he  asked  if  she 
believed  lierseK  capable  of  granting  an  in- 
terview to  Lord  Dunroe.  Lucj',  now  that 
escape  from  the  frightful  penalty  of  her  olie- 
dience  was  impossible,  deemed  it,  after 
much  pamful  reflection,  better  to  submit 
with  as  little  ajoparent  reluctance  as  possi- 
ble. 

"  I  fear,  papa,"  she  said,  in  tones  that 
would  have  touched  and  softened  any  heart 
but  that  to  which  she  addressed  herself,  "  I 
fear  that  it  is  useless  to  wait  until  I  am  bet- 
ter. I  feel  my  strength  declining  every  day, 
without  any  hope  of  improvement.  I  may 
therefore  as  well  see  him  now  as  at  a  future 
time." 

"  My  dear  Lucy,  I  know  that  you  enter 
into  this  engagement  with  reluctance.  I 
know  that  you  do  it  for  my  sake  ;  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  j'our  fihal  piety  and 
obedience  wiU  be  attended  with  a  blessing. 
After  marriage  you  wiU  find  that  change  of 
scene,  Duuroe's  tenderness,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  enlivening  society,  will  completely 
restore  yoiu-  health  and  sinrits.  Duuroe's  a 
ratthng,  pleasant  fellow  ;  and  notwithstand- 
ing his  escapades,  has  an  excellent  heart. 
Tut,  my  dear  child,  after  a  few  months  you 
will  yourself  smile  at  these  girlish  serujiles, 
and  thank  papa  for  forcing  you  into  happi- 
ness." 

Lucy's  large  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  him 
while  he  spoke,  and  as  he  concluded,  two 
big  tears,  the  first  she  had  shed  for  weeks, 
stood  witliin  their  lids.  They  seemed,  how- 
ever,  but  visionarj- ;  for  although  thej'  did 


fall  they  soon  disajJiDeared,  having  been  ab- 
sorbed, as  it  were,  into  the  source  from 
which  they  came,  by  the  feverish  heat  of  hei 
brain. 

"It  is  enough,  papa,"  she  said;  "I  am 
wiUing  to  see  him — willing  to  see  him 
whenever  you  wish.  I  am  in  your  liands, 
and  neither  you  nor  he  need  apprehend  any 
further  opposition  from  me." 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Lucy  ;  and  you  may 
believe  me  again  that  this  admirable  con- 
duct of  j'ours  win  have  its  reward  in  a  long 
Ufe  of  future  happiness." 

"  Future  hap2Jiness,  papa,"  she  replied, 
with  a  pecuhar  emphasis  on  the  word  ;  "I 
hope  so.     May  I  withdraw,  su-  ?  " 

"  You  may,  my  deai-  child.  God  bless  and 
reward  you,  Lucy.  It  is  to  your  duty  I  owe 
it  that  I  am  a  H^dng  man — that  you  have  a 
father." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  sat  down  to  his 
desk,  and  without  losing  a  moment  sent  a 
note  to  Dimroe,  of  which  the  following  is  a 
copy : 

"  My  dear  Lord  Dunkoe, — I  am  happy  to 
tell  you  that  Lucy  is  getting  on  famously. 
Of  course  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  these 
vaporish  affections  are,  with  most  young 
giiis,  nothing  but  the  performance  of  the 
2iart  which  they  choose  to  act  before  marri- 
age ;  the  mere  mists  of  the  morning,  poor 
wenches,  which  only  prognosticate  for  them- 
selves and  their  husbands  an  unclouded  day. 
All  this  make-believe  is  very  natural ;  and  it 
is  a  good  joke,  besides,  to  see  them  pout 
and  look  grave,  and  whine  and  cry,  and 
sometimes  do  the  hysteric,  whilst  they  are 
all  the  time  d_ying  in  secret,  the  hypocritical 
baggages,  to  get  themselves  transformed  in- 
to matrons.  Don't,  therefore,  be  a  whit 
surprised  or  alai-med  if  you  find  Sliss  Lucy 
in  the  pout — she  is  only  a  girl,  after  all,  and 
has  her  little  part  to  i)lay,  as  well  as  the  best 
of  them.  Still,  such  a  change  is  often  in  real- 
ity a  serious  one  to  a  young  woman  ;  and 
you  need  not  be  told  that  no  animal  will  al- 
low itseK  to  be  caught  without  an  effort. 
When  you  see  her,  therefore,  pluck  up  your 
spirits,  rattle  away,  laugh  and  jest,  so  as,  if 
possible,  to  get  her  into  good  humor,  and 
there  is  no  danger  of  you.  Or  stay — I  am 
^vl•ong.  Had  you  followed  this  advice,  it 
would  have  j^layed  the  deuce  v^dth  you. 
Don't  be  men-y.  On  tlie  contrary,  puU  a 
long  face — be  grave  and  seriovis  ;  and  if  you 
can  imitate  the  manner  of  one  of  those  fel- 
lows who  pass  for  young  men  of  decided  pi- 
ety, you  were  notliiug  but  a  made  man. 
Have'  you  a  Bible  ?  If  you  have,  commit 
half-a-dozen  texts  to  memoi-y,  and  inter- 
sperse them  judiciously  through  your  con- 


506 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S    WORKS. 


versation.  Talk  of  the  vanity  of  life,  the 
comforts  of  religion,  and  the  beauty  of  hoU- 
ness.  But  don't  overdo  the  thing  either. 
Just  assume  the  f)art  of  a  young  jierson  on 
whose  mind  the  truth  is  beginning  to  open, 
because  Lucy  knows  now  very  well  that 
these  rapid  transitions  are  suspicious.  At 
all  events,  you  will  do  the  best  you  can  ;  and 
if  you  are  here  to-morrow — say  about  three 
o'clock — she  will  see  you. 
"  Ever,  my  dear  Dunroe, 

"  Faithfully,  j'our  father-in-law  that  is 
to  be, 

Thomas  Gourlay." 

This  precious  epistle  Dunroe  found  upon 
his  table  after  returning  from  his  ride  in  the 
Phoenix  Park  ;  and  having  perused  it,  he  im- 
mediately rang  for  Noi-ton,  from  whom  he 
thought  it  was  much  too  good  a  thing  to  be 
concealed. 

"  Norton,"  said  he,  "I  am  beginning  to 
think  that  this  black  fellow,  the  baronet,  is 
not  such  a  disgraceful  old  scoundrel  as  I  had 
thought  him.  There's  not  a  bad  thing  in  its 
way — read  it." 

Norton,  after  throwing  his  eye  over  it, 
laughed  heartily. 

"  Egad,"  said  he,  "  that  fellow  has  a  pret- 
ty knowledge  of  hfe  ;  but  it  is  well  he  re- 
covered himself  in  the  instructions,  for,  from 
all  that  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Gomiay,  his 
first  code  would  have  ruined  you,  sure 
enough." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  will  break  down,  however, 
in  the  hypocrisy.  I  failed  cursedly  with  the 
old  peer,  and  am  not  Ukely  to  be  more  suc- 
cessful with  her." 

"  Indeed,  I  question  whether  hypocrisy 
would  sit  well  upon  one  who  has  been  so 
undisguised  an  offender.  The  vei-y  assump- 
tion of  it  requires  some  training.  I  think  a 
work  to  be  called  '  Preparations  for  Hj^joc- 
risy  '  would  be  a  great  book  to  the  general 
mass  of  mankind.  You  cannot  boimd  at 
one  step  from  the  licentious  to  the  hypocrit- 
ical, unless,  indeed,  ujion  the  convenient 
principle  of  instantaneous  conversion.  The 
thing  must  be  done  decently,  and  by  judici- 
ous gradations,  nor  is  the  transition  attend- 
ed with  much  difficulty,  in  consequence  of 
the  natural  tendency  which  hypocrisy  and 
profligacy  always  have  to  meet.  iStill,  I  tliink 
you  ought  to  attempt  the  thing.  Get  by  heart, 
as  her  father  advises,  half-a-dozen  serious 
texts  of  Scripture,  and  drop  one  in  now  and 
then,  such  as,  'All  flesh  is  gi-ass.'  'Suffi- 
cient unto  the  day  is  thee^-il  thereof.'  'He 
that  mari'ieth  not  doth  well,  but  he  that 
man-ieth  doth  better.'  To  be  sure,  there  is 
a  slight  inversion  of  text  here,  but  then  it  is 
made  more  apju-o^Miate." 


"  None  of  these  texis,  however,"  replied 
his  lordship,  "  except  the  last,  are  ajypUcable 
to  maiTiage." 

"  So  much  the  better  ;  that  wiU  show  hei 
that  you  can  think  of  other  and  more  serioua 
things." 

"  But  there  are  very  few  things  more 
serious,  my  boy." 

"  At  all  events,"  proceeded  the  other,  "  it 
will  be  original,  and  originahty,  you  know, 
is  yotu-ybrte.  I  believe  it  is  sujjposed  that  she 
has  no  great  relish  for  this  match,  and  is  not 
overburdened  with  affection  for  you  ?  " 

"  She  must  have  changed,  though,"  repHed 
his  lordship,  "  or  she  wouldn't  have  consent- 
ed." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  if  she  should  candidly 
tell  you  that  she  does  not  like  you — wlij-,  in 
that  case,  your  originahty  must  bear  you  out. 
Start  some  new  and  original  theory  on  mar- 
riage ;  say,  for  instance,  that  your  principle 
is  not  to  marry  a  girl  who  does  love  you,  but 
rather  one  who  feels  the  other  way.  Dwell 
fearfully  on  the  danger  of  love  before  mar- 
riage ;  and  thus  strike  out  strongly  upon  the 
advantages  of  indifference — honest  indiffer- 
ence. By  this  means  you  will  meet  all  her 
objections,  and  be  able  to  cajjsize  her  on 
every  point." 

"  Norton,"  said  his  lordship,  "  I  think  you 
are  right.  My  originahty  will  carry  the  day  ; 
but  in  the  meantime  you  miist  give  me  further 
instructions  on  the  subject,  so  that  I  may  be 
prepared  at  all  points." 

"  By  the  by,  Dimroe,  you  will  be  a  hapjiy 
fellow.  I  am  told  she  is  a  mag-niflcent  crea- 
ture ;  beautiful,  sensible,  brOiiaut,  and  mis- 
tress of  many  languages." 

"  Not  to  be  compared  with  the  blonde, 
though." 

"I  cannot  say,"  replied  Norton,  "having 
not  yet  seen  her.  You  will  get  very  loud  ol 
her,  of  course." 

"  Fond — 'gad,  I  hope  it  ■will  never  come  to 
that  with  me.  The  moment  a  man  suffers 
himself  to  become  fond  of  Iris  wife,  he  had 
better  order  his  Bible  and  Praj-er-book  at 
once — it  is  all  up  with  him." 

"  I  grant  you  it's  an  unfoitunate  condition 
to  get  into  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  once 
you  are  in,  it  is  next  to  an  impossibility  to  get 
out.  Of  course,  you  will  take  care  to  avoid 
it,  for  your  own  sake,  and,  if  you  have  no  ob- 
jection, for  mine.  Perhaps  her  ladyship 
may  take  a  fancy  to  sujjjiort  the  venerable 
peer  against  me  in  recommending  the  pro- 
cess of  John  Thrustout.  If  so,  Dunroe,  v.hat- 
ever  hapjiiuess  your  marriage  may  bring 
yom-self,  it  will  bring  nothing  but  bitterness 
and  calamity  to  me.  I  am  now  so  much  ac- 
customed— so  much — so  much — hang  it,  why 
conceal  it '? — so  much  attached  and  do\oted 


THE  BLACK  BAEOJ^ET. 


507 


to  you — that  a  separation  would  be  the  same 
as  death  to  me." 

'•'  Never  fear,  Norton,"  repUed  Dunroe,  "  I 
have  not  yielded  to  my  father  on  this  point, 
neither  sluiU  I  to  my  wife.  Happen  vi'hat 
may,  my  fi-iend  must  never  be  given  up  for 
the  whim  of  any  one.  But,  indeed,  you  need 
entertain  no  apprehensions.  I  am  not  mar- 
rj-ing  the  girl  for  love,  so  that  she  is  not 
likely  to  gain  any  ascendancy  whatever  over 
me.  It  is  her  fortune  and  jjroiDerty  that  have 
attracted  mij  affections,  just  as  the  title  she 
will  enjoy  has  inveigled  those  of  the  old 
father." 

Norton,  in  deep  emotions  of  gratitude, 
ably  sustained,  had  akeadj'  seized  the  hand 
of  his  fjatron,  and  was  about  to  reply — but 
the  effort  was  too  much  for  liim  ;  his  heart 
was  too  fuU  ;  he  felt  a  choking ;  so,  clapping 
his  handkerchief  to  his  face  with  one  hand, 
and  the  other  uj)on  his  heart,  he  rushed  out 
of  the  room,  lest  Dunroe  might  perceive  the 
incredible  force  of  his  affection  for  him. 

The  next  day,  when  Dunroe  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  the  di-awing-room,  Lucy,  before 
descending,  felt  as  one  may  be  supjsosed  to 
do  who  stands  upon  the  brow  of  a  preci- 
pice, conscious  at  the  same  time  that  not 
only  is  retreat  from  this  terrible  position 
impossible,  but  that  the  phmge  must  be 
made.  On  this  occasion  she  exjserienced 
none  of  that  fierce  energy  which  sometimes 
results  from  desi:)air,  and  which  one  might 
imagine  to  have  been  in  accordance  with 
her  candid  and  generous  character,  when 
driven  as  she  was  to  such  a  stej).  On  the 
contrary,  she  felt  calm,  cold,  and  apathe- 
tic. Her  pulse  could  scarcely  be  perceived 
by  Alley  Mahon  ;  and  aU  the  physical  powers 
of  life  within  her  seemed  as  if  about  to  sus- 
pend their  functions.  Her  reason,  however, 
was  clear,  even  to  torture.  Those  tumultu- 
ous vibrations  of  the  spirit — those  confused 
images  and  unsettled  thoughts  of  the  brain  ; 
and  aU  those  excited  emotions  of  the  heart, 
that  are  usTially  called  into  existence  in  com- 
mon minds  by  such  scenes,  woidd  have  been 
to  her  as  a  relief,  in  comparison  to  what  she 
experienced.  In  her  case  there  was  a  tran- 
quniity  of  agony — a  quiet,  unresisting  sub- 
mission— a  gentle  bowing  of  the  neck  to 
the  stake,  at  the  sacrifice  that  resulted  fi'om 
the  clear  perception  of  her  great  mind,  which 
thus,  by  its  very  facility  of  aijprehension, 
magnified  the  torture  she  suffered.  Whilst 
descending  the  stairs,  she  felt  such  a  sinking 
of  the  soul  within  her,  as  the  unhapjjy  wi'etch 
does  who  ascends  fi'om  those  which  lead  to 
that  deadly  jjlatforra  from  which  is  taken  the 
terrible  spring  into  eternity. 

On  entering  the  room  she  saw  herself  in 
the  large  mirror  that  adorned  the  mantel- 


piece, and  felt  for  the  first  time  as  if  aU  this 
was  some  dreadfid  dream.  The  reahty,  how- 
ever, of  the  misei'y  she  felt  was  too  strongly 
in  her  heart  to  suffer  this  consoling  fiction, 
l^ainful  even  though  it  was,  to  remain.  The 
next  moment  she  found  Lord  Dunroe  doing 
her  homage  and  obeisance,  an  obeisance 
which  she  returned  with  a  lady-hke  but  mel- 
ancholy grace,  that  might  have  told  to  any 
other  obseiwer  the  sufferings  she  felt,  and  the 
sacrifice  she  was  making. 

Dunroe,  with  as  much  politeness  as  he 
could  assume,  handed  her  to  the  sofa,  close 
to  which  he  drew  a  chair,  and  opened  the 
dialogue  as  follows  : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  have  not 
been  well.  Miss  Goiulay.  Life,  however,  is 
uncertain,  and  we  should  always  be  prepared 
— at  least,  so  says  Scripture.  All  flesh  is 
grass,  I  think  is  the  expression — ahem." 

Lucy  looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of  aston- 
ishment ;  and,  indeed,  we  think  our  readers 
wUl  scarcely  feel  surprised  that  she  did  so  ; 
the  reflection  being  anything  but  adapted  to 
the  oiDening  of  a  love  scene. 

"  Your  observation,  my  lord,"  she  replied, 
"  is  very  true — too  true,  for  we  rarely  make 
due  prejiaration  for  death." 

"But  I  can  conceive,  readUy  enough,"  re- 
phed  his  lordship,  "  why  the  man  that  wrote 
the  Scripture  used  the  expression.  Death, 
you  know  Miss  Gourlay,  is  always  repre- 
sented as  a  mower,  bearing  a  honible  scythe, 
and  an  hour-glass.  Now,  a  mower,  you 
know,  cuts  down  grass  ;  and  there  is  the 
origin  of  the  similitude." 

"  And  a  very  aj^propriate  one  it  is,  I 
think,"  observed  Lucy. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  it  is  ;  but  somewhat 
vulgar  though.  I  should  be  disposed  to 
say,  now,  that  the  man  who  wrote  that  must 
have  been  a  mower  himself  originally. " 

Lucy  made  no  reply  to  this  sapient  obser- 
vation. His  lordship,  however,  who  seemed 
to  feel  that  he  had  started  upon  a  wrong 
principle,  if  not  a  disagreealjle  one,  went 
on  : 

"It  is  not,  however,  to  talk  of  death, 
Miss  Gourlay,  that  we  have  met,  but  of  a  very 
different  and  much  more  agreeable  subject 
— marriage." 

"To  me,  my  lord,"  she  replied,  "  death  is 
the  more  agi'eeable  of  the  two." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  Miss  Gourlay  ; 
but  I  think  you  are  in  low  spirits,  and  that 
accounts  for  it.  Your  father  tells  me,  how- 
ever, that  I  have  your  j^ermission  to  urge 
ray  humble  claims.  He  says  you  have 
kmdly  and  generously  consented  to  look 
upon  me,  all  unworthy  as  I  feel  I  am,  as 
your  future  husband." 

"  It  is  true,  my  lord,  I  have  consented  to 


508 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJSf'S  WOIiKS. 


tliis  projected  union  ;  but  I  feel  that  it  is  due 
to  your  lordship  to  state  that  I  have  done  so 
under  very  painful  and  most  distressing  cu'- 
cumstances.  It  is  better  I  should  speak 
novF,  my  lord,  than  at  a  future  day.  My 
father's  miud  has  been  seized  by  an  imac- 
couutable  ambition  to  see  me  your  ■n'ife. 
This  preyed  uj)on  him  so  severely  that  he 
became  dangerously  ill."  Here,  however, 
from  delicacy  to  the  baronet,  she  checked 
herself,  but  added,  "  Yes,  my  lord,  I  have 
consented  ;  but,  understand  me — you  have 
not  my  affections." 

"  Why,  as  to  that.  Miss  Gourlay,  I  have 
myself  peculiiu"  ojiiuions  ;  and  I  am  glad 
that  they  avail  me  here.  You  wiU  think  it 
odd,  now,  that  I  had  made  my  mind  up 
never  to  marry  a  woman  who  loved  me. 
This  is  really  fortunate." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  don't ;  but  I  shall 
make  myself  intelligible  as  well  as  I  can. 
Love  before  marriage,  in  my  opinion,  is  ex- 
ceedingly dangerous  to  future  happiness ; 
and  I  wiU  teU  you  why  I  think  so.  lu  the 
first  place,  a  gi'eat  deal  of  that  fuel  which 
feeds  the  post-matrimonial  flame  is  bui'ned 
away  and  wasted  unnecessarily  ;  the  imagi- 
nation, too,  is  raised  to  a  ridiciUous  and  most 
enthusiastic  expectatiou  of  perpetual  bliss 
and  ecstasy ;  then  comes  disapjjoiutment, 
eoohiess,  indifterence,  and  the  lights  go  out 
for  want  of  the  fuel  I  mentioned  ;  and  alto- 
gether the  domestic  Ufe  becomes  rather  a 
ciuH  and  tedious  affair.  The  wife  wonders 
that  the  husband  is  no  longer  a  lover  ;  and 
the  husband  cannot  for  the  soul  of  him  see 
all  the — the — the — ahem  ! — I  scarcely  know 
what  to  call  them — that  enchanted  him  be- 
fore marriage.  Then,  you  perceive,  that 
when  love  is  necessary,  the  fact  comes  out 
that  it  was  most  injudiciously  expended  be- 
fore the  day  of  necessity.  Both  ijai-ties 
feel,  in  fact,  that  the  isroperty  has  been  pre- 
maturely squandered — like  many  another 
property' — and  when  it  is  wanted,  there  is 
nothing  to  faU  back  iipon.  I  wish  to  God 
aft'ection  could  be  funded,  so  that  when  a 
mai'ried  couple  found  themselves  low  in 
pocket  m  that  commodity  they  could  draw 
the  interest  or  sell  out  at  once." 

' '  And  what  can  you  expect,  my  lord,  fi'om 
those  who  marry  without  affection  ?  "  asked 
tiucy. 

"  Ten  chances  for  happiness,"  replied  his 
lordship,  "  for  one  that  results  fi'om  love. 
WTien  such  persons  meet,  mark  you.  Miss 
Gourlay,  they  are  not  enveloped  in  an  arti- 
ficial veil  of  splendor,  which  the  cares  of 
life,  and  occasionally  a  better  knowledge  of 
each  other,  cause  to  dissolve  from  about 
ttiem,  leaving  them  stripi^ed  of  those  imag- 


inary qualities  of  mind  and  person  which 
never  had  any  existence  at  aU,  except  in 
their  hj'pochondriae  brains,  when  love- 
stricken  ;  whereas,  your  honest,  matter-of- 
fact  people  come  together — first  with  indif- 
ference, and,  as  there  is  nothing  angelic  to 
be  expected  on  either  side,  there  is  conse- 
quently no  disajjpointment.  There  has,  in 
fact,  been  no  seutimeutal  fi\aud  committed 
— no  swindle  of  the  heart — for  love,  too, 
hke  its  relation,  knavery,  has  its  black-legs, 
and  verj'  fi'equentlj'  raises  credit  uj^on  false 
pretences  ;  the  consec^uence  is,  that  jjlain 
honesty  begins  to  produce  its  natural  effects." 

"  Can  this  man,"  thought  Lucy,  "  have 
been  taking  lessons  fi'om  papa  ?  And  pray, 
my  lord."  she  i^roceeded,  "  what  are  those 
effects  which  miu'riage  without  love  pro- 
duces ?  " 

"  WTiy,  a  good  honest  indifference,  in  the 
first  place,  which  keeps  the  heart  easy  and 
somewhat  indolent  withal.  There  is  none 
of  that  shai'23  jealousy  which  is  perjaetually 
on  the  spy  for  offence.  None  of  that  jjull- 
ing  and  pouting — falling  out  and  falling  in 
— which  are  ever  the  accessories  of  love. 
On  the  contrary,  honest  indifl'ereuce  minds 
the  family — honest  indifference,  mark,  buys 
the  beef  and  mutton,  reckons  the  household 
linen — eschews  parties  and  all  places  of  fash- 
ionable resort,  attends  to  the  children — sees 
them  educated,  bled,  bhstered,  et  cetera, 
when  necessary  ;  and,  what  is  stQl  better, 
looks  to  their  religion,  hears  them  theii- 
catechism,  brings  them,  in  their  clean  bibs 
and  tuckers,  to  church,  and  rewards  that 
one  who  carries  home  most  of  the  sermon 
with  a  large  lump  of  sugar-candy." 

"  These  are  very  original  views  of  mar- 
riage, ray  lord." 

"Aha!"  thought  his  lordship,  "I  knew 
the  originality  would  cateli  her." 

"  ^Miy,  the  fact  is,  Miss  Gourlay,  that  I 
believe — at  least  I  think  I  may  say — that 
origiuahty  is  my  forte.  I  have  a  horror 
against  everything  common." 

"I  thought  so,  my  lord,"  rejjhed  Lucy; 
"  your  sense,  for  instance,  is  anything  but 
common  sense." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  flatter  me.  Miss  Gour- 
lay, but  3'ou  speak  very  truly  ;  and  that  is 
because  I  always  think  for  myself — I  do  not 
wish  to  be  measured  by  a  common  standard." 

"  You  are  veiy  right,  my  lord  ;  it  \\'ould  be 
difficult,  I  fear,  to  find  a  common  standard  to 
measure  you  by.  One  would  imagine,  for 
instance,  that  you  have  beer  on  this  principle 
absolutely  studying  the  subject  of  matri- 
mony. At  least,  you  ai-e  the  first  person  I 
have  ever  met  who  has  succeeded  Lu  com- 
pletely stripping  it  of  common  sense,  and 
there  I  must  admit  yoiu-  originaUty." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


509 


■''  Gad  !  "  tliouglit  his  lordship,  "  I  have 
her  with  me — I  am  getting  on  famously." 

"  They  would  imagine  right,  Miss  Gour- 
lay  ;  these  princi^jles  are  the  result  of  a  deep 
and  laborious  investigation  into  that  mys- 
terious and  a^vful  topic.  Honest  indiiference 
has  no  intrigues,  no  elopements,  no  dis- 
graceful trials  for  criminal  conversation,  no 
divorces.  No  ;  yoiu-  lovers  in  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  when  they  tilt  with  each  other, 
do  it  sharply,  with  naked  weajions  ;  whereas, 
the  worthy  indifl'erents,  in  the  same  circum- 
stances, have  a  wholesome  regard  for  each 
other,  and  rattle  away  only  with  the  scab- 
bards. Upon  mj-  honor,  jMiss  Gourlay,  I  am 
quite  delighted  to  hear  that  you  are  not  at- 
tached to  me.  I  can  now  marry  upon  my 
own  principles.  It  is  not  my  intention  to 
coax,  and  fontUe,  and  tease  you  after  mar- 
riage ;  not  at  all.  I  shall  interfere  as  little 
as  i^ossible  with  your  Inbits,  and  3'ou,  I  trust, 
as  little  with  mine.  We  shall  see  each  other 
only  occasional!}',  sn\  at  church,  for  instance, 
for  I  hojJe  you  will  have  no  objection  to  ac- 
comisany  me  there.  Neither  m;m  nor  woman 
knows  what  is  due  to  society  if  they  pass 
through  the  world  without  the  comforts  of 
religion.  All  flesli — ahem  ! — no — sufficient 
unto  the  day — as  Scripture  says." 

"  Mj'  lord,  I  think  marriage  a  solemn  sub- 
ject, and " 

"  Most  people  find  it  so,  ]Miss  Gourlay." 

"  And  on  that  account  that  it  ought 

to  be  exempted  from  ridicule." 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  you,  IVIiss  Gourlay  : 
it  is  indeed  a  seriovis  subject,  and  ought  not 
to  be  sported  with  or  treated  lightly." 

"  My'lord,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  must  crave  your 
attention  for  a  few  moments.  I  believe  the 
object  of  this  interriew  is  to  satisfy  you  that 
I  have  given  the  consent  which  my  father 
required  and  entreated  of  me.  But,  my  lord, 
you  are  mistaken.  Our  union  cannot  take 
place  upon  your  j^rinei^sles,  and  for  this  rea- 
son, there  is  no  indifference  in  the  case,  so 
far,  at  least,  as  I  am  concerned.  It  would  not 
become  me  to  express  here,  under  my  father's 
roof,  the  sentiments  which  I  feel.  Your  own 
past  life,  my  lord — yoiu'  habits,  yoiu-  asso- 
ciates, may  enable  you  to  understand  them. 
It  is  enough  to  say,  that  in  wedding  you  I 
wed  misery,  wretchedness,  despair  ;  so  that, 
in  my  case,  at  least,  there  is  no  '  sentimental 
fraud '  committed." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  ]\Iiss  Gourlay  ;  your  con- 
duct, I  say,  is  candid  and  honorable  ;  and  I 
am  quite  s  itisfied  that  the  woman  who  has 
strength  of  mind  and  love  of  truth  to  practice 
this  candor  before  marriage,  gives  the  best 
security  for  fidelity  and  all  the  other  long 
list  of  matrimonial  virtues  afterwards.  I  am 
perfectly   charmed   with    your    sentiments. 


Indeed  I  was  scarcely  j)i'epared  for  this.  , 
Our  jjosition  will  be  delightful.  The  only 
thing  I  have  any  apjirehension  of  is,  lest  this 
wholesome  aversion  might  gradually  soften 
into  fondness,  which,  you  know,  would  be 
rather  unisleasant  to  us  both." 

"My  lord,"  replied  Lucy,  rising  up  with 
disdain  and  indignation  glowing  in  her  face, 
"  there  is  one  sentiment  due  to  every  woman 
whose  conduct  is  well  regulated  and  virtuous 
— that  sentiment  is,  respect.  From  you  on 
this  occasion,  at  least,  and  on  this  sixbject 
especially,  I  had  thought  myself  entitled  to 
it.  I  find  I  have  been  mistaken,  however. 
Such  a  sentiment  is  utterly  incompatible 
with  the  heartless  tirade  of  buffoonery  in 
which  you  have  indulged.  This  dialogue  is 
very  painful,  my  lord.  I  have  already  inti- 
mated to  you  that  I  am  prejsared  to  fulfil  the 
engagement  into  which  my  father  has  entered 
with  you.  I  know — I  feel  what  the  result 
will  be — you  are  to  consider  me  youi-  victim, 
my  lord,  as  well  as  your  wife." 

"  Excuse  me,  Tlliss  Gourlay,  I  was  utterly 
unconscious  of  any  buffoonery.  Upon  my 
honor,  I  expressed  on  the  subject  of  matri- 
mony no  principles  that  I  do  not  feel ;  but 
as  to  your  charge  of  disrespect,  I  solemnly 
assure  you  there  is  not  an  iudiridual  of  your 
sex  in  existence  whom  I  respect  more  highly; 
nor  do  I  believe  there  is  a  lady  hving  more 
signally  entitled  to  it  fi-om  all  who  have  the 
honor  to  know  her." 

"  Then,  if  you  be  serious,  my  lord,  it  be- 
trays a  painful  equality  between  your  under- 
standing and  your  heart.  No  man  with  such 
a  heart  should  enter  into  the  state  of  matii- 
mony  at  all ;  and  no  man  with  an  imder- 
standing  level  to  such  principles  is  capable 
either  of  communicating  or  receiving  happi- 
ness." 

"Well,  then,  suppose  I  say  that  I  shall 
submit  myself  in  everythmg  to  your  wishes  ?  " 

"  Then  I  should  reply,  that  the  husband 
capable  of  doing  so  would  experience  fi'om 
me  a  sentiment  little  short  of  contemjit. 
AMiat,  my  lord  !  so  soon  to  abandon  your 
favorite  principles  !  That  is  a  proof,  I  fear, 
that,  after  all,  you  place  but  little  value  on 
them." 

"  Well,  but  I  know  I  have  not  been  so 
good  a  boy  as  I  ought  to  have  been  ;  I  have 
been  naughty  now  and  th^  ;  and  as  I  in- 
tend to  reform,  I  shall  make  you  my  guide 
and  adviser.  I  assure  you,  I  am  perfectly 
serious  in  the  reformation.  It  shall  be  on 
quite  an  original  scale.  I  intend  to  reisent, 
Miss  Goiu-lay ;  but,  then,  my  repentance 
won't  be  commonpl'ce  repentance.  I  shall 
do  the  thing  with  an  aristocratic  feeling — or, 
in  other  words,  I  shall  repent  like  a  man  oi 
honor  and  a  gentleman.' 


510 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  ^YORKS. 


'Like  any  tiling  but  a  Christian,  my  lord, 
I  presume. " 

"  Just  so  ;  I  must  be  original  or  die.  I 
•wtU  give  up  pver\'thing ;  for,  after  all.  Miss 
Goiu'lay,  what  is  there  more  melancholy  than 
the  vanity  of  life — unless,  indeed,  it  be  the 
beauty  of  hoUuess — ahem!  All  flesh — no — 
I  rejieated  that  sweet  text  before.  He  that 
man-ieth  doth  well  ;  but  he  that  marrieth 
not  doth  better.  Suiiicieut  uuto  the  day — 
No,  hang  it,  I  think  I  misquoted  it.  I  be- 
lieve it  runs  con-ectly — He  that  giveth  'way, 
does  well  ;  but  he  that  giveth  not  'way,  does 
better  :  then,  I  believe,  comes  in.  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  What 
beautiful  and  apjji-opriate  texts  are  to  be 
found  in  Scripture,  Miss  Goiuiay  !  By  the 
way,  the  man  that  wrote  it  was  a  shrewd 
fellow  and  a  profound  thinker.  The  only  pity 
is,  that  the  work's  anonymous." 

Lucy  rose,  absolutely  sickened,  and  said, 
'■'My  lord,  excuse  me.  The  object  of  our 
interview  has  been  aceomi^lished,  and  as  I 
am  far  from  well,  you  will  permit  me  to 
withdraw.  In  the  meantime,  praj'  make 
whatever  arrangements  and  hold  whatever 
interviews  may  be  necessary  in  this  miserable 
and  wretched  business  ;  but  henceforth  they 
must  be  with  my  father." 

"You  are  surely  not  going.  Miss  Gour- 
lay?" 

She  replied  not,  but  turning  round,  seemed 
to  reflect  for  a  moment,  after  which  she 
spoke  as  follows  : 

"I  cannot  bring  myself  to  tliink,  my  lord, 
after  the  unusual  opinions  you  have  ex- 
pressed, that  you  have  been  for  one  moment 
serious  in  the  conversation  which  has  taken 
place  between  us.  Their  strangeness  and 
eccentricity  forbid  me  to  sujjpose  this  ;  and 
if  I  did  not  think  that  it  is  so,  and  that,  per- 
haps, you  are  making  an  experiment  upon 
my  temper  and  judgment,  for  some  purjjose 
at  present  inconceivable ;  and  if  I  did  not 
think,  besides,  notwithstanding  these  opin- 
ions, that  you  may  possess  sufficient  sense 
and  feeling  to  perceive  the  truth  and  object 
of  what  I  am  about  to  say,  I  would  not 
remain  one  moment  longer  in  your  society. 
I  request,  therefore,  that  you  will  be  serious 
for  a  little,  and  hear  me  with  attention,  and, 
what  is  more,  if  you  can,  with  sympathy. 
My  lord,  the  higbest  instance  of  a  great  and 
noble  mind  is  to  perform  a  generous  act ; 
and  when  you  hear  from  my  own  lips  the 
circumstances  which  I  am  about  to  state,  I 
would  hope  to  find  you  capable  of  such  an 
act.  I  am  now  appealing  to  your  generosity 
— your  disinterestedness — your  magnanimity 
(and  you  ought  to  be  proud  to  possess  these 
virtues) — to  all  those  princiijles  that  honor 
and  dignify  our  nature,  and  render  man  a 


great  example  to  his  kind.  My  lord,  1  am 
verj'  unhappy — I  am  miserable — 1  am 
WTetehed  ;  so  comjjletely  borne  down  by 
sufl'eilng  that  life  is  only  a  biu'den,  which  i 
will  not  be  able  long  to  bear  ;  and  you,  mr 
lord,  are  the  cause  of  all  this  anguish  and 
agony." 

"tJj)on  my  honor,  IJiliss  Gourlay,  I  am 
very  much  concerned  to  hear  it.  I  would 
rather  the  case  were  otherwise,  I  assure  you. 
Anything  that  I  can  do,  I  needn't  say,  I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  do  ;  but  proceed,  pray." 

"  My  lord,  I  throw  myself  upon  your  gen- 
erosity ;  do  you  possess  it  ?  Upon  your  feel- 
ing as  a  man,  upon  youi-  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man, I  implore,  I  entreat  you,  not  to  press 
this  unhappy  engagement.  I  imjilore  you 
for  my  sake,  for  the  sake  of  humanity,'  for 
the  sake  of  God  ;  and  if  that  will  not  weigh 
with  you,  then  I  ask  it  for  the  sake  of  yoiir 
own  honor,  which  will  be  tarnished  by 
pressing  it  on.  I  have  alreadj-  said  that  you 
possess  not  my  affections,  and  that  to  a  man 
of  honor  and  spirit  ought  to  be  sufficient ;  but 
I  will  go  farther,  and  say,  that  if  there  bs 
one  man  h^dng  against  a  imion  with  whom  I 
entertain  a  stronger  and  more  unconqi:er- 
able  aversion  than  another,  you  ai-e  that 
man." 

"  But  yoii  know,  Miss  Gourlay,  if  I  may 
interrupt  you  for  a  moment,  that  that  fact 
completely  falls  into  my  princijjles.  Tliere 
is  only  one  other  circumstance  wanting  to 
make  the  thing  complete  ;  but  j)erha25s  you 
will  come  to  it ;  at  least  I  hope  so.  Pray, 
proceed,  madam  ;  I  am  all  attention." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall  proceed  ;  be- 
cause I  would  not  that  my  conscience  should 
hereafter  reproach  me  for  having  left  any- 
thing undone  to  escape  this  miseiy.  Mj 
lord,  I  implore  you  to  spare  me  ;  force  me 
not  over  the  brow  of  this  dreadful  jirecipice  ; 
have  compassion  on  me — have  generosity — 
act  with  honor." 

"I  would  crown  you  with  honor,  if  I 
could.  Miss  Gourlay." 

"You  are  about  to  crown  me  with  fire,  my 
lord  ;  to  wring  my  sj)irit  with  torture  ;  to 
drive  me  into  distraction — despair — mad- 
ness. But  you  will  not  do  so.  You  know 
that  I  cannot  love  you.  I  am  not  to  blame  for 
this  ;  our  affections  ai-e  not  always  imder  oui- 
owai  control.  Have  pity  on  me,  then.  Lord 
Dvmroe.  Go  to  my  father,  and  tell  him  that 
you  will  not  be  a  consenting  party  to  my 
misery — and  accessory  to  my  death.  Say 
what  is  true  ;  that  as  I  neitlier  do  nor  can 
love  you,  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  and  the 
sijirit  of  a  man,  equally  forbid  you  to  act  im- 
generously  to  me  and  dishonorably  to  your- 
self. "VN'hat  man,  not  base  and  mean,  and 
sunk  farther  do^vn  in  degradation  of  s^vcA 


THE  BLxlCK  BARONET. 


511 


than  contempt  could  reach  him,  ■would  for  a 
moment  think  of  marrjing  a  woman  who, 
like  me,  can  neither  love  nor  honor  him  ?  Go, 
my  lord  ;  see  my  father  ;  teU  him  you  are  a 
man — an  Irish  gentleman " 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Gourlay,  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  considered  such." 

— "Tliat  justice,  humanity,  self-respect, 
and  a  regard  for  the  good  opinion  of  the 
world,  aU  combine  to  make  you  release  me 
from  this  engagement." 

"  Unfortunately,  Sliss  Gourlay,  I  have  it 
not  in  my  power,  even  if  I  were  ■^villing,  to 
release  you  fi-om  this  engagement.  I  am 
pledged  to  your  father,  and  cannot,  as  a  man 
of  honor  and  a  gentleman,  recede  fi'om  that 
pledge.  All  these  objections  and  difficulties 
only  bring  you  exactly  up  to  my  theory,  or 
very  near  it.  We  shall  marry  upon  very 
original  principles ;  so  that  altogether  the 
whole  ailair  is  very  gratifying  to  me.  I  had 
expectations  that  there  was  a  prior  attach- 
ment ;  but  that  would  be  too  much  to  hope 
for.     As  it  is,  I  am  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  Then,  my  lord,  allow  me  to  add  to  yoiu' 
satisfaction  by  assuring  you  that  mj'  heart  is 
wholly  and  unalterably  in  j)ossessiou  of  an- 
other ;  that  that  other  knows  it ;  and  that  I 
have  avowed  my  love  for  him  with  the  same 
truth  and  candor  with  which  I  now  say  that 
I  both  loathe  and  despise  you." 

"  I  pei'ceive  you  are  excited,  Miss  Gour- 
lay ;  but,  believe  me,  all  this  sentimental  af- 
fection for  another  wiU  soon  disappear  after 
marriage,  as  it  always  does  ;  and  your  eyes 
will  become  open  to  a  sense  of  youi-  enviable 
position.  Yes,  indeed,  you  will  live  to  won- 
der at  these  fi-eaks  of  a  heated  imagination  ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  the  day  will  come  when 
you  will  throw  your  arms  about  my  neck, 
and  exclaim,  '  Mj'  dear  Dunroe,  or  Culla- 
more  (you  will  then  be  my  countess,  I  hope), 
what  a  true  prophet  you  have  been !  And 
what  a  proof  it  was  of  youi-  good  sense  to 
overcome  my  early  foUy  !  I  really  thought 
at  the  time  that  I  was  in  love  with  an- 
other ;  but  you  knew  better.  Shan't  we 
spend  the  \Adnter  in  England,  my  love  ?  I 
am  sick  of  this  dull,  abominable  country, 
where  nobody  that  one  can  associate  with  is 
to  be  met ;  and  you  mustn't  forget  the  box 
at  the  Opera.'  Yes  ;  we  shall  have  an  odd 
scene  or  so  occasionally  of  that  sort  of 
thing  ;  and  no  doubt  be  as  happy  as  our 
neighbors." 

Lucy  turned  upon  him  one  withering  look, 
in  which  might  be  read  hatred,  horror,  con- 
tempt ;  after  which  she  slightly  inclined  her 
head,  and  without  speaking,  for  she  had  now 
become  incapable  of  it,  withdrew  to  her  ovni 
ai:)artment,  in  a  state  of  feeUng  which  the 
reader  may  easily  imagine. 


"iUice,"  said  she  to  her  maid,  and  her 
cheek,  that  had  only  a  little  before  been  so 
pide,  now  glowed  with  indignation  Hke  fire 
as  she  sijoke,  "  Alice,  I  have  degraded  my- 
self ;  I  am  simk  forever  in  my  o^tq  opinion 
since  I  saw  tliat  heartless  wretch." 

"  How  is  that,  miss  ?  "  asked  Alice  ;  "  such 
a  thing  can't  be." 

"  Because,"  reijhed  Lucy,  "  I  was  mean 
enough  to  throw  myself  on  his  very  com- 
passion— on  his  honor — on  his  generosity — 
on  his  j)ride  as  a  man  and  a  gentleman — but 
he  has  not  a  single  virtue  ; "  and  she  then, 
with  cheeks  still  glowing,  related  to  her  the 
princijial  part  of  their  conversation. 

"  And  that  was  the  reply  he  gave  you, 
miss?"  obser\'ed  Alley;  "in  truth,  it  was 
more  like  the  answer  of  a  sheriff's  bailiff  to 
some  poor  woman  who  had  her  cattle  dis- 
tramed  for  rent,  and  wanted  to  get  time  to 
pay  it.'' 

"  Ahce,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  hope  in  God  I 
may  retain  my  senses,  or,  rather,  let  them 
depart  from  me,  for  then  I  shall  not  be  con- 
scious of  what  I  do.  Matters  are  far  worse 
than  I  had  even  imagined — desperate — fuU 
of  horror.  This  man  is  a  fool ;  his  intellect 
is  beneath  the  very  exigencies  of  hj^pocrisy, 
which  he  would  put  on  if  he  could.  His  in- 
famy, his  profligacy,  can  proceed  even  from 
no  perverted  energy  of  character,  and  must 
therefore  be  associated  with  contempt. 
There  is  a  hvely  fatuity  about  him  that  is 
uniformly  a  symptom  of  imbecility.  Among 
women,  at  least,  it  is  so,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  it  is  the  same  with  men.  Alice, 
I  know  what  my  fate  will  be.  It  is  true,  you 
may  see  me  married  to  him  ;  but  you  will 
see  me  droji  dead  at  the  altar,  or  worse  than 
that  may  liappen.  I  shall  marry  him  ;  but 
to  live  his  wife  ! — oh  !  to  live  the  wife  of 
that  man  !  the  thing  would  be  impossible ; 
death  in  any  shape  a  thousand  times  sooner  ! 
Think,  Alice,  how  you  should  feel  if  your 
husband  were  de.spised  and  detested  by  the 
world ;  think  of  that,  Alice.  Still,  there 
might  be  consolation  even  there,  for  the 
world  might  be  wrong  ;  but  think,  Alice,  if 
he  desn-rfil  that  contempt  and  detestation — 
think  of  it  ;  and  that  you  yourself  knew  he 
was  entitled  to  nothing  else  but  that  and 
infamy  at  its  hands  !  Oh,  no  ! — not  one 
spark  of  honor — not  one  trace  of  feehug — 
of  generosity — of  dehcacy — of  truth — not 
one  moral  point  to  redeem  him  from  con- 
tempt. He  may  be  a  lord,  Alice,  but  he  is 
not  a  gentleman.  Hardened,  vicious,  and 
stiiind,  I  can  see  he  is,  and  altogether  in- 
caf)able  of  comprehending  what  is  due  to 
the  feelings  of  a  lady,  of  a  woman,  which  he 
outrages  without  even  the  consciousness  of 
the  oti'ence.     But,  Alice,  oh  Alice !  when  I 


513 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


think — wlien  I  compare  him  with — and  may 
Heaven  forgive  me  for  the  comparison  ! — 
when  I  comjiare  him  with  the  noble,  the 
generous,  the  dehcate,  the  tnie-hearted,  and 
intellectual  gentleman  who  has  won  and  re- 
tains, and  ever  mil  retain,  my  afi'ections,  I 
am  sick  almost  to  death  at  the  contrast. 
Satan,  Alice,  is  a  being  whom  we  detest  and 
fear,  but  cannot  despise.  This  mean  profli- 
gate, however,  is  all  vice,  and  low  \ice  ;  for 
even  vice  sometimes  has  its  dignity.  If 
you  could  conceive  Michael  the  Ai-cliangel 
resplendent  with  truth,  brightness,  and  the 
glory  of  his  divine  nature,  and  compai'e  him 
with  the  meanest,  basest,  and  at  the  same 
time  wickedest  spirit  that  ever  crawled  in 
the  depths  of  jjerdition,  then  indeed  you 
might  form  an  opinion  as  to  the  relative 
character  of  this  Dunroe  and  my  noble  lover. 
And  yet  I  cannot  weejj,  Alice ;  I  cannot 
weej),  for  I  feel  that  my  brain  is  burning, 
and  my  heart  scorched.  And  now,  for  my 
only  melancholy  consolation  !  " 

She  then  pulled  from  her  bosom  the  por- 
trait of  her  mother,  by  the  contemplation  of 
which  she  felt  the  tumult  other  heart  gradu- 
ally subside  ;  but,  after  having  gazed  at  it  for 
some  time,  she  returned  it  to  its  place  next 
her  heart ;  the  consolation  it  had  transiently 
afforded  her  passed  away,  and  the  black  and 
deadly  gloom  which  had  ah-eady'  wthered 
her  so  much  came  back  once  more. 


CHAPTEK  XXXI. 

The  Priest  goes  into  Corbet's  House  eery  like  a  TJdef 
— a  b'edermit,  with  a  Bright  look  up  for  Mr. 
Gray. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  priest 
experienced  slight  regret  at  the  mistake 
which  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
him  into  collision  with  a  man,  who,  although 
he  could  not  aiibrd  them  any  trace  of  un- 
fortunate Fenton,  yet  enabled  them  more 
clearly  to  identify  the  baronet  with  his  fate. 
The  stranger,  besides,  was  satisfied  fi'om 
the  evidence  of  the  pound  note,  and  Trail- 
cudgel's  robbery,  that  his  recent  disappear- 
ance was  also  owing  to  the  same  influence. 
Still,  the  eridence  was  far  fi-om  being  com- 
plete, and  they  knew  that  if  Fenton  even 
were  found,  it  would  be  necessary  to  es- 
tablish his  identity  as  the  heir  of  Sii'  Ed- 
ward Gourlay.  No  doulit  thej'  had  made  a 
step  in  advance,  and,  besides,  in  the  right 
direction  ;  but  much  still  remained  to  be 
done  ;  the  plot,  in  fact,  must  be  gradually, 
but  clearly,  and  regularly  developed  ;  and 
in  order  to  do  so,  they  felt  that  they  ought, 
if  the  thing  could  be  managed,  to  win  over 


some  person  who  had  been  an  agent  in  its 
execution. 

From  what  Skipton  had  disclosed  to 
Father  M'Mahon,  both  that  gentleman  and 
the  stranger  had  Uttle  doubt  that  old  Cor- 
bet could  render  them  the  assistance  re- 
quu'ed,  if  he  could  only  be  prevailed  upon 
to  speak.  It  was  evident  from  his  own  con- 
i  versation  that  he  not  only  hated  but  detest- 
j  ed  Sii-  Thomas  Gourlay  ;  and  yet  it  was 
equally  clear  that  some  secret  influence  j^re- 
veuted  him  fi-om  admittuig  any  knowledge 
I  or  i^ai-ticipation  in  the  chUd's  disappearance. 
1  Notwithstanding  the  sharp)  caution  of  his 
I  manner,  and  his  disavowal  of  the  very 
knowledge  thej'  were  seeking,  it  was  agi-eed 
upion  that  Father  M'Mahon  should  see  him 
again,  and  ascertain  whether  or  not  he 
could  be  induced  in  any  way  to  aid  their 
pui'230se.  Nearly  a  week  elapsed,  however, 
before  the  cunning  old  feiTet  could  be  come 
at.  The  tnith  is,  he  had  for  many  a  long 
year  been  of  oj^inion  that  the  priest  enter- 
tained a  susi^icion  of  his  haring  been  in  some 
way  engaged,  either  directly  or  indirectly, 
in  the  dark  plots  of  the  baronet,  if  not  in  the 
making  away  with  the  child.  On  this  ac- 
count then,  the  old  man  never  wished  to  come 
in  the  jiriest's  vi&y  whenever  he  could  avoid 
it ;  and  the  priest  himself  had  often  remarked 
that  whenever  he  (old  Corbet),  who  lived 
with  the  baronet  for  a  couple  of  years,  after 
the  child's  disappearance,  hajapened  to  see 
or  meet  him  in  Ballytrain,  he  always  made 
it  a  23oint  to  keep  his  distance.  In  fact,  the 
jjriest  hajjpened  on  one  occasion,  wliile 
making  a  visit  to  see  Quin,  the  monomaniac, 
and  waiting  in  the  doctor's  room,  to  catch  a 
ghmpse  of  Corbet  passing  thi-ough  the  haU, 
and  on  inquiring  who  he  was  from  one  of 
the  keepers,  the  fellow,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, replied,  that  he  did  not  know. 

By  this  time,  however,  the  mysterioiis  loss 
of  the  child  had  long  passed  out  of  the  jaub- 
Uc  mind,  and  as  the  priest  never  paid  another 
visit  to  the  asylum,  he  also  had  ceased  to 
think  of  it.  It  is  quite  possible,  indeed,  that 
the  circumstance  would  never  again  have 
reeuiTed  to  him  had  not  the  stranger's  in- 
quiries upon  this  very  point  reminded  him 
that  Corbet  was  the  most  likely  jaerson  he 
knew  to  communicate  information  upon  the 
subject.  The  reader  aheady  knows  vrith 
what  success  that  ajiiilication  had  been 
made. 

Day  after  day  had  elapsed,  and  the  priest, 
notwithstanding  rei:)eated  visits,  coidd  never 
find  him  at  home.  The  simple-hearted  man 
nad  whisjiered  to  him  in  the  watch-house, 
that  he  wished  to  speak  to  him  upon  that 
very  subject — a  communication  which  filled 
the  old  fellow  with  alarm,  and  the  conse- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


513 


quence  was,  that  he  came  to  the  resolution 
of  not  seeing  him  at  all,  if  he  could  possibly 
avoid  it. 

One  day,  however,  when  better  than  a 
week  had  passed.  Father  M'Mahon  entered 
his  shop,  where  he  found  a  woman  standing, 
as  if  she  expected  some  person  to  come  in. 
His  wife  was  weighing  huckstery  with  her 
back  to  the  counter,  so  that  she  was  not  aware 
of  his  presence.  Without  speaking  a  word 
he  passed  as  quietly  as  possible  into  the  little 
back  parlor,  and  sat  down.  After  about 
fifteen  minutes  he  heard  a  foot  overhead  pas- 
sing stealthily  across  the  room,  and  coming 
to  the  lobby,  where  there  was  a  pause,  as  if 
the  person  were  listening.  At  length  the 
foot  first  came  down  one  stair  very  quietly, 
then  another,  afterwards  a  third,  and  again 
there  was  a  second  pause,  evidentlj'  to  listen 
as  before.  The  priest  kept  his  eyes  steadily 
on  the  staircase,  but  was  placed  in  such  a 
position  that  he  could  see  without  being  vis- 
ible himself.  At  length  Corbet's  long  scraggy 
neck  was  seen  projecting  Uke  that  of  an  os- 
trich across  the  banisters,  which  commanded 
a  view  of  the  shop  through  the  glass  door. 
Seeing  the  coast,  as  he  thought,  clear,  he 
ventured  to  sjjeak. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?  "  he  asked,  "  for  I'U  take  my 
oath  I  saw  him  come  up  the  street." 

"  You  needn't  trust  your  eyes  much  longer, 
I  think,"  replied  his  wife,  "  you  saw  no  such 
man  ;  he  wasn't  here  at  aU." 

"  Bekaise  I  know  it's  about  that  poor  boy 
he's  coming  ;  and  sure,  if  I  stir  in  it,  or  be- 
tray the  others,  I  can't  keep  the  country  ; 
an',  be.sides,  I  Nvill  lose  my  pension." 

Having  concluded  these  words  he  came 
down  the  stairs  into  the  Uttle  parlor  we  have 
mentioned,  where  he  found  Father  M'Mahon 
sitting,  his  benevolent  features  lit  up  with  a 
good  deal  of  mirth  at  the  confusion  of  Cor- 
bet, and  the  rueful  aspect  he  exhibited  on 
being  caught  in  the  trap  so  ingeniously  laid 
for  him. 

"Dunphy,"  said  the  priest,  for  by  this 
name  he  went  in  the  city,  "  you  are  my  pris- 
oner ;  but  don't  be  afraid  in  the  mane  time 
— better  mij  prisoner  than  that  of  a  worse 
man.  And  now,  j'ou  thief  o'  the  world,  why 
did  you  refuse  to  see  me  for  the  last  week  ? 
Whj'  keep  me  trotting  day  after  day,  although 
you  know  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you  ?  What 
have- you  to  say  for  j^ourself?" 

Corbet,  before  rejilying,  gave  a  sharp, 
short,  vindictive  glance  at  his  vrife,  whom  he 
suspected  strongly  of  having"  turned  trait- 
ress, and  i^layed  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy. 

"Troth,  your  reverence,  I  was  sorry  to 
hear  that  you  had  come  so  often  ; "  and  as 
he  sijoke,  another  glance  toward  the  shop 


seemed  to  say,  "  You  deceitful  old  vrretch, 
you  have  betrayed  and  played  the  devil  with 
me." 

"I  don't  at  aU  doubt  it,  Anthony,"  replied 
the  priest,  "  the  truth  being  that  you  were 
son-}'  I  came  at  all.  Come  I  am,  however, 
and  if  I  were  to  wait  for  twelve  months,  J 
wouldn't  go  without  seeing  you.  Call  it 
Mrs.  Dunphy  tiU  I  spate  to  her,  and  ask  her 
how  she  is." 

"You  had  better  come  in,  ma'am,"  said 
the  old  fellow,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  could 
not  be  misunderstood  ;  "  here's  Father 
M'Mahon,  who  wants  to  spake  to  you." 

"  Arra,  get  out  o'  that ! "  she  replied ; 
"  didn't  I  tell  you  that  he  didn't  show  his 
round  rosy  face  to-day  yet ;  but  I'U  go  bail 
he'll  be  here  for  all  that — sona  day  he 
missed  for  the  last  week,  and  it's  a  scandal 
for  you  to  thrate  him  as  you're  doin' — sorra 
thing  else." 

"  Stop  your  goster,"  said  Dunphy,  "  and 
come  in — isn't  he  inside  here  ?  " 

The  woman  came  to  the  door,  and  giving 
a  hasty  and  incredulous  look  in,  started,  ex- 
claiming, "  Why,  then,  may  I  never  sin,  but 
he  is.  Musha  !  Father  M'Mahon,  how  in  the 
name  o'  goodness  did  you  get  inside  at  all  ?  " 

"  Aisily  enough,"  he  rejilied ;  "  I  only 
made  myself  invisible  for  a  coujDle  of  minutes, 
and  passed  in  while  you  were  weighing 
something  for  a  woman  in  the  shoij." 

"  Troth,  then,  one  would  think  you  must 
a'  done  so,  sure  enough,  for  the  sorrow  a  stim 
of  you  I  seen  anyhow." 

"  O,  she's  so  attentive  to  her  business, 
yovir  reverence,"  said  Anthony,  with  bitter 
irony,  "  that  she  sees  nothing  else.  The 
lord  mayor  might  drive  his  coach  in,  and  she 
wouldn't  see  him.  There's  an  ould  proverb 
goin'  that  says  there's  none  so  blind  as  thim 
that  wortl  see.  Musha,  sir,  wasn't  that  a 
disagi-eeable  turn  that  happened  you  the 
other  morning  ?  " 

"  But  it  didn't  last  long,  that  was  one 
comfort.  The  Lord  save  me  from  ever  see- 
ing such  another  sight.  I  never  thought 
our  nature  was  capable  of  such  things  ;  it  is 
awful,  even  to  think  of  it.  Yes,  terrible  to 
reflect,  that  there  were  unfortunate  WTetchea 
there  who  wU  probably  be  humed  into  eter- 
nitj'  without  repenting  for  their  transgres- 
sions, and  making  their  peace  with  God  ; ' 
and  as  he  concluded,  Corbet  found  that  the 
good  pastor's  eye  was  seriously  and  solemnly 
fixed  upon  him. ' 

"  Indeed — it's  all  true,  your  reverence — it'a 
aU  true,"  he  replied. 

"Now,  Anthony,"  continued  the  priest, 
"  I  have  something  verj'  important  to 
spake  to  you  about  ;  sometliing  that  vidl] 
be  for  your  own  benefit,   not  only  in  thia 


514 


WILLIAM  CARLETOI^'S  WORKS. 


■world,  but  in  that  awful  one  Tvhich  is  to 
come,  and  for  -whicii  vre  ought  to  prepare 
ourselves  sincerely  and  earnestly.  Have  you 
any  objection  that  your  wife  should  be  pres- 
ent, or  shall  we  go  upstairs  and  talk  it  over 
there  ? '' 

"  I  have  every  objection,"  rephed  Corbet ; 
"  something  she  does  know,  but " 

"  O  thank  goodness,"  replied  the  old  wo- 
man, veiT  naturally  offended  at  being  kept 
out  of  the  secret,  "  I'm  not  in  all  your  sai- 
crets,  nor  I  don't  wish  to  know  them,  I'm 
sure.  I  believe  you  find  some  of  them  a 
heavy  burden,  at  any  rate." 

"Come,  then,"  said  the  priest,  "put  on 
your  hat  and  take  a  walk  T\-itb  me  as  far  as 
the  Brazen  Head  inn,  where  I'm  stopping. 
We  can  have  a  private  room  there,  where 
there  wul  be  no  one  to  inteiTupt  us." 

"  Would  it  be  the  same  thing  to  you, 
sir,  if  I'd  call  on  you  there  about  this  time 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Wliat  objection  have  you  to  come  now  ?  " 
asked  the  priest.  "  Never  put  off  till  to- 
morrow what  can  be  done  to-day,  is  a  good 
old  proverb,  and  ajajjUes  to  things  of  weight- 
ier importance  than  belong  to  this  world." 

"  Why,  then,  it's  a  Uttle  business  of  a  very 
particular  nature  that  I  have  to  attend  to  ; 
!Uid  yet  I  don't  know,''  he  added,  "  maybe 
111  be  a  betther  match  for  them  afther  seeing 
you.  In  the  mane  time,"  he  proceeded,  ad- 
dressing his  wife,  "if  t]w>^  should  come  here 
to  look  for  me,  don't  say  where  I'm  gone, 
nor,  above  all  things,  who  I'm  with.  Mark 
that  now  ;  and  teU  Charley,  or  Ginty,  wliich- 
ever  o'  them  comes,  that  it  must  be  put 
off  till  to-mon'ow — do  you  mind,  now  ?  " 

She  merely  nodded  her  head,  by  way  of 
attention. 

"Ay,''  he  rephed,  with  a  sardonic  grin, 
"  you'U  be  ahve,  as  you  were  a  while  ago,  I 
suppose." 

They  then  proceeded  on  their  way  to  the 
Brazen  Head,  which  they  reached  without 
any  conversation  worth  recording. 

"  Now,  Anthonj',"  began  the  priest,  after 
they  had  seated  themselves  comfortably  in  a 
private  room,  "  will  you  answer  me  truly 
why  you  refused  seeing  me  ?  why  you  Ijid  or 
absconded  whenever  I  went  to  your  house 
for  the  last  week  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you,  then." 

"  Well,  that's  the  truth,"  said  the  priest, 
"  and  I  know  it  But  why  did  you  not 
wish  to  see  me  ?  "  he  inquired  ;  "  you  must 
have  had  some  reason  for  it." 

"  I  had  my  suspicions." 

"  You  had,  Anthony  ;  and  you've  had  the 
same  suspicions  this  many  a  long  year — ever 
since  the  day  I  saw  you  pass  thi-ough  the  hall 
in  the  private  mad-house  in ." 


"  Was  that  the  time  ilr.  Quin  was  there  ?  ' 
asked  Anthony,  unconsciously  committing 
himself  fi-om  the  very  a23prehension  of  doing 
so  by  giving  a  du-ect  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Ah !  ha !  Anthony,  then  you  knew  Mr. 
Quin  was  there.  That  will  do  ;  but  there's 
not  the  shghtest  use  in  beating  about  the 
bush  any  longer.  You  have  within  the  last 
half-hour  let  your  secret  out,  ^^ithiu  my  own 
ears,  and  before  my  own  eyes.  And  so  you 
have  a  pension  fi'om  the  Black  Baronet ;  and 
you,  an  old  man,  and  I  feai'  a  guiltv"  one,  are 
receiving  the  wages  of  iniquitv  and  comip- 
tion  fi-om  that  man — from  the  man  that  fii-st 
brought  shame  and  everlasting  disgrace,  and 
guilt  and  madness  into  and  upon  youi-  fam- 
ily and  name — a  name  that  had  been  without 
a  stain  before.  Yes  ;  you  have  sold  yourself 
as  a  slave — a  bond-slave — have  become  the 
creatiu-e  and  instnuuent  of  his  vices — the 
clay  in  his  hands  that  he  can  moiild  as  he 
pleases,  and  that  he  will  crush  and  trample 
on,  and  shiver  to  pieces,  the  moment  his 
cruel,  unjust,  and  diabohcal  purposes  are 
sen'ed." 

Anthony's  face  was  a  study,  but  a  fearful 
study,  whilst  the  priest  sjjoke.  As  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  went  on,  it  darkened  into 
the  expression  of  perfect  torture  :  he  gasped 
and  started  as  if  eveiy  word  uttered  had 
given  him  a  mortal  stab  ;  his  keen  old  eye 
Ihckered  with  scintUlations  of  unnatural  and 
turbid  fire,  until  the  rebuke  was  ended. 

The  priest  had  observed  this,  and  natural- 
ly imputed  the  feeling  to  an  impression  of 
remorse,  not,  it  is  true,  uumingled  with  in- 
dignation. We  may  imagine  his  surprise, 
therefore,  on  seeing  that  face  suddenly 
change  into  one  of  the  wildest  and  most 
mahgnant  dehght.  A  series  of  dry,  husky 
hiccoughs,  or  what  is  termed  the  black 
laugh,  rapidly  repeated,  proceeded  from  be- 
tween his  thin  jaws,  and  his  eyes  now  blazed 
with  an  exjsression  of  such  fiery  and  trium- 
phant vengeance,  that  the  other  felt  as  if 
some  fiendish  iucamation  of  midignity,  and 
not  a  man,  sat  before  him. 

"  Crash  me  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  crush  me, 
indeed  !  Wait  a  Uttle.  What  have  I  been 
doiu'  all  this  time  ?  I  tell  you  that  I  h.ave 
been  every  day  for  this  many  a  long  year 
windin'  myself  hke  a  seipeut  about  him,  tiU 
I  get  him  faii-ly  in  my  power  ;  and  when  I 
do — then  for  one  sharp,  deadly  sting  into  his 
heart  : — ay,  and,  hke  the  serpent,  it's  in  my 
tongue  that  stiuglies — &-om  that  tongue  the 
poison  must  come  that  will  give  me  the  re- 
venge that  I've  been  long  waitiu'  for." 

"  You  speak,"  replied  the  priest,  "  and, 
indeed,  you  look  more  like  an  e\il  sjju-it  than 
a  man,  Anthony.     This  Language  is  disgi'ace- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


516 


fill  and  unebristian,  and  such  as  no  human 
being  should  utter.  How  can  you  think  of 
death  with  such  pi'inci23les  in  your  heart  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  how  I  think  on  death  :  I'm 
afeared  of  it  when  I  think  of  that  jooor,  heart-  \ 
broken  woman,  Lady  Gourlay  ;  but  when  I 
think  of  him — oihim — I  do  hope  and  expect 
that  my  last  thought  in  this  world  will  be 
the  delightful  one  that  I've  had  my  revenge  j 
on  him."  ] 

"  And  you   would  risk  the  misery  of  an-  ' 
other  world  for  the  gratification  of  one  evil 
passion  in  this  !    Oh,  God  help  you,  and  for- 
give you,  and  turn  your  heart !  " 

"  God  help  me,  and  forgive  me,  and  turn 
my  heart !  but  not  so  far  as  he  is  consamed. 
I  neither  wish  it,  nor  pray  for  it.  and  what's 
more,  if  you  were  fifty  priests,  I  never  will. 
Let  us  drop  this  subject,  then,  for  so  long 
as  we  tnlk  of  him,  I  feel  as  if  the  blood  in  my 
ould  veins  was  all  turned  into  fire.'' 

The  priest  saw  and  felt  that  this  was  true, 
and  resolved  to  be  guided  by  the  hint  he  had 
unconsciously  received.  To  remonstrate 
with  him  upon  Christian  prineii^les,  in  that 
mood  of  mind,  would,  he  knew,  be  to  no 
purpose.  If  there  were  an  assailable  point 
about  him,  he  concluded,  fi'om  his  o\mi 
words,  that  it  was  in  connection  with  the 
suflferiugs  of  Lady  Gourlaj-,  and  the  fate  of 
her  child.  On  this  point,  therefore,  he  re- 
solved to  sound  him,  and  ascertain,  without, 
if  possible,  alarming  him,  how  far  he  would 
go  on — whether  he  felt  disposed  to  advance 
at  all,  or  not 

"Well,"  said  the  priest,  "since  you  are 
resolved  upon  an  act  of  vengeance — against 
which,  as  a  Christian  jsriest  and  a  Christian 
man,  I  doubly  jsrotest — I  think  it  only  right 
that  you  should  perform  an  act  of  justice  al- 
so. You  know  it  is  wrong  to  confound  the 
innocent  ■\rith  the  guilty.  There  is  Lady 
Gourlay,  with  the  arrow  of  grief,  and  proba- 
bly despair,  rankling  in  her  heart  for  years. 
Now,  you  could  restore  that  woman  to  hap- 
piness— you  could  restore  her  lost  child  to 
happiness,  and  bid  the  widowed  mother's 
heart  leap  for  joy." 

"It  isn't  for  that  I'd  do  it,  or  it  would, 
maj'be,  be  done  long  ago  ;  but  I'm  not  savin' 
/  know  where  her  son  is.  Do  you  think 
now,  if  I  did,  that  it  wouldn't  gratifj-  my 
heart  to  pull  down  that  black  riUain — to 
tumble  him  down  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world 
with  disgrace  and  shame,  from  the  height  he's 
sittin'  on,  and  make  him  a  world's  wondher 
of  villany  and  ^riekedness  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  well,"  rephed  the  priest, 
who,  not  wishing  to  use  an  unchristian  argu- 
ment, thought  it  stiU  too  good  to  be  alto- 
gether left  out,  "  I  know  verj-  well  that 
you   cannot    restore    Lady   Goiu-lay's  son, 


without  punishing  the  baronet  at  the  same 
time.  If  you  be  guided  by  me,  however,  you 
will  think  only  of  what  is  due  to  the  injured 
lady  herself." 

"  Do  you  think,  now,"  persisted  Corbet, 
not  satisfied  with  the  priest's  answer,  and 
following  up  his  interrogator\',  "  do  you 
think,  I  say,  that  I  wouldn't  'a'  dragged  him 
do^Ti  like  a  dog  in  the  kennel,  long  ago,  if  I 
knew  where  his  brother's  son  was." 

"  From  youi"  hatred  to  Sir  Tliomas  Gour- 
lay," rephed  the  other,  •'  I  think  it  hkely 
you  would  have  tumbled  him  long  since  if 
you  could." 

'•"WTiy,"  exclaimed  Corbet,  with  another 
sardonic  and  derisive  grin,  "  that's  a  proof  of 
how  little  you  know  of  a  man's  heart.  Do 
you  forget  what  I  said  awliile  ago  about  the' 
black  riUain — that  I  have  been  windin'  my- 
self about  him  for  years,  until  I  get  him  fair- 
ly into  my  jjower  ?  ^^^len  that  time  comes, 
you'll  see  what  I'll  do." 

"  But  will  that  time  soon  come  ?  "  asked  the 
other.  "  Recollect  that  you  are  now  an  old 
man,  and  that  old  age  is  not  the  time  to 
nourish  projects  of  vengeance.  Death  may 
seize  you — may  take  you  at  a  short  notice — 
so  that  it  is  possible  you  may  never  hve  to 
execute  your  devUish  pvu-jjose  on  the  one 
hand,  nor  the  act  of  justice  toward  Lady 
Gourlay  on  the  other.  WiU  that  time  soon 
come,  I  ask  ?  " 

"  So  far  111  answer  you.  It  11  take  a  month 
or  two — not  more.  I  have  good  authority 
for  what  I'm  sa^-in'." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  then  ?  " 

'■I'U  tell  you  that,"  he  rephed  ;  and  rising 
up,  he  shut  his  two  hands,  turning  in  his 
thumbs,  and  stretching  his  anus  down  along 
his  body  on  each  side,  he  stooped  down,  and 
looking  dii-ectly  and  fully  into  the  priest's 
eyes,  he  replied,  "I'll  give  him  bark  hi.i  son." 

"  Tut !  "  returned  the  clergyman,  whose 
honest  heart,  and  sympathies  were  all  with 
the  widow  and  her  sorrows  ;  "I  was  think- 
ing of  Lady  Gourlay's  son.  In  the  mane 
time,  that's  a  queer  way  of  punishing  the 
baronet.  You'U  give  him  back  his  son  ? — 
pooh  !  " 

"Ay,"  replied  Corbet,  "that's  the  way  I'll 
have  my  revenge  :  and  maybe  itll  be  a  great.- 
er  one  than  you  think.     That's  all." 

This  was  accomj^anied  by  a  sneer  and  a 
chuckle,  which  the  ambiguous  old  sinner 
could  not  for  the  blood  of  him  suppress. 
"  And  now,"  he  added,  "  I  must  be  off." 

"  Sir,"  said  Father  MOIahon,  rising  up 
and  traversing  the  room  with  considerable 
heat,  "  you  have  been  tampering  vnth  the  con- 
fidence I  was  disposed  to  jilace  in  you.  What-' 
ever  dark  game  you  are  playing,  or  have 
been  playing,  I  know  not ;  but  this  I  can  a» 


016 


WILLI A3r  CAELETON'S   WORKS. 


sure  you,  that  Lady  Gourlay's  friends  know 
more  of  your  secrets  than  you  suspect.  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a 
hardened  old  villain,  whose  heart  is  sordid, 
and  base,  and  cruel — corrupted,  I  fear,  be- 
yond aU  hojie  of  redemption.  You  have 
been  playing  with  me,  sir- — sneering  at  me 
lin  yoiu-  sleeve,  during  this  whole  dialogue. 
'This  was  a  false  move,  however,  on  your 
part,  and  you  wiU  tind  it  so.  I  am  not  a 
man  to  be  either  played  with  or  sneered  at 
by  such  a  snake-Uke  and  diabolical  old 
scoundi'el  as  you  ai-e.  Listen,  now,  to  me. 
You  think  your  secret  is  safe  ;  you  think  you 
ai'e  beyond  the  reach  of  the  law  ;  you  thmk 
we  know  nothing  of  your  former  movements 
under  the  guidance  and  in  personal  company 
■with  the  Black  Baronet.  Pray,  did  you 
lliink  it  imj)os8ible  that  there  was  above  you 
a  God  of  justice,  and  of  vengeance,  too, 
vhose  j)rovidential  disclosures  ai'e  sufficient 
'^o  bring  your  vLUauy  to  light  ?  Anthony 
Oorbet,  be  warned  in  time.  Let  yoiir  dis- 
closures be  voluntary,  and  they  will  be  re- 
ceived with  gratitude,  with  deep  thanks, 
v.-ith  ample  rewards  ;  refuse  to  make  them, 
endeavor  still  further  to  veU  the  crimes  to 
which  I  allude,  and  sustain  this  flagitious 
comjjact,  and  we  shall  drag  them  up  your 
throat,  and  after  forciug  you  to  disgorge 
them,  we  shall  send  you,  in  your  wicked  and 
impenitent  old  age,  where  the  clank  of  the 
felon's  chaui  will  be  the  only  music  in  your 
ears,  and  that  chain  itself  the  only  garter 
tha,t  will  ever  keep  up  yoiu-  Connemaras. 
Now  begone,  and  lay  to  heart  what  I've  said 
to  you.  It  wasn't  my  intention  to  have  let 
you  go  ■without  a  bit  of  something  to  eat, 
and  a  glass  of  something  to  wash  it  down 
afterwai-da  ;  but  you  may  travel  now  ;  no- 
thing stronger  than  pure  air  will  cross  j'oiu' 
lips  in  this  house,  unless  at  your  own  cost." 

The  old  fellow  seemed  to  hesitate,  as  if 
stmck  by  some  observation  contained  in 
the  priest's  lecture. 

"  When  do  you  lave  town,  sir  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Whenever  it's  my  convanience,"  replied 
the  other  ;  "  that's  none  of  your  affair.  I'll 
go  immediately  and  see  Skipton." 

The  priest  observed  that  honest  Anthony 
looked  still  graver  at  the  mention  of  this 
name.  "If  you  don't  go,"  he  added,  "  until 
a  couple  of  days  hence,  I'd  like  to  see  you 
again,  about  this  hour,  the  day  afther  to- 
morrow." 

"  ^'hether  I'll  be  here,  or  whether  I  won't 
is  more  than  I  know.  I  may  be  brought  to 
judgment  before  then,  and  so  may  you. 
You  may  come  then,  or  you  may  stay  away, 
just  as  you  like.  If  you  come,  perhajjs  I'll 
&ee  you,  and  perhaps  I  won't.     So  now  good- 


by !     Thank  goodness  we  are  not  depending 
on  you  ! " 

Anthony  then  slimk  out  of  the  room  with 
a  good  deal  of  hesitation  in  his  manner,  and 
on  leaving  the  hall-door  he  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  seemed  disposed  to  return. 
At  length  he  decided,  and  after  Ungering 
awhile,  took  his  way  toward  Constitution 
Hill. 

This  inteiTiew  with  the  priest  disturbed 
Corbet  very  much.  His  selfishness,  joined 
to  great  caution  and  timidity  of  character, 
rendered  him  a  very  difficult  subject  for 
any  man  to  wield  according  to  his  pui-jjoses. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  entertained 
feehugs  of  the  most  diabohcal  resentment 
and  vengeance  against  the  baronet,  and  yet 
it  was  imjjossible  to  get  out  of  him  the 
means  by  which  he  proposed  to  visit  thera 
upon  him.  On  leaving  Father  M'Mahon, 
therefore,  he  experienced  a  state  of  alterna- 
tion between  a  resolution  to  make  dis- 
closures and  a  determination  to  be  silent 
and  work  out  his  own  jilans.  He  also  feared 
death,  it  is  true  :  but  this  was  only  when 
those  rare  visitations  of  conscience  occurred 
that  were  awakened  by  superstition,  instead 
of  an  enlightened  and  Christian  sense  of 
religion.  This  latter  was  a  word  he  did  not 
understand,  or  rather  one  for  which  he  mis- 
took suj)erstition  itself.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
he  felt  uneasy,  anxious,  and  irresolute,  wav- 
ering between  the  right  and  the  wrong, 
afraid  to  take  his  stand  by  either,  and  wish- 
ing, if  he  could,  to  escajje  the  consequences 
of  both.  Other  filans,  however,  were  ripen- 
ing as  well  as  his,  under  the  management 
of  those  who  were  deterred  by  none  of  his 
cowardice  or  irresolution.  The  considera- 
tion of  this  brings  us  to  a  famUy  discussion  ; 
which  it  becomes  our  diity  to  detail  before 
we  i^roceed  any  further  in  our  narrative. 

On  the  following  day,  then,  nearly  the 
same  party  of  which  we  have  given  an  ac- 
count in  an  early  portion  of  this  work,  met 
in  the  same  eating-hoiise  we  have  ah-eady 
described  ;  the  only  difference  being  that 
instead  of  O'Donegan,  the  classical  teacher 
old  Corbet  himseh'  was  present.  The  mai». 
caUed  Thomas  Corbet,  the  eldest  son  d: 
Anthony,  Ginty  Cooper  the  fortune-teUer, 
Ambrose  Gray,  and  Anthony  himself,  com- 
posed this  interesting  sederunt.  The  others 
had  been  assembled  for  some  time  before 
the  arrival  of  Anthony,  who  consequently 
had  not  an  opjiortunity  of  hearing  the  fol- 
lowing brief  dialogue. 

"I'm  afraid  of  my  father,"  observed 
Thomas;  "he's  as  deep  as  a  draw- well,  and 
it's  impossible  to  know  what  he's  at.  How 
are  we  to  manage  him  at  all  ?  " 

"By  following  his  adrice,  I  think,"  said 


THE  BLA.CK  BARONET. 


SIT 


Ginty.  "  It's  time,  I'm  sure,  to  get  this  boy 
into  bis  lights." 

"I  was  very  well  disposed  to  help  you  in 
that,"  repUed  her  brother;  "but  of  late  he 
has  led  such  a  life,  that  I  fear  if  he  comes 
iuto  the  projaerty,  hell  do  either  us  or  him- 
self little  credit ;  and  what  is  still  worse, 
will  he  have  sense  to  keep  his  own  secret  ? 
My  father  says  his  brother,  the  legitimate 
son,  is  dead  ;  that  he  died  of  scarlet-fever 
many  years  ago  in  the  country-  —and  I  think 
myself,  by  the  way,  that  he  looks,  whenever 
he  says  it,  as  if  he  himseK  had  furnished  the 
boy  with  the  fever.  That,  however,  is  not 
our  business.  If  I  had  been  at  Red  Hall, 
insteatl  of  keeping  the  house  and  jslace  in 
town,  it's  a  short  time  the  other — or  Fenton 
as  he  calls  himself — would  be  at  large. 
He's  now  undher  a  man  that  will  take  care 
of  liim.  But  indeed  it's  an  easy  task.  He"U 
never  see  his  mother's  face  again,  as  I  well 
know.  Scarman  has  him,  and  I  give  the 
poor  devU  about  three  months  to  hve.  He 
doesn't  allow  him  half  food,  but,  on  the 
other  ha:id,  he  supplies  him  with  more 
whiskey  than  he  can  diink  ;  and  this  by  the 
baronet's  own  written  orders.  As  for  you, 
Mr.  Gray,  for  we  may  as  well  caU  you  so 
yet  awhile,  your  conduct  of  late  has  been 
dipgraeeful." 

"  I  grant  it,"  repKed  Mr.  Gray,  who  was 
now  sober  ;  "  but  the  truth  is,  I  reaUy  look- 
ed, after  some  consideration,  ujaon  the  whole 
Elan  as  quite  impracticable.  As  the  real 
eir,  however,  is  dead " 

"  Not  the  real  heir,  Amby,  if  you  please. 
He,  poor  fellow,  is  in  custody  that  he  will 
never  escaj)e  from  again.  Upon  my  soul,  I 
often  pitied  him." 

"  How  fuU  of  compassion  you  are  !  "  re- 
phed  his  sister. 

"  I  have  vei-y  little  for  the  baronet,  how- 
ever," he  rephed  ;  "  and  I  hope  he  wUl 
never  '.lie  till  I  scald  the  soul  in  his  bodj-. 
Excuse  me,  Amby.  You  know  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  family,  and,  of  course, 
that  you  are  the  child  of  guilt  and  shame." 

"  Why,  yes,  I'm  come  on  the  wrong  side 
as  to  birth,  I  admit ;  but  if  I  clutch  the 
property  and  title,  I'll  thank  heaven  every 
day  I  Hve  for  my  mother's  fi-aUty." 

"  It  was  not  frailty,  you  unfeeling  boy," 
replied  Ginty,  "  so  much  as  my  father's 
credulity  and  ambition.  I  was  once  said  to 
be  beautiful,  and  he,  ha\'ing  taken  it  into 
his  head  that  this  man,  when  young,  might 
love  me,  went  to  the  expense  of  having  me 
well  educated.  He  then  threw  me  perpetu- 
ally into  liis  society  ;  but  I  was  young  and 
;irtless  at  the  time,  and  beUeved  his  solemn 
oaths  and  promises  of  mania  ge." 

"And  the   greater   villain   he,"  observed 


her  brother  ;  "  for  I  myself  did  not  think 
there  could  be  danger  in  your  intimacy,  be- 
cause you  and  he  were  foster-children  ;  and, 
except  m  his  case,  I  never  knew  another 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country',  where  the  obligation  of  that  tie 
was  forgotten." 

"  Well,"  observed  Ambrose,  "  we  must 
only  make  the  best  of  our  position.  If  I 
succeed,  you  shall,  according  to  our  written 
agreement,  be  all  provided  for.  Not  that  I 
would  feel  very  strongly  disposed  to  do 
much  for  that  enigmatical  old  grandfather 
of  mine.  The  ^^le  old  ferret  saw  me  in  the 
lock-ujj  the  other  morning,  and  refused  to 
bail  me  out ;  ay,  and  thi-eatened  me  be- 
sides." 

"He  did  right,"  replied  his  uncle  ;  "and 
if  you're  caught  there  agaiu,  I'll  not  only 
never  bail  you  out,  but  wash  my  hands  of 
the  whole  affair.  So  now  be  warned,  and 
let  it  be  for  your  good.  Listen,  then  ;  for 
the  case  in  which  you  stand  is  this :  there 
is  Miss  Goui-lay  and  Dunroe  going  to  be 
man-ied  after  all ;  for  she  has  returned  to 
her  father,  and  consented  to  marry  the 
young  lord.  The  baronet,  too,  is  ill,  and  I 
don't  think  wiU  hve  long.  He  is  burned 
out  like  a  lime-kiln  ;  for,  indeed,  hke  that, 
his  whole  hfe  has  been  nothing  but  smoke 
and  fire.  Very  well ;  now  paj'  attention. 
If  we  wait  until  these  marriage  articles  ai'e 
di-awn  up,  the  appearance  or  the  discovery 
of  this  heir  here  will  create  great  confusion  ; 
and  you  may  take  my  word  that  every  oppo- 
sition will  be  given,  and  every  inquiry  made 
by  Dunroe,  who,  as  there  seems  to  be  no 
heir,  w  ill  get  the  j)i"operty ;  for  it  goes,  in 
that  case,  with  Miss  Goiuiaj-.  Every  knot  is 
more  easily  tied  than  untied.  Let  us  pro- 
duce the  heu",  then,  before  the  property's  dis- 
posed of,  and  then  we  won't  have  to  untie 
the  knot — to  invahdate  the  marriage  articles. 
So  far,  so  good — that's  our  plan.  But  again  , 
there's  the  baronet  ill ;  should  he  die  before 
we  establish  this  youth's  rights,  think  of  our 
difficidty.  And,  thu'dly,  he's  beginning  to 
susjject  our  integrity,  as  he  is  pleased  to  call 
it.  That  strange  gentleman,  Ginty,  has 
mentioned  circumstances  to  him  that  he 
says  could  come  only  fi'om  my  father  or  my- 
self, or  you." 

"Proceed,"  replied  his  sister,  "proceed; 
I  may  look  forward  to  the  fulfilment  of 
these  plans  ;  but  I  will  never  hve  to  see 
it." 

"  You  certainly  are  much  changed  for  the 
worse,"  rej)lied  her  brother,  "especially 
since  your  reason  has  been  i-estored  to  you. 
In  the  meantime,  listen.  The  baronet  is  now 
ill,  although  Gibson  says  there's  no  danger 
of  him  ;   he's  easier  in  his  miud,  however,  in 


518 


WJLLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


consequence  of  this  marriage,  that  he  has, 
for  life  or  death,  set  his  heai-t  on  ;  and 
altogether  this  is  the  hest  time  to  put  this 
vagabond's  pretensions  forward." 

"Thank  j'ou,  uncle,"  replied  Ambrose, 
with  a  clouded  brow.  "  In  six  months 
hence,  perhaps,  I'll  be  no  vagabond." 

"  Ay,  in  sixty  years  hence  j'ou  will ;  and 
indeed,  I  fear,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  that 
you'll  never  be  anything  else.  That,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  question  now.  "We  want 
to  know  what  my  father  may  say — whether 
he  will  agree  with  us,  or  whether  he  can  or 
will  give  us  any  better  ad^dce.  There  is  one 
thing,  at  least,  we  ought  to  respect  him  for  ; 
and  that  is,  that  he  gave  all  his  family  a 
good  education,  although  he  had  but  httle 
of  that  commodity  himself,  poor  man." 

He  had  scarcely  concluded,  when  old  An- 
thony made  his  appearance,  with  that  mys- 
tical expression  on  his  face,  half  sneer,  half 
gloom,  which  woidd  lead  one  to  conclude 
that  his  heart  was  divided  between  remorse 
and  vengeance. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you're  at  work,  I  see — 
honestly  employed,  of  course.  Ginty,  how 
long  is  Mr.  Amljrose  here  dead  now '?  " 

"He  died,"  re2:)lied  her  brother,  "soon 
after  tlie  intention  of  changing  the  children 
took  place.  You  took  the  hint,  father,  from 
the  worthy  baronet  himself." 

"  Ay,  I  did  ;  and  I  wish  I  had  not.  You 
died,  mj'  good  young  fellow,  of  scarlet-fever 
— let  me  see — but  di^'il  a  much  matther  it  is 
when  you  died ;  it's  little  good  you'll  come 
to,  barrin'  you  change  your  heart.  They 
say,  indeed,  the  di\irs  children  have  the 
divQ's  luck  ;  but  I  say,  the  di-vdi's  children 
have  the  divil's  face,  too  ;  for  sure  he's  as 
Uke  the  black  fiend  his  father  as  one  egg  is 
to  another." 

"And  that  will  strengthen  the  claim," 
rephed  the  young  man,  with  a  grin.  "I  don't 
look  too  old,  I  hope '? " 

"  There's  only  two  years'  difference  be- 
tween you  and  the  boy,  your  brother,  that's 
dead,"  said  his  mother.  "  But  I  wish  we 
were  well  through  with  this.  My  past  life 
seems  to  me  like  a  dream.  My  contemj)lated 
revenge  upon  that  bad  man,  and  my  ambi- 
tion for  this  boy,  are  the  only  two  princi- 
ples that  now  sustain  me.  \A1iat  a  degi-aded 
life  has  Thomas  Gourlay  caused  me  to  lead  ! 
But  I  really  think  that  I  saw  into  futurity  ; 
nay,  I  am  certain  of  it ;  otherwise,  what  put 
hundreds  of  predictions  into  my  lips,  that 
were  verified  by  the  event  ?  " 

There  was  a  momentary  exjjression  of 
wildness  in  her  eye  as  she  spoke,  which  the 
others  observed  with  pain. 

"Come,  Ginty,"  said  her  brother,  "keep 
yourself  steady  now,  at  all  events  ;   be  cool 


and  firm,  tiU  we  punish  this  man.  If  you 
want  to  know  why  you  foretold  so  mucli,  I'U 
teU  you.  It  was  because  you  coidd  put  twa 
and  two  together." 

"My  whole  hfe  has  been  a  blank,"  she 
proceeded,  "  an  emjjty  di'eam — a  dead,  dull 
level ;  insanity,  vengeance,  ambition,  all 
jostling  and  crossing  each  other  in  my  un- 
happy mind  ;  not  a  serious  or  reasonable 
duty  of  life  dischai'ged  ;  no  claim  on  society 
— no  station  in  the  work  of  life — an  impos- 
tor to  the  world,  and  a  dupe  to  myself ;  but 
it  was  he  did  it.  Go  on  ;  form  your  plans — 
make  them  firm  and  sure  ;  for,  by  Him  who 
withdrew  the  light  of  reason  from  my  spirit 
— by  Him  from  whom  it  came,  I  will  have 
vengeance.  Father,  I  know  you  well,  and  I 
am  your  daughter." 

"  You  know  me  well,  do  you  ?  "  he  replied, 
with  his  usual  grin.  "  Maybe  yoii  do,  and 
maybe  you  don't ;  but  let  us  loroceed.  The 
baronet's  son's  dead,  you  know." 

"  But  what  makes  you  look  as  you  do, 
father,  when  j'oii  say  so  ?  Yom-  face  seems  to 
conti-adict  your  words.  You  know  you  have 
told  us  for  yeai's  that  he's  dead." 

"And  I'm  a  Uar,  am  I  ?  "  he  repUed,  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  pecuhar  smile. 

"  No,  I  don't  say  so  ;  certainly  not.  But, 
still,  j'ou  squeeze  your  face  up  in  such  a  way 
that  you  don't  seem  to  believe  it  yourself." 

"  Come,  come,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  this  is  all  useless.  "SMiat  do  you  intend  to 
do '?    How  do  you  intend  to  jjroceed  ?  " 

"  We  sent  for  you  to  advise  us  in  that," 
rephed  liis  son.  "  You  are  the  oldest  and 
the  wisest  here,  and  of  course  ought  to 
jjossess  the  soundest  judgment." 

"  Well,  then,  my  adrice  to  you  is,  to  go 
about  your  business  ;  that  is,  to  do  any  law- 
fid  business  that  jou  have  to  do,  and  not  to 
bring  yourselves  to  disgrace  by  puttin'  fon-id 
this  drunken  profligate,  who  will  pitch  us  all 
to  the  devil  when  he  gets  himself  safe,  and 
ti-eadiu  his  black  father's  steps  afterwards." 

"And  you  must  assist  us,  father,"  said 
Ginty,  rising  up,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  the 
room  in  a  state  of  great  agitation.  "  You, 
the  first  cause,  the  original  author  of  my 
shame  ;  you,  to  whose  iniquitous  avarice  and 
vulgar  ambition  I  fell  a  sacrifice,  as  much  as 
I  did  to  the  profhgacy  and  villany  of  Thomas 
Goiu-lay.  But  I  cai-e  not — I  have  my  am- 
bition ;  it  is  a  mother's,  and  more  natural  on 
that  account.  I  have  also  my  vengeance  to 
gratify  ;  for,  father,  we  are  your  children, 
I  and  vengeance  is  the  family  priuciijle.  Fa- 
ther, you  must  assist  us — j'ou  must  join  us 
— you  must  lend  us  yoiu-  perjury — supply  us 
with  false  oaths,  with  deceitful  accounts, 
with  aU  that  is  necessaiy  ;  for,  father,  it  is  to 
work  out  your  own  principles — that  I  may 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


51& 


be  able  to  die  smilincf — smiling  that  I  have 
overreached  and  j)unished  him  at  last.  That, 
yoij  kuow,  will  be  a  receipt  in  fiiU  for  my 
shame  and  madness.  Now,  I  sa_y,  father, 
you  must  do  tliis,  or  I  will  kneel  down  and 
curse  you." 

'  The  old  man,  as  she  proceeded,  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  ujiou  her,  first  with  a  look  of  in- 
difference ;  this,  however,  became  agreeable 
and  comj)la.cent ;  gradually  his  eye  kindled 
as  he  caught  her  spirit,  and  when  she  had 
concluded,  he  ground  his  black  old  stumps  of 
teeth  together  with  a  vindictive  energy  that 
was  revolting,  or  at  least  would  have  been  so 
to  any  others  unless  those  that  were  present. 

"Well,  Ginty,"he  rejilied,  "I  have  turned 
it  over  in  my  mind,  and  as  helpin'  you  now 
will  be  giviu'  the  black  fellow  an  additional 
stab,  I'll  do  it.  Yes,  my  lad,"  he  added, 
grinuiiig  rather  mahciously,  by  the  way,  at 
the  object  of  his  promised  support,  "  I  will 
make  a  present  of  you  to  your  father  ;  and  a 
thankfid  man  he  ought  to  be  to  have  the 
like  of  you.  I  was  sometimes  for  you,  and 
sometimes  against  you  ;  but,  at  all  events, 
the  old  fellow  must  have  you — for  the 
present  at  least." 

This  was  accomijanied  by  another  grin, 
which  was,  as  usual,  perfectly  inexplicable 
to  the  others.  But  as  he  had  expressed  his 
assent  and  promised  his  assistance,  they 
were  glad  to  accept  it  on  his  own  terms  and 
in  his  own  way. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  proceeded,  "  now  that 
we've  made  up  our  minds  to  go  through  with 
it,  I'll  think  over  what's  to  be  done — what's 
the  best  stejis  to  take,  and  the  best  time  and 
place  to  break  it  to  him.  Tliis  wUl  require 
some  time  to  think  of  it,  and  to  put  things 
together  projserly  ;  so  let  ns  have  a  drojj  of 
something  to  drink,  and  we  can  meet  again 
in  few  daj's." 

Having  partaken  of  the  refreshment  which 
was  ordered  in,  they  soon  afterwards  sep- 
arated until  another  ojoportiuiity. 

Ambrose  Gray,  with  whose  real  name  the 
reader  is  akeady  acquainted,  took  but  little 
part,  as  may  have  been  perceived,  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  a  project  which  so  deeply  affected 
his  own  interests.  When  it  was  first  discover- 
ed to  him  by  his  mother  and  uncle,  he  was 
much  struck  even  at  the  bare  probability  of 
such  an  event.  Subsequent  reflection,  how- 
ever, md\iced  him  to  look  upon  the  whole 
scheme  as  an  empty  bubble,  that  could  not 
bpar  the  touch  of  a  finger  without  melting 
into  air.  It  was  true  he  was  naturally  cun- 
ning, but  then  he  was  also  naturally  profli- 
gate and  vicious  ;  and  although  not  without 
intellect,  yet  was  he  deficient  in  self-command 
to  restrain  himself  when  necessary.  Alto- 
gether, his  chai-acter  was  bad,  and  scarcely 


presented  to  any  one  a  favorable  aspect. 
W^hen  affected  with  liquor  he  was  at  once 
quarrelsome  and  cowardly — always  tlie  first 
to  provoke  a  fight,  and  the  first,  also,  to 
sneak  out  of  it. 

Soon  after  the  disapj^earance  of  Sir  Ed- 
ward Gourlay's  heu%  the  notion  of  removing 
the  baronet's  own  son  occurred,  not  to  his 
mother,  nor  to  her  brother,  but  to  old  Cor- 
bet, who  desired  his  son  Charles,  then  a 
young  man,  and  the  baronet's  foster-brother, 
as  a  preparatory  step  to  his  ultimate  designs, 
to  inform  him  that  his  illegitimate  son  was 
dead.  Sir  Thomas  at  this  time  had  not  as- 
sumed the  title,  nor  taken  possession  of  the 
immense  estates. 

"  Mr.  Gourlay,"  said  Charles,  "  that  child 
is  dead  ;  I  was  desired  to  tell  you  so  by  my 
father,  who  doesn't  wish  to  speak  to  you 
himself  upon  the  subject." 

"  Well,"  rej^hed  Mi\  Gourlay,  "  what  affair 
is  that  of  mine  ?  " 

"  "Wliy,"  said  the  other,  "  as  the  unfortu- 
nate mother  is  insane,  and  without  means  of 
providing  decently  for  its  burial,  he  thinks 
it  only  reasonable  that  you  should  furnish 
money  for  that  jiurpose — he,  I  know,  won't." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  jjrovidiug  decent- 
ly ?  "  asked  IVIi-.  Gourlay.'  "  What  stuff  that 
is ! — throw  the  brat  into  a  shell,  and  bury 
it.  I  am  cursedly  glad  it's  gone.  There's 
half-a-crown,  and  pitch  it  into  the  nearest 
kennel.  Why  the  deuce  do  you  come  to  me 
with  such  a  piece  of  information  ?  " 

Charles  Corbet,  being  his  father's  son, 
looked  at  him,  and  we  need  not  at  any  length 
describe  the  natiu-e  of  that  look  nor  the  feel- 
ing it  conveyed.  This  ijassed,  but  ^vas  not 
forgotten  ;  and  on  being  detailed  by  Chaiies 
Corbet  to  his  father,  the  latter  replied, 

"All,  the  villain — that's  his  feelin',  is  it! 
Well,  never  mind,  I'll  punish  him  one  day." 

Some  months  after  this  he  came  into  Mr. 
Gourlay's  study,  with  a  very  solemn  and 
anxious  face,  and  said, 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  sir." 

"  Well,  Anthony,  what  is  it  you  have  to 
say  to  me  ?  " 

"  Maybe  I'm  wrong,  sir,  and  I  know  I 
oughtn't  to  alarm  you  or  disturb  your  mind  ; 
but  still  I  think  I  ought  to  put  you  on  your 
guard." 

"  Confound  your  caution,  sir  ;  can't  you 
come  out  with  whatever  you  have  to  say  at 
once  ?  " 

"  Would  it  be  possible,  sir,  that  there 
could  be  any  danger  of  the  chilrl  bein'  taken 
away  like  the  other — Uke  your  brother's  ?  " 

"  What  do  A'ou  mean  ? — why  do  you  ask 
such  a  question  ?  " 

"Bekaise,  sir,  I  observed  for  the  last  few 
days  a  couple  of  strange  men  peepia'  and 


520 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


pimpin'  about  tlie  place,  and  wherever  tLe 
child  went  they  kept  dodgin'  afther  him." 

'•  But  why  should  any  one  think  of  taking 
him  away  ?  " 

"  Hem  ! — well,  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  but  you 
know  that  the  heir  was  taken  away." 

"  Come,  Anthony,  be  quiet — walls  have 
ears  ;  go  on." 

"  What  'ud  you  think  if  there  was  sich  a 
thing  as  reviuge  in  the  world  ?  I'm  not  sus- 
pectin'  any  one,  but  at  the  same  time,  a  wo- 
man's revinge  is  the  worst  and  deepest  of  all 
revinges.  You  know  very  well  that  she  sus- 
pects you — and,  indeed,  so  does  the  world." 

"  But  very  wrongly,  you  know,  Anthony," 
replied  the  baronet,  with  a  smile  dark  as 
murder. 

"  Why,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  rej)Ued  the  instru- 
ment, squu'ting  the  tobacco  spittle  into  the 
fire,  and  tvu'ning  on  him  a  grin  that  might 
be  considered  a  suitable  commentary  upon 
the  smUe  of  his  emj)loyer. 

"  But,"  added  Mr.  Goui'lay,  "  what  if  it 
should  be  the  father,  instead  of  the  sou,  they 
want  ?  " 

"  But  why  would  they  be  dodgin'  about 
the  child,  sir  ?  " 

'•  True  ;  it  is  odd  enough.  Well,  I  shall 
give  orders  to  have  him  well  watched." 

"  And,  with  the  help  o'  God,  I'U  jrat  a 
mark  ujiou  him  that'll  make  him  be  kno^^Ti, 
at  any  rate,  through  aU  changes,  barrin'  they 
should  take  his  life. " 

"  How  do  you  mean  by  a  mai'k  ! "  asked 
the  other. 

"  I  learnt  it  in  the  army,  sii-,  when  I  was 
with  Sir  Edward.  It's  done  by  gunpowder. 
It  can  do  no  harm,  and  ■will  at  any  time  dur- 
in'  his  life  make  him  known  among  millions. 
It  can  do  no  harm,  at  any  rate,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  Anthony — very  well,"  replied 
Mr.  Gourlay  ;  "  mark  him  as  you  hke,  and 
when  it  is  done,  let  me  see  it." 

In  about  a  fortnight  afterwards,  old  Cor- 
bet brought  his  son  to  him,  and  raisiug  his 
left  arm,  showed  him  the  child's  initials  dis- 
tinctly marked  on  the  under  part  of  it,  to- 
gether -with  a  cross  and  the  family  crest ;  all 
so  plainly  and  neatly  executed,  that  the  fa- 
ther was  surjJrised  at  it. 

Nothing,  however,  happened  at  that  time  ; 
vigilance  began  to  relax  as  suspicion  dimin- 
ished, \\\\i\\  one  morning,  about  eight  months 
afteiTvards,  it  was  found  that  the  child  had 
disajjpeai-ed.  It  is  unnecessary  to  add,  that 
every  jJossible  step  was  taken  to  discover  him. 
Searches  were  made,  the  hue  and  cry  was 
up,  immense  rewards  were  ofi'ered  ;  but  all 
in  vain.  From  that  day  foi-th  neither  trace 
nor  tidings  of  him  could  be  found,  and  in 
the  courMe  of  time  he  was  given  up,  like  the 
heir  of  the  property,  altogether  for  lost. 


CHAPTER  XXXn. 

Discovery  of  the  Baroncfn   Son — wlu>^    Twwever,  is 
Shelved  for  a  Time. 

Lord  Ddxp.oe,  as  had  ah'eady  been  agreed 
uijon  between  him  and  her  father,  went  di- 
rectly to  that  worthy  gentleman,  that  he 
might  make  a  faithful  report  of  the  interview. 

"  WeU,  Dunroe,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what's 
the  news  ?     How  did  it  go  off?  " 

"Just  as  we  expected,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Va2:)ors,  entreaties,  and  indignation.  I  give 
you  my  honor,  she  asked  me  to  become  her 
advocate  with  you,  in  order  to  get  released 
from  the  engagement.  That  was  rather  cool, 
wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,  I  conducted  the  afifair 
altogether  on  a  new  jjrinciple.  I  maintained 
that  love  should  not  be  a  necessary  element 
in  marriage  ;  vindicated  the  rights  of  honest 
indifference,  and  said  that  it  was  against  my 
system  to  marry  any  woman  who  was  attach- 
ed to  me." 

"  Why,  I  remember  preachmg  some  such 
doctrine,  in  a  bantering  way,  to  her  myself." 

"  Guided  by  this  theory,  I  met  her  at 
every  turn ;  but,  nevertheless,  there  was  a 
goocl  deal  of  animated  exj)ostulation,  tears, 
solicitations,  and  all  that." 

"  I  fear  you  have  mismanaged  the  matter 
some  way  ;  if  you  have  followed  my  advice, 
and  done  it  with  an  appearance  of  common 
sense,  so  much  the  better.  This  would  have 
required  much  tact,  for  Lucy  is  a  gul  very 
difficult  to  be  imposed  upon  by  appearances. 
I  am  the  only  person  who  can  do  so,  but 
that  is  because  I  apjjroach  her  aided  by 
my  knowledge  of  her  filial  affection.  As  it 
is,  however,  these  things  are  quite  common. 
INIy  own  wife  felt  much  the  same  way  with 
mj'self,  and  yet  we  lived  as  happily  as  most 
people.  Every  young  baggage  nmst  have 
her  scenes  and  her  sacrifices.  Ah  !  what  a 
knack  they  have  got  at  magnifjdng  every- 
thing !  '  How  do  you  do,  my  Lady  Dunroe  ? ' 
half  a  dozen  times  repeated,  however,  will 
awaken  her  vanity,  and  banish  aU  this  girl- 
ish rodomontade." 

"  'Room  for  the  Countess  of  Cullaniore,' 
wiU  soon  follow,"  rejilied  his  lordship,  laugh- 
ing, "  and  that  wiU  be  still  better.  The  old 
peer,  as  Norton  and  I  call  him,  is  near  the 
end  of  his  journey,  and  will  make  his  pai't- 
ing  bow  to  us  some  of  these  days." 

"  Did  she  actually  consent,  though  ?  "  ask- 
ed the  father,  somewhat  doubtfully. 

"  Positively,  Sir  Thomas  ;  make  your  mind 
easy  upon  that  point.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  protestations  and  entreaties,  and  God 
knows   what ;   but    still    the    consent    was 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


52] 


"Exactly,  exactly,"  replied  her  father  ;  "I 
knew  it  would  be  so.  Well,  now,  let  us  not 
lose  much  time  about  it.  I  told  those  law- 
yers to  wait  a  uttle  for  further  instructions, 
because  I  was  anxious  to  hear  how  this  inter- 
view would  end,  feeling  some  apprehension 
that  she  might  relapse  into  obstinacy  ;  but 
DOW  that  she  has  consented,  we  shall  go  on. 
They  maj'  meet  to-morrow,  and  get  the 
necessary  writings  drawn  up  ;  and  then  for 
the  wedding." 

"Will  not  my  father's  illness  stand  a  little 
in  the  way  ?  "  asked  Dunroe. 

"  Not  a  bit ;  why  should  it  ?  But  he  reaUy 
is  not  ill,  only  getting  feeble  and  obstinate. 
The  man  is  in  his  dotage.  I  saw  hiin  yester- 
daj%  and  he  refused,  most  perversely,  to 
sanction  the  marriage  until  some  facts  shall 
come  to  his  knowledge,  of  which  he  is  not 
quite  certain  at  present.  I  told  him  the  young 
people  would  not  wait ;  and  he  replied,  that 
if  I  give  you  my  daughter  now,  I  shall  do  so 
at  my  peril  ;  and  that  I  may  consider  mj'self 
forewarned.  I  know  he  is  thinking  of  your 
peccadilloes,  my  lord,  for  he  nearly  told  me 
as  much  before.  I  tliink,  indeed,  he  is  cer- 
tainly doting,  otherwise  there  is  no  under- 
standing him." 

"  You  are  right.  Sir  Thomas  ;  the  fuss  he 
makes  about  moraUty  and  rehgiou  is  a  jaroof 
that  he  is.  In  the  meantime,  I  agree  with 
you  that  there  is  httle  time  to  be  lost.  The 
lawyers  must  set  to  work  immediately  ;  and 
the  sooner  the  better,  for  I  am  naturally  im- 
patient." 

They  then  shook  hands  very  cordially,  and 
Dunroe  took  his  leave. 

The  reader  may  have  observed  that  in  this 
conversation  the  latter  reduced  his  account 
of  the  interview  to  mere  generalities,  a  mode 
of  reporting  it  which  was  agreeable  to  both, 
as   it  sp.ired   each  of  them   some   feeling. 
Dunroe,    for   instance,    never   mentioned   a 
syllable  of  Lucy's  having  fi-ankly  avowed  her 
passion  for  another  ;  neither  did  Sir  Thom- 
as make  the  shghtest  allusion  to  the  settled, 
disinchnation  to  many  him  which  he  knew 
she  all  along  felt.     Inditt'erent,  however,  as 
Dimroe  naturally  was  to  high-minded  feel- 
ing or  priucijjle,  he  could  not  summon  cour- 
age to  dwell  ujaon  this  attachment  of  Lucy 
to   another.     A   consciousness  of  his  utter 
meanness  and  degradation  of  spirit  in  con- 
senting to  marry  any  woman  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, tilled  him  with  shame  even  to 
glance  at  it.     He  feared,  besides,  that  if  her  \ 
knavish  father  had  heard    it,   he  would  at  | 
once  have  attributed  his  conduct  to  its  proper 
motives — that  is  to  say,  an  eagerness  to  get  \ 
into  the  possession  and  enjoj'ment  of  the  i 
large  fortune  to  which  she  was  entitled-    He  ' 
himself,  in  his  conversations  with  the   biu'o-  i 


net,  never  alluded  to  the  suliject  of  dowry, 
but  placed  his  anxiety  for  the  niatch  alto- 
gether to  the  account  of  love.  So  far,  then, 
each  was  acting  a  fi'audulent  part  toward  the 
other. 

The  next  morning,  about  the  hour  of  eleven 
o'clock,  Thomas  Corbet — foster-brother  to 
the  baronet,  though  a  much  younger  man — 
sent  word  that  he  wished  to  see  him  on  par- 
ticular business.  This  was  quite  sufficient ; 
for,  as  Corbet  was  known  to  be  more  deeply 
in  his  confidence  than  anj'  other  man  living, 
he  was  instantly  admitted. 

"  Well,  Corbet,"  said  his  master,  "  I  hope 
there  is  nothing  wi'ong." 

"  Sii'  Thomas,"  rejalied  the  other,  "  you 
have  a  right  to  be  a  happy  and  a  thankful 
man  this  morning  ;  and  although  I  cannot 
mention  the  joyful  inteUigenee  with  which  I 
am  commissioned,  without  grief  and  shame 
for  the  conduct  of  a  neai'  relation  of  my  own, 
vet  I  feel  this  to  be  the  happiest  day  of  my 
life." 

"  ^Tiat  the  deuce  ! "  exclaimed  the  baro- 
net, starting  to  his  feet — "  how  is  this  ? 
What  is  the  inteUigenee '?  " 

"  Rejoice,  Sir  Thomas — rejoice  and  be 
thankful  ;  but,  in  the  meiintime,  jsray  sit 
down,  if  you  please,  and  don't  bo  too  much 
agitated.  I  know  how  evil  news,  or  anything 
that  goes  in  ojaposition  to  your  vidll,  aflfects 
you  :  the  two  escapes,  for  instance,  of  that 
boy." 

"  Ha  !  I  understand  you  now,"  exclaimed 
the  baronet,  whUst  the  very  eyes  danced  in 
his  head  with  a  savage  delight  that  was 
frightful,  and,  for  the  sake  of  human  natui-e, 
painful  to  look  upon,  "  I  understand  you 
now,  Corbet — he  is  dead  !  eh  ?  Is  it  not  so  ? 
Yes,  yes — it  is — it  is  true.  Well,  jou  shall 
have  a  present  of  one  hundred  pounds  for 
the  inteUigenee.  You  shaU,  and  that  in  the 
course  of  five  minutes." 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  lephed  Corbet,  calmly, 
have  patience  ;  the  person,  Fenton,  you  sjaeak 
about,  is  still  alive  ;  but  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  dead  to  you  and  for  you.  This, 
however,  is  another  and  a  far  dift'erent  af- 
fau-.     Your  son  has  been  found  ! " 

The  baronet's  brow  feU  :  he  looked  grave, 
and  more  like  a  man  disapjjointed  than  any- 
thing else.  In  fact,  the  feehng  associated 
with  the  recovery  of  his  son  was  not  strong 
enough  to  balance  or  counteract  that  which 
he  experienced  in  connection  with  the  hoped- 
for  death  of  the  other.  He  recovered  him- 
self, however,  and  exclaimed, 

"  Found  !  Tom  found  !— little  Tom  found ! 
My  God  !    When — where — how '?  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  sit  down,  sir,"  re- 
plied Corbet,  "  and  I  will  tell  you." 

The  baronet  took  a  seat,  but  the  feeling  of 


522 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


disappointment,  although  checked  by  the  in- 
telligence of  his  sou,  was  not  extinguished, 
and  could  still  be  read  in  his  countenance. 
He  turned  his  eyes  ujjon  Corbet  and  said, 

"  Well,  Corbet,  go   on  ;  he   is   not   dead, 
though  ?  " 
I     "No,  sir;  thank  God,  he  is  not." 

"  Who — who — are  you  speaking  of  ?  Oh, 
I  forgot — proceed.  Yes,  Corbet,  you  are 
right ;  I  am  very  much  distui'bed.  Well, 
speak  about  my  son.  Where  is  he  ?  In  what 
condition  of  life  ?  Is  he  a  gentleman — a  beg- 
ger — a  profligate — what  ?  " 

"  You  remember.  Sir  Thomas — hem — you 
remember  that  unfortunate  affair  with  my 
sister  ?  " 

Corbet's  face  became  deadly  pale  as  he 
spoke,  and  his  voice  grew,  by  degrees,  hol- 
low and  husky  ;  yet  he  was  both  calm  and 
cool,  as  far,  at  least,  as  human  observation 
could  form  a  conjecture. 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  it  was  a  j)aiuful  busi- 
ness ;  but  the  gh-l  was  a  fool  for  losing  her 
senses." 

"  Hear  me,  Sir  Thomas.  When  her  child 
died,  you  may  remember  my  father  sent  me 
to  you,  as  its  parent,  for  the  means  of  giving 
it  decent  interment.  You  cannot  forget  your 
words  to  me  on  that  occasion.  I  confess  I 
felt  them  myself  as  very  offensive.  What, 
then,  must  his  mother  have  suffered — wild, 
unsettled,  and  laboring,  as  she  was,  under  a 
desperate  sense  of  the  injury  she  had  ex- 
perienced at  your  hands  ?  " 

"  But  why  have  mentioned  it  to  her  ?  " 

"I  confess  I  was  ■wi'ong  there  ;  but  I  did 
so  to  make  her  feel  more  severely  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  conduct.  I  did  it  more 
in  anger  to  her  than  to  you.  My  wordsj 
however,  instead  of  producing  x-iolence  or 
outrage  on  my  sister,  seemed  to  make  her 
settle  down  into  a  fearful  silence,  which  none 
of  us  could  get  her  out  of  for  several  days. 
It  ptruck  us  that  her  unfortunate  malady 
had  taken  a  new  turn,  and  so  it  did." 

"Well?     Well?     Well?" 

"  Soon  after  that,  your  son,  Master  Thomas, 
disappeared.  You  may  understand  me  now  : 
it  was  she  who  took  him." 

"  Ah  !  the  vindictive  vagabond  ! "  exclaimed 
the  baronet. 

"  Have  jjatience,  Sir  Thomas.  She  took 
your  little  boy  with  no  kind  intention  toward 
him  :  her  object  was  to  leave  you  vdthout  a 
son  ;  her  object,  in  fact,  was,  at  first,  to  mui'- 
der  him,  in  consequence  of  your  want,  as 
she  thought,  of  all  jjaterual  afleetion  for  him 
she  had  just  lost,  and,  in  short,  of  your 
whole  conduct  toward  her.  The  mother's 
instinct,  however,  proved  stronger  than  her 
revenge.  She  could  not  take  away  the 
child's  life  for  the  thought  of  her  own  ;  but 


she  privately  placed  him  with  an  uncle  ol 
ours,  a  classical  hedge-school-master,  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  kingdom,  with  whom  he 
lived  under  a  feigned  name,  and  from  whom 
he  received  a  good  education." 

"  But  where  is  he  now  ?  "  asked  the  other. 
"How  does  he  hve?  Why  not  bring  him 
here  ?  " 

"He  must  first  wait  your  j)leasure,  you 
know.  Sir  Thomas.  He's  in  town,  and  has 
been  in  town  for  some  time,  a  student  in 
college." 

"  That's  very  good,  indeed  ;  we  must  have 
him  out  of  college,  though.  Poor  Lucy  will 
go  distracted  with  joy,  to  know  that  she  has 
now  a  brother.  Bring  him  here,  Corbet ; 
but  stoiJ,  stay — his  appearance  now — let  me 
see — caution,  Corbet  —  caution.  We  must 
look  before  us.  Miss  Gourlay,  you  know,  is 
about  to  be  married.  Dunroe,  I  understand ; 
he  cares  little  or  nothing  jjersonaUy  about 
the  girl — it  is  her  fortune,  but  principally 
her  inheritance,  he  loves.  It  is  true,  he 
doesn't  thmk  that  I  even  suspect  tliis,  much 
less  feel  certain  of  it.  How  does  the  young 
fellow  look,  though?     Good  looking — eh?" 

"  Exceedingly  like  his  father,  su" ;  as  you 
will  admit  on  seeing  liim." 

"  He  must  have  changed  considerably, 
then  ;  for  I  remember  he  was  suj^jjosed  to 
bear  a  nearer  resemblance  to  his  mother  and 
her  family,  the  only  thing  which  took  him 
down  a  little  in  my  aft'ection.  But  hold  ; 
hang  it,  I  am  disturbed  more  than  I  have 
been  this  long  time.  What  was  I  speaking 
of,  Corbet?  I  forgot — by  the  way,  I  hope 
this  is  not  a  bad  sign  of  my  health." 

"  You  were  talking  of  Dunroe,  sir,  and 
Miss  Goiu'lay's  marriage." 

"  Oh,  yes,  so  I  was.  Well — yes — here  it 
is,  Corbet — is  it  not  possible  that  the  appear- 
ance of  this  young  man  at  this  jjai-ticular 
crisis — stepjaing  in,  as  he  does,  between 
Dunroe  and  the  verj'  projoerty  his  heart  is 
set  upon — miglit  knock  the  thing  to  pieces  ? 
and  there  is  all  that  I  have  had  my  heart  set 
upon  for  years — that  grand  project  of  ambi- 
tion for  my  daughter — gone  to  the  winds, 
and  she  must  jjut  up  with  some  rascally 
commoner,  after  all." 

"It  is  certainly  possible,  sir  ;  and,  besides, 
every  one  knows  that  Lord  Dunroe  is 
needy,  and  wants  money  at  present  verj- 
much." 

"  In  any  event,  Corbet,  it  is  our  best 
policy  to  keep  this  discovery  a  jirofound  se- 
cret till  after  the  marriage,  when  it  can't  af- 
fect Miss  Gourlay,  or  Lady  Dunroe  as  she 
will  then  be." 

"  Indeed,  I  agi-ee  with  you.  Sir  Thomas ; 
but,  in  the  meantime,  you  had  better  see 
j'our  son ;  he  is  impatient  to  come  to  you 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


523 


and  bis  sister.  It  was  only  last  night  that 
the  secret  of  his  birth  was  made  known  to 
him." 

"  By  what  name  does  he  go  ?  " 

"  By  the  name  of  Ambrose  Gray,  sir  ;  but 
I  cannot  tell  you  why  my  sister  gave  him 
such  a  name,  nor  where  she  got  it.  She  was 
at  the  time  verj'  unsettled.  Of  late  her  rea- 
son has  returned  to  her  very  much,  thank 
God,  iUthough  she  has  still  touches  of  her 
unfortunate  complaint ;  but  they  are  slight, 
and  are  getting  more  so  every  time  they 
come.     I  trust  she  will  soon  be  quite  well." 

The  baronet  fixed  his  ej'e  ujjon  the  speaker 
with  pecuhar  steadiness. 

"Corbet,"  said  he,  "you  know  you  have 
lost  a  great  deal  of  my  confidence  of  late. 
The  knowledge  of  certain  transactions  which 
reached  that  strange  fellow  who  stopijed  in 
the  Mitre,  you  were  never  able  to  account 
for." 

"  And  never  will,  sir,  I  fear ;  I  can  make 
nothing  of  that." 

"  It  must  be  between  you  and  yoirr  father, 
then  ;  and  if  I  thought  so " 

He  paused,  however,  but  feared  to  proceed 
with  anything  in  the  .shaj^e  of  a  threat,  feel- 
ing that,  so  far  as  the  fate  of  poor  Fenton 
was  concerned,  he  still  lay  at  their  mercy. 

"It  may  have  been  my  father.  Sir  Thomas, 
and  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  must,  too,  as 
there  was  no  one  else  could.  Our  best  jjlan, 
however,  is  to  keep  quiet  and  not  provoke 
him.  A  very  short  time  \nt11  jjut  us  out  of 
his  power.  Fenton's  account  with  this  world 
is  nearly  settled." 

"I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  it  was  closed," 
observed  the  other  ;  "  it's  a  dreadful  thing 
to  feel  that  jou  are  liable  to  every  accident, 
and  never  beyond  the  reach  of  exposure.  To 
me  such  a  thing  would  be  death." 

"  You  need  entertain  no  ajJi^rehension.  Sir 
Thomas.  The  young  man  is  safe,  at  last ; 
he  vrill  never  come  to  hght,  j-ou  may  rest 
assured.  But  about  your  son — will  you  not 
see  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  order  the  carriage,  and  fetch 
him — quietly  and  as  secretly  as  you  can,  ob- 
serve— his  sister  must  see  him,  too  ;  and  in 
order  to  prej)are  her,  I  must  first  see  her. 
Go  now,  and  lose  no  time  about  it." 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  a  cai-riage.  Sir 
Thomas ;  I  can  have  him  here  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

Sir  Thomas  went  to  the  drawing-room 
with  the  expectation  of  finding  Lucy  there — 
a  jH-oof  that  the  discoveiy  of  his  son  affected 
him  very  much,  and  deeply ;  for,  in  general 
his  habit  when  he  wanted  to  speak  with  her 
was  to  have  her  brought  to  the  librarv",  which 
was  his  favorite  apartment.  She  was  not 
there,    however,    and    ■5\dthout   ringing,    or 


making  any  fui'ther  inquiries,  he  proceeded 
to  an  elegant  little  boudoir,  formerly  occu- 
pied by  her  mother  and  herself,  before  this 
insane  persecution  had  rendered  her  life  so 
wretched.  The  chief  desii-e  of  her  heart 
now  was  to  look  at  and  examine  and  con- 
temjilate  every  object  that  belonged  to  that 
mother,  or  in  which  she  ever  took  an  inter- 
est. On  this  account,  she  had  of  late  select- 
ed this  boudoir  as  her  favorite  apartment ; 
and  here,  lying  asleep  upon  a  sofa,  her  cheek 
resting  upon  one  arm,  the  baronet  found 
her.  He  approached  calmly,  and  with  a 
more  extraordinary  combination  of  feelings 
than  perhajDS  he  had  ever  ex-jjerienced  in 
his  hfe,  looked  upon  her ;  and  whether  it 
was  the  unprotected  helplessness  of  sleep, 
or  the  mournful  impress  of  suffering  and 
sorrow,  that  gave  such  a  touching  charm  to 
her  beauty,  or  whether  it  was  the  united  in- 
fluentte  of  both,  it  is  difficult  to  say  ;  but 
the  fact  was,  that  for  an  instant  he  felt  one 
touch  of  pity  at  his  heart. 

"  She  is  evidently  unhappy,"  thought  he, 
as  he  contemplated  her  ;  "  and  that  face, 
lovely  as  it  is,  has  become  the  exponent  of 
misery  and  distress.  Goodness  me  !  how 
wan  she  is !  how  j)ale  !  and  how  distinctly 
do  those  beautiful  blue  veins  run  through 
her  white  and  death-hke  temples  !  Perhaps, 
after  all,  I  am  wrong  in  urging  on  this 
marriage.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  no 
fixed  prineiijle  fi-om  any  source  sufficiently 
authentic  to  pfuide  me  ;  no  creed  which  I 
can  believe.  This  life  is  ever'ything  to  us  ; 
for  what  do  we  know,  what  cmi  we  know,  of 
another?  And  yet,  could  it  be  that  for  my 
indifference  to  what  is  termed  revealed  truth, 
God  Almighty  is  now  making  me  the  instru- 
ment of  my  o\^^l  punishment  ?  But  how 
can  I  receive  this  doctrine  ?  for  here,  before 
my  eyes,  is  not  the  innocent  suffering  as 
much,  if  not  more,  than  the  guiHy,  even 
gi'anting  that  I  am  so  ?  And  if  I  am  joer- 
versely  incredulous,  is  not  here  my  son  re- 
stored to  me,  as  if  to  reward  my  unbelief  ? 
It  is  a  mysterious  maze,  and  I  shall  never 
get  out  of  it  ;  a  curse  to  know  that  the  most 
we  can  ever  know  is,  that  we  know — noth- 
ing. Yet  I  -niU  go  on  -ndth  this  marriage. 
Pale  as  that  brow  is,  I  must  see  it  encuvled 
by  the  coronet  of  a  countess  ;  I  must  see 
her,  as  .she  ought  to  be,  high  in  I'ank  as  she 
is  in  ti'uth,  in  virtue,  in  true  dignity.  I  shaU 
force  the  world  to  make  obeisance  to  her  ; 
and  I  shall  teach  her  afterwards  to  despise 
it.  She  once  said  to  me,  '  And  is  it  to  gain 
the  applause  of  a  world  you  hate  and  despise, 
that  you  wish  to  exalt  me  to  such  a  bawble  '?' 
— meaning  the  coronet.  I  replied,  '  Yes, 
and  f()r  that  very  reason.'  I  shaU  not  now 
disturb  her." 


524 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


He  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  he 
noticed  that  her  bosom  began  suddenly  and 
rapidly  to  heave,  as  if  by  some  strong  and 
feai-ful  agitation  ;  and  a  series  of  close,  jsain- 
ful  sobbings  jsroceeded  from  her  half-closed 
lips.  This  tumult  went  on  for  a  httle,  when 
at  length  it  was  terminated  by  one  long, 
wild  scream,  that  might  be  su23posed  to  pro- 
ceed fi'om  the  very  agony  of  despair  itself ; 
and  ojjening  her  eyes,  she  started  ujs,  her 
face,  if  possible,  paler  than  before,  and  her 
eyes  tiUed  as  if  with  the  terror  of  some  hor- 
rible vision. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  the  sacrifice  is  complete 
— I  am  yoiu-  wife  ;  but  there  is  henceforth 
an  eternal  giilf  between  us,  across  which  you 
shall  never  drag  me." 

On  gazing  about  her  with  wild  and  dis- 
turbed looks,  she  paused  for  moment,  and, 
seeing  her  father,  she  rose  up,  and  with  a 
countenance  changed  from  its  wildness  to 
one  in  which  was  depicted  an  expression  so 
woe-begone,  so  deplorable,  so  fuU  of  sorrow, 
that  it  was  scai-cely  in  human  nature,  hard- 
ened mto  the  induration  of  the  world's 
worst  spirit,  not  to  feel  its  ii-resistible  influ- 
ence. She  then  threw  her  arms  im^iloringly 
and  tenderly  about  his  neck,  and  looking 
into  his  eyes  as  if  she  were  supp)Ucating  for 
immortal  salvation  at  his  hands,  she  said, 
"  Oh,  pajsa,  have  compassion  on  me." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Lucy  ?  what's  the 
matter,  my  love?" 

But  she  only  repeated  the  words,  "  Oh, 
papa,  have  pity  on  me !  have  mercy  on  me, 
papa  !  Save  me  from  destruction — fi-om 
despair — from  madness  !  " 

"  You  don't  answer  me,  child.  You  have 
been  dreaming,  and  are  not  properly  awake." 

StiU,  however,  the  arms — the  beautiful 
arms — clung  around  his  neck  ;  and  stiU  the 
mournful  supphcation  was  repeated. 

"  Oh,  papa,  have  pity  upon  me  !  Look  at 
me !  Am  I  not  your  daughter  ?  Have 
mercy  ujjou  your  daughter,  papa !  "  And 
still  she  ehuig  to  him  ;  and  still  those  eyes, 
fi-om  which  the  tears  now  flowed  in  ton-euts, 
were  imploring  him,  and  gazing  through  his 
into  the  very  soul  within  him  ;  then  she 
kissed  his  lips,  and  Inmg  \jpon  him  as  upon 
her  last  stay  ;  and  the  soft  but  melting  ac- 
cents were  again  breathed  mournfully  and 
imploiingly  as  before.  "  Oh,  have  pity  upon 
me,  beloved  jjapa — have  pity  xn^oin  your 
child  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lucy  ?  what  ai-e  you 
asking,  my  dear  girl  ?  I  am  willing  to  do 
anything  I  can  to  promote  jour  happiness. 
What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  fear  to  tell  you,  papa  ;  but  sm-ely  you 
understand  me.  Oh,  relent !  as  you  hope 
for  heaven's   mercy,  pitj'   me.     I  have,  for 


your  sake,  undertaken  too  much.  I  have  not 
strength  to  fulfil  the  task  I  imposed  on 
myself.  I  will  die  ;  you  wiU  see  me  dead  at 
your  feet,  and  then  your  lasl  one  wiU  be  gone. 
You  will  be  alone  ;  and  I  should  wish  to 
hve  for  your  sake,  papa.  Look  upon  me  ! 
I  am  your  only  child — your  only  child — your 
last,  as  I  said  ;  and  do  not  make  your  last 
and  only  one  miserable — miserable — mad  ! 
Only  have  compassion  on  me,  and  release  me 
fi'om  this  engagement," 

The  baronet's  eye  brightened  at  the  last 
two  or  three  allusions,  and  he  looked  upon 
her  with  a  benignity  that  fiUed  her  uuhaiipy 
heart  with  hoiae. 

"  Oh,  sjjeak,  i^ajja,"  she  exclaimed,  "  speaL 
I  see,  I  feel  that  you  are  about  to  give  me 
comfort — to  fill  my  heart  with  joy." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  Lucy.  Listen  to  me,  and 
restrain  yourself.  You  are  not  my  only 
child  !  " 

"  What !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  WTiat  do  you 
mean,  papa '?     What  is  it  ?  " 

"Have  strength  and  courage,  Liicy  ;  and, 
mark  me,  no  noise  nor  rout  about  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  Your  brother  is  found — my 
son  Thomas  is  found — and  j-ou  wiU  soon  see 
him  ;  he  will  be  here  presently.  Get  rid  of 
this  foolish  dream  you've  had,  and  prepare 
to  receive  him  !  " 

"  M}-  brother  ! "  she  exclaimerl,  "  my  broth- 
er !  and  have  I  a  brother  ?  Then  God  has 
not  deserted  me  ;  I  shaU  now  have  a  friend. 
My  brother  ! — my  brother  !  But  is  it  possi- 
ble, or  am  I  dreaming  stiU  ?  Oh,  where  is 
he,  papa  ?  Bring  me  to  him  ! — is  he  in  the 
house  ?  Or  where  is  he  ?  Let  the  carnage 
be  ordered,  and  we  will  both  go  to  him. 
Alas,  what  may  not  the  poor  boy  have  suffer- 
ed !  WTiat  isrivations,  what  necessities,  what 
distress  and  destitution  may  he  not  have  suf- 
fered !  But  that  matters  little ;  come  to 
him.  In  want,  in  rags,  in  misery,  he  is  wel- 
come— yes,  welcome  ;  and,  oh,  how  miich 
more  if  he  has  suffered." 

"  Have  jjatience,  child  ;  he  will  be  here  by 
and  by.  You  cannot  long  to  see  him  more 
than  I  do.  But,  Lucy,  listen  to  me  ;  for  the 
present  we  must  keep  his  discovery  and 
restoration  to  us  a  profound  secret." 

"A  i^rofoimd  secret!  and  why  so,  papa? 
Why  should  we  keep  it  secret  ?  Is  it  not  a 
circumstance  which  we  should  pubhsh  to  the 
world  with  delight  and  gratitude  ?  Surely 
you  will  not  brmg  him  into  this  house  like  a 
criminal,  in  secrecy  and  silence  ?  Should 
the  lawful  heir  of  yoiu-  name  and  property  be 
suffered  to  enter  othenvise  than  as  becomes 
him  ?  Oh,  that  I  could  see  him  !  Will  he 
soon  be  here  ?  " 

"How  your  tongue  runs  on,  you  fooHsh 
gii'l,  without  knowing  what  you  say." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


525 


"  I  know  what  I  say,  papa.  I  know«— I 
feel — that  he  will  be  a  friend  to  me — that  he 
will  sliare  with  me  in  m_y  sorrows." 

"  Yes,  the  sorrows  of  being  made  a  coun- 
tess." 

"  And  a  wretched  woman,  papa.  Yes,  he 
will  sympathize  with,  sustain,  and  console 
me.  Dear,  dear  brother,  how  I  wish  to  see 
you,  to  press  you  to  my  heart,  and  to  give 
you  a  sister's  tenderest  welcome  !  " 

"  Will  you  hear  me,  madam '? "  said  he, 
sternly  ;  "I  desire  you  to  do  so." 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  excuse  me.  My  head  is  in  a 
tumult  of  joy  and  sorrow ;  but  for  the 
present  I  will  forget  myseli  Yes,  papa,  speak 
on  ;  I  hear  you." 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary,  for  reasons  which  I  am  not  yet  at 
liberty  to  disclose  to  you,  that  the' discovery 
of  this  boy  should  be  kept  strictly  secret  for 
a  time." 

"  For  a  time,  papa,  but  not  long,  I  hope. 
How  proud  I  shall  feel  to  go  out  with  him. 
We  shaU  be  inseparable  ;  and  if  he  wants  in- 
structions, I  shaU  teach  him  everything  I 
know." 

"  Arrange  all  that  between  you  as  you 
may,  only  observe  me,  I  repeat.  None  in 
this  house  knows  of  his  restoration  but  I, 
yourself,  and  Corbet.  He  must  not  live 
here  :  but  he  shall  want  neither  the  comforts 
nor  the  elegancies  of  Hfe,  at  all  events.  This 
is  enough  for  the  present,  so  mark  my  words, 
and  abide  by  them." 

He  then  left  her,  and  retired  to  his  private 
room,  where  he  unlocked  a  cabinet,  from 
which  he  took  out  some  papers,  and  having 
added  to  them  two  or  three  paragraphs,  he 
read  the  whole  over,  from  beginning  to  end, 
then  locked  them  up  again,  and  returned  to 
the  library. 

The  reader  may  perceive  that  this  iinex- 
pected  discovery  enabled  the  baronet  to  ex- 
tricate himself  from  a  situation  of  much 
difKculty  with  respect  to  Lucy  ;  nor  did  he 
omit  to  avail  himself  of  it,  in  order  to  give  a 
new  turn  to  her  feeUngs.  The  affectionate 
girl's  heart  was  now  in  a  tumult  of  delight, 
checked,  however,  so  obviously  by  the 
gloomy  reti-ospection  of  the  obligation  she 
had  imposed  upon  herself,  that  from  time  to 
time  she  could  not  repress  those  short  sobs 
by  which  recent  grief,  as  in  the  case  of 
children  who  are  soothed  after  crying,  is 
frequently  indicated.  Next  to  the  hated 
marriage,  however,  that  which  pressed  most 
severely  upon  her  was  the  recollection  of  the 
manly  and  admirable  qualities  of  him  whom 
she  had  now  forever  lost,  especially  as  con- 
trasted with  those  of  Dunroe.  The  former, 
for  some  time  past,  has  been  much  engaged 
in  attempting  to  trace  Fenton,  as  weU  as  in 


business  connected  with  his  ovm  fortunes  ; 
and  yet  so  high  was  his  feeling  of  generosity 
and  honor,  that,  if  left  to  the  freedom  of  his 
own  will,  he  would  have  postponed  every  ex- 

[  ertion  for  the  establishment  of  his  just  rights 
until  death  should  have  prevented  at  least 
one  honored  individual   from  exjjeriencing 

I  the  force  of  the  blow  which  must  necessarily 
be  inflicted  on  him  by  his  proceedings. 

At  the  moment  when  the  baronet  was 
giving  such  an  adroit  turn  to  the  distracted 
state  of  his  daughter's  mind,  the  stranger  re- 
solved to  see  Birney,  who  was  then  prepar- 
ing to  visit  France,  as  agent  in  his  afl'airs,  he 
himself  having  preferred  staying  near  Lucy, 

!  from  an  apprehension  that  his  absence  might 

'  induce  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  to  force  on  her 
marriage.     On  passing  through  the  hall  of 

:  his  hotel,  he  met  his  friend  Father  M'Mahon, 
who,  much  to  his  surprise,  looked  careworn 
and  j)erplexed,  having  lost,  since  he  saw  him 
last,  much  of  his  natural  cheerfulness  and 

i  easy  simplicity  of  character.  He  looked 
travel-stained,   too,  and  altogether  had  the 

\  appearance  of  a  man  on  whose  kind  heart 

I  something  unpleasant  was  pressing. 

I  "My  excellent  ti'iend,"  said  he,  '-lam 
heartily  glad  to  see  you.  But  how  is  this  ? 
you  look  as  if  something  was  wrong,  and  you 
have  been  travelling.  Come  upstairs  ;  and  if 
you  have  any  lengthened  staj*  to  make  in 
town,  consider  yourself  my  guest.  Nay,  as 
it  is,  you  must  stop  with  me.  Here,  Dandy 
— here,  you  Dulcimer,  bring  in  this  gentle- 

'  man's  luggage,  and  attend  him  ijunetually." 
Dandy,  who  had  been  coming  from  the 

'  kitchen  at  the  time,  was  about  to  comply 

;  with  his  orders,  when  he  was  prevented  by 
the  priest. 

"  Stop,  Dandy,  you  thief.  My  luggage, 
sir !  In  truth,  the  only  luggage  I  have  is 
this  bundle  under  my  arm.  As  to  my  time 
in  town,  sir,  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  ;  but, 
long  or  short,  I  must  stojj  at  my  ould  place, 
the  Brazen  Head,  for  not  an  hour's  comfort 
I  could  have  in  any  other  place,  many  thanks 
to  j'ou.  I'm  now  on  my  way  to  it ;  but  I 
thought  I'd  give  you  a  call  when  jjassing." 

They  then  proceeded  upstairs  to  the 
stranger's  room,  where  breakfast  was  soon 
provided  for  the  priest,  who  expressed  an 
anxiety  to  know  how  the  stranger's  affairs 
proceeded,  and  whether  any  satisfactory 
trace  of  poor  Fenton  had  been  obtained. 

"  Nothing  satisfactory  has  tui-ned  up  in 
either  case,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  No 
additional  clew  to  the  poor  young  feUow 
has  been  got,  and  still  my  o^^^l  affairs  are 
far  from  being  complete.  The  loss  of  im- 
portant documents  obtained  by  myself  in 
France  mil  render  it  necessai-y  for  Birney  to 
proceed  to  that  country,  in  order  to  procure 


526 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


fresh  copies.  I  had  intended  to  accompany 
him  myself ;  but  I  have  changed  my  mind 
on  that  pomt,  and  prefer  remaining  where  I 
am.  A  servant  in  whom  I  had  every  confi- 
dence, but  wlio,  imfortunately,  took  to  di'iuk, 
and  worse  vices,  robbed  me  of  them,  and 
has  fled  to  America,  with  a  pretty  French- 
woman, after  having  abandoned  his  wife." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  rej)lied  the  priest,  "  that  is  the 
old  story  ;  first  drink,  and  after  that  wicked- 
ness of  every  description.  Ah,  sir,  it's  a 
poor  wretched  world  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
it  is  as  God  made  it ;  and  it  becomes  our 
duty  to  act  an  honest  and  a  useful  part  in  it, 
at  aU  events." 

"  You  seemed  depressed,  sir,  I  think," 
observed  the  stranger  ;  "I  hope  there  is  no- 
thing wrong.  If  there  is,  command  my  ser- 
vices, my  friendship,  mj-  piu-se  ;  in  each,  in 
all,  command  me." 

"  Many  thanks,  many  thanks,"  returned 
the  other,  seizing  him  warmly  by  the  hand, 
whilst  the  tears  fell  from  liis  eyes.  "I  wish 
there  were  more  in  the  world  Uke  you. 
There  is  nothing  wrong  with  me,  however, 
but  what  I  win  be  able,  I  hope,  to  set  I'ight 
soon." 

"  I  trust  you  wiU  not  allow  any  false  deli- 
cacy to  stand  in  your  way,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  possess 
not  only  the  wish  but  the  ability  to  serve 
you  ;  and  if " 

"  Not  now,"  rephed  the  jiriest ;  "  nothing 
to  signifj'  is  wrong  with  me.  God  bless 
you,  thousrh,  and  he  will,  too,  and  prosjser 
your  honorable  endeavors.  I  must  go  now  : 
I  have  to  call  on  old  Corbet,  and  if  I  can  in- 
fluence him  to  assist  you  in  tracing  that 
poor  young  man,  I  will  do  it.  He  is  hard 
and  cunning,  I  know  ;  but  then  he  is  not  in- 
sensible to  the  fear  of  death,  which,  indeed, 
is  the  only  argument  hkely  to  prevail  with 
him." 

"  You  should  dine  ■with  me  to-day,"  said 
his  fi'iend,  "  but  that  I  am  myself  engaged 
to  dine  with  Dean  Palmer,  where  I  am  to 
meet  the  colonel  of  the  Thirty-third,  and 
some  of  the  officers.  It  is  the  first  time  I 
have  dined  out  since  I  came  to  the  country. 
The  colonel  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and 
can  be  depended  on." 

"  The  dean  is  a  brother-in-law  of  Lady 
Gourlay's,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  is." 

"  Yes,  and  what  is  better  still,  he  is  an 
excellent  man,  and  a  good  Christian.  I  wish 
tliere  were  more  like  him  in  tlie  country.  I 
know  the  good  done  by  him  in  my  own 
neighborhood,  where  he  has  established,  by 
his  indi^'idual  exertions,  two  admirable  in- 
stitutions for  the  poor — a  sarings'  bank  and 
a  loan  fund — to  the  manifest  relief  of  every 


strftgghng  man  who  is  knovm  to  be  indus- 
trious and  honest ;  and  see  the  consequences 
— he  is  loved  and  honored  by  all  who  know 
him,  for  he  is  perjjetuaUy  doing  good." 

"  Youi-  o^\ai  bishop  is  not  behindhand  in 
offices  of  benevolence  and  chaiity,  any  more 
than  Dean  Palmer,"  obseiTed  the  stranger. 

"In  truth,  you  may  say  so,"  rephed  the 
other.  "  With  the  pietj'  and  humility  of  an 
apostle,  he  possesses  the  most  chOdlike  sim- 
plicity of  heart ;  to  which  I  may  add,  learn- 
ing the  most  profound  and  extensive.  His 
private  charity  to  the  jjoor  will  always  cause 
himself  to  be  ranked  among  their  number. 
I  wish  every  dean  and  bishop  in  the  two 
churches  resembled  the  Christian  men  we 
speak  of;  it  would  be  well  for  the  country." 

"  Mr.  Birney,  I  know,  stands  well  with 
you.  I  believe,  and  I  take  it  for  granted, 
that  he  does  also  with  the  people." 

"  You  maj'  be  certain  of  that,  my  dear 
sir.  He  is  one  of  the  few  attorneys  v\ho  is 
not  a  rogue,  but,  what  is  still  more  extra- 
ordinary, an  honest  man  and  an  excellent 
landlord.  I  wiU  tell  you,  now,  what  he  did 
I  some  time  ago.  He  has  projierty.  you  know, 
in  my  parish.  On  that  property  an  arrear 
!  of  upwai'ds  of  eight  hundred  pounds  had 
I  accumulated.  Now,  this  arrear,  in  cousider- 
!  ation  of  the  general  depression  in  the  value 
of  agricultural  produce,  he  not  only  wiped 
off,  but  abated  the  rents  ten  per  cent. 
Again,  when  a  certain  imjiost,  which  shall 
be  nameless  (tithe),  became  a  settled  charge 
upon  the  lands,  under  a  composition  act, 
instead  of  charging  it  agaiust  the  tenants, 
he  paid  it  himself,  never  calhng  upon  a  ten- 
ant to  pay  one  farthing  of  it.  Now,  I  men- 
tion these  things  as  an  example  to  lie  held 
up  and  imitated  by  those  who  hold  landed 
property  in  general,  many  of  whom,  the  Lord 
knows,  require  such  an  examjole  badly  ;  but 
I  must  not  stop  here.  Our  friend  Bimey 
has  done  more  than  this. 

"  For  the  last  fifteen  years  he  has  pur- 
chased for  and  supplied  his  tenants  with 
flaxseed,  and  for  which,  at  the  subsequent 
gale  time,  in  October,  they  merely  rejjay 
him  the  cost  price,  without  interest  or  any 
other  charge  save  that  of  carriage. 

"He  also  gives  his  tenantn*,  fi'ee  of  all 
charges,  as  much  turf-bog  as  is  necessai-y 
for  the  abundant  supply  of  their  own  fuel. 

"  He  has  all  along  paid  the  poor-rates, 
without  charging  one  farthing  to  the  tenant. 

"  During  a  season  of  potato  blight,  he  for- 
gave every  tenant  paying  under  ten  pounds, 
haK  a  year's  rent ;  under  twenty,  a  quarter's 
rent ;  and  over  it,  twenty  per  cent.  Now,  it 
is  such  landlords  as  this  that  are  the  best 
benefactors  to  the  peojjle,  to  the  eounti-y, 
and  ultimately  to  themselves ;  but,  unfortu- 


TRE  BLACK  BARONET. 


527 


nately,  we  cannot  get  tliem  to  think  so  ;  and 
I  fear  that  nothing  but  the  iron  scourge  of 
necessity  will  ever  teach  them  their  duty, 
and  then,  like  most  other  knowledge  de- 
rived fi'om  the  Rame  pain/il  source,  it  will 
probably  come  too  late.  One  would  imagine 
a  landlord  ought  to  know  without  teaching, 
that,  when  he  presses  liis  tenantry  until  they 
f;ill,  he  must  himself  fall  with  them.  In 
truth,  I  must  be  ofl"  now.' 

"  Well,  then,  promise  to  dine  with  me  to- 
morrow." 

"  If  I  can  I  will,  then,  with  pleasure  ;  but 
etill  it  may  be  out  of  my  power.  I'll  try, 
nowever.     What's  your  hour  ?  " 

"  Suit  yoiu-  own  convenience :  name  it 
yourself." 

"  Good  honest  old  five  o'clock,  then  ;  that 
is,  if  I  can  come  at  all,  but  if  I  cannot,  don't 
be  disappointed.  The  Lord  knows  I'll  do 
everythii;g  in  mv  power  to  come,  at  any 
rate  ;  and  if  I  fail,  it  won't  be  my  heart  that 
win  hinder  me. " 

When  he  had  gone,  the  stranger,  after  a 
pause,  rang  his  bell,  and  in  a  few  moments 
Dandy  Didcimer  made  his  apjjearanee. 

"  Dandy,'  said  his  master,  "  I  fear  we 
are  never  likely  to  trace  this  woman,  Mrs. 
Norton,  whom  I  am  so  anxious  to  find." 

"  Begad,  plaise  your  honor,  and  it  isn't 
but  there's  enough  of  them  to  be  had.  Sure 
it's  a  levy  I'm  houltlin'  every  day  in  the  week 
wid  them,  aud  only  that  I'm  engaged,  as 
they  say,  I'd  be  apt  to  turn  some  o'  them 
into  Mrs.  Dulcimer." 

"  How  is  that,  Dandy  ?  " 

"  'Why,  sir,  I  gave  out  that  you're  young 
and  handsome,  God  pardon  me." 

"  How,  SLi-ra,"  said  his  master,  laughing, 
"  do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  not  ?  " 

"Well,  sii%  wait  tUl  you  hear,  and  then 
you  may  answer  yourself ;  as  for  me,  afther 
what  I've  seen,  I'll  not  undertake  to  give  an 
opinion  on  the  subject.  I  suppose  I'm  an 
ugly  fellow  myself,  and  yet  I  know  a  sartin 
fail-  one  that's  not  of  that  opinion — ahem  !  " 

"  Make  yourself  inteUigible  in  the  mean- 
time," said  his  master  :  "I  don't  properly 
understand  you." 

"That's  just  what  the  Mrs.  Nortons  say, 
your  honor.  'I  don't  understand  you,  sir  ; ' 
and  that  is  bekaise  you  keep  me  in  the  dark, 
and  that  I  can't  explain  to  them  properly 
what  you  want  ;  divil  a  thing  but  an  oracle 
you've  made  of  me.  But  as  to  beauty — 
only  listen,  sir.  This  momin'  there  came  a 
woman  to  me  wid  a  thin,  sharp  face,  a  fieiy 
eye  that  looked  as  if  she  had  a  drop  in  it,  or 
was  goin'  to  fight  a  north-wester,  and  a  thin, 
red  nose  that  was  nothing  else  than  a  stun- 
ner. She  was,  moreover,  a  good  deal  of  the 
gentleman  on  the  upper  hp — not  to  mention 


two  or  thi-ee  separate  plantations  of  the 
same  growth  on  ditferent  j^arts  of  the  chin. 
Altogether,  I  was  very  much  struck  with 
her  appearance." 

"You  are  too  descriptive.  Dandy,"  said 
his  master,  after  enjoying  the  description. 
however;  "come  to  the  point." 

"Ay,  that's  just  what  she  said,"  replied 
Dandy,  "  coaxing  the  point  of  her  nose  wid 
her  finger  and  thumb  :  '  Come  to  the  point,' 
said  she  ;  '  mention  the  services  your  master 
requires  fi'om  me.' 

"  '  From  you,'  says  I,  lookin'  astonished, 
as  you  may  suppose — 'from  you,  ma'am?' 

"  'Yes,  my  good  man,  from  me  ;  I'm  Mrs. 
Norton.' 

"'Are  you  indeed,  ma'am?'  says  I;  'I 
hope  you're  well,  Mrs.  Norton.  My  master 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you.' 

"  '  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he  ?  '  she  asked. 

"  '  Young  aud  handsome,  ma'am,'  says  I ; 
'  quite  a  janious  in  beauty.' 

"  '  Well,'  says  my  lady,  '  so  far  so  good  ; 
I'm  young  and  handsome  myself,  as  you  see, 
and  I  dare  say  we'll  Uve  hapj)ily  enough  to- 
gether ; '  and  as  she  sj)oke,  she  ^suslied  up 
an  old  bodice  that  was  tied  round  some- 
thing that  resembled  a  dried  skeleton,  which 
it  only  touched  at  jjoints,  like  a  reel  in  a 
bottle,  striviu",  of  course,  to  show  oii'a  good 
figiu-e  ;  she  then  winked  both  eyes,  as  if  she 
was  meetin'  a  cloud  o'  dust,  and  agin 
shuttin'  one,  as  if  she  was  coverin'  me  wid  a 
ritle,  whisjjered,  'Y'ou'll  find  me  generous 
maybe,  if  you  desai-ve  it.  I'll  increase  your 
allowances  afther  oiu-  marriage.' 

"'Thanks,  ma'am,'  says  I,  'but  my  mas- 
ther  isn't  a  man-yin'  man — unfortunately,  he 
is'  married  ;  stdl,'  says  I,  recoverin'  myself 
— for  it  struck  me  that  she  might  be  the 
right  woman,  afther  all — '  although  he's 
married,  his  wife's  an  invahd  ;  so  that  it'j 
Ukely  you  may  be  the  lady  stUl.  Were  you 
ever  in  France,  ma'am?' 

"  '  No,'  says  she,  tossing  up  the  stunner 
I  spoke  of,  '  I  never  was  in  France  ;  but  I 
was  in  Tipperary,  if  that  w'ould  sarve  him.' 

"  I  shook  my  head,  your  honor,  as  much 
as  to  say — '  It's  no  go  this  time.' 

"  '  Ma'am,'  says  I,  '  that's  unfortunate — 
my  masther,  when  he  gets  a  loose  leg,  wiU 
never  marry  any  woman  that  has  not  been 
in  France,  and  can  dance  the  fandango  Uke 
a  Frenchman.' 

"  'I  am  sorry  for  his  taste,'  says  she,  '  and 
for  yours,  too  ;  but  at  all  events,  you  had 
better  go  up  and  tell  him  that  I'll  walk  down 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  then  he 
can  see  what  he  has  lost,  and  feel  what  P'rance 
has  cost  him.' 

"  She  then  walked,  sir,  or  rather  sailed, 
down  the  other  side  of  the  street,  holdin'  up 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


her  clothes  behind,  to  show  a  pair  of  legs 
like  telescopes,  with  her  head  to  it's  full 
height,  and  one  eye  squintin'  to  the  hotel, 
like  a  crow  lookLu'  into  a  marrow  bone." 

"Well,"  said  his  master,  "  but  I  don't  see 
the  ol)ject  of  all  this." 

"  Why,  the  object,  sir,  is  to  show  you 
that  it's  not  so  aisy  to  know  whether  a  per- 
son's young  and  handsome  or  not.  You, 
sir,  think  yourself  both  ;  and  so  did  the  old 
skeleton  I'm  spakin'  of." 

"  I  see  your  moral,  Dandy,"  repUed  his 
master,  laughing  ;  "at  aU  events,  miike  every 
possible  inquiry,  but,  at  the  same  time,  in  a 
quiet  way.  More  depends  upon  it  than  you 
can  imagine.  Not,"  he  added,  in  a  kind  of 
half  sohloquy,  "  that  I  am  acting  in  this  affixir 
from  motives  of  a  mere  personal  nature  ;  I  am 
now  only  the  rejjresentative  of  another's 
wishes,  and  on  that  account,  more  than  fi'om 
any  result  affecting  myself,  do  I  proceed  in 
it.'"' 

"  I  vnsh.  I  knew,  sir,"  said  Dandy,  "what 
kind  of  a  woman  this  JVIrs.  Norton  is  ;  whether 
she's  old  or  young,  handsome  or  otherwise. 
At  iill  events,  I  think  I  may  confine  myself  to 
them  that's  young  and  handsome.  It's 
always  pleasanter,  sir,  and  more  agreeable  to 
deal  with  a  hands " 

"  Confine  yourself  to  truth,  sir,"  repUed 
his  master,  sharply;  "make  prudent  in- 
quiries, and  in  doing  so  act  Uke  a  man  of 
sense  and  discretion,  and  don't  attempt  to 
indulge  in  your  buffoonery  at  ray  expense. 
No  woman  named  Norton  can  be  the  indi- 
vidual I  want  to  find,  who  has  not  lived  for 
some  years  in  France.  That  is  a  sufficient 
test ;  and  if  you  should  come  in  the  way  of 
the  woman  I  am  seeking,  who  alone  can  an- 
swer this  description,  I  shall  make  it  worth 
your  while  to  have  succeeded." 


CHAPTER  XXXm. 

The  Priext  ankft  for  a  Loan  of  Fifty  Oiiineas,  and 
Offers  "  Fr'eney  the  Robber  "  as  Security. 

Whilst  Father  M'Mahon  was  wending  his 
way  to  Constitution  Hill  fi-om  the  Brazen 
Head,  where  he  had  deposited  his  little  bun- 
dle, containing  three  shirts,  two  or  three 
cravats,  and  as  many  pairs  of  stockings,  a 
dialogue  was  taking  place  in  old  Corbet's 
with  which  we  must  make  the  reader  ac- 
quainted. He  is  ah-eady  aware  that  Corbet's 
present  wife  was  his  second,  and  that  she 
had  a  daughter  by  her  first  marriage,  who 
had  gone  aV)road  to  the  East  Indies,  many 
years  ago,  with  her  husband.  This  woman 
was  no  other  than  ISIrs.  M'Bride,  wife  of  the 


man  who  had  abandoned  her  for  the  Fresi  rA\ 
girl,  as  had  been  mentioned  by  the  strangel 
to  Father  M'Mahon,  and  who  had,  as  was 
supposed,  eloped  with  her  to  America.  Such 
certainly  was  M'Bride's  intention,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  New  World  would  have 
been  edified  by  the  admirable  example  of 
these  two  morahsts,  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  Mjrs.  M'Bride,  herself  as  shrewd  as  the 
Frenchwoman,  and  burdened  with  as  httle 
honesty  as  the  husband,  had  traced  them  to 
the  place  of  rendez\'ous  on  tlie  very  first 
night  of  their  disapijearance  ;  where,  whilst 
they  lay  overcome  with  sleep  and  the  influ- 
ence of  the  rosy  god,  she  contrived  to  lessen 
her  husband  of  the  pocketbook  which  he 
had  helped  himself  to  fi-om  his  master's  es- 
critou'e,  with  the  exception,  simply,  of  the 
pajjers  in  question,  which,  not  being  money, 
possessed  in  her  eyes  but  little  value  to  her. 
She  had  read  them,  however  ;  ;md  as  she 
had  thi-ough  her  husband  become  acquainted 
with  theii'  object,  she  determined  on  leaving 
them  in  his  hands,  with  a  hope  that  they 
might  become  the  means  of  compromising 
matters  with  liis  master,  and  probably  of 
gaining  a  reward  for  their  restoration.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  it  so  hajipened,  that 
that  gentleman  did  not  miss  them  tmtil 
some  time  after  his  arrival  in  Ireland  ;  but, 
on  putting  matters  together,  and  comparing 
the  flight  of  M'Bride  with  the  loss  of  his 
property,  he  concluded,  with  everj-thing 
short  of  certamty,  that  the  latter  was  the 
thief. 

Old  Corbet  and  this  woman  were  seated  in 
the  little  back  parlor  whilst  Mi's.  Corbet  kept 
the  shop,  so  that  their  conversation  could 
talte  a  fi-eer  range  in  her  absence. 

"  And  so  you  tell  me,  Kate,"  said  the 
former,  "  that  the  vagabond  has  come  back 
to  the  coimtiy  ?  " 

"  I  seen  him  with  my  ovni  eyes,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it." 

"  And  he  doesn't  suspect  you  of  takin'  the 
money  fi-om  him  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  he  does  you  ;  so  fiir  fi-om 
that,  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  it's  the  French- 
woman he  sus2)ects." 

"  But  hadn't  you  better  call  on  him  ?  that 
is,  if  you  know  where  he  lives.  Maybe  he'p 
sorry  for  learin'  you." 

"He,  the  villain  !  No  ;  you  don't  know 
the  life  he  led  me.  If  he  was  my  husband — 
as  imfortunately  he  is — a  thousand  times 
over,  a  single  day  I'll  never  hve  with  him. 
This  lameness,  that  I'll  cany  to  my  grave,  is 
his  work.  Oh,  no  ;  death  any  time  sooner 
than  that." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  long 
pause,  "it's  a  strange  story  you've  tould  me; 
and  I'm  sorry,  for  Lord  Cullamore's  sake,  to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


529 


jiear  it.  He's  one  o'  tlie  good  ould  gentlemen 
that's  now  so  scarce  in  the  country.  But,  tell 
me,  do  you  know  where  M'Bride  lives  ?  " 

"No,"  she  reislied,  "I  do  not,  neither  do  I 
care  much  ;  but  I'd  be  glad  that  his  old  mas- 
ter had  back  his  jjapers.  There's  a  woman 
supposed  to  be  Hvin'  in  this  country  that 
could  prove  this  stranger's  case,  and  he  came 
over  here  to  find  her  out  if  he  could." 

"  Do  you  know  her  name  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  dou't  think  I  ever  heard  it,  or,  if  I 
did,  I  can't  at  aU  remember  it.  M'Bride  men- 
tioned the  woman,  but  I  don't  think  he  nam- 
ed her." 

"  At  aU  events,"  rephed  Corbet,  "  it  doesn't 
signify.  I  hope  whatever  steps  they're  takin' 
against  that  good  ould  nobleman  wiU  fail ; 
and  if  I  had  the  pajiers  you  speak  of  this 
minute,  I'd  jjut  them  into  the  tire.  In  the 
mane  time  try  and  make  out  where  your 
vagabone  of  a  husband  lives,  or,  rather,  set 
Ginty  to  work,  as  she  and  you  are  Uving  to- 
gether, and  no  doubt  she'll  soon  ferret  him 
out." 

"I  can't  understand  Ginty  at  all,"  replied 
the  woman.  "I  think,  although  she  has 
given  up  fortune  telliu',  that  her  head's  not 
altogether  right  yet.  She  talks  of  workin' 
out  some  prophecy  that  she  tould  Sir  Thom- 
as Gourlay  about  himself  and  his  daughter." 

"  She  may  talk  as  much  about  that  as  she 
likes,"  replied  the  old  fellow.  "  She  called 
him  plain  Thomas  Goiu-lay,  didn't  she,  and 
said  he'd  be  stripped  of  his  title  ?  " 

"  So  she  told  me  ;  and  that  his  daughter 
would  be  married  to  Lord  Dunroe." 

"Ay,  and  so  she  tould  myself;  but  there 
she's  in  the  dark.  The  daughter  -ndU  be 
Lady  Dunroe,  no  doubt,  for  they're  goin'  to 
be  married  ;  but  she's  takin'  a  bad  way  to 
work  out  the  prophecy  against  the  father  by 
— hem " 

"By  what?" 

"  I'm  not  free  to  mention  it,  Kate  ;  but  this 
veiy  day  it's  to  take  place,  and  I  suppose  it'll 
soon  be  known  to  everybody." 

"Well,  but  sure  you  might  mention  it  to 
me." 

"  I'll  make  a  bargain  with  you,  then.  Set 
Ginty  to  work  ;  let  her  find  out  your  hus- 
band ;  get  me  the  papers  you  sjaake  of,  and 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  With  all  my'  heart,  father.  I'm  sure  I 
don't  care  if  you  had  them  this  minute.  Let 
Ginty  trj'  her  hand,  and  if  she  can  succeed, 
well  and  good." 

"  WeU,  Kate,"  said  her  father,  "I'm  glad  I 
seen  you  ;  but  I  think  it  was  your  duty  to 
call  upon  me  long  before  this." 

"  I  would,  but  that  I  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't  see  me  ;  and,  besides,  Ginty  told 
me  it  was  better  not  for  sonfle  time.     She 


kept  me  back,  or  I  would  have  come  month? 
ago." 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  she  has  some  devil's  scheme  in 
view  that'll  end  in  either  nothing  or  some. 
i  thing.     Good-ljy,  now  ;  get  me  these  papers, 
I  and  I'll  tell  you  what '11  be  worth  hearin'." 
j      Immediately   after  her  depai-ture  Father 
M'Mahon  entered,  and  found  Corbet  behind 
[  his  counter  as  usual.     Each  on  looking  at 
■  the  other  was  much  struck  by  his  evident 
appearance  for  the  worse  ;  a  circumstance, 
however,  which  caused  no  obseiTatiou  imtil 
after  they  had  gone  into  the  httle  back  room. 
I      Corbet's   countenance,    in   addition   to    a 
careworn  look,  and  a  consequent  increase  of 
i  emaciation,  presented  a  very  difficult  study 
to  the  physiognomist,  a  study  not  unobsei-ved 
I  by  the  priest  himself.     It  was  indicative  of 
the  conflicting   resolutions   which   had   for 
;  some  time  past  been  alternating  in  his  mind  ; 
!  but  so  roguishly  was  each  resolution  veiled 
by  an  assumed  exjaression  of  an   opjjosite 
i  nature,  that  although  the  general  inference 
i  was  true,  the  hypocrisy  of  the  whole  face 
[  made  it  individually  false.     Let  us  suppose, 
i  \rj  way  of  illustration,  that  a  man   whose 
heart  is  full  of  joy  successfully  j)uts  on  a  look 
;  of  grief,  and  vive  versa.     Of  course,  the  phy- 
siognomist will  be  mistaken  in  the  conclu- 
sions he  draws  from  each  individual  exjjres- 
sion,  although  correct  in  perceiving  that  there 
are  befoj-e  him  the  emotions  of  joy  and  grief ; 
the  only  difference  being,  that  dissimulatiou 
has  put  \vrong  labels  iipon  each  emotion. 

"Anthony,"  said  his  reverence,  after  hav- 
;  ing  taken  a  seat,  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  such  a 
change  upon  you  for  the  worseT  You  ai-e 
verj'  much  broken  down  since  I  saw  you 
last ;  and  although  I  don't  wish  to  become  a 
messenger  of  bad  news,  I  feel,  that  as  a 
]  clergvman,  it  is  my  duty  to  teU  you  so." 

"  Troth,  your  reverence,"  rei^lied  the  other, 
"I'm  sorry  that  so  far  as  bad  looks  go  I 
must  return  the  compliment.  It  grieves  me 
to  see  you  look  so  ill,  sir.". 

"  I  know  I  look  ill,"  replied  the  other ; 
"  and  I  know  too  that  these  hints  are  sent  to 
us  in  mercy,  with  a  fatherly  design  on  the 
part  of  our  Creator,  that  we  may  make  the 
necessary  preparations  for  the  change,  the 
awful  change  that  is  before  us." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  sir,  it's  true  enough,"  re- 
plied Corbet,  whose  visage  had  become  much 
blanker  at  lliis  serious  intimation,  notwith* 
standing  his  hypocrisy  ;  "  it's  true  enough, 
sir  ;  too  true,  indeed,  if  we  could  only  re- 
member it  as  we  ought.  Have  you  been 
unwell,  sir?" 

"  Not  in  my  bodily  health,  thank  God, 
but  I've  got  into  trouble  ;  and  what  is  more, 
I'm  coming  to  you,  Anthony,  with  a  fins 
hope  that  you  will  bring  me  out  of  it." 


>30 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  The  trouble  can't  be  vei-y  great  tlien," 
replied  the  apprehensive  old  knave,  "  or  / 
wouldn't  be  able  to  do  it." 

"Anthony,"  said  the  priest,  "I  have  known 
you  a  long  time,  now  forty  years  at  least, 
and  you  need  not  be  told  that  I've  stood  by 
some  of  your  friends  when  they  wanted  it. 
When  your  daughter  ran  away  with  that 
M'Bride,  I  got  him  to  marry  her,  a  thing  he 
was  very  imwiUing  to  do  ;  and  which  I  be- 
lieve, only  for  me,  he  would  not  have  done. 
On  that  occasion  you  know  I  advanced  twenty 
guineas  to  enable  them  to  begin  the  world, 
and  to  keep  the  fellow  with  her  ;  and  I  did 
this  all  for  the  best,  and  not  without  the 
hope  either  that  you  would  see  me  reim- 
bursed for  what  you  ought,  as  her  father,  to 
have  given  them  yourself.  I  si^oke  to  you 
once  or  twice  about  it,  but  you  lent  me  the 
deaf  ear,  as  they  call  it,  and  fiom  that  day 
to  this  you  never  had  either  the  manliness  or 
the  honesty  to  repay  me." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Corbet,  with  one  of  his  usual 
grins,  "  you  volunteered  to  be  generoils  to  a 
profligate,  who  drank  it,  and  tuuk  tc»  the 
arm  J'." 

"  Do  you  then  volnnteer  to  le  genrrous 
to  an  honest  man  ;  /  wiU  neither  drick  it  nor 
take  to  the  army.  If  he  took  to  Lhe  army, 
he  didn't  do  so  without  taking  your  dfiughter 
jJong  with  him.  I  spoke  to  Sir  Edward 
(iourlay,  who  threatened  to  write  to  his  col- 
onel ;  and  through  the  interference  of  the 
same  humane  gentleman  I  got  permission 
for  him  to  bring  his  wife  along  with  him. 
These  are  circumstances  that  you  ought  not 
to  forget,  Anthony." 

"  I  don't  forget  them,  but  sure  you're  al- 
ways in  somebody's  affairs  ;  always  goin' 
security  for  some  of  your  poor  parishioners  ; 
and  then,  when  they're  not  able  to  pay,  down 
comes  the  responsibility  upon  you." 

"  I  cannot  see  a  poor  honest  man,  strug- 
gling and  industrious,  at  a  loss'  for  a  friendly 
act.  No  ;  I  never  .could  stand  it,  so  long  as 
I  had  it  in  my  power  to  assist  him." 

"And  what's  wrong  now,  if  it's  a  fair 
question  ?  " 

"  Two  or  three  things  ;  none  of  them  very 
large,  but  amounting  in  all  to  about  fifty 
guineas." 

"  Whew ! — fifty  guineas  !  " 

"  Aj',  indeed  ;  fifty  guineas,  which  you  will 
lend  me  on  my  own  security." 

"  Fifty  guineas  to  you  ?  Don't  I  know 
you?  \V1iy,  if  you  had  a  thousand,  let  alone 
fifty,  it's  among  the  poor  o'  the  jiarish  they'd 
be  afore  a  week.  Faith,  I  know  you  too  well, 
Father  Peter." 

"You  know  me,  man  alive — j'es,  you  do 
know  me  ;  and  it  is  just  because  you  do  that 
I  expect  you  will  lend  me  the  money.     You 


wouldn't  vrish  to  see  my  Uttle  things  pulled 
about  and  auctioned  ;  my /fl»f//((/ Uttle  library 
gone ;  nor  would  you  wish  to  see  me  and 
jjoor  Freney  the  Robber  sei^arated.  Big 
Ridy  desaved  me,  the  thief ;  but  I  found  him 
out  at  last.  Money  I  know  is  a  great  tempta- 
tion, and  so  is  mate  when  trusted  to  a  shark 
like  him  ;  but  any  way,  may  the  Lord  par- 
don the  blackguard !  and  that's  the  worst  I 
wish  him." 

There  are  some  sit\iations  in  life  where 
conscience  is  more  awakened  by  comparison, 
or  perhaps  we  should  say  by  the  force  of 
contrast,  than  by  aU  the  power  of  reason, 
religion,  or  philosophy,  put  together,  and  ad- 
vancing against  it  in  their  piroudest  pomp 
and  formality.  The  childlike  simijlicity,  for 
instance,  of  this  good  and  benevolent  man, 
earnest  and  eccentric  as  it  was,  occasioned 
reflections  more  jjainful  and  touching  to  the 
callous  but  timid  heart  of  this  old  man(eu^Te^ 
than  could  whole  homilies,  or  the  most  seri- 
ous and  lengthened  exhortations. 

"  I  am  near  death,"  thought  he,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  countenance  of  the  priest, 
from  which  thei-e  now  beamed  an  emanation 
of  regret,  not  for  his  difficulties,  for  he  had 
forgotten  them,  but  ioY  his  knavish  servant — 
so  simjile,  so  natural,  so  afi'ectiug,  so  benevo- 
lent, that  Corbet  was  deeply  struck  by  them. 
"I  am  near  death,"  he  proceeded,  "and 
what  would  I  not  give  to  have  within  me  a 
heart  so  pure  and  fi'ee  from  \illany  as  that 
man.  He  has  made  me  feel  more  by  think- 
in'  of  what  goodness  and  piety  can  do,  than 
I  ever  felt  in  my  life  ;  and  now  if  he  gets 
upon  Freney  the  Robber,  or  lugs  in  that 
giant  Ruly,  he'll  forget  debts,  difficulties, 
and  all  for  the  time.  Heavenly  Father,  that 
I  had  as  hapjiy  a  heart  this  day,  and  as  fi-ee 
from  sin ! " 

"Anthony,"  said  the  priest,  "I  must  teU 
you  about  Freney " 

"  No,  sir,  if  you  plaise,"  replied  the  other, 
"not  now." 

"  Well,  about  poor  Mat  Ruly  ;  do  you 
know  that  I  think  by  taking  him  back  I 
might  be  able  to  reclaim  him  yet.  The 
Lord  has  gifted  him  largely  in  one  way,  I 
admit ;  but  stiU " 

"But  still  your  bacon  and  gi-eens  would 
pay  for  it.  I  know  it  all,  and  who  doesn't  ? 
But  about  yovir  own  affairs  V  " 

"Li  truth,  they  are  in  a  bad  state — the 
same  bacon  and  greens — he  has  not  left  me 
much  of  either ;  he  made  clean  work  of 
them,  at  any  rate,  before  he  went." 

"  But  about  your  aiikirs,  I'm  sayin'  ?  " 

"  Whj',  they  can't  be  worse ;  I'm  run  to 
the  last  jsass  ;  and  Freney  now,  the  crature, 
when  the  saddle's  on  him,  comes  to  the 
mounting-stone  of  himself,  and  waits  thers 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


531 


till  Fm  ready.  Then,"  he  added,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  to  think  of  jjartiug  vdtlx  htm  !  And  I 
must  do  it — I  must ; "  and  here  the  tears 
rose  to  his  eyes  so  copiously  that  he  was 
obUged  to  take  out  his  cotton  handkerchief 
and  wijae  them  away. 

The  heart  of  the  old  miser  was  touched. 
He  knew  not  why,  it  is  time,  but  he  felt 
that  the  view  he  got  of  one  immortiil  spirit 
uiicorrupted  by  the  crimes  and  calculating 
h^'poerisy  of  life,  made  the  contemplation  of 
his  own  state  and  condition,  as  well  as  of 
his  future  hopes,  fearful. 

"  AMiat  would  I  not  give,"  thought  he, 
"to  have  a  soul  as  fi'ee  fi-om  sin  and  guilt, 
and  to  be  as  fit  to  face  my  God  as  that  man  ? 
And  yet  they  say  it  can  be  brought  about. 
Well,  wait^wait  till  I  have  my  revenge  on 
this  black  ^'illain,  and  1 11  see  what  may  be 
done.  Ay,  let  what  will  happen,  the  shame 
and  ruin  of  my  child  must  be  revenged. 
And  yet,  God  help  me,  what  am  I  savin'  ? 
Would  tliis  good  man  say  that  ?  He  that 
forgives  e\ery  one  and  everything.  Still,  I'll 
repent  in  the  long  mn.  Come,  Father 
Peter,"  said  lie,  "  don't  be  cast  down  ;  I'll 
tlu-y  what  I  can  for  you  ;  but  then,  again,  if 
I  do,  what  secui'ity  can  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  Poor  Freney  the  Robber " 

"  Well,  now,  do  you  hear  this  !  " 

" — Was  a  name  I  gave  him  on  account 
of " 

"  Troth,  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  lave  you 
here,  if  you  don't  spake  out  about  what  you 
came  for.  How  much  is  it  you  say  you 
want  ? " 

The  good  man,  who  was  startled  out  of 
his  affection  for  Freney  by  the  tone  of  Cor- 
bet's voice  more  than  by  his  words,  now 
raised  his  head,  and  looked  about  him  some- 
what like  a  person  restored  to  conscious- 
ness. 

"  Yes,  Anthony,"  said  he ;  "  yes,  man 
alive  ;  there's  kindness  in  that." 

"  In  what,  su"  ?  " 

"In  the  very  tones  of  your  voice,  I  say. 
God  has  touched  youi*  lieai't,  I  hope.  But 
oh,  Anthony,  if  it  were  His  blessed  will  to 
soften  it — to  teach  it  to  feel  true  contrition 
and  repentance,  and  to  fill  it  with  love  for 
His  divine  will  in  all  things,  and  for  your 
fellow -creatures,  too — how  Uttle  would  I 
think  of  my  own  miserable  difficulties  !  Fa- 
ther of  all  mercy  !  if  I  could  be  sure  that  I 
had  gixined  even  but  one  soul  to  heaven,  I 
would  say  that  I  had  not  been  bom  and 
lived  in  vain  !  " 

"  He'll  never  let  me  do  it,"  thought  Cor- 
bet, vexed,  and  still  more  softened  by  the 
pietv,  the  charity,  and  the  complete  forget- 
fuluess  of  self,  which  the  priest's  conduct 
manifested.       Yet    was    this     change     not 


In-ought  about  wthout  difficulty,  and  thosfl 
pitiful  misgi\-ings  and  calculations  which 
assail  and  re-assaU  a  heai-t  that  has  been  foi 
a  long  time  under  the  influence  of  the  world 
and  those  base  jjrinciples  by  which  it  is 
actuated.  In  fact,  this  close,  nervous,  and 
penurious  old  man  felt,  when  about  to  per* 
form  this  generous  action,  all  that  alarm  and 
hesitation  which  a  virtuous  man  would  feel 
when  on  the  eve  of  committing  a  crime.  He 
was  about  to  make  an  inroad  upon  his  own 
system — going  to  change  the  settled  habits 
of  his  whole  life,  and,  for  a  moment,  he  en- 
tertained thoughts  of  altering  his  pimTo^s, 
Then  he  began  to  think  that  this  risit  of  the 
priest  might  have  been  a  merciful  and  pro- 
rideutial  one  ;  he  nest  took  a  ghmpse  at 
futurity — reflected  for  a  moment  on  his  un- 
prepared state,  and  then  decided  to  assist 
the  priest  iww,  and  consider  the  necessity 
for  repentance  as  soon  as  he  felt  it  conve- 
nient to  do  so  afterwards. 

How  strange  and  deceptive,  and  how  full 
of  the  suljtlest  delusions,  ai'e  the  workings 
of  the  human  heart ! 

"And  now,  Anthony, "proceeded  the  priest^ 
"  whUe  I  think  of  it,  let  me  speak  to  you  on 
another  aflair." 

"  I  see,  sii-,"  repiHed  Corbet,  somewhat 
quenilously,  "  that  you're  determined  to 
prevent  me  fi'om  sarvin'  you.  If  my  mind 
changes,  I  won't  do  it ;  so  stick  to  your  own 
business  first.  I  know  very  well  what  jou're 
goin'  to  spake  about.  How  much  do  you 
want,  you  say?  " 

"Fifty  guineas.  I'm  responsible  for  three 
bills  to  that  amount.  The  bills  are  not  for 
myself,  but  for  three  honest  families  that 
have  been  brought  low  by  two  of  the  worst 
enemies  that  ever  Ireland  had — bad  land- 
lords and  bad  times." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  give  you  the  money." 

"  God  bless  you,  Anthony  !  "  exclaimed 
the  good  man,  "  God  bless  you  !  and  above 
all  things  may  He  enable  you  and  all  of  us 
to  prepare  for  the  life  that  is  before  us." 

Anthony  paused  a  moment,  and  looked 
■ndth  a  face  of  deep  perplexity  at  the  priest. 

"  Whj' am  I  doin'  this,"  said  he,  haK  re- 
pentant of  the  act,  "  and  me  can't  aft'ord  it  ? 
You  must  give  me  your  bill,  sir,  at  three 
months,  and  I'll  charge  you  interest  be- 
sides." 

"I'll  give  you  my  bill,  certainly,"  repUed 
the  priest,  "  and  you  may  charge  interest 
too  ;  liutbe  moderate." 

Corbet  then  went  upstairs,  much  at  that 
pace  which  characterizes  the  progress  of  a 
felon  from  the  press-room  to  the  gallows ; 
here  he  remained  for  some  time — reckoning 
the  money — paused  on  the  stairhead — and 
again  the  slow,  heavy,   lingering  stej)  wai 


532 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


heard  descending,  and,  as  nearly  as  one 
could  judge,  with  as  much  reluctance  as  that 
with  which  it  went  up.  He  then  sat  down 
and  looked  steadilj',  but  with  a  good  deal  of 
abstraction,  at  the  priest,  after  having  first 
placed  the  money  on  his  own  side  of  the 
table. 

"Have  you  a  blank  bdl?"  asked  the 
priest. 

"  Eh  ?  " 

"  Have  you  got  a  blank  bUl  ?  or,  sure  we 
can  send  out  for  one." 

"For  what?" 

"For  a  blank  biU." 

"  A  blank  biU — yes — oh,  ay — fifty  guineas ! 
— why,  that's  half  a  hundre'.  God  protect 
me  !  what  am  I  about  ?  Well,  well  ;  there — 
there — there  ;  now  put  it  in  your  pocket ; " 
and  as  he  spoke  he  shoved  it  over  hastily  to 
the  priest,  as  if  he  feai-ed  his  good  resolution 
might  fail  him  at  last. 

"  But  about  the  biU,  man  ahve?  " 

"  Hang  the  bdl — deuce  take  all  the  bills 
that  ever  were  dravsm  !  I'm  the  greatest 
Quid  fool  that  ever  wore  a  head — to  go  to 
allow  myself  to  be  made  a — a — •— .,  Take 
your  money  away  out  of  this,  I  bid  you — 
your  money — no,  but  mxj  money.  I  suppose 
I  may  bid  farewell  to  it — for  so  long  as  any 
one  teUs  you  a  story  of  distress,  and  makes 
a  pool  mouth  to  you,  so  long  you'll  get  youi'- 
self  into  a  scrape  on  theu-  account." 

The  priest  had  already  put  the  money  in 
his  pocket,  but  he  instantly  took  it  out,  and 
placed  it  once  more  on  Corbet's  side  of  the 
table. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  keep  it.  I  will  receive 
no  money  that  is  lent  in  such  a  churlish  and 
unchristian"  spirit.  And  I  teU  jou  now, 
moreover,  that  if  I  do  accept  it,  it  must  be 
on  the  condition  of  your  listening  to  what  I 
feel  it  my  duty  to  say  to  you.  You,  Anthony 
Corbet,  have  committed  a  black  and  deadly 
crime  against  the  bereaved  widow,  against 
society,  against  the  will  of  a  merciful  and — 
take  care  that  you  don't  find  him,  too — a  just 
Crod.  It  is  qiiite  useless  for  you  to  deny  it ; 
I  have  spoken  the  tnith,  and  you  know  it. 
Why  will  you  not  enable  that  heart-broken 
and  kind  lady — whose  whole  life  is  one  per- 
petual good  action — to  trace  and  get  back 
her  son  ?  " 

"  /  can't  do  it." 

"  That's  a  dehberate  falsehood,  sir.  Your 
conscience  tells  j'ou  it's  a  lie.  In  your  last 
conversation  with  me,  at  the  Brazen  Head, 
you  as  good  as  promised  to  do  something  of 
the  kind  in  a  couple  of  months.  That  time 
and  more  has  now  passed,  and  yet  you  have 
done  nothing." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  linow  that  the  widow  has  got  no 


trace  of  her  chUd  ?  '.iryx  right  well  I  knovf 
that  you  could  )T.?tr/i'e  Jiim  to  her  if  jou 
wished.  However,  \  leave  you  now  to  the 
comfort  of  your  own  hardened  and  wicked 
heart.  The  day  M'lL  come  soon  when  the 
black  catalogue  of  your  o'atq  gnjilt  wiU  rise  up 
fearfully  before  you — when  a  death-bed,  with 
all  its  horrors,  '^iH  staiile  the  verj-  sovU  with- 
in you  by  its  ficiy  recollections.  It  is  then, 
my  fiiend,  that  you  wiU  feel — when  it  is  too 
late — what  it  is  to  have  tampered  with  and 
despised  thy  mercy  of  God,  and  have  neglect- 
ed, while  you  had  time,  to  prejoare  yourself 
for  His  awful  judgment.  Oh,  what  would  I 
not  do  to  turn  j-our  heart  from  the  dark 
spirit  of  revenge  that  broods  in  H,  and 
changes  you  into  a  demon  !  Mark  these 
words,  Anthony.  They  are  spoken,  God 
knows,  with  an  anxious  and  earnest  wish  for 
your  repentance,  and,  if  neglected,  they  wiU 
rise  and  sound  the  terrible  sentence  of  your 
condemnation  at  the  last  awful  hour-.  Listen 
to  them,  then — hsten  to  them  in  time,  I  en- 
treat, I  beseech  you — I  wotdd  go  on  my  bare 
knees  to  you  to  do  so.''  Here  his  tears  fell 
i  fast,  as  he  jjroceeded,  "  I  would  ;  and, 
believe  me,  I  have  thought  of  you  and  prayed 
for  you,  and  now  you  see  that  I  cannot  but 
weep  for  you,  when  I  know  that  you  have 
the  knowledge — perhaps  the  guilt  of  this 
heiuous  crime  locked  up  in  your  heart,  and 
wiU  not  reveal  it.  Have'  compassion,  then, 
on  the  widow — enable  her  fiiends  to  restore 
her  child  to  her  longing  arms  ;  piu'ge  j'our- 
self  of  this  great  guUt,  and  you  may  believe 
me,  that  even  in  a  temporal  laoiut  of  view  it 
will  be  the  best  rewarded  action  you  ever 
performed ;  but  this  is  little — the  darkness 
that  is  over  your  heart  wUl  disappear,  jour 
conscience  will  become  light,  and  aU  its  re- 
flections sweet  and  full  of  heavenly  comfort ; 
your  death-bed  wih  be  one  of  peace,  smd 
hope,  and  joy.  Restore,  then,  the  widow's 
son,  and  forbear  j'our  deadly  revenge  against 
that  wretched  baronet,  and  God  wiU  restore 
you  to  a  happiness  that  the  world  can  neither 
give  nor  take  away.'" 

Corbet's  cheek  became  pale  as  death  itself 
whilst  the  good  man  spoke,  but  no  other 
symptom  of  emotion  was  percejjtible  ;  un- 
less, indeed,  that  his  hands,  as  he  uncon- 
sciously pilayed  with  the  money,  were  fjuite' 
tremulous. 

The  priest,  having  concluded,  rose  to  de- 
part, having  completely  forgotten  the  jiruici- 
pal  object  of  his  visit. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  Corbet, 
"  won't  you  take  the  money  with  you  ?  " 

"  That  depends  uj)on  your  reply,"  returned 
the  priest ;  "  and  I  entreat  you  to  let  me 
have  a  favorable  one." 

"  One  part  of  what  you  wish  I  wiU  do."  he 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


533 


replied  ;  "  the  other  is  out  of  mj-  power  at 
present.     I  am  not  able  to  do  it  yet." 

"I  don't  properly  understand  you,"  said 
the  other ;  "or  rather,  I  don't  understand 
you  at  all.  Do  you  mean  what  you  have  just 
said  to  be  favorable  or  otherwise  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  a  resolution,"  rephed 
Corbet,  "  and  time  will  tell  whether  it's  in 
your  favor  or  not.  You  must  be  content 
with  this,  for  more  I  'svill  not  say  now  ;  I 
cannot.  There's  your  money,  but  I'll  take 
no  bill  fi'om  ijou.  Your  promise  is  sufficient 
—-only  say  you  will  pay  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  pay  you,  if  God  spares  me  life." 

"  That  is  enough  ;  unless,  indeed  " — again 
pausing. 

"  Satisfy  yourself,"  said  the  priest ;  "I  will 
give  you  either  my  bill  or  note  of  hand." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  tell  you.  I  am  satisfied. 
Leave  everything  to  time." 

"  That  may  do  very  weU,  but  it  does  not 
apply  to  eternity,  Anthony.  In  the  meantime 
I  thank  you  ;  for  I  admit  you  have  taken  me 
out  of  a  very  distressing  difficulty.  Good-by 
— God  bless  you  ;  and,  above  all  things, 
don't  forget  the  words  I  have  spoken  to 
you." 

"  Now,"  said  Corbet,  after  the  priest  had 
gone,  "  something  must  bo  done  ;  I  can't 
stand  this  state  of  mind  long,  and  if  death 
should  come  on  me  before  I've  made  my  peace 
with  God — but  then,  the  black  villain  ! — 
come  or  go  what  may,  he  must  be  punished, 
and  Ginty's  and  Tom's  schemes  must  be 
broken.  That  vagabone,  too  !  I  can't  forget 
the  abuse  he  gave  me  in  the  watch-house  ; 
however,  I'U  set  the  good  act  against  the  bad 
one,  and  who  knows  but  the  one  may  wipe 
out  the  other '?  I  suppose  the  jsromisin' 
youth  has  seen  his  father,  and  thinks  him- 
seK  the  welcome  heu-  of  his  title  and  prop- 
ertj'  by  this  ;  and  the  father  too — but  wait, 
if  I  don't  dash  Ihat  cup  from  his  lijjs,  and  23ut 
one  to  it  filled  with  gall,  I'm  not  here  ;  and 
then  when  it's  done,  I'U  take  to  rehgion  for 
the  remainder  of  mj-  life." 

What  old  Corbet  said  was,  indeed,  true 
enough  ;  and  this  brings  us  to  the  interview 
between  j\Ii'.  Ambrose  Gray,  his  parent,  and 
his  sister. 

There  is  nothing  which  so  truly  and  often 
60  severely  tests  the  state  of  man's  heart,  or 
80  painfully  distxu-bs  the  whole  fi-ame  of  his 
moral  being  as  the  occurrence  of  some  im- 
portimt  event  that  is  fraught  with  hajjijiness. 
Such  an  event  resembles  the  presence  of  a 
good  man  among  a  set  of  jsrofhgates,  causmg 
them  to  feel  the  superiority  of  virtue  over 
vice,  and  imposing  a  disagreeable  resti\aint, 
not  only  upon  their  actions,  but  theu- 
very  thoughts.  When  the  baronet,  for  in- 
stance, went  from  his  bedroom  to  the  hb- 


rary,  he  experienced  the  fuU  force  of  this 
observation.  A  disagreeable  tumult  pre- 
vailed within  him.  It  is  true,  he  felt,  as  every 
parent  must  feel,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent 
dehghted  at  the  contemplation  of  his  son's 
restoration  to  him.  But,  at  the  same  time, 
the  tenor  of  his  past  life  rose  ujj  in  jjainful 
array  before  him,  and  occasioned  reflections 
that  distui-bed  him  deeply.  Should  this 
young  man  jjrove,  on  examination,  to  resem- 
ble his  sister  in  her  views  of  moral  life  in 
general — should  he  find  him  as  delicately 
virtuous,  and  animated  by  the  same  pure 
sense  of  honor,  he  felt  that  his  recoveiy 
would  disturb  the  future  habits  of  his  life, 
and  take  away  much  of  the  gratification 
which  he  exj)ected  from  his  society.  These 
considerations,  we  say,  rendered  him  so 
anxious  and  uneasy,  that  he  actually  wished 
to  find  him  something  not  very  far  removed 
fi-om  a  jjrofligate.  He  hoped  that  he  might 
be  inspii'ed  with  his  own  riews  of  society 
and  men,  and  that  he  would  now  have  some 
one  to  countenance  bim  in  all  his  selfish  de- 
signs and  projects. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Young  Gourhy^s  Affectionate  IntereieiD  with  3i» 
FiitJwr — Risk  of  Strangulation — Mt/cements  of 
M'Bride. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  suggest  to  the 
reader  that  Tom  Corbet,  who  knew  the  bal-o- 
net's  secrets  and  habits  of  life  so  thoroughly, 
had  prejjared  jVIr.  Ambrose  Gray,  by  fi-equent 
rehearsals,  for  the  more  adi'oit  performance 
of  the  task  that  was  before  him. 

At  length  a  knock,  modest  but  yet  indi- 
.  cative  of  something  Uke  authority,  was  heard 
at  the  hall-door,  and  the  baronet  immedi- 
ately' descended  to  the  dining-room,  where  he 
knew  he  could  see  his  son  with  less  risk  of 
interruption.  He  had  ah'eady  intimated  to 
Lucy  that  she  should  not  make  her  a^ipear- 
ance  until  summoned  for  that  purjDose. 

At  lengih  IMr.  Gray  was  shown  into  the 
dining-room,  and  the  baronet,  who,  as  usual, 
was  pacing  it  to  and  fi'o,  suddenly  turned 
round,  and  -nithout  any  motion  to  apjjroach 
his  son,  who  stood  with  a  dutifid  look,  as  if 
to  await  his  will,  he  fixed  his  eyes  ujjon  him 
^"ith  a  long,  steady,  and  scrutinizing  gaze. 
There  they  stood,  contemplating  each  other 
with  earnestness,  and  so  striking,  so  extra- 
ordinary was  the  similarity  between  their 
respective  features,  that,  in  everything  but 
years,  they  apj^eared  more  like  two  counter- 
parts than  fatljer  and  sou.  Each,  on  looking 
at  the  other,  felt,  in  fact,  the  truth  of  this 


534 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


unusual  resemblance,  and  the  baronet  at 
once  acknowledged  its  influence. 

"Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  approaching  IVIr. 
Gray,  "  yes,  there  is  no  mistake  here  ;  he  is 
my  son.  I  acknowledge  him."  He  extended 
his  hand,  and  shook  that  of  the  other,  then 
seized  both  with  a  good  deal  of  wanuth,  and 
welcomed  him.  Ambrose,  however,  was  not 
satisfied  with  this,  but,  extricating  his  haiids, 
he  threw  his  arms  round  the  baronet's  neck, 
and  exclaimed  in  the  words  of  an  old  play, 
in  which  he  had  been  studying  a  similar 
scene  for  the  present  occasion,  "My  father  ! 
my  dear  father  !  Oh,  and  have  I  a  father  ! 
Oh,  let  me  press  him  to  my  heart !  "  And  as 
he  spoke  he  contrived  to  execute  half  a  dozen 
dry  sobs  (for  he  could  not  accomphsh  the 
tears),  that  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
best  actor  of  the  day. 

The  baionet,  who  never  relished  any  exhi- 
bition of  emotion  or  tenderness,  began  to 
have  misgivings  as  to  his  character,  and  con- 
sequently suffered  these  dutiful  embraces  in- 
stead of  returning  them. 

"There,  Tom,"  he  exclaimed,  laughing, 
"that  wiU  do.  There,  man,"  he  repeated, 
for  he  felt  that  Tom  was  about  recommencing 
another  rather  vigorous  attack,  vvhUst  the 
sobs  were  deafening,  "there,  I  say;  don't 
throttle  me  ;  that  will  do,  sirrah  ;  there  now. 
On  this  occasion  it  is  natural ;  but  in  general 
I  detest  snivelling — it's  unmanly." 

Tom  at  once  took  the  hint,  wiped  his  eyes, 
a  work  in  this  instance  of  the  pxu'est  sujjer- 
erogaiion,  and  rephed,  "  So  do  I,  father  ;  it's 
decidedly  the  province  of  an  old  woman 
when  she  is  past  everything  else.  But  on 
such  fji  occasion  I  should  be  either  more  or 
less  than  man  not  to  feel  as  I  ought." 

"  Come,  that  is  very  well  said.  I  hoj)e 
you  are  not  a  fool  like  your — Corbet,  go  out. 
I  shall  send  for  you  when  we  want  you.  I 
hope,"  he  rejDeated,  after  Corbet  had  disajj- 
peared,  "I  hope  you  ai'e  not  a  fool,  like  your 
sister.  Not  that  I  can  call  her  a  fool,  either; 
but  she  is  obstinate  and  self-willed." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  sir.  My  sister 
ought  to  have  no  wOl  but  yours." 

"  Why,  that  is  better,"  replied  the  baro- 
net, rubbing  his  hands  cheerfully.  "  Hang 
it,  how  like  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  him 
once  more.  "  You  resemble  me  confound- 
edly, Tom — at  least  in  person  ;  and  if  you 
do  in  mind  and  piirjjose,  we'U  harmonize 
perfectly.  Well,  then,  I  have  a  thousand 
questions  to  ask  you,  but  I  will  have  time 
enough  for  that  again  ;  in  the  meantime, 
Tom,  what's  your  oj)inion  of  life — of  the 
world — of  man,  Tom,  and  of  woman '?  I 
wish  to  know  what  kind  of  stuff  jou're  made 
of." 

"  Of  life,   sir — why,  that  we  are  to   take 


the  most  we  can  out  of  it.  Of  the  world — 
that  I  despise  it.  Of  man — that  every  one 
is  a  rogue  when  he's  found  out,  and  that  if 
he  suff'ers  himseK  to  be  found  out  he's  a  fool : 
so  that  the  fools  and  the  rogues  have  it  be 
tween  them." 

"And  where  do  you  leave  the  honest  men, 
Tom?" 

"  The  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  The  honest  men." 

"  I'm  not  acquainted,  sir,  nor  have  I  ever 
met  a  man  who  was,  with  anj'  animal  of  that 
class.  The  world,  sii',  is  a  moral  fiction  ;  a 
mere  term  in  language  that  represents  nega- 
tion." 

"  Well,  but  woman  ?  " 

"  Born  to  administer  to  oiu-  pleasui'e,  our 
interest,  or  our  ambition,  with  no  other  piu-- 
pose  in  life.  Have  I  answered  my  catechism 
like  a  good  boy,  sir '?  " 

"  Verj'  well,  indeed,  Tom.  Wliy,  in  your 
notions  of  hfe  and  the  world,  you  seem  to  be 
quite  an  adept." 

"  I  am  glad,  sir,  that  you  approve  of  them. 
So  far  we  are  hkely  to  agree.  I  feel  quite 
proud,  sir,  that  my  sentiments  are  in  unison 
■ftith  yours.  But  where  is  my  sister,  sir  ?  I 
am  quite  impatient  to  see  her." 

"  I  will  send  for  her  immediately.  And 
now  that  I  have  an  opportunity,  let  me  guard 
you  against  her  influence.  I  am  anxious  to 
bring  about  a  marriage  between  her  and  a 
young  nobleman — Lord  Dunroe — who  will 
soon  be  the  Earl  of  Cullamore,  for  his  old 
father  is  djing,  or  near  it,  and  then  Lucy 
will  be  a  coimtess.  To  efl'ect  this  has  been 
the  great  ambition  of  my  hfe.  Now,  you 
must  not  only  prevent  Lucy  from  gaining 
you  over  to  her  interests,  for  she  would  ueai'- 
Ij-  as  soon  die  as  marry  him." 

"  Pshaw  ! " 

"  AVhat  do  you  pshaw  for,  Tom  ?  " 

"  All  nonsense,  sii'.  She  doesn't  know  her 
own  mind  ;  or,  rather,  she  ought  to  have  no 
mind  on  the  subject." 

"  Perfectly  right  ;  my  identical  sentiments. 
Lucy,  however,  detests  this  lord,  notwith- 
standing— ay,  worse  than  she  does  the  deuce 
himself.  You  must,  therefore,  not  permit 
yourself  to  be  changed  or  swayed  by  her  m- 
"fluence,  but  sujjport  me  by  every  ai-gannent 
and  means  in  your  power." 

"  Dou't  fear  me.  sir.  Yom-  interests, 
or  rather  the  girl's  own,  if  she  only  knows 
them,  shall  have  my  most  strenuous  sup- 
port." 

"  Thank  you,  Tom.  T  see  that  you  imd  I 
are  likely  to  agree  thoroughly.  I  shall  now 
send  for  her.  She  is  a  superb  creature,  and 
less  than  a  countess  I  shall  not  have  her." 

Lucy,  when  the  servant  announced  her 
father's  wish  to  see  her,  was  engaged  in  pic- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


hz:s 


turing  to  herself  the  sul)ject  of  her  brother's 
personal  appeai-ance.  She  had  always  heard 
that  he  resembled  her  mother,  and  on  this 
account  alone  she  felt  how  very  dear  he 
should  be  to  her.  With  a  Hushing,  joyful, 
but  jsalpitating  heart,  she  descended  the 
stairs,  and  with  a  trembUng  hand  knocked  at 
the  dooi-.  On  entering,  she  was  about  to 
rush  into  her  newly-found  relative's  arms, 
but,  on  casting  her  eyes  around,  she  per- 
ceived her  father  and  him  standing  side  by 
side,  so  startUngly  alike  in  featiu-e,  expres- 
sion, and  personal  figure,  that  her  heart,  un- 
til then  bounding  with  rajiture,  sank  at  once, 
and  almost  became  stUl.  .  The  quick  but  deh- 
cate  instincts  of  her  nature  took  the  alarm, 
and  a  sudden  weakness  seized  her  whole 
frame.  "In  this  young  man,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  I  have  found  a  brother,  but  not  a 
friend  ;  not  a  featiu-e  of  mj'  dear  mother  in 
thai  face."  .  I 

This  change,  and  this  nish  of  reflection, 
took  place  almost  in  a  moment,  and  ere  she 
had  time  to  speak  she  found  herself  in  Mr. 
Ambrose  Gray's  arms.  The  tears  at  once 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  but  they  were  not  such 
tears  as  she  exj)ected  to  have  shed.  Joy 
there  was,  but,  alas,  how  much  mitigated 
was  its  fervency !  And  when  her  brother 
spoke,  the  strong,  deep,  harsh  tones  of  his 
voice  so  completely  startled  her,  that  she 
almost  believed  she  was  on  the  breast  of  her 
father.  Her  tears  flowed  ;  but  they  were 
mingled  with  a  sense  of  disapipointment  that 
amounted  almost  to  bitterness. 

Tom  on  this  occasion  forebore  to  enact  the 
rehearsal  scene,  as  he  had  done  in  the  case 
of  his  father.  His  sister's  beauty,  at  once 
melancholy  but  commanding,  her  wonderful 
grace,  her  dignity  of  manner,  added  to  the 
influence  of  her  tall,  elegant  figure,  awed 
him  so  completely,  that  he  felt  himseK  in- 
capable of  aiming  at  anything  like  dramatic 
effect.  Nay,  as  her  warm  tears  fell  ujson  his 
face,  he  experienced  a  softening  influence 
that  resembled  emotion,  but,  like  his  father, 
he  annexed  associations  to  it  that  were  self- 
ish, and  full  of  low,  ungenerous  caution. 

"  My  father's  right,"  thought  he  ;  ''I must 
be  both  cool  and  firm  here,  otherwise  it  will  I 
be  difficult  not  to  support  her."  | 

"Well,  Lucy,"  said  her  fathei",  with  unu- 
sual cheerfulness,  after  Tom  had  handed  her 
to  a  seat,  "  I  hope  you  like  your  brother. 
Is  he  not  a  fine,  manly  young  fellow  ?  "  i 

"  Is  he  not  my  brother,   papa  ?  "  she  re-  j 
plied,  "  restored  to  us  after  so  many  years  ;  * 
restored  when  hope  had  deserted  us — when 
we  had  given  him  \\\)  for  lost."  i 

As  she  uttered  the  words  her  voice  quiv- 
ered ;  a  generous  reaction  had  taken  place  in  i 
her  breast ;  she  blamed  herself  for  having 


withheld  from  him,  on  account  of  a  circum- 
stance  over  which  he  had  no  controi,  tliat  ful- 
ness of  affection,  with  which  she  jiad  prejjared 
herself  to  welcome  him.  A  sentiment,  fir.'it 
of  comi;)assion,  then  of  self-rejwoach,  and  ul- 
timately of  awakened  afl'eetion,  arose  in  her 
mind,  associated  with  and  made  still  more 
tender  by  the  melancholy  memory  of  her  de- 
parted mother.  She  again  took  his  hand, 
on  which  the  tears  now  fell  in  showers,  and 
after  a  slight  pause  said, 

"  I  hojje,  my  dear  Thomas,  you  have  not 
suffered,  nor  been  subject  to  the  wants  and 
privations  which  usually  attend  the  path  of 
the  young  and  friendless  in  this  unhappy 
world  ?  Alas,  there  is  one  voice — but  is  now 
forever  stUl — that  would,  oh,  how  rajjturou.s-  - 
ly !  have  welcomed  you  to  a  longing  and  a 
loving  heart." 

The  noble  sincerity  of  her  present  emotion 
was  not  without  its  effect  upon  her  brother. 
His  eyes,  in  spite  of  the  hardness  of  his  na- 
tui'o,  swam  in  something  like  moisture,  and 
he  gazed  ujson  her  ■u-ith  wonder  and  j^ride, 
that  he  actually  was  the  brother  of  so  divine 
a  creatui*e  ;  and  a  certaui  description  of  affec- 
tion, such  as  he  had  never  before  felt,  for  it 
was  23ure,  warm,  and  unselfish. 

"  Oh,  how  I  do  long  to  hear  the  history  of 
your  past  life  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  dare  say 
you  had  many  an  early  struggle  to  encounter  ; 
many  a  jirivation  to  suffer  ;  and  in  sickness, 
with  none  but  the  cold  hand  of  the  stranger 
about  you  ;  but  still  it  seems  that  God  has 
not  deserted  you.  Is  it  not  a  consolation, 
papa,  to  think  that  he  returns  to  us  in  a  con- 
dition of  hfe  so  gratifying  ?  " 

"  Gratifying  it  unquestionably  is,  Lucy. 
He  is  well  educated  ;  and  will  soon  be  tit  to 
take  his  ijrojjer  position  in  society." 

"  Soon  !  I  trust  immediately,  papa  ;  I  hope 
you  will  not  allow  him  to  remain  a  moment 
longer  in  obscurity  ;  compensate  him  at  least 
for  his  sufferings.  But,  my  dear  Thomas," 
she  proceeded,  turning  to  him,  "let  me  ask, 
do  you  remember  mamma  ?  If  she  were  now 
here,  how  her  affectionate  heart  would  re- 
joice !  Do  you  remember  her  my  dear 
Thomas?" 

"Not  distinctly,"  he  rei^lied  ;  "  something 
of  a  pale,  handsome  woman  comes  occasional- 
ly like  a  dream  of  my  childhood  to  my  imagi- 
nation— a  graceful  woman,  with  auburn  hair, 
and  a  melancholy  look,  I  think." 

"You do,"  rejjlied  Luc}%  as  her  eyes  spai-- 
kled,  "  you  do  remember  her  ;  that  is  exactly  a 
sketch  of  her — gentle,  benignant,  and  affec- 
tionate. wJfh  a  fixed  sorrow  mingled  with 
resignation  in,  her  face.  Yes,  you  remember 
her ! " 

"Now,  Lucy."  said  her  father,  who  never 
could  bear  any  pr^-ticular  allusion  to  his  wife ; 


536 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  now  that  you  have  seen  your  brother,  I  j 
think  you  may  withdraw,  at  least  for  the  pres-  j 
ent.  He  and  I  have  matters  of  importance 
to  talk  of ;  and  you  know  you  will  have 
enough  of  him  again — plenty  of  time  to 
hear  his  past  histo/v,  which,  by  the  way,  I 
am  as  anxious  to  hear  as  you  ai-e.  You  may 
now  withdraw,  my  love." 

"Oh,  not  so  soon,  father,  if  you  please," 
said  Thomas  ;  "  allow  us  a  little  more  time 
together." 

"  Well,  then,  a  few  minutes  only,  for  I  my- 
self must  take  an  au'ing  in  the  carriage,  and 
I  must  also  call  upon  old  Cullamore. " 

"  Pajia,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  am  about  to  dis- 
close a  httle  secret  to  you  which  I  hesitated 
to  do  before,  but  this  cei'tainly  is  a  proper 
occasion  for  doing  it ;  the  secret  I  speak  of 
will  disclose  itself.  Here  is  where  it  lay  both 
day  and  night  since  mamma's  death,"  she 
added,  putting  her  hand  upon  her  heart ;  "  it 
is  a  miniature  portrait  of  her  which  I  my- 
self got  done." 

She  immediately  drew  it  iip  by  a  black 
silk  ribbon,  and  after  contemi:)lating  it  with 
tears,  she  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  her 
brother. 

This  act  of  Lucy's  placed  him  in  a  jiosition 
of  great  pain  and  embarrassment.  His  pre- 
tended recollection  of  Ladj'  Gourlay  was,  as 
the  reader  alreadj'  guesses,  nothing  more 
than  the  descrip)tion  of  her  which  lie  had  re- 
ceived from  Corbet,  that  he  might  be  able  to 
plaj'  his  part  with  an  appearance  of  more 
natural  effect.  AVith  the  baronet,,  the  task 
of  deception  was  hy  no  means  difficult  ;  but 
with  Lucy,  the  case  was  altogether  one  of  a 
different  comj^lexiou.  His  father's  principles, 
as  expounded  by  his  illegitimate  son's  worthy 
uncle,  were  not  only  almost  familiar  to  him, 
but  also  sn  complete  accordance  with  his  O'mi. 
"With  him,  therefore,  the  deception  consisted 
in  Uttle  else  than  keej)ing  his  own  secret, 
and  satisfying  his  father  that  their  moral 
views  of  life  were  the  same.  He  was  not  pre- 
pared, however,  for  the  eft'ect  which  Lucy's 
nobje  qualities  produced  upon  him  so  soon. 
To  him  who  bad  never  met  with  or  knoT\Ti 
any  other  femrfle,  combining  in  her  own  jjerson 
such  extraor(iinary  beauty  and  dignity — such 
obvious  candor  of  heart — such  graceful  and 
irresistible  simpUcitv,  or  who  was  encom- 
passed by  an  atmosphere  of  such  ti-uth  and 
purity — the  effect  was  such  as  absolutely  con- 
fouuafcd  himself,  and  taught  him  to  feel  how 
far  the>r  go  in  purifjdng,  elevating,  and  refin- 
ing tho.^e  who  come  within  the  sphere  of 
their  inriuence.  This  young  man,  for  instance, 
was  touchett,  softened,  and  a\yed  into  such 
nn  involuntary  rcopect  for  her  character  and 
virtues,  that  lie  feli  himself  almost  unable  to 
sustain  the  pai  t  lie  t  j,a  undertaken  to  play,  so 


far  at  least  as  she  was  concerned.  In  fact,  he 
felt  himself  changed  for  the  better,  and  was 
forced,  as  it  were,  to  look  in  upon  his  own 
heart,  and  contemplate  its  deformity  by  the 
light  that  emanated  fi-oni  her  character.  Nor 
was  this  singular  but  natural  influence  un- 
perceived  by  her  father,  who  began  to  fear 
that  if  they  were  to  be  much  together,  he 
must  ultimately  lose  the  connivance  and  sup- 
port of  his  son. 

Thomas  took  the  portrait  fi-om  her  hand, 
and,  after  contemplating  it  for  some  time, 
felt  himself  bound  to  kiss  it,  which  he  did, 
with  a  momentary  consciousness  of  his  hj-po- 
crisy  that  felt  like- guilt. 

"It  is  most  interesting,"  said  he  ;  "there 
is  goodness,  indeed,  and  benignity,  as  you 
say,  in  every  line  of  that  placid  but  sorrow- 
ful face.  Here,"  said  he,  "take  it  back,  my 
deal-  sister ;  I  feel  that  it  is  painful  to  me  to 
look  upon  it." 

"It  has  been  my  secret  companion,"  said 
Lucy,  gazing  at  it  with  deep  emotion,  "  and 
my  silent  monitress  ever  since  jioor  mamma's 
death.  It  seemed  to  say  to  me  with  those 
sweet  lips  that  wiU  never  more  move  :  Be 
patient,  my  child,  and  put  jour  firm  trast  in 
the  hopes  of  a  better  life,  for  this  world  is 
one  of  trial  and  suff'ering." 

"That  is  aU  very  fine,  Lucy,"  said  her 
father,  somewhat  fretfully ;  "  but  it  would 
have  been  as  well  if  she  had  jireached  a  les- 
son of  obedience  at  the  same  time.  How- 
ever, you  had  better  ■svithdraw,  my  dear  ;  as 
I  told  you,  Thomas  and  I  have  many  impor- 
tant matters  to  talk  over." 

"  I  am  ready  to  go,  papa,"  she  replied  ; 
"but,  by  the  way,  my  dear  Thomas,  I  had 
always  heard  that  you  resembled  her  veiy 
much  ;  instead  of  that,  you  are  papa's  veiy 
image." 

"  A  circumstance  which  wiU  take  from  his 
favor  with  you,  Lucy,  I  fear,"  observed  her 
father  ;  "  but,  indeed,  I  myself  am  surprised 
at  the  change  that  has  come  over  you, 
Thomas  ;  for,  unquestionably,  when  young 
you  were  veiy  like  her." 

"These  changes  are  not  at  all  unfrequent, 
I  believe,",  repUed  his  son.  "  I  have  myself 
known  instances  where  the  individujil  when 
young  resembled  one  parent,  and  yet,  iii  the 
course  of  time,  became  as  it  were  the  very 
image  and  reflex  of  the  otliei-." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  Tom,"  said  his 
father  ;  "  every  family  is  aware  of  the  fact, 
and  you  yourself  are  a  remarkable  illustnv 
tion  of  it." 

"  I  am  not  sorry  for  resembling  mj-  dear 
father,  Lucy,"  observed  her  brother  ;  "  and 
I  know  I  shall  lose  nothing  in  your  good 
will  on  that  account,  but  rather  gain  by  it." 

Lucy's  eyes  were  ali'eady  tilled  with  tears 


TUB  BLACK  BARONET. 


SSI 


at  the  ungenerous  and  unfeeling  insinuation 
of  her  father. 

"  You  shall  not,  indeed,  Thomas,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "and  you,  papa,  are  scarcely  just  to 
me  in  saying  so.  I  judge  no  person  by 
their  external  appearance,  nor  do  I  suffer 
mj'self  to  be  jjrejudiced  by  looks,  although  I 
grant  that  the  face  is  very  often,  but  by  no 
means  always,  an  index  to  the  character.  I 
judge  my  fiiends  by  my  experience  of  theu- 
conduct— by  their  heart — their  princijoles — 
their  honor.  Good-by,  now,  my  dear  broth- 
er ;  I  am  quite  impatient  to  hear  your  his- 
tory, and  I  am  sure  you  will  gratify  me  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  but,  iti 
the  act  of  doing  so,  observed  under  every 
nail  a  semicircular  Une  of  black  drift  that 
jarred  very  painfully  on  her  feeling.s.  Tom 
then  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead, 
and  she  withdrew. 

When  she  had  gone  out,  the  baronet  bent 
his  eyes  upon  her  brother  with  a  look  that 
seemed  to  enter  into  his  very  soul — a  look 
which  his  son,  from  his  fi'equent  teachings, 
very  well  understood. 

"Now,  Tom,"  said  he,  "that  you  have 
seen  your  sister,  what  do  you  thiuk  of  her  ? 
Is  it  not  a  j)ity  that  she  should  ever  move 
under  the  rank  of  a  coautess  ?  " 

"  Under  the  rank  of  a  queen,  sir.  She 
would  grace  the  throne  of  an  empress." 

"And  yet  she  has  aU  the  simplicitj' of  a 
child  ;  but  I  can't  get  her  to  feel  ambition. 
Now,  mark  me,  Tom  ;  I  have  seen  enough 
in  this  short  interview  to  convince  me  that 
if  you  are  not  as  fu-m  as  a  rock,  she  wiU  gain 
you  over." 

"  Impossible,  sir  ;  I  love  her  too  weU  to 
lend  myseK  to  her  prejudices  against  her 
interests.  Her  objections  to  this  marriage 
must  proceed  solely  fi-om  inexperience.  It  is 
true,  Lord  Dunroe  bears  a  very  indifferent 
character,  and  if  j'ou  could  get  any  other 
nobleman  with  a  better  one  as  a  husband 
for  her,  it  would  certaiuly  be  more  agi-ee- 
able." 

"  It  might,  Tom  ;  but  I  cannot.  The 
trath  is,  I  am  an  un])opular  man  among 
even  the  fashionable  circles,  and  the  conse- 
quence is,  that  I  do  not  mingle  much  with 
them.  The  disappearance  of  my  brother's 
heh"  has  attached  suspicions  to  me  which 
your  discovei-y  ^ill  not  tend  to  remove. 
Then  there  is  Lucy's  approaching  marriage, 
which  your  turning  up  at  this  particular- 
juncture  may  upset.  Dunroe,  I  am  aware, 
is  incapable  of  appreciating  such  a  girl  as 
Lucy." 

"  Then  why,  sir,  does  he  marry  her?  " 

"  In  consequence  of  her  property.  You 
perceive,   then,   that  unless  you  he  by  until 


after  this  marriage,  my  whole  schemes  for 
this  girl  may  be  destroyed." 

"But  how,  sir,  could  my  appearance  or 
reappearance  effect  such  a  catastroplie  ?  " 

"  Simjjly  because  you  come  at  the  most 
unlucky  moment." 

"  Unlucky,  sir  ! "  exclaimed  the  youth. 
^^'ith  much  afl'ected  astonishment,  for  he  had 
now  relajjsed  into  his  original  character, 
and  felt  himself  completely  in  his  element. 

"  Don't  misimderstand  me,"  said  his  fa- 
ther ;  "I  will  explain  myself.  Had  you 
never  appeared,  Lucy  would  have  inherited 
the  family  estates,  which,  in  right  of  his 
wife,  would  have  passed  into  the  jJossession 
of  Dunroe.  Youi'  ajjpearance,  however,  if 
made  known,  will  prevent  that,  and  proba- 
bly cause  Dunroe  to  get  out  of  it ;  and  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  wish  to  keep  j'our  very 
existence  a  seci-et  until  the  marriage  is  over." 

"  I  am  wiUing  to  do  anything,  sir,"  rei^lied 
worthy  Tom,  with  a  very  dutiful  face,  "  any- 
thing to  obhge  you,  and  to  fall  in  with  your 
purposes,  provided  my  own  rights  are  not 
compromised.  I  trust  you  will  not  blame 
me,  su',  for  looking  to  them,  and  for  a  uatu- 
r;il  anxiety  to  sustain  the  honor  and  pro- 
long the  name  of  my  family." 

"Blame  you,  sirrah!"  said  his  father, 
laughing.  "Confound  me,  but  you're  a 
trumjJ,  and  I  am  proud  to  hear  you  express 
such  sentiments.  How  the  deuce  did  you 
get  such  a  shrewd  notion  of  the  world  ? 
But,  no  matter,  attend  to  me.  Your  rights 
shall  not  be  compromised.  A  clause  shall 
be  inserted  in  the  marriage  articles  to  the 
effect  that  in  case  of  your  recovery  and  res- 
toration, the  estates  shall  revert  to  you,  as 
the  legitimate  heir.     Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  sir,"  replied  Thomas,  "per- 
fectly ;  on  the  understanding  that  these  pro- 
visions are  duly  and  properly  carried  out." 

"  Undoubtedly  they  shall ;  and  besides," 
rephed  his  father  with  a  grin  of  triumph, 
"it  will  be  only  giving  Dunroe  a  quid  pro 
quo,  for,  as  I  told  you,  he  is  marrying  your 
sister  merely  for  the  property,  out  of  which 
you  cut  him." 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  father,"  replied  the 
other,  "  I  am  in  your  hands ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  how  and  where  am  I  to  dispose 
of  myself  ?  " 

"In  the  first  place,  keejj  your  own  secret 
— that  is  the  principal  point — in  which  case 
j'ou  may  live  wherever  you  wish  ;  I  will  give 
j'ou  a  Uberiil  aUowauce  until  you  can  make 
your  ajjpearance  with  safety  to  Lucy's  jsros- 
perity.  The  marriage  wiU  take  place  very 
soon  ;  after  which  you  can  come  and  claim 
your  own,  when  it  wiU  be  too  late  for  Dunroe 
to  retract.  Here,  for  the  present,  is  a  check 
for  two   huuih-ed   and  fifty  ;  but,  Tom,  you 


538 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WOUKS. 


must  he  frugal  and  cautious  in  its  exjiendi- 
ture.  Don't  sulier  yourseK  to  break  out : 
always  keep  a  tirm  hold  of  the  helm.  Get  a 
book  iu  which  you  will  mark  down  your  ex- 
penses ;  for,  mark  me,  you  must  render  a 
strict  account  of  this  money.  On  the  day 
after  to-morrow  you  must  dine  with  Lucy 
and  me  ;  but.  if  you  take  my  advice,  j'ou  will 
see  her  as  seldom  as  possible  until  after  her 
marriage.  She  wishes  me  to  release  her 
from  her  engagement,  and  she  will  attempt 
to  seduce  you  to  her  side  ;  but  I  waa-n  you 
that  this  would  be  a  useless  step  for  you  to 
take,  as  my  mind  is  immovable  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

They  then  separated,  each,  but  especially 
Mr.  Ambrose  Gray,  as  we  must  again  call  him, 
feeling  very  well  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
the  interview. 

"Now,"  said  the  baronet,  as  he  paced  the 
floor,  after  his  sou  had  gone,  "  am  I  not 
right,  after  aU,  iu  the  views  which  I  enter- 
tain of  hfe  ?  I  have  sometimes  been  induc- 
ed to  fear  that  Providence  has  jilaeed  in  hu- 
man society  a  moral  machinery  which  acts 
with  retributive  effect  upon  those  who,  in 
the  practice  of  their  lives,  depart  fi-om  what 
ai'e  considered  his  laws.  And  yet  here  am  I, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  at  variance  with 
and  disregarded  them — here  I  am,  I  say, 
with  an  easier  heart  than  I've  had  for  many 
a  day  :  my  son  restored  to  me — my  daughter 
upon  the  point  of  being  married  according 
to  my  highest  wishes — iiU  my  projects  pros- 
pering ;  and  there  is  my  brother's  wife — 
wi-etched  Lady  Gourlay — who,  forsooth,  is 
rehgious,  benevolent,  humane,  and  charita- 
ble— ay,  and  if  report  speak  true,  who  loves 
her  fellow-creatures  as  much  as  I  scorn  and 
detest  them.  Yes— and  what  is  the  upshot? 
Why,  that  all  these  vii-tues  have  not  made 
her  one  whit  happier  than  another,  nor  so 
happy  as  one  iu  ten  thousand.  Cui  bono, 
then  I  ask — where  is  this  moral  machinery 
which  I  sometimes  dreaded  ?  I  cannot  per- 
ceive its  oi^eratious.  It  has  no  existence  ;  it 
is  a  mere  chimera  ;  Uke  many  another  bug- 
bear, the  foul  ofl'siaring  of  credulity  and  fear 
on  the  one  side — of  suijerstition  and  hypoc- 
risy on  the  other.  No  ;  hfe  is  merely  a  thing 
of  chances,  and  its  incidents  the  mere  com- 
binations that  result  from  its  evolutions,  just 
like  the  bits  of  glass  in  the  kaleidoscope, 
which,  when  viewed  naked,  have  neither 
order  nor  beaiity,  but  when  seen  through 
our  own  mistaken  impressions,  ajjiiear  to 
have  properties  which  they  do  not  possess, 
and  to  f)i'oduce  results  that  are  deceptive, 
and  wliich  would  mislead  us  if  we  drew  any 
absolute  inference  from  them.  Here  the 
priest  advances,  kaleidoscope  iu  hand,  and 
desires  you  to  look  at  his  tinsel  ixnd  observe 


its  order.  Well,  you  do  so,  and  imaguiG 
that  the  beautj*  and  order  you  see  he  in  the 
things  themselves,  and  not  in  the  jjiism 
through  which  you  view  them.  But  you  are 
not  satisfied — you  must  examine.  You  take 
the  kaleidoscope  to  pieces,  and  wliere  then 
are  the  oi*der  and  beauty  to  be  found  V 
Away !  I  am  right  still.  The  doctrine  of 
life  is  a  docti'ine  of  chances  ;  and  there  is  no- 
thing certain  but  death — death,  the  gloomy 
and  terrible  uncreator — heigho  !  " 

Whilst  the  unbeheving  baronet  was  con- 
gratulating himself  ujion  the  truth  of  his 
pn'incijjles  and  the  success  of  his  p)lans,  mat- 
ters were  about  to  take  place  that  were  soon 
to  subject  them  to  a  still  more  ethcieut  test 
than  the  accommodating  but  deeejitive  spirit 
of  his  own  scepticism.  Lord  Cullamore's 
mind  was  gradually  sinkuig  under  some  se- 
cret sorrow  or  calamity,  which  he  refused  to 
disclose  even  to  his  son  or  Lady  Emily. 
M'Bride's  visit  had  produced  a  most  melan- 
choly efiect  upon  him  ;  indeed,  so  deeply 
was  he  weighed  down  by  it,  that  he  was  al- 
most mcaijable  of  seeing  any  one,  with  the 
exception  of  his  daughter,  whom  he  cai'essed 
and  wept  over  as  one  would  over  some  be- 
loved being  whom  death  was  about  to  snatch 
fi'om  the  heart  and  eyes  forever. 

Sir  Thomas  Gouilay,  since  the  discovery 
of  his  son,  called  every  day  for  a  week,  but 
the  reply  was,  "His  lordship  is  rmable  to  see 
any  one." 

One  evening,  about  that  time,  Ginty 
Cooper  had  been  to  see  her  brother,  Tom 
Corbet,  at  the  baronet's,  and  was  on  her  way 
home,  when  she  accidentally  spied  M 'Bride 
iu  conversation  with  Norton,  at  Lord  Culla- 
more's hall-door,  which,  on  her  way  to  Sir 
Thomas's,  she  necessarily  j^assed.  It  was 
just  about  dusk,  or,  as  they  call  it  in  the 
country,  between  the  two  lights,  and  as  the 
darkness  was  every  moment  deepening,  she 
resolved  to  watch  them,  for  the  purjjose  of 
tracing  M 'Bride  home  to  his  lodgings.  They, 
in  the  meantime,  proceeded  to  a  pubhc- 
house  in  the  vicinity,  into  which  both  en- 
tered, and  having  ensconced  themselves  in  a 
little  back  closet  off  the  common  taj)-room, 
took  their  seats  at  a  small  round  table,  Nor- 
ton having  previously  ordered  some  pmich. 
Ginty  felt  rather  disapijointed  at  this  caution, 
but  in  a  few  minutes  a  red-faced  girl,  with  a 
blowzy  head  of  hair  strong  as  wixe,  and  crisp- 
ed into  small  obstinate  undulations  of  sur- 
face which  neither  comb  nor  coaxing  could 
smooth  away,  soon  followed  them  with  the 
punch  and  a  candle.  By  the  hght  of  the  lat- 
ter, Ginty  perceived  that  there  was  nothing 
between  "them  but  a  thin  partition  of  boards,^ 
through  the  slits  of  wliich  she  could,  by  ap- 
plying her  eye  or  ear,  as  the  case  might  be, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


539 


both  see  and  lieai-  i^em.  The  tap-room  at 
the  time  was  emjsty,  and  Ginty,  lest  her 
•  voice  might  be  heard,  went  to  the  bar,  from 
whence  she  herself  brought  in  a  glass 
of  porter,  and  having  taken  her  seat  close  to 
the  partition,  overheard  the  following  con- 
versation : 

"In  half  an  hour  lie's  to  see  j'ou,  then  ?  " 
said  Norton,  repeating  the  words  with  a  face 
of  inquiry. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Well,  now,"  he  continued,  "  I  assure  you 
I'm  neither  curious  nor  inquisitive  ;  yet,  un- 
less it  be  a  very  profovind  secret  indeed,  I 
give  my  honor  I  should  wish  to  hear  it." 

"  There's  others  in  your  family  would  be 
glad  to  hear  it  as  well  as  you,"  replied 
M'Bride. 

"  The  earl  has  seen  you  once  or  twice  be- 
fore on  the  subject,  I  think?  " 

"  He  has,  sir  ?  " 

"  And  this  is  the  third  time,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  It  iv'di  be  the  third  time,  at  all  events." 

"Come,  man,"  said  Norton,  "take  your 
punch  ;  put  yourself  in  spu-its  for  the  inter- 
view. It  requires  a  man  to  pluck  up  to  be 
able  to  speak  to  a  nobleman." 

"  I  have  spoken  to  as  good  as  ever  he 
was  ;  not  that  I  say  anything  to  his  lordship's 
disjjaragement,"  rephed  M'Bride;  "  but  I'll 
tixke  the  punch  for  a  better  reason — because 
I  have  a  fellow  feeling  for  it.  And  yet  it 
was  my  destruction,  too  ;  however,  it  can't 
be  helped.  Yes,  faith,  it  made  me  an  un- 
grateful scoundrel ;  bvit,  no  matter  ! — sir, 
here's  your  health  !  I  must  only,  as  they  say, 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain — must  bring 
my  cattle  to  the  best  mai'ket." 

"  Ay,"  said  Norton,  dryly  and  significant- 
ly ;  "  and  so  you  think  the  old  earl,  the  re- 
spectable old  nobleman,  is  your  best  chap- 
man ?     Am  I  right  ?  " 

"  I  may  go  that  far,  any  way,"  replied  tlie 
feUow,  with  a  knowing  grin  ;  "  but  I  don't 
lave  you  much  the  wiser." 

"No,  faith,  you  don't,"  replied  Norton, 
grinning  in  his  tm-n.  "However,  listen  to 
me.  Do  you  not  think,  now,  that  if  you 
placed  your  case  in  the  hands  of  some  one  that 
stands  well  vrith  his  lordship,  and  who  could 
use  his  influence  in  yoiu-  behalf,  you  might 
have  Ijetter  success  ?  " 

"  I'm  the  best  judge  of  that  myself,"  re- 
plied M'Bride.  "  As  it  is,  I  have,  or  can 
have,  two  strings  to  my  bow.  I  have  only 
to  go  to  a  certain  person,  and  say  I'm  sorry 
for  what  I've  done,  and  I've  no  doubt  but  I'd  ; 
come  well  off." 

"  Well,  and  why  don't  you  ?  If  I  were  in  1 
your  case,  I'd  consider  )??;/.««//' first,  though." 

"  I  don't  know,"  I'epUed  the  other,  as  if 
undecided.       "  I   thmk,    afther   aU,    I'm   in 


better  hands.  Unless  Lord  Cullamore  is 
doting,  I'm  sure  of  that  fact.  I  don't  intend 
to  remain  in  this  counthry.  I'll  go  br.ck  to 
France  or  to  America  ;  I  can't  yet  s:iy  which." 

"Take  your  punch  in  tlie  meantime  ;  take 
off  your  liquor,  I  say,  and  it'll  clear  your 
head.  Come,  oft'  with '  it.  I  don't  know 
whj',  but  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  you.  Your 
face  is  an  honest  one,  and  if  I  knew  wliat 
your  business  with  his  lordship  is,  I'd  give 
you  a  lift." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  but 
the  truth  is,  I'm  afeard  to  take  much  till 
after  I  see  him.  I  must  have  all  my  wits 
about  me,  and  keep  mj'self  steady." 

"  Do  put  it  in  my  jjower  to  serve  you. 
TeU  me  what  your  business  is,  and,  by  the 
honor  of  my  name,  I'll  assist  you." 

"  At  present,"  rephed  M'Bride,  "  I  can't ; 
but  if  I  could  meet  you  after  I  see  his  lord- 
ship, I  don't  say  but  we  might  talk  more 
about  it." 

"  Very  well,"  rejjlied  Norton  ;  "you  won't 
regi'et  it.  In  the  course  of  a  short  time  I 
shall  have  the  complete  management  of  the 
whole  Cullamore  j^roperty  ;  and  who  can  say 
that,  if  you  put  confidence  in  me  now,  I  may 
not  have  it  in  my  power  to  emply  you  bene- 
ficially for  yourself '? " 

"Come  then,  su',"  replied  M'Bride,  "let 
me  have  another  tumbler,  on  the  head  of  it. 
I  think  one  more  wiU  do  me  no  harm  ;  as 
you  say,  sir,  it'U  clear  my  head." 

This  was  accordingly  produced,  and 
M'Bride  began  to  become,  if  not  more  com- 
municative, at  least  moi-e  loquacious,  and 
seemed  disposed  to  place  confidence  in  Nor- 
ton, to  whom,  however,  he  communicated 
nothing  of  substantial  importance. 

"  I  thmk,"  said  the  latter,  "if  I  don't  mis- 
take, that  I  am  acquainted  with  some  of  youi- 
relations." 

"That  may  easily  be,"  replied  the  other; 
"  and  it  has  struck  me  two  or  three  times 
that  I  have  seen  your  face  before,  but  I  can't 
tell  where." 

"  Very  likely,"  replied  Norton  ;  "but  I'U 
tell  you  what,  we  must  get  better  acquainted. 
Are  you  in  any  employment  at  jjresent  ?  " 

"  I'm  doing  nothing,"  said  the  other ; 
"  and  the  few  pounds  I  had  are  now  gone  to 
a  few  shillings  ;  so  that  by  to-morrow  or 
next  day,  I'U  be  forced  to  give  my  teeth  a 
holiday." 

"Poor  fellow, "replied  Norton,  "  that's  too 
bad.  Here'.s  a  pound  note  for  you,  at  all 
events.  Not  a  word  now  ;  if  we  can  under- 
stand each  otlier  you  sha'n't  want ;  and  III 
tell  you  what  you'U  do.  After  leaving  his 
lordship  you  must  come  to  my  room,  where 
you  can  have  punch  to  the  eyes,  and  there 
will  be  no  interruption  to  our  chat.     You 


540 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


can  then  tell  me  anything  you  like  ;  but  it 
must  conie  willingly,  for  I'd  scorn  to  force  a 
secret  from  any  man — that  is,  if  it  is  a  secret. 
Do  you  agree  to  this  ?  " 

"  I  agi-ee  to  it,  and  many  thanks,  worthy 
sir,"  rei)lied  M'Bride,  jjutting  the  pound  note 
in  his  pocket ;  after  which  they  clifttted  u2:ion 
inditter(:'ut  matters  until  the  period  for  his 
iuterview  with  Lord  Cullamore  had  arrived. 

Ginty,  who  had  not  lost  a  syllable  of  this 
dialogue,  to  whom,  as  the  reader  perhaps 
may  suspect,  it  was  no  novelty,  followed 
them  at  a  safe  distance,  until  she  saw  them 
enter  the  house.  The  interest,  however, 
which  she  felt  in  M'Bride's  movements,  pre- 
vented her  from  going  .home,  or  allowing 
him  to  shp  through  her  finger  without  ac- 
comphshing  a  project  that  she  had  for  some 
time  before  meditated,  but  had  hitherto 
found  no  opportunity  to  execute. 

Lord  CuUamore,  on  M'Bride's  entrance,  was 
in  miich  the  same  state  wdiich  we  have  al- 
ready described,  except  that  in  bodily  appear- 
ance he  was  somewhat  more  emaciated  and 
feeble.  There  was,  however,  visible  in  his 
features  a  tone  of  solemn  feeling,  elevated 
but  sorrowful,  that  seemed  to  besj^eak  a 
heart  at  once  resigned  and  suffering,  and 
disposed  to  receive  the  dispensations  of  life 
as  a  man  would  whose  philosophy  was  soft- 
ened by  a  Christian  spirit.  In  the  general 
plan  of  life  he  clearly  reeogiiized  the  \visdom 
which,  for  the  example  and  the  lieuctit  of 
aU,  runs  with  singular  beaut_y  through  the  in- 
finite combinations  of  human  action,  verifying 
the  very  theory  which  the  baronet  saw  dim- 
ly, but  doubted  ;  we  mean  that  harmonious 
adajjtation  of  moral  justice  to  those  actions 
by  which  the  "original  priucijsles  that  diffuse 
happiness  through  social  hfe  are  disregarded 
and  violated.  The  very  order  that  char- 
acterizes all  creation,  taught  him  that  we  are 
not  here  wthout  a  purpose,  and  when  hu- 
man nature  failed  to  satisfy  him  upon  the 
mystery  of  life,  he  went  to  revelation,  and 
found  the  problem  solved.  The  consequence 
was,  that  whilst  he  felt  as  a  man,  he  endured 
as  a  Christian — awai-e  that  this  life  is,  for 
pui-jjoses  which  we  cannot  question,  cheq- 
uered with  evils  that  teach  us  the  absolute 
necessity  of  another,  and  make  us,  in  the 
meantime,  docile  and  submissive  to  the  vnll 
of  him  who  called  us  into  being. 

His  lordship  had  been  reading  the  Bible  as 
JM 'Bride  entered,  and,  after  having  closed  it, 
and  placed  his  spectacles  between  the  leaves 
as  a  mark,  he  motioned  the  man  to  come 
forward. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  have  you  brought  those 
documents  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  have,  my  lord." 

"  Pray,"  said  he^  "  allow  me  to  see  them." 


M'Bride  hesitated  f  being  a  knave  him- 
self, he  naturally  susj^ected  every  other  man 
of  trick  and  dishonestj' ;  and  yet,  when  be 
looked  upon  the  mild  but  dignified  counte- 
nance of  the  old  man,  made  reverend  by  age 
and  suffering,  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
give  any  intimation  of  the  base  sus^jicions 
he  entertained. 

"  Place  the  papers  before  me,  sir,"  said 
his  lordship,  somewhat  sharply.  "WTiat 
opinion  can  I  form  of  their  value  with- 
out having  first  insjiected  and  examined 
them?" 

As  he  spoke  he  took  the  spectacles  from 
out  the  Bible,  and  settled  them  on  his 
face. 

"I  know,  my  lord,"  replied  M'Bride,  tak- 
ing them  out  of  a  pocket-book  rather  the 
worse  for  wear,  "  that  I  am  placing  them 
in  the  hands  of  an  honorable  man." 

His  lordship  took  them  without  seeming 
to  have  heard  this  observation  ;  and  as  he 
held  them  up,  M'Bride  could  perceive  that 
a  painful  change  came  over  him.  He  be- 
came ghastly  pale,  ajid  his  hands  trembled 
so  violently,  that  he  was  unable  to  read 
their  contents  until  he  placed  them  flat 
upon  the  table  before  him.  At  length,  after 
having  read  and  examined  them  closely,  and 
evidently  so  as  to  satisfy  himself  of  their 
authenticity,  he  turned  round  to  M'Bride, 
and  said,  "  Is  any  person  aware  that  you  are 
in  possession  of  these  documents  ?  " 

"Aha,"  thought  the  fellow,  "there's  an 
old  knave  for  jow.  He  would  give  a  round 
sum  that  they  were  in  ashes,  I'll  engage  ; 
but  I'U  make  him  sheU  out  for  all  that. — I 
don't  think  there  is,  my  lord,  unless  the 
gentleman — your  lordship  knows  who  I 
mean — that  I  took  them  from." 

"  Did  you  take  them  deliberately  fi'om 
him  ?  " 

The  man  stood  uncertain  for  a  moment, 
and  thought  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do 
was  to  make  a  merit  of  the  afl^iir,  by  affect- 
ing a  strong  disposition  to  seiTe  his  lord- 
ship. 

"  The  truth  is,  my  lord,  I  was  in  his-  con- 
fidence, and  as  I  heard  how  matters  stood,  I 
thought  it  a  jjity  that  your  lordshi])  should 
be  annoyed  at  your  time  of  life,  and  I  took 
it  into  my  head  to  place  them  in  your  lord- 
ship's hands." 

"  These  are  genuine  documents,"  observed 
his  lordship,  looking  at  them  again.  "  I  re- 
member the  handwriting  distinctly,  and 
ha;e  in  my  possession  some  letters  written 
by  the  same  individual.  Was  your  master 
a  kind  one  ?  " 

"Both  kind  and  generous,  my  lord  ;  and 
I  have  no  doubt  at  aU.but  he'd  forgive  me 
everything,  and  advance  a  lai'ge  sum  besides, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


541 


in  order  to  get  these  two  little  papers  back. 
Your  lordship  knows  he  can  do  nothing 
against  you  without  them  ;  and  I  hope  you'll 
consider  that,  my  lord." 

"  Did  he  voluutarilj',  that  is,  wilhngiy,  and 
of  his  own  accord,  admit  you  to  his  confi- 
dence ?  and,  if  so,  upon  what  grounds  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  lord,  my  wife  and  I  were  ser- 
vants to  his  father  for  years,  and  he,  when  a 
sUp  of  a  boj',  was  very  fond  of  me.  When 
he  came  over  here,  my  lord,  it  was  rather 
against  his  will,  and  not  at  all  for  his  own 
sake.  So,  as  he  knew  that  he'd  require  some 
one  in  this  country  that  could  act  pradently 
for  him,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  take  me 
w'ith  him,  especially  as  my  wife  and  myself 
were  both  anxious  to  come  back  to  our  own 
country.  '  I  must  trust  some  one,  M'Bride,' 
said  he,  '  and  I  will  trust  j'ou '  ;  and  then 
he  tould  me  the  raison  of  his  journey 
here." 

"Well,"  rephed  his  lordship,  "proceed; 
have  you  anything  more  to  add  !  " 

"Nothing,  my  lord,  but  what  I've  tould 
you.  I  thought  it  a  pitiful  case  to  see  a 
nobleman  at  your  time  of  life  afflicted  by 
the  steps  he  was  about  to  take,  and  I  brought 
these  jjajsers  accordingly  to  your  lordship. 
I  hope  you'll  not  forget  that,  my  lord." 

"  What  value  do  you  place  on  these  two 
documents '? " 

"  Why,  I  think  a  thousand  pounds,  my 
lord." 

"  Well,  sir,  your  estimate  is  a  veiy  low  one 
— ten  thousand  would  come  somewhat  nearer 
the  thing." 

"  My  lord,  I  can  only  say,"  said  M'Bride, 
" that  I'm  Tallin'  to  take  a  thousand;  but, 
if  your  lordshij),  knowin'  the  value  of  the 
papers  as  a'ou  do,  chooses  to  add  anything 
more,  I'll  be  very  haj)py  to  accept  it." 

"  I  have  auotlit  r  question  to  ask  you,  sir," 
said  his  lordship,  "  which  I  do  with  great 
pain,  as  I  do  assure  you  that  this  is  as 
painful  a  dialogue  as  I  ever  held  in  mj'  Hfe. 
Do  you  think  now,  that,  provided  you  had 
not  taken — that  is,  stolen — these  papers 
from  your  master,  he  would,  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  the  stepis  he  is  takmg,  have  given 
you  a  thousand  pounds?" 

The  man  hesitated,  as  if  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  man's  object  in  putting 
the  question.  "  Why — hem — no  ;  I  don't 
think  I  coiJd  expect  that,  my  lord  ;  but  a 
handsome  present,  I  dare  say,  I  might  come 
in  for." 

Lord  Cullamore  raised  himself  in  his 
chair,  and  after  looking  at  the  treacherous 
villain  with  a  calm  feeling  of  scorn  and  in- 
dignation, to  which  his  illuess  imparted  a 
solemn  and  lofty  severity,  that  made  M'Bride 
feel  as  if  he  wished  +e  sink  thi-ough  the  floor, 


"Go,"  said  he,  looking  at  him  with  an  eye 
that  was  kindled  into  something  of  its  for- 
mer fire.  "  Begone,  sir  :  take  away  your 
papers  ;  I  will  not — I  cannot  enter  into  any 
comj)aet  with  an  imgrateful  and  perfidious 
villain  hke  you.  These  papers  have  come 
into  yoiu-  hands  by  robbery  or  theft — that  is 
sufficient ;  there  they  are,  sir — take  them 
away.  I  shall  defend  myself  and  my  rights 
upon  principles  of  justice,  but  never  shaU. 
stoop  to  support  them  by  dishonor." 

On  concluding,  he  flung  them  across  the 
table  with  a  degree  of  energj'  that  sui-j^rised 
M'Bride,  whilst  his  color, hitherto  so  pale,  was 
heightened  by  a  flash  of  that  high  feeling 
and  untarnished  integrity  which  are  seldom 
so  beautifully  impressive  as  when  exliibited 
in  the  honorable  indignation  of  old  age.  It 
might  have  been  compared  to  that  pale  but 
angry  red  of  the  winter  slcy  which  flashes  so 
ti-ansiently  over  the  snow-clad  earth,  when 
the  Sim,  after  the  fatigmes  of  his  short  but 
chilly  journej',  is  about  to  sink  from  our 
sight  at  the  close  of  day. 

M'Bride  slunk  out  of  the  room  crestfallen, 
disapj)ointed,  and  abashed  ;  but  on  reaching 
the  outside  of  the  door  he  found  Norton 
awaiting  him.  This  worthy  gentleman,  after 
beckoning  to  him  to  follow,  havrng  been 
striving,  with  his  whole  soul  centred  in  the 
key-hole,  to  hear  the  purj^ort  of  their  confer- 
ence, now  jsroceeded  to  his  own  room,  ac- 
companied by  M'Bride,  where  we  shall  leave 
them  without  interruption  to  their  conversa- 
tion and  enjoyment,  and  return  once  more 
to  Ginty  Cooper. 

Until  the  horn'  of  half-past  twelve  that 
night  Ginty  most  religiously  kejit  her  watch 
convenient  to  the  door.  Just  then  it  opened 
vei-y  quietly,  and  a  man  staggered  down  the 
hall  steps,  and  bent  his  course  toward  the 
northern  part  of  the  city  suburbs.  A  female 
might  be  observed  to  foUow  him  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  ever  as  he  began  to  mutter  his 
drunken  meditations  to  himself,  slie  ap- 
proached him  more  closely  beliind,  in  order, 
if  possible,  to  lose  nothing  of  what  he 
said. 

"  An  ould  fool,"  he  hiccupped,  "  to  throw 
them  back  to  me — hie — an'  the  other  a 
kna-a-ve  to  want  to — to  look  at  them  ;  but  I 
was  v'p — up  ;  if  the  young-oung  1-lor-ord  will 
buy  them,  he  mu-must-ust  jjay  for  them,  for 
I  hav-ave  them  safe.  Hang  it,  my  head's 
tum-turn-turnin'  about  like  the " 

At  this  portion  of  his  reflections  he  turned 
into  a  low,  dark  line  of  cabins,  some  inhab- 
ited, and  others  rained  and  waste,  followed 
by  the  female  in  question  ;  and  if  the  i-eader 
cannot  ascertain  her  object  in  dogging  him, 
he  must  expect  no  assistance  in  guessing  it 
fi'om  us. 


542 


WILLIAA[  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Lueifs  Vain  but  Affecting  Exposlulntion  with  her 
Father — Her  Terrible  Denunciation  of  Ambrose 
Or  ay. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Lord 
Dunroe  fouucl  Norton  and  M'Bride  in  the 
stable  yard,  when  the  following  conversation 
took  place. 

"  Norton,"  said  his  lordship,  "  I  can't  un- 
derstand what  they  mean  by  the  postpone- 
ment of  this  trial  about  the  mare.  1  fear 
they  will  beat  us,  and  in  that  case  it  is  bet- 
ter, perhaps,  to  compromise  it.  You  know 
that  that  attorney  fellow  Birney  is  engaged 
against  us,  and  by  aU  accoimts  he  has  his 
wits  about  him." 

"Yes,  my  lord;  but  Birney  is  leaving 
home,  going  to  Fi-ance,  and  they  have  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  it  postponed  until  the  next 
term.  My  lord,  this  is  the  man,  M'Bride, 
that  I  told  you  of  this  morning.  M'Bride, 
have  you  brought  those  documents  with  you  ? 
I  wish  to  show  them  to  his  lordship,  who,  I 
think,  you  will  find  a  more  liberal  purchaser 
than  his  father." 

"  What's  that  you  said,  sir,"  asked  M'Bride, 
with  an  appearance  of  deep  interest,  "  about 
Mr.  Birney  going  to  France  ?  " 

"  This  is  no  place  to  talk  about  these  mat- 
ters," said  his  lordship  ;  "  bring  the  man  ujd 
to  your  own  room,  Norton,  and  I  will  join 
you  there.  The  thing,  however,  is  a  mere 
farce,  and  my  father  a  fool,  or  he  would  not 
give  himself  any  concern  about  it.  Bring 
him  to  your  room,  where  I  will  join  you  pres- 
ently. But,  observe  me,  Norton,  none  of 
these  tricks  upon  me  in  future.  You  said 
you  got  only  twenty-five  for  the  mare,  and 
now  it  appears  you  got  exactly  double  the 
sum.  Now,  upon  my  honor,  I  won't  stand 
anymore  of  this." 

"  But,  my  lord,"  replied  Norton,  laughing, 
"  don't  you  see  how  badly  you  reason  ?  I 
got  fifty  for  tlie  mare  ;  of  this  I  gave  your 
lordship  twenty -live — the  balance  I  kept  my- 
self. Of  course,  then,  you  can  fairly  say,  or 
swear,  if  you  like,  that  she  brought  you  in 
nothing  but  the  fair  value.  In  fact,  I  kept 
you  completely  out  of  the  transaction  ;  but, 
after  aU,  I  only  paid  myself  for  the  twenty- 
five  I  won  of  you." 

Dunroe  was  by  no  means  in  anything  like 
good-humor  this  morning.  The  hints  which 
Norton  had  communicated  to  him  at  break- 
fast, resjiecting  the  subject  of  M'Bride's  pri- 
vate interviews  with  his  father,  had  filled 
him  with  more  alarm  than  he  wished  to  ac- 
knowledge. Neither,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  he  any  serious  apprehensions,  for,  un- 
happily for  himself,  he  was  one  of  those  easy 
and  unreflecting  men  who  seldom  look  be- 


yond the  present  moment,  and  can  never  be 
brought  to  a  reasonable  consideration  of 
theu-  own  interests,  until,  perhaps,  it  is  too 
late  to  secure  them. 

All  we  can  comnuiuieate  to  the  reader  with 
respect  to  the  confei'ence  between  these  three 
redoubtable  individuals  is  simply  its  results. 
On  that  evening  Norton  and  M'Bride  started 
for  France,  with  what  object  will  be  seen 
hereafter,  Bimej'  having  followed  on  the 
same  route  the  morning  but  one  afterwards, 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  the  documents 
in  question. 

Dimroe  now  more  than  ever  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  urging  his  marriage  with  Lucj'.  He 
knew  his  father's  honorable  spirit  too  well  to 
beheve  that  he  would  for  one  moment  yield 
his  consent  to  it  under  the  circumstances 
which  were  now  pending.  With  the  full 
knowledge  of  these  circumstances  he  was  not 
acquainted.  M'Bride  had  somewhat  over- 
stated the  share  of  confidence  to  which  in 
this  matter  he  had  been  admitted  by  his 
master.  His  information,  therefore,  on  the 
subject,  was  not  so  accurate  as  he  ■wished, 
although,  from  motives  of  dishonesty  and  a 
desire  to  sell  his  documents  to  tlie  best  ad- 
vantage, he  made  the  most  of  the  knowledge 
he  possessed.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Dunroe 
determined,  as  we  said,  to  biing  about  the 
nuptials  without  delay,  and  in  this  he  was 
seconded  by  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  himself, 
who  also  had  his  own  motives  for  hastening 
them.  In  fact,  here  were  two  men,  each  de- 
liberately attemjiting  to  impose  upon  the 
other,  and  neither  possessed  of  one  sj^ark  of 
honor  or  truth,  although  the  transaction  be- 
tween them  was  one  of  the  most  solemn  im- 
23ortance  that  can  occiu-  in  the  great  business 
of  life.  The  world,  however,  is  tiUed  with 
similar  characters ;  and  not  aU  the  misery 
and  calamity  that  ensue  from  such  fi-audulent 
and  dishonest  jarfictices  wiU,  we  fear,  ever 
prevent  the  selfish  and  ambitious  fi'om  pur- 
suing the  same  courses. 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  said  Dunroe,  in  a  conver- 
sation with  the  baronet  held  on  the  veiy  day 
after  Norton  and  M'Bride  had  set  out  on 
theu'  secret  expedition,  "this  marriage  is 
unnecessaril\'  delayed.  I  am  anxious  that 
it  should  take  place  as  soon  as  it  jjossibly 
can." 

" But,"  replied  the  baronet,  "I  have  not 
been  able  to  see  3'our  father  on  the  subject, 
in  consequence  of  his  illness." 

"  It  is  not  necessary,"  replied  his  lordship. 
"You  know  what  kind  of  a  man  he  is.  In 
fact,  I  fear  he  is  very  neaiiy  non  compos  as 
it  is.  He  has  got  so  confoundedly  crotchety 
of  late,  that  I  should  not  feel  siu-jn-ised  if, 
under  some  wliim  or  other,  ho  sot  his  face 
against  it  altogether.     In  fact,  it  is  useless, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


543 


an  1  worse  t' 'an  useless,  to  consult  him  at  aU 
about  it.  I  move,  therefore,  that  we  go  on 
without  him." 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  returned  the 
other  ;  "  and  I  have  not  the  sHglitest  objec- 
tion :  name  the  day.  The  contract  is  di-awn 
up,  and  only  requii-es  to  be  signed." 

"  I  should  say,  on  Monday  next,"  repKed 
his  lordship;  "but  I  fear  we  will  have 
objections  and  protestations  fi-om  Jliss  Gour- 
lay  ;  and  if  so,  how  are  we  to  manage  ?  " 

"  Leave  the  management  of  iliss  Gourlay 
to  me,  my  lord,"  rephed  her  father.  "I 
have  majaged  her  before  and  shall  manage 
her  now." 

Pas  lordship  had  scarcely  gone,  when 
I  'jcy  was  immediately  sent  for,  and  as  usual 
fcond  her  father  in  the  library. 

"  Lucy,"  said  he,  with  as  much  blandness 
of  manner  as  he  could  assume,  "  I  have  sent 
for  3'ou  to  say  that  you  are  called  upon  to 
make  yoiu-  father  hapjay  at  list." 

"And  myself  wretched  forever,  pajra." 

"  Biit  your  word,  Lucy — your  i:)romise — 
your  honor :  rememljer  that  promise  so 
solemnlj'  given  ;  remember,  too,  your  duty 
of  obedience  as  a  daughter. " 

"  Alas  !  I  remember  eveiything,  papa  ;  too 
keenly,  too  bitterly  do  I  remember  all." 

"  You  wiU  be  prejsared  to  marry  Dunroe 
on  Slonday  next.  The  affaii*  will  be  com- 
paratively private.  That  is  to  say,  we  vsdll 
ask  nobody — no  dijeu  ner — no  nonsense.  The 
fewer  the  better  at  these  matters.  Would 
you  wish  to  see  your  brother — hem — I  mean 
Mr.  Gray?" 

Lucy  had  been  standing  whQe  he  sjjoke  ; 
but  she  now  staggered  over  to  a  seat,  on 
which  she  fell  rather  than  sat.  Her  large, 
lucid  eyes  lost  theu-  lustre ;  her  fi-ame 
quivered  ;  her  face  became  of  an  a.shy  pale- 
ness ;  but  still  those  eyes  were  bent  ujjon 
her  father. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  at  length,  in  a  low  voice 
that  breathed  of  horror,  "  do  not  kill  me." 

"  KUl  you,  foolish  girl !  Now  really,  Lu- 
cy, this  is  extremely  ridiculous  and  vexatious 
too.  Is  not  my  daughter  a  woman  of 
honor  ? " 

"Papa,"  she  said,  solemnly,  going  dovm 
upon  her  two  knees,  and  joining  her  lovelj' 
and  snovry  hands  together,  ia  an  attitude  of 
the  most  earnest  and  heart-rending  suppli- 
cation ;  "  papa,  hear  me.  You  have  said 
that  I  saved  your  life  ;  be  now  as  generous 
as  I  was — save  mine." 

"  Lucy,"  he  rephed,  "  this  looks  hke  want 
of  principle.  You  would  violate  your  prom- 
ise. I  should  not  ^\-isli  Dunroe  to  hear  this, 
or  to  know  it.  He  might  begin  to  reason 
upon  it,  and  to  say  that  the  woman  who 
could  dehberately  break  a  solemn  jjromise 


might  not  hesitate  at  the  marriage  vow.  I 
do  not  apply  this  reasoning  to  you,  but  he 
or  others  might.  Of  coiu'se,  I  expect  that, 
as  a  woman  of  honor,  you  ^dll  keep  your 
word  with  me,  and  maiTy  Dunroe  on  Mon- 
day. You  wiU  have  no  trouble — eveiything 
shall  be  managed  by  them ;  a  briUiant 
trousi'eau  can  be  provided  as  well  afterwards 
as  before." 

Lucy  rose  up  ;  and  as  she  did,  the  blood, 
which  seemed  to  have  pre%aously  gathered 
to  her  heart,  now  returned  to  her  cheek,  iind 
began  to  mantle  upon  it,  whilst  her  figui'e, 
before  submissive  and  imploriug,  dilated  to 
its  full  size. 

"Father,"  said  she,  "since  you  wiU  not 
hear  the  voice  of  supplication,  hear  that  of 
reason  and  truth.  Do  not  entertain  a 
doubt,  no,  not  for  a  moment,  that  if  I  am 
urged — driven — to  this  marriage,  hateful 
and  utterly  detestable  to  me  as  it  is,  I  shall 
hesitate  to  maiTy  this  man.  I  say  this,  how- 
ever, because  I  teU  you  that  I  am  about  to 
api^eal  to  your  interest  in  my  tnie  happiness 
for  the  last  time.  Is  it,  then,  kind ;  is  it 
fatherly  in  you,  sir,  to  exact  from  me  the 
fulfilment  of  a  promise  given  under  circum- 
stances that  ought  to  touch  your  heai't  into 
a  generous  perception  of  the  sacrifice  which 
in  giving  it  I  made  for  ijour  sake  alone  ? 
You  were  iU,  and  laboring  under  the  appre- 
hension of  sudden  death,  jsrincipally,  you 
said,  in  consequence  of  my  refusal  to  be- 
come the  wife  of  that  man.  I  saw  this  ;  and 
although  the  effort  was  infinitely  worse  than 
death  to  me,  I  did  not  hesitate  one  moment 
in  yielding  up  what  is  at  any  time  dearer  to 
me  than  hfe — my  happiness — that  you  might 
be  spared.  Alas,  my  dear  father,  if  you 
knew  how  painful  it  is  to  me  to  be  forced  to 
plead  all  this  in  my  own  defence,  you 
would,  you  must,  pity  me.  A  generous 
heart,  almost  under  any  circumstances, 
scorns  to  plead  its  own  acts,  esjoecially  when 
they  are  on  the  side  of  virtue.  But  I,  alas, 
am  forced  to  it ;  am  forced  to  do  that  which 
I  would  otherwise  scorn  and  blush  to  do." 

"Lucy,"  replied  her  father,  who  felt  in 
his  ambitious  and  tyrannical  soul  the  fuU 
force,  not  only  of  what  she  said,  but  of  the 
fraud  he  had  practised  on  her,  but  which 
she  never  suspected  :  "  Lucy,  my  child,  you 
will  drive  me  mad.  Perhaps  I  am  wi'ong  • 
but  at  the  same  time  my  heart  is  so  com-! 
pletely  fixed  upon  this  marriage,  that  if  it  be 
not  brought  about  I  feel  I  shall  go  insane. 
The  value  of  life  would  be  lost  to  me,  and 
most  probably  I  .shall  die  the  dishonorable 
death  of  a  suicide." 

"And  have  a'ou  no  fear  for  me,  my  father 
— no  apprehension  that  I  may  escape  from 
this  my  vnretched  destiny  to  the  peace  of  the 


544 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJS^S  WORKS. 


pfi-ave  ?  But  you  need  not.  Thank  God,  I 
trust  and  feel  that  my  regard  for  His  pre- 
cepts, and  my  perceptions  of  His  providence, 
ai-e  too  clear  and  too  ftrm  ever  to  suiter  me 
to  fly  like  a  coward  from  the  post  in  life 
which  He  has  assigned  me.  But  why,  dear 
father,  should  you  make  me  the  miserable 
victim  of  your  ambition? — ^I  am  not  am- 
bitious." 

"  I  know  you  are  not :  I  never  could  get 
an  honorable  ambition  instilled  into  you." 

"  I  am  not  mean,  however — nay,  I  trust 
that  I  possess  all  that  honest  and  honorable 
pride  which  would  prevent  me  from  doing 
an  unworthy  act,  or  one  unbecoming  either 
my  sex  or  my  position." 

"You  would  not  break  your  word,  for 
instance,  nor  render  your  father  wretched, 
insane,  mad,  or,  perhaj)s,  cause  his  dreadful 
malady  to  return.  No — no — but  yet  fine 
talking  is  a  fine  thmg.  Madam,  cease  to 
plead  your  vii-tues  to  me,  unless  you  prove 
that  you  possess  them  by  keeping  your  hon- 
orable engagement  made  to  Lord  Dunroe, 
through  the  sacred  medium  of  j'our  own 
father.  Wliatever  you  may  do,  don't  attemjit 
to  involve  me  in  yoxuc  disgrace." 

"lam  exhausted,"  she  said,  "and  cannot 
speak  any  longer  ;  but  I  wdll  not  desf)au'  of 
you,  father.  No,  my  dear  pajsa,"  she  said, 
throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  laying 
her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  bursting  into 
tears,  "  I  will  not  think  that  you  could  sacri- 
fice your  daughter.  You  wiU  relent  for 
Lucy  as  Lucy  did  for  you — but  I  feel  weak. 
You  know,  papa,  how  this  fever  on  my 
sph'its  has  worn  me  do^vn  ;  and,  after  all, 
the  day  might  come — and  come  with  bitter- 
ness and  remorse  to  your  heart — when  j-ou 
may  be  forced  to  feel  that  although  you 
made  your  Lucy  a  countess  she  did  not  re- 
main a  countess  long." 

"  \Vliat  do  you  mean  now  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see,  papa,  that  my  heart  is 
breaking  fast?  If  you  vsdll  not  hear  my 
words — if  they  cannot  successfully  plead 
for  me — let  my  declining  health — let  my 
pale  and  wasted  cheek — let  my  want  of 
spirits,  my  want  of  appetite — and,  above  all, 
let  that  which  you  cannot  see  nor  feel — the 
sickness  of  my  unhapjiy  heart — plead  for 
me.  Permit  me  to  go,  dear  papa  ;  and  ■ndll 
you  allow  me  to  lean  upon  you  to  my  own 
room  ? — for,  alas !  I  am  not,  after  this  pain- 
ful excitement,  able  to  go  there  myself. 
Thank  you,  papa,  thank  you." 

He  was  thus  compelled  to  give  her  his 
arm,  and,  in  doing  so,  was  siu-prised  to  feel 
the  exti'aordinary  tremor  by  which  her  fi-ame 
was  shaken.  On  reaching  her  room,  she 
turned  round,  and  laying  her  head,  with  an 
aii'ectionate  and  sujjplicating  confidence,  once 


more  upon  his  breast,  she  whispered  with 
streaming  eyes,  "  Alas !  my  dear  jsapa,  you 
forget,  in  urging  me  to  marry  this  hateful 
profligate,  that  my  heiu't,  mj'  affections,  my 
love — in  the  fullest,  and  purest,  and  most 
disinterested  sense — are  irrevocably  fixed 
ui^on  another ;  and  Dimroe,  all  mean  and 
unmanly  as  he  is,  knows  this." 

"  He  knows  that — there,  sit  dovm — why 
do  you  tremble  so  ? — Yes,  but  he  knows 
that  what  you  consider  an  attachment  is  a 
mere  girUsh  fancy,  a  whimsical  predilection 
that  your  own  good-sense  will  show  you  the 
folly  of  at  a  future  time." 

"  EecoUect,  paj)a,  that  he  has  been  extrav- 
agant, and  is  said  to  be  embarrassed  ;  the 
truth  is,  sir,  that  the  man  values  not  your 
daughter,  but  the  proi^erty  to  which  he 
thinks  he  will  become  entitled,  and  which  I 
have  no  doubt  wiU  be  very  welcome  to  his 
necessities.  I  feel  that  I  speak  truth,  and 
as  a  test  of  his  selfishness,  it  wiU  be  only 
necessary  to  acquaint  him  with  the  reappeai-- 
ance  of  my  brother — your  son  and  heir — 
and  you  will  be  no  fui-ther  troubled  by  his 
imijortunities." 

"  Troubled  by  his  importunity  !  WTiy, 
girl,  it's  I  that  am  troubled  with  apprehen- 
sion lest  he  might  discover  the  existence  of 
yom-  brother,  and  draw  ofl'." 

One  In'oad  gaze  of  wonder  and  dismay 
she  turned  upon  him,  and  her  face  became 
crimsoned  with  shame.  She  then  covered 
it  with  her  open  hands,  and,  turning  round, 
placed  her  head  upon  the  end  of  the  sofa, 
and  moaned  with  a  deep  and  bursting  an- 
guish, on  hearing  this  acknowledgment  of 
deliberate  baseness  from  his  own  hps. 

The  baronet  understood  her  feehngs,  and 
regretted  the  words  he  had  uttered,  but  he 
resolved  to  bear  the  matter  out. 

"  Don't  be  siu-prised,  Lucy,"  he  added, 
"nor  alarmed  at  these  sentiments  ;  for  I  tell 
you,  that  rather  than  be  defeated  in  the  ob- 
ject I  proijose  for  your  elevation  in  life,  I 
would  trample  a  thousand  times  upon  all 
the  moral  obligations  that  ever  bound  man. 
Put  it  down  to  what  you  like — insanity — 
monomania,  if  you  will — but  so  it  is  with 
me  :  I  shall  work  my  puiijose  out,  or  either 
of  us  shall  die  for  it ;  and  from  this  you  may 
perceive  how  Ukely  your  resistance  and  ob- 
duracy are  to  become  available  against  the 
determination  of  such  a  man  as  I  am.  Com- 
pose yourself,  girl,  and  don't  be  a  fool.  The 
only  way  to  get  properly  through  life  is  to 
accommodate  ourselves  to  its  necessities,  or, 
in  other  words,  to  have  shrew<lness  and 
common  sense,  and  foil  the  world,  if  we  can, 
at  its  own  weapons.  Give  up  your  fine  sen- 
timent, I  desire  you,  and  go  dovsai  to  the 
drawing-room,  to  receive  youi-  brother  ;  he 


THE  BLACK  BARO:S''ET. 


545 


will  be  hero  verr  soon.  I  am  poing  to  the 
assizes,  and  shall  uot  return  till  about  four 
o'clock.  Come,  come,  all  will  end  better 
than  you  imagine." 

The  mention  of  her  brother  was  anything 
but  a  comfort  to  Lucy.  Her  father  at  first 
entertained  apprehensions,  as  we  have  al- 
re.xdy  said,  that  this  promising  youth  might 
support  his  sister  in  her  aversion  against 
the  marriage.  Two  or  three  conversations 
on  the  subject  soon  undeceived  him,  how- 
ever, in  the  view  he  had  taken  of  his  char- 
acter ;  and  Lucy  herself  now  dreadeil  him, 
on  this  subject,  almost  as  much  as  she  did 
her  father. 

With  respect  to  this  same  brother,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  now  to  say,  th;it  Lucy's 
feelings  had  undergone  a  very  considerable 
change.  On  hearing  that  he  not  only  was  in 
existence,  but  that  she  would  soon  actually  be- 
hold him,  her  imjjassioned  imagination  paint- 
ed him  as  she  wished  and  hojjed  he  might 
prove  to  be — that  is,  in  the  first  jjlace — tall, 
elegant,  handsome,  and  with  a  strong  like- 
ness to  the  mother  whom  he  had  been  said 
so  much  to  resemble  ;  and,  in  the  next — oh, 
how  her  tremliling  heart  yearned  to  find 
him  aifectiouate,  tender,  generous,  and  full 
of  aU  those  noble  and'  manly  virtues  en 
which  might  rest  a  delightful  sympathy,  a 
pure  and  generous  affection,  and  a  tender 
and  trusting  confidence  between  them.  On 
casting  her  eyes  upon  him  for  the  first  tima, 
however,  she  felt  at  the  moment  like  one 
disenchanted,  or  awakening  from  some  de- 
lightful illusion  to  a  reality  so  much  at  varf- 
ance  with  the  hean  ideal  of  her  imagination, 
as  to  occasion  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
that  amounted  almost  to  pain.  There  stood 
before  her  a  young  man,  with  a  countenance 
so  like  her  father's,  that  the  fact  startled 
her.  Still  there  was  a  difference,  for — • 
whether  fi'om  the  consciousness  of  birth,  or 
authority,  or  position  in  life — there  was 
something  in  her  father's  featui-es  that  re- 
deemed them  from  absolute  vulgarity.  Hei'e, 
however,  although  the  resemblance  was  ex- 
traordinary, and  every  feature  almost  iden- 
tical, there  might  be  read  in  the  countenance 
of  her  brother  a  low,  commonplace  expres- 
sion, that  looked  as  if  it  were  composed  of 
effrontery,  cunning,  and  profligacy.  Lucy 
for  a  moment  skrank  back  from  such  a 
countenance,  and  the  shock  of  disappoint- 
ment chilled  the  warmth  with  which  she 
had  been  prepared  to  receive  him.  But, 
then,  her  generous  heart  told  her  that  she 
might  probably  be  prejudging  the  innocent 
— that  neglect,  want  of  education,  the  influ- 
ence of  the  world,  and,  worst  of  all,  disti'^ss 
and  suffering,  might  have  caused  the  stronger, 
Hiore  vulgar,  and  exceedingly  disagreealale 


expression  which  she  saw  before  her ;  and 
tlie  reader  is  already  awai-e  of  the  conse- 
quences which  these  struggles,  at  their  fir.st 
interview,  had  upon  her.  Subsequently  to 
that,  however,  SIi-.  Ambrose,  in  supporting 
his  father's  %'iews,  advanced  princijjles  in 
such  complete  accordance  with  them,  as  to 
excite  in  his  sister's  breast,  first  a  deep  regret 
that  she  could  not  love  him  as  she  had  hoped 
to  do  ;  then  a  feeUng  stronger  than  iudilter- 
ence  itself,  and  ultimately  one  Httle  short  of 
aversion.  Her  father  had  been  now  gone 
about  half  an  hour,  and  she  hoped  that  her 
brother  might  not  come,  when  a  servanj 
came  to  say  that  Mr.  Gray  was  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  requested  to  see  her. 

She  felt  that  the  interview  would  be  a 
painful  one  to  her ;  but  slill  he  was  her 
brother,  and  she  knew  she  could  not  avoid 
seeing  him. 

After  the  first  salutations  were  over, 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Lucy  ?  ' 
he  asked  ;  "  you  look  iU  and  distressed.  I 
sujjpose  the  old  subject  of  tiie  mairiage — 
eh?" 

"I  tnist  it  is  one  which  you  will  not  re- 
new, Thomas.  I  entreat  you  to  spare  me  on 
it." 

"  I  am  too  much  your  fiiend  to  do  so, 
Lucy.  It  is  really  inconceivable  to  me  why 
j'ou  should  oppose  it  as  you  do.  But  the 
ti-uth  is,  you  don't  know  the  world,  or  yon 
would  think  and  act  veiy  differently." 

"Thomas,"  she  replied,  whilst  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  "I  am  almost  weary  of  life. 
There  is  not  one  living  individual  to  whom 
I  can  turn  for  sympathy  or  comfort.  PajJ-a 
has  forbidden  me  to  visit  Lady  Gourlay  or 
Mrs.  Main  waring  ;  and  I  am  "now  utterly 
friendless,  with  the  exception  of  God  alone. 
But  I  will  not  despair — so  long,  at  least,  r.s 
reason  is  left  to  me." 

"I  assure  you,  Lucy,  yoii  astonish  me. 
To  you,  whose  imagination  is  heated  with  a 
foolish  j)assion  for  an  adventurer  whom  no 
one  knows,  aU  this  suffering  may  seem  very 
distressing  and  romantic  ;  but  to  me,  to  my 
father,  and  to  the  world,  it  looks  Hke  ga-eat 
foUy — excuse  me,  Lucy^or  rather  like  gi-eat 
weakness  of  character,  grounded  upon  strong 
obstinacy  of  dis230sition.  Believe  me,  if  the 
world  were  to  know  this  you  would  be  laugh- 
ed at ;  and  there  is  scai-cely  a  mother  or 
daughter,  fi-om  the  cottage  to  the  castle,  that 
would  not  say,  '  Lucy  Goiu-lay  is  a  poor,  in- 
experienced fool,  who  thinks  she  can  find  a 
world  of  angels,  and  paragons,  and  purity  to 
live  in.'  " 

"  But  I  care  not  for  the  world,  Thomas  : 
it  is  not  my  idol — I  do  not  worship  it,  nor- 
shaU  I  ever  do  so.  I  wish  to  guide  myself 
by   the  voice   of  my  own  conscience,  by  s 


5i6 


WILLIAM  CAELETOyS    WORKS. 


sense  of  what  is  right  and  proper,  and  by  the 
principles  of  Christian  truth." 

"  These  doctrines,  Lucy,  are  very  well  for 
the  closet ;  but  they  wiU.  never  do  in  life,  for 
which  they  are  little  short  of  a  disqualifi- 
cation. Where,  for  instance,  wUl  you  find 
them  acted  on  ?  Not  by  j)eople  of  sense,  I 
assure  you.     Now  hsten  to  me." 

"Spare  me,  if  you  please,  Thomas,  the  ad- 
vocacy of  such  principles.  You  occasion  me 
great  pain — not  so  much  on  my  own  account 
as  on  yoiu's — you  alarm  me." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  I  tell  you  ;  but  listen 
to  me,  as  I  said.  Here,  now,  is  this  marriage: 
you  don't  love  this  Dunroe — you  dislike,  you 
detest  him.  Very  well.  What  the  deuce  has 
tliat  to  do  with  the  prospects  of  your  own 
elevation  in  life '?  Think  for  yourseK — become 
the  centre  of  your  own  world  ;  make  this 
Dunroe  your  footstool — put  him  under  yom- 
foot,  I  say,  and  mount  by  him  ;  get  a  position 
in  the  world — play  your  game  in  it  as  you 
see  others  do  ;  and " 

"  Fi-ay,  sir,"  said  Lucy,  scarcely  restraining 
her  indignation,  "  where,  or  when,  or  how 
did  yon  come  by  these  odious  and  detestable 
doctrines  ?  " 

"  Faith,  Lucy,  from  honest  nature — from 
experience  and  observation.  Is  there  any 
man  with  a  third  idea,  or  that  has  the  use  of 
his  eyes,  who  does  not  know  and  see  that 
this  is  the  game  of  life  ?  Dunroe,  I  diu'e  say, 
deserves  your  contempt ;  rejiort  goes,  cer- 
tainly, that  he  is  a  profligate  ;  but  what  ought 
especially  to  reconcile  him  to  you  is  this 
simple  fact — that  the  man's  a  fool.  Egad,  I 
think  that  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

Luej'  rose  uj)  and  went  to  the  window, 
where  she  stood  for  some  moments,  her  eyes 
sparkling  and  scintillating,  and  her  bosom 
iieaving  with  a  tide  of  feehngs  which  were 
repressed  by  a  strong  and  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult eflbrt.  Slie  then  returned  to  the  sofa, 
her  cheeks  and  temples  in  a  blaze,  whilst 
ever  and  anon  she  eyed  her  brother  as  if 
from  a  new  point  of  view,  or  as  if  something 
sudden  and  exceedingly  disagreeable  had 
struck  her. 

"You  look  at  me  very  closely,  Lucy," said 
he,  with  a  confident  grin. 

"I  do,"  she  replied.     "Proceed,  sir." 

"  I  will.  Well,  as  I  was  sa^dng,  you  will 
find  it  remarkably  comfortable  and  con- 
venient in  many  ways  to  be  married  to  a 
fool :  he  will  give  you  very  little  trouble  ; 
fools  are  never  suspicious  ;  but,  on  the  con- 
trai-y,  distinguished  for  an  almost  sublime 
credulity.  Then,  again,  you  love  this  other 
gentleman  ;  and,  with  a  fool  for  your  hus- 
band, and  the  example  of  the  world  before 
you,  what  the  deuce  difficulty  can  you  see 
in  the  match '?  " 


Lucy  rose  up,  and  for  a  few  moments  the 
vei-y  force  of  her  indignation  kept  her  silent ; 
at  length  she  spoke. 

"Villain  —  impostor  —  cheat!  you  stand 
there  convicted  of  an  infamous  attempt  to 
impose  yourself  on  me  as  my  legitimate 
brother— on  my  father  as  his  legitimate  son ', 
but  know  that  I  disclaim  you,  sir.  What ! 
the  fine  and  gentle  blood  of  my  blessed 
mother  to  flow  in  the  veins  of  the  profligate 
monster  who  could  give  utterance  to  j^rinci- 
ples  worthy  of  hell  itself,  and  attenijat  to 
pour  them  into  the  ears  and  heai-t  of  his  own 
sister  !  Sir,  I  feel,  and  I  thank  (Jod  for  it, 
that  you  are  not  the  son  of  my  blessed  mo- 
ther— no  ;  but  you  stand  there  a  false  and 
spmious  knave,  the  dishonest  insti-ument  of 
I  some  fi-audulent  conspiracy,  concocted  for 
the  jjurpose  of  putting  you  into  a  jjosition  of 
i  inheriLing  a  name  and  property  to  which 
you  have  no  claim.  I  ought,  on  the  moment 
i  first  saw  you,  to  have  been  guided  by  the 
instincts  of  my  own  heart,  which  in'ompted 
me  to  recoU  from  and  disclaim  you.  I  know 
not,  nor  do  I  vtdsh  to  know,  in  what  low 
haunts  of  vice  and  infamy  you  have  been 
bred  ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  that,  if  it  be 
within  the  hmits  of  mj'  power,  you  shall  be 
traced  and  unmasked.  I  now  remember  me 
that — that — there  existed  an  early  scandal — 
yes,  sir,  I  remember  it,  but  I  cannot  even 
repeat  it ;  be  assured,  however,  that  this  in- 
human and  de^dlish  attempt  to  pois(m  my 
principles  will  prove  the  source  of  a  retribu- 
tive judgment  on  your  head.  Begone,  sir, 
EBid  leave  the  house  !  " 

The  imllor  of  detected  guilt,  the  conscious- 
ness that  in  this  iniquitous  lecture  he  had 
overshot  the  mark,  and  made  a  grievous  mis- 
calculation in  pushing  his  detestable  argu- 
ment too  far — but,  above  all.  the  startling 
suspicions  so  boldly  and  energeticiilly  ex- 
pressed by  Lucy,  the  truth  of  which,  as  well 
as  the  apprehensions  that  filled  him  of  their 
discovery,  all  united,  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
stood  on  the  brink  of  a  mine  to  which  the 
train  had  been  already  appUed.  And  yet, 
notwithstanding  all  this,  such  was  the  natural 
force  of  his  effrontery— such  the  vidgar  in- 
solence and  l)itter  disposition  of  his  nature, 
that,  instead  of  soothing  her  insidted  feelings, 
or  olt'ering  either  explanation  or  apology,  he 
could  not  restrain  an  impudent  exhibition  of 
Ul-temper. 

"  You  forget  yourself,  Lucy,"  he  replied  : 
"  you  have  no  authority  to  order  me  out  of 
this  house,  in  which  I  stand  much  firmer  than 
yourself.  Neither  do  I  comprehend  yoiu-  al- 
lusions, nor  regard  your  threats.  The  proofs 
of  any  identity  and  legitimacy  are  abundant 
and  irresistible.  As  to  the  advice  I  gave  yoo, 
I  gave  it  like  one  who  knows  the  world" 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


547 


"No.  sir,"  she  replied,  indignanth' ;  "you 
pjave  it  like  a  man  who  knows  only  its  vices. 
It  is  sickening  to  hear  everj-  profligate  quote 
his  ovNTi  experience  of  Hfe,  as  if  it  were  com- 
posed of  nothing  but  crimes  and  \'ices,  sim- 
ply because  they  constitute  the  guilty  phase 
of  it  with  which  he  is  acquainted.  But  the 
world,  sir,  is  not  the  scene  of  genend  de- 
pravitj-  wliich  these  personsi  would  present 
it.  No  :  it  is  fuU  of  great  \Ta'tues,  noble  ac- 
tions, high  j)rinciples  ;  and,  what  is  better 
still,  of  true  reUgion  and  elevated  humauity. 
AVhat  right,  then,  sir,  have  you  to  Hbel  a 
world  which  you  do  not  understand  ?  You 
are  merely  a  portion  of  its  dregs,  and  I 
would  as  soon  receive  lessons  in  honesty 
fi'om  a  thief  as  principles  for  my  guidance 
in  it  fi'om  you.  As  for  me,  I  shall  disregard 
the  proofs  of  your  identity  and  legitimacy, 
which,  however,  must  lie  produced  and  in- 
vestigated ;  for,  from  this  moment,  establish 
them  as  you  may,  I  shall  never  recognize 
you  as  a  brother,  as  an  acquaintance,  as  a 
man,  nor  as  anything  but  a  seMsh  and  aban- 
doned \illain,  who  would  have  corrupted  the 
pi'ineiples  of  his  sister." 

Without  another  word,  or  the  slightest 
token  of  respect  or  courtesy,  she  deliberately, 
and  with  an  air  of  indignant  scorn,  walked 
out  of  the  drawing-room,  leaving  IVIr.  Am- 
brose Gray  in  a  position  which  we  dare  say 
nobodj-  wlU  envy  him. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

fTAieS  con^ainu  a  Variety  of  Matters,  some  to  Laugh 
and  some  to  Weep  at. 

Or«  readers  may  have  observed  that  Sir 
Tliomas  Gourlay  led  a  secluded  life  ever 
since  the  commencement  of  our  narrative. 
Tiie  fact  v^as,  and  he  felt  it  deeply,  that  he 
had  long  been  an  tmpopular  man.  That  he 
was  a  Jiad,  overbearing  husband,  too,  had 
been  well  kuo^\^l,  tor  such  was  the  violence 
of  his  temper,  and  the  unvaried  harshness  of 
his  disposition  toward  liis  wife,  that  the  gen- 
eral tenor  of  his  conduct,  so  far  even  as  she 
was  concerned,  could  not  be  concealed.  His 
observations  on  hfe  and  personal  character 
were  also  so  csTiieal  and  severe,  not  to  say 
unjust,  that  his  society  was  absolutely  avoid- 
ed, unless  by  some  few  of  his  o^vn  disposi- 
(ioa.  And  yet  notlung  could  be  more  re- 
mai-kable  than  the  contrast  that  existed 
()etween  his  principles  and  conduct  in  many 
points,  ilius  affording,  as  they  did,  an  invol- 
antary  acknowledgment  of  his  moraJ  errors. 


He  would  not,  for  instance,  admit  his  scep- 
tical friends,  who  laughed  at  the  existence  of 
vktue  and  rehgion,  to  the  society  of  his 
daughter,  with  tlie  excejjtion  of  Lord  Dun- 
roe,  to  whose  vices  his  im  accountable  ambi- 
tion for  her  elevation  comjiletelj^  blinded  him. 
Neither  did  he  msh  her  to  mingle  much  with 
the  world,  from  a  latent  apprehension  that 
she  might  find  it  a  different  thing  fi'om  what 
he  himself  represented  it  to  be  ;  and  perhaps 
miglit  learn  there  the  low  estimate  which  it 
had  formed  of  her  futui'e  husband.  Like 
most  misanthi'opical  men,  therefore,  whose 
hatred  of  life  is  derived  principally  fi'om  that 
uneasiness  of  conscience  which  proceeds  from 
their  own  ^-ices,  he  kept  aloof  from  .society 
as  far  as  the  necessities  of  his  position  al- 
lowed him. 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  had  called  upon  him  sev- 
eral times  with  an  intention  of  making  some 
comuuinication  which  she  trusted  would 
have  had  the  effect  of  opening  his  eyes  to 
the  danger  into  which  he  was  about  to  pre- 
cipitate his  daughter  by  her  contemplated 
marriage  with  Dunroe.  He  uuiformlj'  re- 
fused, however,  to  see  her,  or  to  allow  her 
any  opportunity  of  introducing  the  subject. 
Finding  herself  deliberately  and  studiously 
repulsed,  tliis  good  lady,  who  still  occasion- 
ally corresponded  with  Lucy,  came  to  the 
resolution  of  writing  to  him  on  the  subject, 
and,  accordingly,  Gibson,  one  morning, 
with  his  usual  cool  and  deferential  manner, 
presented  him  with  the  following  letter  : 

"  SUMIEERFIELD   CoTTAGE. 

"Sir, — I  should  feel  myself  utterly  un- 
worthy of  the  good  opinion  which  I  trust  I 
am  honored  with  by  your  admii-able  daugh- 
ter, were  I  any  longer  to  remain  silent  upon 
a  subject  of  the  deepest  importance  to  her 
future  happiness.  I  understand  that  she  is 
almost  immediately  about  to  become  the 
wife  of  Lord  Dunroe.  Now,  sir,  I  entreat 
your  most  serious  attention  ;  and  I  am  cer- 
tain, if  you  will  only  bestow  it  upon  the  few 
words  I  am  about  to  write,  that  you,  and 
especially  Miss  Gourlay,  will  hve  to  thank 
God  that  I  intei-posed  to  prevent  this  un- 
hallowed union.  I  say  then,  empliaticaUy, 
as  I  shall  be  able  to  prove  most  distinctly, 
that  if  you  permit  Miss  Gourlay  to  become 
the  wife  of  tlus  .young  nobleman  you  will  seal 
her  ruin—  defeat  the  chief  object  which  you 
cherish  for  her  in  life,  and  hve  to  curse  the 
day  on  which  you  urged  it-  on.  The  com- 
munications which  I  have  to  make  are  of  too 
mueli  imjjortance  to  be  committed  to  paper  ; 
but  if  you  wll  only  allow  me,  and  I  once 
mere  implore  it  for  the  sake  of  your  child, 
as  weU  as  for  your  own  future  ease  of  mind, 
the   privilege   of  a  short  interview,  I  sliaU 


548 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


complitely  satisfy  you  as  to  the  truth  of  what 
I  state. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

"  Your  obUged  and  obedient  servant, 

"  SIaktha  MAimvAKnsG." 

Having  perused  the  first  sentence  of  this 
earnest  and  friendly  letter,  Sir  Thomas  in- 
dignantly flung  it  into  a  drawer  where  he 
kejot  all  communications  to  which  it  did  not 
please  him  at  the  moment  to  j)ay  pai'ticular 
attention. 

Lucy's  health  in  the  meantime  was  fast 
breaking  :  but  so  delicate  and  true  was  her 
sense  of  honor  and  duty  that  she  would  have 
looked  upon  any  clandestine  communication 
with  her  lover  as  an  infraction  of  the  solemn 
engagement  into  which  she  had  entered  for 
her  father's  sake,  and  by  which,  even  at  the 
expense  of  her  own  happiness,  she  consider- 
ed herself  bound.  Still,  she  felt  that  a  com- 
munication on  the  subject  was  due  to  him, 
and  her  jsrincipal  hope  now  was  that  her 
fiitlier  would  allow  her  to  make  it.  If  he, 
however,  refused  this  sanction  to  an  act  of 
common  justice,  then  she  resolved  to  wi'ite 
to  him  openly,  and  make  the  wTetched  cir- 
cumstances in  which  she  was  involved,  and 
the  eternal  barrier  that  had  been  placed 
between  them,  known  to  him  at  once. 

Her  father,  however,  now  found,  to  his 
utter  mortification,  that  he  was  dri^'iug  mat- 
ters somewhat  too  fast,  and  that  his  daugh- 
ter's health  must  unquestionably  be  restored 
before  he  could  think  of  outraging  humanity 
and  public  decencj'  by  forcing  her  from  the 
sick  bed  to  the  altar. 

After  leaving  her  brother  on  the  occasion 
of  their  last  remarkable  interview,  she  re- 
tired to  her  room  so  full  of  wretchedness,  in- 
dignation, and  despair  of  all  human  aid  or 
symjsathy,  that  she  scarcely  knew  whether 
their  conversation  was  a  dream  or  a  reahty. 
Above  all  things,  the  shock  she  received 
through  her  whole  moral  system,  delicately 
and  finely  temjsered  as  it  was,  so  completely 
jsrostrated  her  physical  strength,  and  es- 
tranged all  the  virtuous  instincts  of  her 
noble  nature,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she 
reached  her  own  room.  "When  there,  she 
immediately  rang  for  her  maid,  who  at  once 
perceived  by  the  indignant  sparkle  of  her 
eye,  the  heightened  color  of  her  cheek,  and 
the  energetic  agitation  of  her  voice,  that  some- 
thing exceedingly  unpleasant  had  occurred. 

"  My  gracious,  miss,"  she  exclaimed, 
"what  has  •  happened  ?  You  look  so  dis- 
turbed !  Something,  or  somebody,  has  of- 
fended you." 

"I  mn  disturbed,  Ahce,"  she  reislied,  "I 
am  disturbed  ;  come  and  lend  me  your  arm  ; 
my  knees  are  ti-embling  so  that  I  cannot  walk 


without  assistance  ;  but  must  sit  down  for  a 
moment.  Indeed,  I  feel  that  my  strength  is 
fast  departing  from  me.  I  scarcely  know 
what  I  am  thinking.  I  am  all  confused, 
agitated,  shocked.  Gracious  heaven  !  Come, 
my  dear  Alice,  help  voir  mistress ;  you, 
Alice,  are  the  only  friend  I  have  left  now. 
Ai'e  you  not  my  fi-iend,  Alice  ?  " 

She  was  sitting  on  a  lounger  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  poor  ati'ectionate  girl,  who  loved  her 
as  she  did  her  life,  threw  herseK  over,  ant\ 
leaning  her  head  upon  her  mistress's  knees 
wept  bitterly. 

"  Sit  beside  me,  Alice,"  said  she  ;  "  whatevei 
distance  social  distinctions  may  have  placed 
between  us,  I  feel  that  the  truth  and  sincer- 
ity of  those  tears  justify  me  in  placing  you 
near  my  heart.  Sit  be.side  me,  but  compose 
j'ourself  ;  and  then  you  must  assist  me  to 
bed." 

"  Tliey  are  killing  you,"  said  Alley,  still 
weeping.  "  "Wliat  deril  can  temjjt  them  to 
act  as  they  do  ?  As  for  me,  miss,  it's  break- 
ing my  heart,  that  I  see  what  you  ai"e  suffer- 
ing, and  can't  assist  you." 

"  But  I  have  yom-  love  and  sympathy,  your 
fidelity,  too,  my  dear  Alice  ;  and  that  now  is 
all  I  believe  the  world  has  left  me." 

"  No,  miss,"  rephed  her  maid,  •wiping  her 
eyes,  and  striring  to  compose  herself,  "  no, 
indeed ;  there  is  another — another  gentle- 
man, I  mean — as  well  as  myself,  that  feels 
deeply  for  your  situation." 

Had  Lucy's  spirit  been  such  as  they  were 
wont  to  be,  she  could  have  enjoyed  this 
j  little  blunder  of  Ahce's  ;  but  now  her  heart, 
like  some  precious  jewel  that  Hes  too  deep  in 
the  bosom  of  the  ocean  for  the  sun's  strong- 
est beams  to  reach,  had  sunk  beneath  the  in- 
fluence of  either  cheefuluess  or  mirth. 

"There  is  indeed,  miss,"  continued  Alice, 

"  And  pray,  Ahce,"  asked  her  mistress. 
"  how  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  ^^'^ly,  miss,"  rejjlied  the  girl,  "  I  am  told 
that  of  late  he  is  looking  very  ill,  too.  They 
say  he  has  lost  his  si:)iiits  all  to  pieces,  and 
seldom  laughs — the  Lord  save  us  !  " 

"  They  say  ! — who  say,  Alice  ?  " 

"  AVliy,"  rejjlied  Alice,  with  a  perceptible 
heightening  of  her  color,  "  ahem  !  aJiem  ! 
why,  Dandy  Dulcimer,  miss." 

"  And  where  have  you  seen  him?  Dul- 
cimer, I  mean.  He,  I  sujipose,  who  used  oc- 
casionally to  play  upon  the  instrument  of  that 
name  in  the  Hall  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  the  same.  Don't  you  re- 
member how  beaiitiful  ho  played  it  the 
night  we  came  in  the  coach  to  to\\ai  ?  " 

"  I  remember  there  was  something  very 
unpleasant  between  liim  and  a  farmer,  I 
believe  ;  but  I  did  not  pay  much  attention 
to  it  at  the  time." 


TUE  BLACK  BARONET. 


549 


"  I  am  sorry  for  tLat,  miss,  for  I  declare  to 
goodness,  Daudy's  dulcimer  isn't  such  an 
unpleasant  instrument  as  you  think  ;  and, 
besitles,  he  has  got  a  new  one  the  other  day 
that  plays  lovely." 

Lucy  felt  a  good  deal  anxious  to  hear 
some  further  iu  formation  from  Alley  upon 
the  subject  she  had  introduced,  but  saw  that 
Dandy  and  his  dulcimer  were  likely  to  be 
substituted  for  it,  aU  unconscious  as  the  poor 
girl  was  of  the  preference  of  the  man  to  the 
master. 

"  He  looks  ill,  you  say,  Ahce  ?  " 

"  Never  seen  him  look  so  rosy  in  my  Ufe, 
miss,  nor  in  such  sj^irits." 

Lucy  looked  into  her  face,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment's space  one  shght  and  feeble  gleam, 
which  no  suffering  could  prevent,  j)assed 
over  it,  at  this  iiitimation  of  the  object  which 
Alley's  taucy  then  dwelt  w^ow. 

"  He  danced  a  hornpipe,  miss,  to  the  tune 
of  the  Swaggerin'  Jig,  upon  the  kitchen  tsv 
ble,"  she  proceeded  ;  "  and,  sorra  be  off  me, 
but  it  would  do  j'our  heart  good  to  see  the 
springs  he  would  give — every  one  o'  them  a 
yard  high — and  to  hear  how  he'd  crack  his 
fingers  as  loud  as  the  shot  of  a  pistol." 

A  shght  gloom  overclouded  Lucy's  face  ; 
but,  on  looking  at  the  artless  transition  from 
the  honest  sympathy  which  Allej'  had  just 
felt  for  her  to  a  sense  of  happiness  which  it 
was  almost  a  crime  to  disturb,  it  almost  in- 
stantly disajJiJeared. 

"I  must  not  be  angry  with  her,"  she  said 
to  herself ;  "  this  feeling,  after  all,  is  only 
natural,  and  such  as  God  in  his  goodness 
bestows  upon  evei'y  heart  as  the  gi-eatest  gift 
of  hfe,  when  not  abused.  I  cannot  be  dis- 
pleased at  the  ndivele  with  which  she  has 
foi'gotten  my  lover  for  her  own  ;  for  such  I 
perceive  this  person  she  speaks  of  evidently 
is." 

She  looked  once  more  at  her  maid,  whose 
eyes,  with  true  Celtic  feeling,  were  now 
dancing  with  delight,  whilst  j'et  red  with 
tears.  "  Alice,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  indul- 
gent reproof,  "who  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"  Why,  of  Dandy,  miss,''  replied  Alley; 
but  in  an  instant  the  force  of  the  reproof  as 
well  as  of  the  indulgence  was  felt,  and  sho 
acknowledged  her  error  by  a  blush. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  she  said; 
"  I'm  a  thoughtless  creature.  What  can  you 
care  about  what  I  was  sayin'  ?  But — hem — 
well,  about  liim — sure  enough,  poor  Dandy 
told  me  tliat  everytliing  is  going  vrrong  with 
dim.  He  doesn't,  as  I  said,  speak  or  smile 
as  he  used  to  do." 

"  Do  you  know,"  asked  her  mistress, 
"  whether  he  goes  out  much  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  miss,  I  think  ;  he  goes  some- 
times to  Lady  Gourlay's  and   to  Dean  Pal- 


mer's. But  do  you  know  what  I  heard,  missl 
I  hope  3'ou  won't  grow  jealous,  though  ?  '" 

Lucy  gave  a  faint  smile.  "  I  hope  not,  Alice. 
What  is  it  ?  "  But  here,  on  recollecting  again 
the  scene  she  had  just  closed  below  stairs, 
she  shuddered,  and  could  not  help  eschdm- 
ing,  "  Oh,  gracious  heaven  !  "  Then  sud- 
denly throwing  off,  as  it  were,  all  thought 
and  reflection  connected  with  it,  she  looked 
again  at  her  maid,  and  repeated  the  question, 
"  What  is  it,  Alice  ?  " 

"  Why,  miss,  have  you  ever  seen  Lord 
Dunroe's  sister  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  Ijondon  ;  but  she  was  only  a  girl, 
though  a  lovely  gii'l. " 

"Well,  miss,  do  you  know  what?  She's 
in  love  with  some  one. ' 

"Poor  girl!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  "I  trust 
the  coui'se  of  her  love  may  nin  smoother 
than  mine  ;  but  who  is  she  supposed  to  be 
in  love  with  ?  "  she  asked,  not,  however,  with- 
out a  blush,  which,  with  all  her  wtues,  was. 
as  woman,  out  of  her  power  to  supjjress. 

"  Oh,"  rephed  Alley,  "  not  with  him — and 
dear  knows  it  would  be  no  disgrace  to  her, 
but  the  contrary,  to  fall  in  love  vnth  such  a 
gentleman — no  ;  but  with  a  young  officer  of 
the  Thirty-third,  who  they  say  is  lovely." 

"  Wliat  is  his  name,  do  you  not  know, 
Ahce  ? " 

"  Roberts,  I  think.  They  met  at  Dean 
Pahuer's  and  Lady  Gourlay's  ;  for  it  seems 
that  Colonel  Dundas  was  an  old  brother  of- 
ficer of  Sir  Edwai'd's,  when  he  was  young 
and  in  the  army." 

"  I  have  met  that  young  officer,  Alice," 
rephed  Lucy,  "  and  I  know  not  how  it  was, 
but  I  felt  an — a — a — in  fact,  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it.  Those  who  were  j^resent  obsei-ved 
that  he  and  I  resembled  each  other  very 
much,  and  indeed  the  resemblance  struck 
myself  very  forcibly." 

"  Troth,  and  if  he  resembled  you,  miss, 
I'm  not  sui-jirised  that  Lady  Emily  fell  in 
love  with  him." 

"  But  how  did  you  come  to  hear  all  this, 
Alice  ■?  "  asked  Lucy  vdth  a  good  deal  of 
anxiety. 

"  Why,  miss,  there's  a  cousin  of  my  own 
maid  to  Mrs.  Palmer,  and  you  may  remem- 
ber the  evenin'  you  gave  me  lave  to  sj^eud 
with  her.  She  gave  a  party  on  the  same 
evenin'  and  Dandy  was  there.  I  think  I 
never  looked  better  ;  I  had  on  my  new  stays, 
and  my  hair  was  done  up  Grecian.  Any 
way,  I  wasn't  the  worst  of  them." 

"  I  am  fatigued,  Alice,"  said  Lucy  ; 
"  make  your  narrative  as  short  as  you  can." 

"I  haven't  much  to  add  to  it  now,  miss," 
she  replied.  "It  was  observed  that  Lady 
Emily's  eyes  and  his  were  never  off  one 
another.      She  refused,   it  seems,  to  dance 


550 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


with  some  major  that's  a  gi-eat  lord  in  the 
I'egiment,  and  danced  with  IVIr.  Roberts  af- 
terwards. He  brought  her  down  to  suj^per, 
too,  and  sat  beside  her,  and  you  know  what 
that  looks  like." 

Lucy  paused,  and  seemed  as  if  anxious 
about  something,  but  at  length  asked. 

"  Do  you  know,  Ahce,  was  he  there  ?  " 

"  No,  miss,"  repUed  the  maid  ;  "  Dandy 
tells  me  he  goes  to  no  great  j^arties  at  all, 
he  onlj-  dines  where  there's  a  few.  But,  in- 
deed, by  all  aceoimts  he's  very  unhappj'." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  all  accounts,"  ask- 
ed Lucy,  a  httle  startled. 

"  Whj',  Dandy,  miss  ;  so  he  teUs  me." 

"Poor  Ahce!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  looking 
benigTiautly  upon  her.  "I  did  not  think, 
Ahce,  that  any  conversation  could  have  for  a 
moment  won  me  from  the  paiufid  state  of 
mind  in  which  I  entered  the  room.  Aid  me 
me  now  to  my  bedchamber.  I  must  he 
down,  for  I  feel  that  I  should  endeavor  to  re- 
cruit my  strengih  some  way.  If  I  could 
sleep,  I  should  be  probablj'  the  better  for  it ; 
but,  alas,  Alice,  you  need  not  be  told  that 
misery  and  desj)air  are  wretched  bedfel- 
lows." 

"  Don't  say  despair,"  rephed  Ahce  ;  "  re- 
member there's  a  good  God  above  us,  who 
can  do  better  for  us  than  ever  we  can  for 
ourselves.  Ti-ust  in  him.  Who  knows  but 
he's  only  tr}-iug  you  ;  and  severely  tried  you 
are,  my  darhn'  mistress." 

Whilst  uttering  the  last  words,  the  affec- 
tionate creatiire's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
rose,  however,  and  having  assisted  Lucy  to 
her  sleeping-room,  helped  to  undress  her, 
then  fixed  her  with  tender  assiduity  in  her 
bed,  where,  in  a  few  minutes,  exhaustion  and 
anxiety  of  mind  were  for  the  time  forgotten, 
and  she  feU  asleej). 

The  penetration  of  servants,  in  tracmg, 
at  fashionable  parties,  the  emotions  of  love 
through  all  its  various  garbs  and  disguises, 
constitutes  a  principal  and  not  the  least  dis- 
agreeable portion  of  their  duty.  The  his- 
tory of  Lady  Emily's  attachment  to  Ensign 
Roberts,  though  a  profound  secret  to  the 
world,  in  the  opinion  of  the  parties  them- 
selves, and  only  hoj^ed  for  and  suspected  by 
each,  was  nevertheless  perfectly  well  known 
by  a  good  number  of  the  quality  below  stairs. 
The  circumstance,  at  all  events,  as  detailed 
by  Alley,  was  one  which  in  this  instance  jus- 
tified their  sagacity.  Roberts  and  she  had 
met,  precisely  as  Alley  said,  three  or  four 
times  at  Lady  Gourlay's  and  the  Dean's, 
where  then-  several  attractions  were,  in  fact, 
the  theme  of  some  oliservation.  Those  long, 
conscious  glances,  however,  which,  on  the 
suliject  of  love  are  such  traitors  to  the  heart, 
h^-  disclosing  its  most  secret  operations,  had 


sufficiently  well  told  them  the  state  of  eveiy- 
thing  within  that  mysterious  httle  garrison , 
and  the  natural  result  was  that  Lady  Emily 
seldom  thought  of  any  one  or  anything  but 
Ensign  Roberts  and  the  aforesaid  glances, 
nor  Sir-.  Roberts  of  anything  but  hers ;  for  it 
so  haj)pened,  that,  with  the  pecuhai-  over- 
sight in  so  many  things  by  which  the  passion 
is  characterized.  Lady  EmUy  forgot  that  she 
had  herself  been  glancing  at  the  ensign,  or 
she  could  never  have  obsei-ved  and  intei-jsret- 
ed  his  looks.  With  a  similar  neglect  of  his 
own  offences,  in  the  saine  way  must  we 
charge  Mi\  Roberts,  who  in  his  imagination 
saw  nothing  but  the  blushing  glances  of  this 
fair  2)atrician. 

Time  went  on,  however,  and  Lucy,  so  far 
from  recovei-ing,  was  nearly  one-half  of  the 
week  confined  to  her  bed,  or  her  apartment. 
Sometimes,  by  way  of  varying  the  scene,  and, 
if  possible,  enhvening  her  spirits,  she  had 
forced  herself  to  go  down  to  the  diawing- 
room,  and  occasionally  to  take  an  airing  in 
the  carriage.  A  fortnight  had  elapsed,  and 
yet  neither  Norton  nor  his  fellow-traveler  had 
returned  fi'om  France.  Neither  had  IVIr. 
Birney ;  and  our  friend  the  stranger  had 
failed  to  get  auj'  possible  intelligence  of  un- 
fortunate Fenton,  %\hom  he  now  believed  to 
have  perished,  either  by  foul  practices  or  the 
influence  of  some  intoxicating  debauch. 
Thanks  to  Dandy  Dulcimer,  however,  as 
well  as  to  Alley  Mahon,  he  was  not  without 
I  information  concerning  Lucy's  state  of  health; 
'  and,  unfortunately,  all  that  he  could  hear 
'  about  it  was  oulj-  calculated  to  dejH-ess  and 
I  distract  him. 

Dandy  came  to  him  one  moi-ning,  about 
this  period,  and  after  rubbing  his  head  shght- 
j  ly  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  said, 

"Bedad,  sii',  I  was  very  near  havin'  cotch 
the  right  ]\Irs.  Norton  yestherday — I  mane,  I 
thought  I  was." 
I       "  How  was  that  ?  "  asked  his  master. 

"Why,  sir,  I  heard  there  was  a  fine,  good- 
looking  widow  of  that  name.  h\in'  in  Meck- 
;  lenbiirgh  street,  where  she  keeps  a  dairj' ; 
and  sure  enough  there  I  found  her.    Do  you 
ixndherstand,  sir  ?  " 

"  WTiy  should  I  not,  sirra  ?  What  mystei-y 
is  there  in  it  that  I  should  not  ?  " 

"  Deuce  a  sich  a  blaze-r  of  a  widow  I  seen 
I  this  seven  years.      I  went  early  to  her  jilace, 
!  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  lumjj  of  a 
six-year-ould — a  son  of  hers — plaA-in'  the  Pan- 
dean pijDes  upon  a  whack  o'  bread  and  but- 
ther  that  he  had  aiten  at  the  toji  into  canes. 
j  Somehow,    although    I    can't    tell    exactly 
;  why,  I  tuck  a  fancy  to  become  acquainted 
j  with  her,  and  proposed,   if  she  liad  no  ob- 
I  jection,   to  t«ke  a  cuj)  o'  tay  v\-ith  her  yes- 
1  therday  evenin',  statin'  at  the  time  that  I  had 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


551 


some  thing  to  say  that  might  turn  out  to  her 
a  Ivautage." 

"  But  what  mysteiy  is  there  in  all  this  ?  " 
said  his  master.  j 

"  Mysthery,    sir — why,    where   was  there 
ever  a  widow  since  the  creation   of  Peter  i 
AVhite,  that  hadn't  more  or  less  of  mysthery  | 
labout  her  ?  "  I 

"  Well,  but  what  was  the  mystery  here  ?  " 
asked  the  other.     "  I  do  not  perceive  any,  so  , 
far." 

"Take  your  time,  sir,"  replied  Dandy; 
"  it's  comiii'.  The  young  performer  on  the 
Pandeans  that  I  tould  you  of  wasn't  more 
than  five  or  six  at  the  most,  but  a  woman 
over  the  way,  that  I  made  inquiries  of, 
tould  me  the  length  o'  time  the  husband  was 
deatl.  Do  you  imdherstand  the  mysthery 
now,  sir  ?  " 

"Go  on,"  replied  the  other  ;  "I  am  amus- 
ed by  you  ;  but  I  don't  see  the  mysterj-,  not- 
withstanding.    What  Wc^s  the  result  ■? "  ! 

"I  teU  you   the   truth — she   was  a  fine, 
comely,  Jiaghoold  woman  ;  and  as  I  heard  she 
had  the  shiners,  I  began  to  think  I  might  do  | 
worse."  i 

"  I  thought  the  girl  called  Alley  Mahon 
was  your  favorite  ?  " 

"  So  she  is,  sir — that  is,  she's  one  o'  them  : 
but,  talkin'  o'  favorites,  I  am  seldom  vrithout  j 
half-a-dozen."  [ 

"Very  liberal,  indeed.  Dandy  ;  but  I  wish  \ 
to  hear  the  upshot." 

"  Why,  sir,  we  had  a  cup  o'  tay  together 
yestherday  evenin',  and,  between  you  and 
me,  I  began,  as  it  might  be.  to  get  fond  of 
her.  She's  very  pretty,  sii- ;  but  I  must  say, 
that  the  man  who  marries  her  mU  get  a 
mouth,  plaise  goodness,  that  he  must  kiss  by 
instalments.  Faith,  if  it  could  be  called  pro- 
perty, he  might  boast  that  his  is  extensive  ; 
and  divil  a  mistake  in  it." 

"  She  has  a  large  mouth,  then  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  soul,  sir,  if  you  stood  at  the 
one  side  of  it  you'd  require  a  smart  telescope 
to  see  to  the  other.  No  man  at  one  attempt 
could  ever  kiss  her.  I  began,  sir,  at  the  left 
side — that's  always  the  right  side  to  kiss  at 
and  went  on  successfully  enough  tiU  I  got 
half  way  through  ;  but  you  see,  sir,  the  even-  I 
iu's  is  but  short  yet,  and  as  I  had  no  time  to 
finish,  I'm  to  go  back  this  evenin'  to  get  to  \ 
the  other  side.  i 

"  Still  I'm  at  a  loss.  Dandy,"  replied  his 
master,  not  knowing  whether  to  smile  or  get 
aagi-y  ;  "  finish  it  without  goiug  about  in  this 
manner." 

"  Faith,  sir,  and  that's  more  than  I  could 
do  in  kissing  the  willow.  Di^^l  such  a  cir- 
cumbendibus ever  a  man  had  as  I  had  in  get- 
tin'  as  far  as  the  nose,  where  I  had  to  give  up 
uutil  this  evenin'  as  I  said.  Now,  sir.  whether 


to  consider  that  an  advantage  or  disadvan- 
tage is  another  mysthery  to  me.  There's 
some  women,  and  they  have  such  a  small, 
rosy,  Uttle  mouth,  that  a  man  must  gather 
up  his  lips  into  a  bii-d's  biU  to  kiss  them. 
Now,  there's  Jliss  Gour " 

A  look  of  fury  from  his  master  divided  the 
word  in  his  mouth,  and  he  j^aused  from  ter- 
ror. Eis  master  became  more  composed, 
however,  and  said,  "  To  what  purpose  have 
you  told  me  all  this  ?  " 

"  Gad,  sir  to  teU  you  the  truth,  I  saw  you 
were  low-spirited,  and  wanted  something  to 
rouse  you.     It's  tiiith  for  aU  that." 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Norton,  however,  the  woman 
whom  we  are  seeking  '? " 

"Well,  weU,"  exclaimed  Dandy,  casting 
down  his  hand,  with  vexatious  vehemence, 
against  the  open  air  ;  "  by  the  piper  o'  Moses, 
I'm  the  stupidest  man  that  ever  jjeeled  a 
phatie.  Troth,  I  was  so  engaged,  sir,  that 
I  forgot  it ;  but  I'U  remember  it  to-night, 
jjlaise  goodness." 

"  Ah,  Dandy,"  exclaimed  his  master,  smil- 
ing, "  I  fear  you  are  a  faithless  swain.  I 
thouiiht  Alley  Mahon  was  at  least  the  first  on 
the  list." 

"Troth,  sir,"  replied  Dandy,  "I  believe 
she  is,  too.  Poor  Alley  !  By  the  way,  sir.  I 
beg  your  jjardou,  but  I  have  news  for  you 
that  I  fear  ynQ.  give  you  a  heavy  heart." 

"  How, "  exclaimed  his  master,  "  how — ■ 
what  is  it?     Tell  me  instantly." 

"  Miss  Gourlay  is  iU,  sir.  She  was  goin' 
to  be  married  to  this  lord  ;  her  father.  I  be- 
lieve, had  the  day  appointed,  and  she  had 
given  her  consent." 

His  master  seized  him  by  the  collar  with 
both  hands,  and  peering  into  his  eyes,  whilst 
his  own  blazed  with  actual  fire,  he  held  him 
for  a  moment  as  if  in  a  vise,  exclaiming, 
"  Her  consent,  you  vUlaiu  !  "  But,  as  if  rec- 
ollecting himself,  he  suddenly  let  him  go, 
and  said,  calmly,  "  Go  on  ^^ith  what  you  were 
about  to  say." 

"I  have  very  little  more  to  say.  sir,"  re- 
plied Dandy  ;  "  herself  and  Lord  Dunroe  is 
only  waitm'  tiU  she  gets  well  and  then  they're 
to  be  married  ?  " 

"You  said  she  gave  her  consent,  did  you 
not !  " 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  sir,  and  that,  I  believe, 
is  what's  breakin'  her  heart.  However,  its 
not  my  alfair  to  direct  any  one  ;  still,  if  I  was 
in  somebody's  shoes,  I  know  the  tune  I'd 
sing." 

"  And  what  tune  would  you  sing?"  asked 
his  master. 

Dandy  sung  the  following  stave,  and,  ns 
he  did  it,  he  thi-ew  his  comic  eye  upon  liis 
master  vrith  such  humorous  significance  that 
the  latter,  although  wi'apped  in  deep  refiec- 


552 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiKS. 


tion  at  the  moment,  on  suddenly  observing 
it,  could  not  avoid  smiling  : 


"  Will  Tou  list,  and  come  with  me,  fair  maid  ? 
Will  you  list,  and  come  with  me,  fair  maid  Y 
AVill  you  list,  and  come  with  me,  fair  maid  ? 
And  folly  the  lad  with  the  white  cockade  ?  " 

"  If  you  haven't  a  good  voice,  sir,  j'ou 
could  whisper  the  words  into  her  ear,  and 
as  you're  so  near  the  mouth — hem — a  word 
to  the  wise — then  point  to  the  chaise  that 
you'll  have  standin'  outside,  and  my  life  for 
you,  there's  an  end  to  the  fees  o'  the 
•locther." 

His  master,  who  had  relapsed  into  thought 
beforfe  he  concluded  his  advice,  looked  at  him 
^vithout  seemiug  to  have  heard  it.  He  then 
trr.versed  the  room  several  times,  his  chin 
supported  by  his  finger  and  thumb,  after 
which  he  seemed  to  have  formed  a  resolution. 

"  Go,  sir,"  said  he,  "  and  put  that  letter  to 
Father  M'Mahou  in  the  post-office.  I  shall 
not  want  you  for  some  time." 

""Will  I  ordher  a  chaise,  sir?"  replied 
Dandy,  with  a  serio-comic  face. 

One  look  from  his  master,  however,  sent 
him  about  his  business  ;  but  the  latter  could 
lieai-  him  lilting  the  "  White  Cockade,"  as  he 
went  down  stairs. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  when  Dandy  was  gone, 
•'  can  it  be  possible  that  she  has  at  length 
given  her  consent  to  this  marriage  ?  Never 
voluntarily.  It  has  been  extorted  bj-  foul 
deceit  and  threatening,  by  some  base  fraud 
I^ractised  upon  her  generous  and  unsuspect- 
ing nature.  I  am  culpable  to  stand  tamelj^ 
by  and  allow  this  great  and  glorious  creature 
to  be  sacrificed  to  a  bad  ambition,  and  a 
■worse  man,  without  coming  to  the  rescue. 
But,  in  the  meantime,  is  this  information 
true  ?  Alas,  I  fear  it  is  ;  for  I  know  the  un- 
scrupulous spirit  the  dear  girl  has,  alone  and 
unassisted,  to  contend  with.  Yet  if  it  be 
true,  oh,  why  should  she  not  have  written  to 
me  ?  Wlij'  not  have  enabled  me  to  come  to 
her  defence  ?  I  know  not  what  to  think.  At 
all  events,  I  shall,  as  a  last  resource,  call  ujj- 
ou  her  father.  I  sh;ill  explain  to  him  the 
risk  he  runs  in  marrying  his  daughter  to  this 
man  who  is  at  once  a  fool  and  a  scoundi'el. 
But  how  can  I  do  so  ?  Birney  has  not  yet 
returned  from  France,  and  I  have  no  jjroofs 
on  which  to  rest  such  serious  allegations  ; 
nothing  at  present  but  bare  assertions,  which 
her  father,  in  the  heat  and  fury  of  his  ambi- 
tion, might  not  only  disbelieve,  but  misin- 
terpret. Be  it  so  ;  I  shall  at  least  warn  him, 
take  it  as  lie  wiU  ;  and  if  all  else  should  fail, 
I  wiU  disclose  to  liim  my  name  and  family, 
in  order  tliat  he  may  know,  at  all  events, 
that  I  am  no  imjjostor.     My  present  remon- 


strance may  so  fai-  alarm  him  as  to  cause  the 
persecution  against  Lucy  to  be  suspended  for 
a  time,  and  on  Bu'ney's  return,  we  shall,  I 
tmst,  be  able  to  sijeak  more  emphatically." 

He  accordingly  sent  for  a  chaise,  into 
which  he  stejjped  and  ordered  the  driver  (o 
leave  him  at  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  and  to 
wait  there  for  him. 

Lord  Dunroe  was  at  this  period  perfectly 
well  aware  that  Birney's  visit  to  France  was 
occasioned  by  purijoses  that  boded  nothing 
favorable  to  liis  interests  ;  and  were  it  not 
for  Lucy's  illness,  there  is  httle  doubt  that 
the  marriage  would,  ere  now,  have  taken 
place.  A  fortnight  had  elapsed,  and  every 
day  so  completely  fiUed  him  with  alarm,  that 
he  proposed  to  Sir  Thomas  Gourlaj'  the  ex- 
pediency of  getting  the  license  at  once,  and 
having  the  ceremony  performed  privately  in 
her  father's  house.  To  this  the  father  would 
have  assented,  were  it  not  that  he  had  taken 
it  into  his  head  that  Lucy  was  rallying,  and 
would  soon  be  in  a  condition  to  go  through 
it,  in  the  parish  church,  at  least.  A  few  days, 
he  hojjed,  would  enable  her  to  bear  it ;  but 
if  not,  he  was  willing  to  make  every  conces- 
sion to  his  lordship's  wishes.  Her  delicate 
health,  he  said,  would  be  a  sufficient  justifica- 
tion. At  all  events,  both  agreed  that  there 
could  be  no  harm  in  having  the  hcense  pro- 
vided :  and,  accordingly,  upon  the  morning 
of  the  stranger's  visit.  Sir  Thomas  and  Lord 
Dunroe  had  just  left  the  house  of  the  former 
for  the  Ecclesiastical  Court,  hi  Henrietta 
street,  a  few  minutes  before  his  ai-rival.  Sir 
Thomas  was  mistaken,  however,  in  imagining 
that  his  daughter's  health  was  imjn-oving. 
The  doctor,  indeed,  had  ordered  carriage  ex- 
ercise essentially  necessary  ;  and  Lucy  being 
none  of  those  weak  and  foolish  girls,  who 
sink  under  illness  and  calamitj'  by  an  apa- 
thetic neglect  of  theii'  health,  or  a  criminal 
indifference  to  the  means  of  guarding  and 
prolonging  the  existence  into  which  God  has 
called  them,  left  nothing  undone  on  her  part 
to  second  the  efforts  of  the  physician.  Ac- 
cordingly, whenever  she  was  able  to  be  up, 
or  the  weather  permitted  it,  she  sat  in  the 
carriage  for  an  hour  or  two  as  it  di'ove  thi'ough 
some  of  the  beautiful  subiu'bau  scenery  by 
which  our  city  is  suiTOUuded. 

The  stranger,  on  the  door  being  opened, 
was  told  by  a  servant,  through  mistake,  that 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  was  mthin.  The  man 
then  showed  him  to  the  dl•a\^■ing-room, 
where  he  s.aid  there  was  none  but  Miss 
Goiu'lay,  he  beheved,  who  was  waitmg  for 
the  carriage  to  take  her  airing. 

On  hearing  this  piece  of  intelligence  the 
stranger's  heart  began  to  palpitate,  and  his 
whole  system,  physical  and  spiritual,  was 
disturbed    by   a   general    commotion    that 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


553 


amounted  to  pain,  and  almost  banished  his 
presence  of  mind  for  the  moment.  He 
tapped  at  the  drawing-room  door,  and  a 
low,  melancholy  voice,  that  penetrated  his 
heart,  said,  "Come  in."  He  entered,  and 
there  on  a  sofa  sat  Lucy  before  him.  He 
did  not  bow — his  heart  was  too  deeply  in- 
terested in  her  fate  to  remember  the  formal- 
ities of  ceremony — but  he  stood,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  her  with  a  long  and  anxious 
gaze.  There  she  sat ;  but,  oh  !  how  much 
changed  in  ajjpearance  from  what  he  had 
known  her  on  every  previous  interview. 
Not  that  the  change,  whilst  it  spoke  of  sor- 
row and  suffering,  was  one  which  dimin- 
ished her  beauty  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  had 
onl}'  changed  its  character  to  something 
far  more  touching  and  imjiressive  than  health 
itself  with  all  its  blooming  hues  could  have 
bestowed.  Her  features  w'ere  certainly  thin- 
ner, but  there  was  visible  in  them  a  serene 
but- mournfid  spirit — a  voluptuous  languor, 
heightened  and  sjjmtualized  by  j)imty  and  in- 
tellect into  an  expression  that  realized  our 
notions  rather  of  angelic  beauty  than  of  the 
loveliness  of  mere  woman.  To  all  this,  sor- 
row had  added  a  dignitj'  so  fuU  of  melan- 
choly and  commanding  grace — a  seriousness 
indicative  of  such  truth  and  honor — as  to 
make  the  heart  of  the  spectator  wonder,  and 
the  eye  almost  to  weep  on  witnessing  an 
association  so  strange  and  incomijreheusible, 
as  that  of  such  beauty  and  evident  goodness 
with  svifferings  that  seem  rather  like  crimes 
agauist  jjurity  and  innocence,  and  almost 
tempt  the  weak  heart  to  revolt  against  the 
disjjensatious  of  Providence. 

AVlieu  their  eyes  rested  on  each  other,  is 
it  necessary'  to  say  that  the  melancholy  po- 
sition of  Lucy  was  soon  read  in  those  large 
orbs  that  seemed  about  to  dissolve  into 
teiU's  ?  The  shock  of  the  stranger's  sudden 
and  unexpected  appearance,  when  taken  in 
connection  with  the  loss  of  him  forever,  and 
the  sacrifiee  of  her  love  and  happiness, 
which,  to  save  her  father's  life,  she  had  so 
heroically  and  nobly  made,  was  so  strong, 
she  felt  unable  to  rise.  He  approached  her, 
struck  deeialy  by  the  dignified  entreaty  for 
sympathy  and  pardon  that  was  in  her  looks. 

'■  I  am  not  well  able  to  rise,  dear  Charles," 
she  said,  breaking  the  short  silence  which 
had  occurred,  and  extending  her  hand  ; 
"and  I  supi^ose  you  have  come  to  reproach 
me.  As  for  me,  I  have  nothing  to  ask  you 
for  now — nothing  to  hope  for  but  pardon, 
and  that  you  will  forget  me  henceforth. 
Wni  you  be  noble  enough  to  forgive  her  who 
was  once  your  Lucy,  but  who  can  never  be 
so  more  ?  " 

The  dreadful  solemnity,  together  witli  the 
pathetic   spirit   of   tenderness   and   despair 


that  breathed  in  these  words,  caused  a  pulsa- 
tion in  his  heart  and  a  sense  of  suffocation 
about  his  tlu'oat  that  for  the  moment  pre- 
vented him  fi'om  speaking.  He  seized  her 
hand,  which  was  placed  passively  in  his,  and 
as  lie  put  it  to  his  lips,  Lucy  felt  a  warm 
tear  or  two  faU.  upon  it.  At  length  he 
spoke : 

"  Oh,  why  is  this,  Lucy?"  he  said  ;  "your 
api^eai'ance  has  unmanned  me  ;  but  I  see  it 
and  feel  it  all.  I  have  been  sacrificed  to 
ambition,  yet  I  blame  you  not." 

"No,  dear  Charles,"  she  rejjhed  ;  "look 
ujjon  me  and  then  ask  yourself  who  is  the 
victim." 

"  But  what  has  happened  ? "  he  asked  ; 
"  w'hat  machinery  of  hell  has  been  at  work 
to  reduce  you  to  this  ?  Fraud,  deceit,  trea- 
chery have  done  it.  But,  for  the  sake  of 
God,  let  me  know,  as  I  said,  what  has  oc- 
curred since  oui-  last  interview  to  occasion 
this  deplorable  change — this  rooted  sorrow 
— this  awful  sjiuit  of  desjjair  that  I  read  in 
your  face  ?  " 

"  Not  despair,  Charles,  for  I  will  never 
yield  to  that  ;  but  it  is  enough  to  say,  that 
a  barrier  deej)  as  the  grave,  and  which  only 
that  can  remove,  is  between  us  forever  in 
this  life." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  you  never 
can  be  mine  ?  " 

"  That,  alas,  is  what  I  mean  to  say — what 
I  must  say." 

"  But  why,  Lucy — why,  dearest  Lucy — 
for  stUl  I  must  call  you  so  ;  what  has  occa- 
sioned this?    I  cannot  understand  it." 

She  then  related  to  him,  briefly,  but  feel- 
ingly, the  solemn  i^romise,  which.  %%  our 
readers  are  aware  of,  she  had  given  her 
father,  and  under  what  circumstances  she 
had  given  it,  together  with  his  determina- 
tion, unchanged  and  irrevocable,  to  force 
her  to  its  fulfilment.  Having  heard  it  he 
paused  for  some  time,  whLl!?.t  Lucy's  eyes 
were  fixed  uj^on  him,  as  if  she  expected  a 
vei'dict  of  Hfe  or  death  fi-om  his  lips. 

"Alas,  my  dear  Lucy,"  he  said;  "noble 
girl !  how  can  I  quarrel  with  your  virtues? 
You  did  it  to  save  a  father's  life,  and  have 
left  me  nothing  to  reproach  you  with  ;  but 
in  increasing  my  admu'ation  of  you,  my 
heart  is  doubly  struck  with  anguish  at  the 
thought  that  I  must  lose  you." 

"All,  yes,"  she  replied;  "but  you  must 
take  comfort  from  the  difference  in  our  fates. 
You  merely  have  to  endure  the  jsain  of  loss  ; 
but  I — oh,  dear  Charles — what  have  /  to  en- 
counter ?  You  are  not  forced  into  a  man-iage 
with  one  who  possesses  not  a  single  senti- 
ment or  principle  of  virtue  or  honor  in  com- 
mon with  yourself.  No  ;  you  are  mei-ely 
deprived  of  a  woman  whom  you  love  ;  but 


554 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


you  are  not  forced  into  marriage  with  a 
woman,  abandoned  and  unprincipled,  whom 
you  hate.  Yes,-  Charles,  you  must  take 
comfort,  as  I  said,  from  the  diii'erence  of  our 
fates." 

"  AVhat,  Lucy !  do  you  mean  to  say  I  can 
take  comfort  fiom  your  misery?  Am  I  so 
seMsh  or  vmgenerous  as  to  thank  God  that 
you,  whose  happiness  I  prefer  a  thousand 
times  to  my  own,  are  more  miserable  than  I 
am  ?     I  thought  you  knew  me  better." 

"  Alas,  Charles,"  she  replied,  "  have  com- 
passion on  me.  The  expression  of  these 
generous  sentiments  almost  kills  me.  As- 
sume some  moral  error — some  semblance  of 
the  least  odious  vice — some  startling  blemish 
of  character — some  wealcness  that  may  en- 
able me  to  feel  that  in  losing  you  I  have  not 
so  much  to  lose  as  I  thought ;  something 
that  may  make  the  contrast  between  the 
wretch  to  whom  I  am  devoted  and  yourself 
less  repulsive." 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Lucy,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  melancholy  smUe,  "  that  I  have 
my  errors,  my  weaknesses,  my  frailties,  if  that 
will  comfort  you  ;  so  many,  indeed,  that  my 
greatest  virtue,  and  that  of  which  I  am  most 
proud,  is  my  love  for  you." 

"  Ah,  Charles,  you  reason  badly,"  she  re- 
plied, "for  you  prove  yourself  to  be  capable 
of  that  noble  affection  which  never  yet  ex- 
isted in  a  vicious  heart.  As  for  me,  I  know 
not  on  what  hand  to  turn.  It  is  said  that 
when  a  person  hanging  by  some  weak  branch 
from  the  brow  of  a  precipice  finds  it  begin- 
ning to  give  way,  and  that  the  j^lunge  below 
is  unavoidable,  a  certain  courage,  gained 
from  despair,  not  only  diminishes  the  terror 
of  the  fall,  but  relieves  the  heart  by  a  bold 
and  terrible  feeling  that  for  the  moment 
banishes  fear,  and  reconciles  him  to  his 
fate." 

"It  is  a  dreadful  analogy,  my  dear  Lucy  ; 
but  you  must  take  comfort.  Who  knows 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth  ?  You  are  not 
yet  hanging  upon  the  precij)ice  of  life." 

"  I  feel  that  I  am,  Charles  ;  and  what  is 
more,  I  see  the  depth  to  w^iich  I  must  be 
precipitated  ;  but,  aLis,  I  possess  none  of  that 
fearful  courage  that  is  said  to  reconcile  one 
to  the  fcdl." 

"Lucy,"  he  replied,  "into  this  gulf  of 
destruction  you  shall  never  fall.  Behave  me, 
there  is  an  invisible  hand  that  will  support 
you  when  you  least  expect  it ;  a  power  that 
shapes  our  purposes,  roughhew  them  as  we 
will.  I  came  to  request  an  inter^n'ew  with 
your  father  upon  this  very  subject.  Have 
courage,  dearest  girl ;  friends  are  at  work 
who  I  trust  will  ere  long  be  enabled  to  place 
documents  in  his  hands  that  w'ill  soon  change 
his  purposes.  I  grant  tliat  it  is  possible  these 


documents  may  fail,  or  may  not  be  procured  ; 
and  in  that  case  I  know  not  how  we  are  to 
act.  I  mention  the  probability  of  failure  lest 
a  futiu'e  disappointment  occasion  such  a 
shock  as  in  your  present  state  you  may  be 
incapable  of  sustaining  ;  but  still  have  hope, 
for  the  probabihty  is  in  our  favor." 

She  shook  her  head  incredulously,  and  re- 
plied, "  You  do  not  know  the  inflexible  de- 
termination of  my  father  on  this  point ; 
neither  can  I  conceive  what  documents  you 
could  place  before  him  that  would  change  his 
purpose." 

"  I  do  not  conceive  that  I  am  at  liberty 
even  to  you,  Lucy,  to  mention  circumstances 
that  may  cast  a  stain  ujion  high  integrity  and 
spotless  innocence,  so  long  as  it  is  possible 
the  proofs  I  speak  of  may  fail.  In  the  latter 
case,  so  far  at  least  as  the  world  is  concerned, 
justice  would  degenerate  into  scandal,  whilst 
great  e^dl  and  little  good  must  be  the  con- 
sequence. I  think  I  am  bound  in  honor  not 
to  i)lace  old  age,  venerable  and  virtuous,  on 
the  one  hand,  and  unsuspecting  innocence 
on  the  other,  in  a  contingency  that  may 
cause  them  irreparable  injury.  I  will  now 
say,  that  if  your  happiness  were  not  invol- 
ved in  the  success  or  failure  of  our  jsroceed- 
ings,  I  should  have  ceased  to  be  a  party  in 
the  steps  we  are  taking  until  the  grave  had 
closed  ufion  one  individual  at  least,  while 
imcouscious  of  the  shame  that  was  to  fall 
upon  his  family." 

Lucy  looked  iipon  him  with  a  feeling  of 
admiration  which  could  not  be  misunder- 
stood. "  Dear  Charles,"  she  exclaimed ; 
"  ever  honorable  —  ever  generous  —  ever 
considerate  and  unselfish  ;  I  do  not  of  com-se 
understand  your  allusions  ;  but  I  am  confi- 
dent that  whatever  you  do  will  be  done  in  a 
spirit  worthy  of  yourself." 

The  look  of  admiration,  and  why  should 
we  not  add  love,  which  Lucy  had  bestowed 
upon  him  was  observed  and  felt  deeply. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  seizing  her  hand  again, 
he  whispered,  in  that  low  and  tender  voice 
which  breathes  the  softest  and  most  conta- 
gious emotion  of  the  heart,  "  Alas,  Lucy, 
you  could  not  even  dream  how  inexpressi- 
bly dear  you  are  to  me.  Without  you,  life 
to  me  will  possess  no  blessing.  All  that  I 
ever  conceived  of  its  purest  and  most  exalt- 
ed enjoyments  were  centred  m  you,  and  in 
that  sweet  communion  which  I  thought  we 
were  destined  to  hold  together  ;  but  now, 
now — oh,  my  God,  what  a  blank  wiU  my 
whole  future  existence  be  without  you  !  " 

"  Charles — Charles,"  she  reiilied,  but  at 
the  same  time  her  eyes  were  swimming  in 
tears,  "  spare  me  this  ;  do  not  overload  my 
heart  Avith  such  an  excess  of  sorrow  •  have 
comjjassion    on  me,  for   I   am   already  too 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


555 


sensible  of  my  ovni  miseiy — too  sensible  of 
the  happiness  I  have  lost.  I  am  here  isolated 
and  alone,  with  no  kind  voice  to  whisper  one 
word  of  consolation  to  my  unhappy  heart, 
my  poor  maid  only  excepted  ;  and  I  am  often 
forced,  in  order  to  escape  the  jsain  of  pres- 
ent reflections,  to  make  a  melancholy  strug- 
gle once  more  to  entrance  myself  in  the  in- 
nocent di-eams  of  my  early  life.  Yes,  and  I 
wiU  confess  it,  to  call  back  if  I  can  those 
visions  that  gave  the  delicious  hues  of  hope 
and  happiness  to  the  love  which  bound  your 
heai't  and  mine  together.  The  illusion, 
however,  is  too  feeble  to  struggle  success- 
fully with  the  abiding  consciousness  of  my 
wretchedness,  and  I  awake  to  a  bitterness  of 
anguish  that  is  drinking  uj)  the  fountains  of 
my  life,  out  of  which  hfe  I  feel,  if  this  state 
continues,  I  shall  soon  pass  away." 

On  concluding,  she  wiped  away  the  tears 
that  were  fast  falling  ;  and  her  lover  was  so 
deeply  moved  that  he  could  scarcely  restrain 
his  own. 

"There  is  one  word,  dearest  Lucy,"  here- 
l^lied,  "  but  though  short  it  is  full  of  com- 
fort— hope." 

"  Alas  !  Charles,  I  feel  that  it  has  been 
blotted  out  of  the  destiny  of  my  life.  I  look 
for  it ;  I  search  for  it,  but  m  vain.  In  this 
life  I  cannot  find  it  ;  I  say  in  this,  because  it 
is  now,  when  all  about  me  is  darkness,  and 
pain,  and  suftering,  that  I  feel  the  consola- 
tion which  arises  from  our  trust  in  another. 
This  consolation,  however,  though  true,  is 
sad,  and  the  very  joy  it  gives  is  melancholy, 
because  it  arises  fi'om  that  mysterious  change 
which  withdraws  us  fi-om  existence ;  and 
when  it  leads  us  to  happiness  we  cannot  for- 
get that  it  is  throixgh  the  gate  of  the  grave. 
But  still  it  is  a  consolation,  and  a  gi-eat  one 
— to  a  sufferer  hke  me,  the  only  one — we 
must  all  die." 

Like  a  strain  of  soft  but  solemn  music, 
these  mournful  words  proceeded  fi-om  her 
Ups,  fi'om  which  they  seemed  to  catch  the 
touching  sweetness  which  characterized 
them. 

"I  ought  not  to  shed  these  tears,"  she 
added  ;  "  nor  ought  you,  dear  Charles,  to  feel 
so  deeply  what  I  say  as  I  perceive  you  do  ; 
but  I  know  not  how  it  is,  I  am  impressed 
with  a  piresentiment  that  this  is  j'l'obably 
ou?  last  meeting ;  and  I  confess  that  I  am 
fined  with  a  mournful  satisfaction  in  speak- 
ing to  you — in  looking  uijon  you — yes,  I 
confess  it  ;  and  I  feel  all  the  springs  of  ten- 
derness opened,  as  it  were,  in  my  unhaj)py 
heart.  In  a  short  time," — she  added,  and 
here  slie  almost  sobbed,  "  it  mU  lie  a  crime 
to  think  of  you — to  allow  my  very  imagina- 
tion to  turn  to  your  image  ;  and  I  sliall  be 
called  upon   to  banish  that  image  forever 


I  from  my  heart,  which  I  must  strive  to  do, 
for  to  cherish  it  there  will  be  wi'ong  ;  but 
I  shall  struggle,  for " — she  added,  proudly 
\  — "  whatever  my  dutj'  may  be,  I  shall  leave 
j  nothing  undone  to  presei-ve  my  conscience 
fi'ee  from  its  own  reproaches." 

"  Take  comfort,  Lucy,"  he  replied  ;  "  this 
will  not — shall  not  be  our  last  meeting.  It 
is  utterly  impossible  that  such  a  creature  as 
you  are  should  be  doomed  to  a  fate  so 
wretched.  Do  not  allow  them  to  hiuxy  you 
into  this  odious  marriage.  Gain  time,  and 
we  shall  yet  triumjih." 

"Yes,  Charles,"  she  replied;  "but,  then, 
misery  often  grows  apathetic,  and  the  will, 
wearied  down  and  weakened,  loses  the  power 
of  resistance.  I  have  more  than  once  felt 
attacks  of  this  kind,  and  I  know  that  if  then 
should  observe  it,  I  am  lost.  Oh,  how  little 
is  the  love  of  woman  understood  !  And  how 
httle  of  hfe  is  known  excejjt  through  those 
false  apjiearances  that  are  certain  to  deceive 
all  who  look  ujjon  them  as  reahties  !  Here 
am  I,  surrounded  by  every  lusuiy  that  this 
world  can  present,  and  how  many  thousands 
imagine  me  hapj^y !  What  is  there  within 
the  range  of  fashion  and  the  compass  of 
wealth  that  I  cannot  command  ?  and  yet 
amidst  all  this  dazzle  of  gi-andeur  I  am  more 
wretched  than  the  beggar  whom  a  morsel  of 
food  will  make  contented." 

"Resist  this  marriage,  Lucy,  for  a  time, 
that  is  all  I  ask,"  repUed  her  lover  ;  "  be 
firm,  and,  above  aU  things,  hope.  You  may 
ere  long  understand  the  force  and  meaning 
of  my  woi'ds.  At  present  you  cannot,  nor 
is  it  in  my  power,  with  honor,  to  speak  more 
plainly." 

"My  father,  replied  this  high-minded 
and  sensitive  creature,  "said  some  time  ago, 
'Is  not  ?»// daughter  a  woman  of  honor?' 
Yes,  Charles,  I  ')niis<l  be  a  woman  of  honor. 
But  it  is  time  you  should  go  ;  only  before 
you  do,  hear  me.  Henceforth  we  have  each 
of  us  one  gi-eat  mutual  task  imposed  upon  us 
— a  task  the  fulfilment  of  which  is  dictated 
alike  by  honor,  virtue,  and  religion." 

"Alas,  Lucy,  what  is  that  ?" 

"To  forget  each  other.  From  the  mo- 
ment I  become,"  she  sobbed  aloud — "you 
know,"  she  added,  "what  I  would  say,  but 
what  I  cannot — from  that  moment  memoiy 
becomes  a  crime." 

"  But  an  involuntary  crime,  my  ever  dear 
Lucy.  As  for  my  part,"  he  replied,  vehe- 
mently, and  with  something  akin  to  distrac- 
tion, "  I  feel  that  is  imjDossible,  and  that 
even  were  it  possible,  I  would  no  more  at- 
tempt to  banish  your  image  from  n>y  heart 
than  I  would  to  deliberately  stiU  its  pulses. 
Never,  never — such  an  attempt,  such  an  act, 
if  successful,  would  be  a  murder  of  the  affec- 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WOEKS. 


tions.  No,  Lucy,  whilst  one  spark  of  mor- 
tal life  is  alive  iu  my  body,  whilst  memory 
can  remember  the  (.li'eams  of  only  the  pre- 
ceding moment,  whilst  a  single  faculty  of 
he£irt  or  intellect  remains  bj'  which  your 
image  can  be  preserved,  I  shall  cling  to 
that  image  as  the  shipwrecked  sailor  would 
to  the  plank  that  bears  him  through  the 
midnight  storm — as  a  despairing  soul  would 
to  the  only  good  act  of  a  wicked  life  that  he 
could  plead  for  his  salvation." 

Wliiist  he  spoke,  Lucy  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  noble  featui'es,  now  wrought  up 
into  au  earnest  but  melancholy  animation, 
and  when  he  had  concluded,  she  exclaimed, 
"And  this  is  the  man  of  whose  love  they 
would  deprive  me,  whose  very  acknowledg- 
ment of  it  comes  upon  my  spu'it  like  au  an- 
them of  the  heart ;  and  I  know  not  -what  I 
have  done  to  be  so  tried  ;  j'et,  as  it  is  the 
will  of  God,  I  receive  it  for  the  best.  •  Dear 
Chai'les,  you  must  go  ;  but  you  spoke  of  re- 
monstrating with  my  father.  Do  not  so  ;  an 
interview  would  only  aggravate  him.  And 
as  you  admit  that  certain  documents  are 
wanted  to  produce  a  change  in  his  oj)inious, 
you  may  see  clearly  that  vmtil  you  produce 
them  an  expostulation  would  be  worse  than 
useless.  On  the  contrary,  it  might  precipi- 
tate matters  and  ruin  aU.     Now  go." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  replied,  "as 
you  alwaj's  are  ;  how  can  I  go  ?  How  can  I 
tear  mj'seH  from  you?  Dearest,  dearest 
Lucy,  what  a  love  is  mine  !  But  that  is  not 
surprising — who  could  love  you  with  an  or- 
dinary passion  ?  " 

Apprehensive  that  her  father  might  re- 
tiu'n,  she  rose  up,  but  so  completely  had  she 
been  exhausted  by  the  excitement  of  this  in- 
ter\'iew  that  he  was  obUged  to  assist  her. 

"  I  hear  the  carriage,"  said  she  ;  "  it  is  at 
the  door  :  will  you  ring  for  my  maid  ?  And 
now,  Charles,  as  it  is  possible  that  we  must 
meet  no  more,  say,  before  you  go,  that  you 
forgive  me." 

"  There  is  everything  in  your  conduct  to 
be  admired  and  loved,  my  dearest  Lucy  ; 
but  nothing  to  be  forgiven." 

"Is  it  possible,"  she  said,  as  if  in  com- 
munion with  herself,  "  that  we  shall  never 
meet,  never  speak,  never,  jn-obably,  look  up- 
on each  other  more '? " 

Her  lover  obsei-ved  that  her  face  became 
suddenly  pale,  and  she  staggered  a  little, 
after  which  she  sank  and  would  have  fallen 
had  he  not  supported  her  iu  his  arms.  He 
had  already  nmg  for  Alley  Mahon,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  place  Lucy  once 
more  upon  the  sofa,  whither  he  was  obhged 
to  carry  her,  for  she  had  fainted.  Having 
placed  her  there,  it  became  necessary  to  sup- 
port her  head  upon  hib  bosom,  and  in  doing 


so — is  it  in  human  nature  to  be  severe  upon 
him? — he  rapturously  kissed  her  lips,  and 
pressed  her  to  his  heart  in  a  long,  tender, 
and  melancholy  embrace.  The  ajjpearance 
of  her  maid,  however,  who  always  accompa- 
nied her  in  the  carriage,  terminated  this 
jDardonable  theft,  and  after  a  few  words  oi 
ordinary  conversation  they  sepai-ated. 


CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

Dandp^s  Visit  to  Summerfield  Cottiiqe.  where  he 
Makes  a  most  Un gallant  Mistake — Returns  with 
Tidings  of  both  Mrs.  Norton  and  Fenton — and 
Generously  Patrordzes  Ida  Master. 

On  the  morning  after  this  interview  the 
stranger  was  waited  on  by  Bii-ney,  who  had 
returned  fi-om  France  late  on  the  preceding 
night. 

"  Well,  mj'  friend,"  said  he,  after  they  had 
shaken  hands,  "  I  hojje  you  are  the  bearer  of 
welcome  iuteUigence ! " 

The  gloom  and  disappointment  that  were 
legible  in  this  man's  round,  rosy,  and  gener- 
ally good-humored  countenance  were  ob- 
served, how  ever,  by  the  stranger  at  a  second 
glance. 

'.'  But  how  is  this  ?  "  he  added  ;  "  you  are 
silent,  and  I  fear,  now  that  I  look  at  you  a 
second  time,  that  matters  have  not  gone 
well  with  you.  For  God's  sake,  however,  let 
me  know ;  for  I  am  impatient  to  hear  the 
result." 

"  AU  is  lost,"  replied  Bimey  ;  "  and  I  fear 
we  have  been  outgeneralled.  The  t-lergy- 
man  is  dead,  and  the  book  in  which  the  re- 
cord of  her  death  was  registered  has  dis- 
apjieared,  no  one  knows  how.  I  strongly 
susjsect,  however,  that  your  ojaponent  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it." 

"  You  mean  Dunroe  ?  " 

"  I  do  ;  that  scoundrel  Norton,  at  once 
his  master  and  his  slave,  accompanied  by  a 
suspicious-looking  fellow,  whose  name  I  dis- 
covered to  be  MulhoUand,  were  there  before 
us,  and  I  feai-,  carried  theu'  point  by  se- 
curing the  register,  which  I  have  no  doubt 
has  been  by  this  time  reduced  to  ashes." 

"  Li  that  case,  then,"  replied  the  stranger, 
despondingiy,  "it's  all  up  with  us." 

"Unless,"  obsen'ed  Bimey,  "you  Imve 
been  more  successful  at  home  than  I  have 
been  abroad.    Any  trace  of  Mrs.  Norton  ?  ' 

"None  whatsoever.  But,  my  dear  Bir- 
ney,  what  you  tell  me  is  surprisingly  myste- 
rious. How  could  Dunroe  become  aware  of 
the  existence  of  these  documents  ?  or,  indeed, 
of  our  proceedings  at  all  ?  And  who  is  this 
MulhoUand  you  speak  of  that  accompanied 
him  ?  " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


557 


"I  kuow  nothing  whatever  about  him," 
replied  Bimey,  "except  that  he  is  a  feUow 
of  dissolute  ajjpeai-anee,  ■n-ith  sandy  hair,  not 
ill-looking,  setting  aside  what  is  called  a 
battered  look,  and  a  face  of  the  most  eou- 
summate  effrontery." 

"  I  see  it  all,"  replied  the  other.  "That 
drunken  scoundrel  M'Bride  has  betrayed  us, 
as  far,  at  least,  as  he  could.  The  feUow,  while 
his  conduct  continued  good,  was  in  my  con- 
fidence, as  far  as  a  servant  ought  to  be.  In 
this  matter,  however,  he  did  not  know  all, 
unless,  indeed,  by  inference  from  the  nature 
of  the  document  itseK,  and  fi'om  knowing 
the  name  of  the  family  whose  position  it  af- 
fected. How  it  might  have  atfected  them, 
however,  I  don't  think  he  knew." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  this  Mulhol- 
land  is  that  man  '! '' 

"  From  j'our  description  of  him  I  am  con- 
fident there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it — not 
the  slightest ;  he  must  have  changed  his 
name  piu'posely  on  this  occasion  ;  and,  I  dai"e 
say,  Dunroe  has  liberally  paid  him  for  his 
treacherj'." 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  now  ? "  asked 
Bimey ;  "  here  we  are  fairly  at  fault." 

"I  have  seen  IVIiss  Gourlay,"  replied  the 
other,  "  and  if  it  were  only  from  motives  of 
humanity,  we  must  try,  by  every  means  con- 
sistent with  honor,  to  stop  or  retard  her 
marriage  with  Dunroe." 

"  But  how  ai-fe  we  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  I  know  not  at  pi-esent ;  but  I  shall  think 
of  it.  This  is  most  unfortunate.  I  declare 
solemnly  that  it  was  only  in  so  far  as  the 
facts  we  were  so  anxious  to  establish 
might  have  enabled  us  to  prevent  this  ac- 
cursed union,  that  I  myseK  felt  an  interest 
in  our  success,  lliss  Gourlay 's  happiness 
was  my  sole  motive  of  action." 

"I  believe  you,  sir,"  rejjlied  Birney ;  "but 
in  the  meantime  we  are  completely  at  a 
stand.  Chance,  it  is  true,  may  throw  some- 
thing in  our  way ;  but,  in  the  jjresent  jjosi- 
tion  of  circumstances,  chance,  nay,  all  the 
chances  are  against  us." 

"  It  is  unfortunately  too  true,"  replied  the 
stranger  ;  "  there  is  not  a  single  opening  left 
for  us  ;  we  are,  on  the  contraiy,  shut  out 
completely  in  every  direction.  I  shall  write, 
however,  to  a  Lady  who  possesses  much  in- 
fluence with  Miss  Gourlay  ;  but,  alas,  to  what 
purpose  ?  Miss  Gourlay  herself  has  no  in- 
fluence whatever ;  and,  as  to  her  father,  he 
does  not  live  who  could  divert  him  from  his 
object.  His  vile  ambition  only  in  the  matter 
of  his  daughter  could  influence  him,  and  it 
will  do  so  to  her  destruction,  for  she  cannot 
siirvive  tliis  marriage  long." 

"  You  look  thin,  and  a  good  deal  care- 
worn,"  observed  Bimey,  "  wliich,  indeed,  I 


am  sorry  to  see.  Constant  anxiety,  however, 
and  peii3etu;d  agitation  of  spirits  wHl  wear 
any  man  do^Ti.  Well,  I  must  bid  you  good 
moming  ;  but  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  in- 
quire about  poor  Fenton.  Any  trace  of  mm 
during  my  absence?" 

"Not  the  dightest.  In  fact,  every  point  is 
against  us.  Lady  Gourlay  has  relapsed  into 
her  original  hopelessness,  or  nearly  so,  and  I 
myself  am  now  more  depressed  than  I  have 
ever  been.  Perish  register,  documents,  cor- 
rupt knaves,  and  ungrateful  traitors — perish 
all  the  machinery  of  justice  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  villainy  on  the  other  ;  only  let  us  suc- 
ceed in  secimug  Miss  Gourlay "s  hapj^iness, 
and  I  am  contented.  That,  now  and  hence- 
forth, is  the  absorbing  object  of  my  life. 
Let  her  be  happy;  let  her  be  but  happy — 
and  this  can  only  be  done  by  jjreventing  her 
union  with  this  heartless  yoimg  man,  whosa 
principal  motive  to  it  is  her  property." 

Birney  then  took  his  departure,  leaving 
his  friend  in  such  a  state  of  distress,  and  al- 
most of  desjjaii',  on  Lucy's  account,  as  we 
presume  our  readers  can  very  sufficiently 
understand,  without  anj'  further  assistance 
fi'om  us.  He  could  not,  however,  help  con- 
gratulating himself  on  his  prudence  in  -wdth- 
holding  from  Miss  Gourlay  the  sanguine 
expectations  which  he  himself  had  entertain- 
ed upon  the  result  of  Bimey's  journey  to 
France.  Had  he  not  done  so,  he  knew  that 
she  wovild  have  particij^ated  in  his  hopes, 
and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  she  must  now 
have  had  to  bear  this  deadly  blow  of  disajD- 
pointment,  probably  the  last  cherished  hoiie 
of  her  heart  ;  and  imder  such  circumstances, 
it  is  difficult  to  say  what  its  efl'ect  upon  her 
might  have  been.  This  was  now  his  only 
satisfaction,  to  which  we  maj'  add  the  con- 
sciousness that  he  had  not,  hj  making  pre- 
mature disclosures,  been  the  means  of  com- 
promising the  innocent. 

After  much  thought  and  reflection  upon 
the  gloomy  position  in  which  both  he  him- 
self and  esjjecially  Lucy  were  jilaced,  he  re- 
solved to  write  to  Mrs.  Mainwaring  ujjon 
the  subject ;  although  at  the  moment  he 
scarcely  knew  in  what  terms  to  address  her, 
or  what  steps  he  could  suggest  to  her,  as  one 
feeling  a  deep  interest  in  ]\Iiss  Gourlay 's 
happiness.  At  lengih,  after  much  anxious 
mmination,  he  wi-ote  the  follovring  short  let- 
ter, or  rather  note,  more  with  a  view  of 
alarming  Mrs.  Mainwaring  into  actirity,  thiui 
of  dictating  to  her  any  line  of  action  as  pe- 
culiarly suited  to  the  circumstances. 

"  ]\I.'iD.\M, — The  fact  of  Miss  Gourlay  hav-" 
ing  taken  refuge  with  you  as  her  fi'iend,  up-- 
on  a  certain  occasion  that  ^\-as,  I  beheve, 
very  painful  to  that  young  lady,  I  think  suf« 


558 


WILLIAM  VARLETON'S   WORKS. 


ficieutly  justifies  me  iu  supposing  that  you 
feel  a  warm  interest  iu  her  fate.  For  tliis 
reason,  therefore,  I  have  taken  the  Uberty  of 
addressing  you  ^^•ith  reference  to  her  pres- 
ent situation.  If  ever  a  human  being'  re- 
quired the  aid  and  consolation  of  friendship, 
Sliss  Gourlay  now  does  ;  and  I  will  not  sup- 
pose  that  a  lady  whom  she  honored  with  her 
esteem  and  affection,  could  be  caj)able  of 
withholding  from  her  such  aid  and  such  con- 
solation, in  a  crisis  so  dej^lorable.  You  are 
probably  aware,  madam,  that  she  is  on  the 
point  of  being  sacrificed,  by  a  forced  and 
hated  union,  to  the  ambitious  ^iews  of  her 
father  ;  but  you  could  form  a  very  slight 
conception  indeed  of  the  hoiTor  with  which 
she  approaches  the  gulf  that  is  before  her. 
Could  there  be  no  means  devised  by  which 
this  unhappy  young  lady  might  be  enabled 
with  honor  to  extricate  herseK  from  the 
WTctcheduess  with  which  she  is  encomjjass- 
ed  ?  I  beg  of  you,  madam,  to  think  of  this  ; 
there  is  little  time  to  be  lost.  A  few  days 
may  seal  her  misery  forever.  Her  health 
and  spirits  are  fast  sinking,  and  she  is  be- 
gimiing  to  entertain  apprehensions  that 
that  apathy  which  proceeds  fiom  the  united 
influence  of  exliaustion  and  miseiy,  may,  in 
some  unhappy  moment,  deprive  her  of  the 
power  of  resistance,  even  for  a  time.  Ma- 
dam, I  entreat  that  you  vnH  either  write  to 
her  or  see  her ;  that  you  will  sustain  and 
console  her  as  far  as  in  you  Ues,  and  en- 
deavor, if  possible,  to  throw  some  obstruc- 
tion in  the  way  of  this  accursed  marriage  ; 
whether  through  your  influence  with  herself, 
or  her  father,  matters  not.  I  beg,  madam,  to 
apologize  for  the  liberty  I  have  taken  in  ad- 
dressing you  upon  this  painful  but  deej^ly 
important  subject,  and  I  appeal  to  yourself 
whether  it  is  possible  to  know  Miss  Gourlay, 
and  not  to  feel  the  deepest  interest  in  everj'- 
thiug  that  involves  her  happiness  or  misery. 
"  I  have  the  honor  to  be.  madam, 

"  Your  obedient,  faithful  sen'ant,  and 
"Hee  Sdjceke  FiuE>nD. 

"P.  S. — I  send  this  letter  by  my  servant, 
as  I  am  anxious  that  it  should  reach  no 
hands,  and  be  subjected  to  no  eyes,  but  your 
own  ;  and  I  refer  you  to  Miss  Gourlay  her- 
self, who  will  satisfy  j'ou  as  to  the  honor  and 
purity  of  my  motives  in  writing  it." 

Having  sealed  this  communication,  the 
stranger  rang  for  Dulcimer,  who  made  his 
appearance  accordingly,  and  received  his  in- 
structions for  its  safe  delivei-y. 

"You  must  deliver  this  note.  Dandy,"  said 
he,  "to  the  lady  to  whom  Miss  Gourlay  and 
her  maid  drove,  the  morning  you  took  the  un- 
warrantable Uberty  of  following  them  there."  I 


"And  for  all  that,"  repHed  Dandy,  "it 
haj^pens  very  luckily  that  I  chance,  for  that 
very  raison,  to  know  now  where  to  find  her." 

"  It  does  so,  certainly,"  replied  his  master. 
"Here  is  money  for  you — take  a  car,  or 
whatever  kind  of  vehicle  you  prefer.  Give 
this  note  into  her  owni  hand,  and  make  as 
httle  delaj'  as  you  can." 

"  Do  you  expect  an  answer,  sir?  "  replied 
Dandy;  "  and  am  I  to  wait  for  one,  or  ask 
for  one '? " 

"  I  am  not  quite  certain  of  that,"  said  the 
other;  "it  is  altogether  discretionary  mth 
her.  But  thei-e  can  be  no  harm  in  asking 
the  question,  at  all  events.  Any  other  jtfrs. 
Norton  in  the  way,  Dandy  ?  " 

"  Deuce  a  once,  sir.  I  have  sifted  the 
whole  city,  and,  bariin'  the  tlu-ee  dozen  I 
made  out  already,  I  can't  find  hUt  or  hare  of 
another.  Faith,  sir,  she  ought  to  be  worth 
something  when  she's  got,  for  I  may  fairly 
say  she  has  cost  me  trouble  enough  at  any 
rate,  the  skuLkin'  thief,  whoever  she  is  ;  and 
me  to  lose  my  himdre'  pounds  into  the  bar- 
gain— bad  scran  to  her  !  " 

"Only  find  me  the  true  Mrs.  Norton," 
said  his  master,  "  and  the  hundred  pounds 
are  youi-s,  and  for  Fenton  fifty.  Be  off.  now, 
lose  no  time,  and  bring  me  her  answer  if  she 
sends  any." 

Dandy's  motions  were  all  remarkably 
raj)id,  and  we  need  not  say  that  he  allowed 
no  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet  while  getting 
over  his  journey.  •  On  aniviug  at  Summer- 
field  Cottage,  he  learned  that  Mrs.  Main  war- 
ing was  in  the  garden  ;  and  on  stating  that 
he  had  a  letter  to  deliver  into  her  own  hands, 
that  lady  desired  him  to  be  brought  in,  as 
she  was  then  in  conversation  ■nith  her  daugh- 
ter, who  had  been  compelled  at  length  to  fly 
from  the  brutality  of  her  husband,  and  re- 
turn once  more  to  the  protection  of  her 
mother's  roof.  On  ojjening  the  letter  and 
looking  at  it,  she  stai'ted,  and  turning  to  her 
daughter  said, 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  my  dear-  Maria, 
for  a  few  moments,  but  don't  forget  to  finish 
what  you  were  telling  me  about  this  imfor- 
tiuiate  young  man,  Fenton,  as  he,  you  say, 
calls  himself, -from  Ballytrain." 

"Hello!"  thought  Dandy,  "here's  a  dis- 
eoverj'.  By  the  elevens,  I'll  hould  goold  to 
silver  that  this  is  poor  Fenton  that  disap- 
peared so  suddenly." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  said  he,  ad- 
dressing Mrs.  Scarman  as  an  unmanned 
lady,  as  he  perceived  that  she  was  the  per- 
son from  whom  he  could  receive  the  best 
iuteUigenee  on  the  subject  ;  "  I  hope  it's  no 
offence,  miss,  to  ax  a  question  ?  " 

"  None,  eertmnly,  my  good  man,"  replied 
her  mother,  '  prowled  it  be  a  proper  one. " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


559 


"I  tliiuk,  mias,"  he  continued,  "that  you 
were  mentioning  sometiiing  to  this  lady 
about  a  young  man  named  Fentou,  from 
Ballytrain  ?  " 

"  I  was,"  replied  Mrs.  Scarman,  "  certainly  ; 
but  what  interest  can  you  have  in  him  ?  " 

"If  he's  the  young  man  I  mane,"  con- 
tinued Dandy,  "  he's  not  quite  steady  in  the 
head  sometimes." 

"  If  he  were,  he  would  not  be  in  his  pres- 
ent abode,"  replied  the  lady. 

"And  pray,  miss — beg  pardon  again," 
said  Dandy,  with  the  best  bow  and  scrape 
he  could  manage  ;  "  pray,  miss,  might  I  be 
so  bould  as  to  ask  where  that  is '? " 

Mrs.  Hcarman  looked  at  her  mother. 
"Mamma,"  said  she,  "but,  bless  me!  what 
is  the  matter'?  you  are  in  tears." 

"  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by,  my  dear 
Maria,"  replied  her  mother  ;  "  but  you  were 
going  to  ask  me  something  —what  was  it  ?  " 

"  This  man,"  replied  her  daughter,  "  wishes 
to  know  the  abode  of  the  person  I  was 
speaking  about." 

"  Pray,  what  is  his  motive  ?  What  is 
your  motive,  my  good  man,  for  asking  such 
a  question  ?  " 

"  Bekaise,  ma'am,"  replied  Dandy,  "  I 
happen  to  know  a  gentleman  who  has  been 
for  some  time  on  the  lookout  for  him,  and 
wishes  very  much  to  fiiKl  where  he  is.  If  it 
be  the  young  man  I  sjDake  of,  he  disappeared 
some  three  or  four  months  ago  from  the 
town  of  Ballytrain." 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Main  waring,  with 
her  usual  good-sense  _  and  sagacity,  "  as  I 
know  not  what  your  motive  for  asking  such 
a  question  is,  I  .lo  not  think  this  lady  ought 
to  answer  it ;  but  if  the  gentleman  himself 
is  anxious  to  know,  let  him  see  her  ;  and 
upon  giving  satisfactory  reasons  for  the  in- 
terest he  takes  in  him,  he  shall  be  informed 
of  his  jjresent  abode.  You  nnist  rest  satisfied 
with  this.  Go  to  the  kitchen  and  say  to 
the  servant  that  I  desired  her  to  give  j'ou 
refreshment." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Dandy ; 
"  faith,  that's  a  hvely  message,  anyhow,  and 
one  that  I  feel  great  pleasure  in  deliverin'. 
This  Wicklow  air's  a  regular  cutler  ;  it  has 
sharpened  my  teeth  all  to  pieces  ;  and  if  the 
cook  'ithin  shows  me  good  feedin'  I'll  show 
her  something  in  the  shape  of  good  atin'. 
I'm  a  regular  man  of  talent  at  my  victuals, 
ma'am,  an'  was  often  tould  I  might  live  to 
die  an  alderman  yet,  plaise  God ;  many 
thanks  agin,  ma'am."  So  saying,  Dandy 
proceeded  at  a  brisk  pace  to  the  kitchen. 

"  That  communication,  mamma,"  said  Mrs. 
Scarman,  after  Dandy  had  left  them,  "  has 
distressed  you." 

"  It  has,  my  child.     Poor  Miss  Gourlaj'  is 


in  a  most  wretched  state.  This  I  know  is 
from  her  lover.  In  fact,  they  will  bo  the 
death — absolutely  and  beyond  a  doubt — the 
death  of  this  admirable  and  most  lovely 
creature.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Her  father 
vsdll  not  permit  me  to  visit  her,  neither  wiU 
he  permit  her  to  correspond  with  me.  I 
have  already  written  to  him  on  the  risk  to 
which  he  submits  his  daughter  in  this  omi- 
nous marriage,'  but  I  received  neither  notice 
of,  nor  reply  to  my  letter.  Oh,  no  ;  the  dear 
girl  is  unquestionably  doomed.  I  think, 
however,  I  shall  write  a  few  hues  in  reply  to 
this,"  she  added,  "  but,  alas  the  day !  they 
cannot  speak  of  comfort." 

Whilst  she  is  thus  engaged,  we  will  take 
a  pee}}  at  the  on-goings  of  Dandy  and  Nancy 
Gallaher,  in  the  kitchen,  where,  in  pursu- 
ance of  his  message  our  bashful  valet  was 
corroborating,  by  very  able  practice,  the  ac- 
count which  he  had  given  of  the  talents  he 
had  eulogized  so  justly. 

"Well,  in  troth,"  said  he,  "but,  first  and 
foremost,  I  haven't  the  pleasure  of  knowin' 
yer  name." 

"  Nancy  Gallaher's  my  name,  then,"  she 
replied. 

"  All,"  said  Dandy,  suspending  the  fork 
and  an  immense  jiiece  of  ham  on  the  <op  oi 
it  at  the  Charybdis  which  he  had  opened  to 
an  unusual  extent  to  receive  it ;  "  ah,  ma'am, 
it  wasn't  always  that,  I'll  go  bail.  My  coun- 
thrymen  knows  the  value  of  such  a  purty 
woman  not  to  stamp  some  of  their  names 
upon  her.  Not  that  you  have  a  married 
look,  either,  any  more  than  myself ;  you're 
too  fresh  for  that,  now  that  I  look  at  you 
again." 

A  certain  cloud,  which,  as  Dandy  could 
2)erceive,  was  beginning  to  darken  her  coun- 
tenance, suggested  the  quick  turn  of  his  last 
observation.  The  countenance,  however, 
cleared  again,  and  she  replied,  "It  is  my 
name,  and  what  is  more,  I  never  changed  it. 
I  was  hard  to  plaise — and  I  am  hard  to 
plaise,  and  ever  an'  always  had  a  dread  of 
gettin'  into  bad  company,  especially  when  I 
knew  that  the  same  bad  company  was  to 
last  for  life." 

"  An  ould  maid,  by  the  Rock  of  Cashel," 
said  Dandy,  to  himself. 

"  Blood  alive,  I  wondher  has  she  money  ; 
but  here  goes  to  tln-y.  Ah,  Nancy,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  you  wor  too  hard  to  plaise  ;  and 
now,  that  you  have  got  money  like  myself, 
nothing  but  a  steady  man,  and  a  full  purse, 
will  shoot  your  convanienee — isn't  that  pure 
gospel,  now,  you  good  lookin'  thief  ?  " 

Nancy's  face  was  now  like  a  cloudless  sky. 
"Well,"  she  reph'ed,  "maybe  there's  truth 
in  that,  and  maybe  there's  not ;  but  I  liope 
you  are  takin'  care  of  j'ourself  ?     That's  what 


560 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


I  always  did  and  ever  will,  plaise  God. 
How  do  you  like  the  liaiu  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  so  well  dressed  a  bit  o'  ham  ever 
I  ett — it  melts  iuto  one's  mouth  Uke  a  kiss 
from  a  purty  woman.  Troth,  Nancy,  I 
think  I'm  kissing  you  ever  since  I  began  to 
ait  it." 

"  Get  out,"  said  Nancy,  laughing  ;  "  trOth, 
you're  a  quare  one ;  but  j'ou  know  our 
Wickla'  hams  is  famous." 

"And  so  is  your  Wicklow  girls,"  replied 
Dandy  ;  "  but  for  my  part,  I'd  sooner  taste 
their  lips  than  the  best  hams  that  ever  were 
ett  any  day." 

"  Well,  but,"  said  Nancy,  "  did  you  ever 
taste  our  bacon  ?  bekaise,  if  you  didn't,  lave 
ofl"  what  you're  at,  and  in  three  skips  I'll  get 
you  a  rasher  and  eggs  that'll  make  j'ou  look 
nine  ways  at  once.  Here,  throw  that  by,  it's 
could,  and  I'll  get  you  something  hot  and 
comfortable." 

"Go  on,"  repHed  Dandy;  "  I  hate  idle- 
ness. Get  the  eggs  and  rasher  you  spake  of, 
and  while  j'ou're  doiu'  it  I'll  thry  and  amuse 
myself  wid  what's  before  me.  Lidusthry's 
the  first  of  virtues,  Nancy,  and  next  to  that 
comes  perseverance  ;  I  defy  you  iu  the  mane 
time  to  do  a  rasher  as  well  as  you  did  this 
ham — hoch — och — och.  God  bless  me,  a 
bit  was  near  stickin'  in  my  throat.  Is  your 
wather  good  here  ?  and  the  raison  why  I  ax 
you  is,  that  I'm  the  devil  to  plaise  in  wather  ; 
and  on  that  account  I  seldom  take  it  T\'ithout 
a  svip  o'  spirits  to  dilute  it,  as  the  docthors 
say,  for,  indeed,  that's  the  way  it  agrees  with 
me  best.  It's  a  kind  of  family  failin'  with 
us — devil  a  one  o'  my  blood  ever  could 
look  a  glass  of  mere  wather  in  the  face  with- 
out blnshin'." 

Dandy  was  now  upon  what  they  call  the 
simplicity  dodge  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  affected 
that  character  of  wisdom  for  which  certain 
individuals,  whose  knowledge  of  life  no  earth- 
ly experience  ever  can  improve,  are  so  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  get  credit.  Every  word 
he  uttered  was  accompanied  by  an  oafish 
grin,  so  ludicrously  balanced  between  sim- 
plicity and  cunning,  that  Nancy,  who  had 
been  half  her  life  on  the  lookout  for  such  a 
man,  and  who  knew  that  this  indecision  of 
expression  was  the  characteristic  of  the  tribe 
with  which  she  classed  him,  now  saw  be- 
fore her  the  great  dream  of  her  heart 
realized. 

"Well,  in  troth,"  she  replied,  "you  are  a 
quare  man  ;  but  still  it  would  be  too  bad  to 
make  you  blush  for  no  stronger  raison  than 
mere  wather.  So,  in  the  name  o'  goodness, 
here's  a  tumbler  of  grog,"  she  added,  filling 
him  out  one  on  the  instant,  "  and  as  you're 
so  modest,  you  must  only  drink  it  and  keep 
your  countenance  ;  it'll  i^rcpare  you,  besides. 


for  the  rasher  and  eggs  ;  and,  by  the  same 
token,  here's  an  ould  candle-box  that's  here 
the  Lord  knows  how  long  ;  but,  faix,  now  it 
must  help  to  do  the  rasher.  Come  then  ;  if 
you  are  stronger  than  I  am,  show  your 
strength,  and  pull  it  to  pieces,  for  you  see  I 
can't." 

It  was  one  of  those  flat  little  candle-boxef? 
made  of  deal,  vsdth  which  every  one  in  the 
habit  of  burning  moulds  is  acquainted. 
Dandy  took  it  up,  and  whilst  about  to  pull 
it  to  i^ieces,  observed  written  on  a  paper  la- 
bel, in  a  large  hand,  something  between  \\r\\- 
ing  and  print,  "]\'Lrs.  Norton,  Summerfield 
Cottage,  Wicklow." 

"What  is  this?  "  said  he  ;  "what  name  i'-- 
this  upon  it?  Let  us  see,  'Sirs.  Norton,  Sum- 
mei-field  Cottage,  Wicklow ! '  \Pao  the  dick- 
ens is  Mrs.  Norton  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  j^resent  mistress,"  replied  Nan- 
cy ;  "  Mx.  Maiuwaring  is  her  second  husband, 
and  her  name  was  llrs.  Norton  before  she 
married  him." 

"Norton,"  said  Dandy,  whose  heart  was 
going  at  full  sjjeed,  with  a  hope  that  he  had 
at  length  got  into  the  right  track,  "it's 
a  jjurty  name  iu  troth.  Ai'ra,  Nancy,  do 
you  know  was  youi'  misthress  ever  iu 
France  ?  " 

"  Ay,  was  she,"  rej)lied  Nancy.  "  Many  a 
year  maid  to — let  me  see — what's  this  the 
name  is  ?  Ay !  Cullamore.  Maid  to  the 
wife  of  Lord  Cullamore.  So  I  was  tould  by 
Alley  Mahon,  a  j'ouug  woman  that  was  here 
on  a  A-isit  to  me." 

Dandy  put  the  glasjs  of  grog  to  his  mouth, 
and  hawig  emptied  it,  sprung  to  his  feet, 
commenced  an  Irish  jig  through  the  kitchen, 
in  a  sp)irit  so  outrageously  whimsical — buoy- 
ant, mad,  hugging  the  box  all  the  time  in  liis 
arms,  that  jaoor  Nancy  looked  at  him  ^\ith  ;) 
degree  of  alarm  and  then  of  jealousy  whicli 
she  could  not  conceal. 

"In  the  name  of  all  that's  wonderful,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  what's  ^\TOBg — what's  the  mat- 
ter ?  What's  the  value  of  that  blackguard 
box  that  you  make  the  mistake  about  iu  hug- 
gin'  it  that  way  ?  Upou  my  conscience,  one 
would  think  you're  in  a  desolate  island.  Re- 
member, man  ahve,  that  you're  among  flesh 
and  blood  like  your  own,  and  that  you  have 
friends,  although  the  acquaintance  isn't  very 
long,  I  grant,  that  mshes  you  betther  than 
to  see  you  makin'  a  sweetheai't  of  a  tallow- 
box.     What  the  sorra  is  that  worth  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  jjounds,  my  darlin' — a  hun- 
dred jwunds  —  bravo.  Dandy  —  well  done, 
brave  Dulcimer — wealthy  Nancy.  Faith,  you 
may  swear  u^jon  the  frying-pan  there  that 
I've  the  cash,  and  sure  'tis  yourself  I  was 
looicin'  out  for." 

"  I  don't  think,  then,   that  ever  I  resem- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


561 


bled  a  candle-box  in  my  life,"  she  replied, 
ratlier  annoyed  that  the  article  in  question 
came  in  for  such  a  prodigahty  of  his  hugs, 
kisses,  and  embraces,  of  aU  shapes  and  char- 
acters. 

"Well,  Naney,"  said  he,  "charming  Nan- 
cy, you're  my  f mey,  but  in  the  meantime  I 
iiave  the  honor  and  pleasure  to  bid  you  a 
good  day." 

"  Why,  where  are  you  goin'  ?  "  asked  the 
woman.     "  Won't  you  wait  for  the  rasher  ?  " 

"  Keep  it  hot,  charming  Nauoy,  till  I  come 
back  ;  I'm  just  goin'  to  take  a  constitutional 
walk."  So  saying,  Dandy,  with  the  candle- 
box  under  his  arm,  darted  out  of  the  kitch- 
en, and  without  waiting  to  know  whether 
there  was  an  answer  to  be  brought  back  or 
not,  mounted  his  jarvej',  and  desiring  the 
man  to  drive  as  if  the  de\'il  and  all  his  imjjs 
were  at  their  heels,  set  off  at  fuU  s^seed  for 
the  city. 

"Bad  luck  to  you  for  a  scamp,"  exclaimed 
the  indignant  cook,  shouting  after  him  ;  "is 
that  the  way  you  trate  a  decent  woman  after 
gettin'  your  skinful  of  the  best  ?•  Wait  till 
you  put  your  nose  in  this  kitchen  again,  an' 
it's  different  fare  you'll  get." 

On  reaching  his  master's  hotel.  Dandy 
went  upstairs,  where  he  found  him  prepar- 
ing to  go  out.  He  had  just  sealed  a  note, 
and  leaning  himself  back  on  the  chair,  look- 
ed at  his  servant  with  a  good  deal  of  sur- 
prise, in  consequence  of  the  singularity  of 
his  manner.  Dandy,  on  the  other  hand, 
took  the  candle-box  fi'om  under  his  arm,  and 
putting  it  flat  on  the  table,  with  the  label 
downwards,  placed  his  two  hinds  upon  it, 
and  looked  the  other  right  in  the  face  ;  after 
which  he  closed  one  eye,  and  gave  him  a  very 
knowing  wink. 

"  ^\Tiat  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel,  by 
this  impudence  ?  "  excldmedhis  master,  al- 
though at  the  same  time  he  could  not  avoid 
laughing  ;  for,  in  tiiith,  he  felt  a  kind  of 
presentiment,  groxuided  upon  Dandy's  very 
assui'ance,  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  some 
"aj;reeable  intelligence.  "  ^\1lat  do  j'ou 
TC'ean,  sirra?     You're  drunk,  I  think." 

''  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  replied  Dandy, 
"  ■'-om  tnis  day  out,  upon  my  soul,  I'll  pat- 
rc  c<J'2e  jou  like  a  man  as  I  am  ;  that  is  to 
sa_y,  provided  yon  continue  to  desene  it." 

"Come,  Sirra,  you're  at  your  bvffooneiy 
again,  or  else  you're  drunk,  as  I  said.  Did 
the  lady  send  any  reply  ?  " 

"Have  you  any  cash  to  spare?"  replied 
Dandy.  • '  I  want  to  invest  a  thrifle  in  the 
funds." 

"What  can  this  impudence  mean,  siiTa?" 
asked  the  other,  sadly  puzzled  to  under- 
stand his  conduct.  ""SVhy  do  you  not  reply 
to  me  ?     Di  1  the  l.idv  send  an  answer  ?  " 


"Most  fortunate  of  all  masthers,"  rephed 
Dandy,  "  in  havin'  such  a  servant ;  the  ladj 
did  send  an  answer." 

"  And  where  is  it,  sirra?  " 

"  There  it  is  !  "  rephed  the  other,  shoving 
the  candle-box  triumphantly  over  to  him. 
The  stranger  looked  steadily  at  him,  and 
was  beginning  to  lose  his  temf)er,  for  he 
took  it  now  for  granted  that  his  servant  was 
drunk. 

"I  shall  dismiss  you  in.stantly,  sirra," 
he  said,  "if  you  don't  come  to  youi'  sen- 
ses." 

"I  suppose  so,"  repUed  the  other,  still 
maintaining  his  cool,  unabashed  efErouterj-. 
"  I  dare  say  you  will,  just  after  I've  made  a 
man  of  you — changed  v^ou  fi'om  nothing  to 
something,  or,  rather,  from  nobody — for 
devil  a  much  more  you  were  up  to  the  pres- 
ent time  yet — to  somebody.  In  the  mean- 
time, read  the  lady's  answer,  if  you  plaise." 

"  Wliere  is  it,  you  impiident  knave?  I  see 
no  note — no  answer." 

"  Troth,  sir,  I  am  afeared  many  a  time  you 
were  ornamented  with  the  dunce's  cap  in 
j'our  school-daj'S,  and  well,  I'll  be  bound, 
you  became  it.  Don't  I  saythe  answer's  be* 
fore  you  there  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  here,  j'ou  scoundrel, 
but  a  deal  box." 

"  Right,  sir  ;  and  a  deal  of  intelligence  cart 
it  give  you,  if  you  have  the  sense  to  find  it 
out.  Now,  listen,  sir.  So  long  as  you  Uve, 
ever  and  always  examine  both  sides  of  every 
svibject  that  comes  before  you,  even  if  it  was 
an  ould  deal  box." 

His  master  took  the  hint,  and  instantly 
turning  the  box,  read  to  his  astonishment, 
Mrit.  Norton,  Summerf]fld  Cottage,  WicHow, 
and  then  looked  at  Dandy  for  an  explanation. 
The  latter  nodded  mth  his  usual  easy  confi- 
dence, and  proceeded,  "  It's  all  right,  sir— 
she  was  in  France — own  maid  to  Lady  CuUa 
more — came  home  and  got  married — first  to 
a  Mr.  Norton,  and  next  to  a  per.son  named 
Mainwai'in' :  and  there  she  is,  the  true  Mrs. 
Norton,  safe  and  sound  for  you,  in  Summer- 
field  Cottage,  under  the  name  of  Mrs.  Maiii- 
warin'." 

"  Dandy,"  said  his  master,  starting  to  his 
feet,  "  I  forgive  you  a  thousand  times. 
Throw  that  letter  in  the  post-ofiice.  You 
shall  have  the  money.  Dandy,  more,  perhaps, 
than  I  promised,  provided  this  is  the  lady  ; 
but  I  cannot  doubt  it.  I  am  now  going  to 
Mr.  Birney  ;  but,  stay,  let  lis  be  certain.  How 
did  you  become  acquainted  with  these  cir- 
cumstances?" 

Dandy  gave  him  his  authority  ;  after  which 
his  mast^-  put  on  his  hat,  and  was  about 
proceeding  out,  when  the  former  exclaimed 
"  Hello  sir,  where  are  you  goin'  f  " 


562 


WILLIAM  CARLETO:S''S   WORlvS. 


"  To  see  Bimey,  I  have  already  told 
you." 

"  Come,  come,"  replied  liis  man,  "  take 
your  time — be  steady,  now — be  cool — and 
listen  to  what  your  friend  has  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Don't  trifle  ■with  me  now.  Dandy ;  I  really 
can't  bear  it." 

"Faith,  but  you  must,  though.  There's 
one  act  I  patlironized  you  iu  ;  now,  how  do 
you  know,  as  I'm  actiu'  the  great  man,  but 
I  can  pathrouize  you  in  another  ?  " 

"  How  is  that?  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
trifle  with  me  ;  every  day,  every  hour,  every 
moment,  is  precious,  and  may  involve  the 
hapijiness  of " 

"I  see,  sir,"  replied  this  extraordinary 
valet,  with  an  intelligent  nod,  "  but,  stiU,  fail- 
and  aisy  goes  far  in  a  day.  There's  no  dan- 
ger of  her,  you  know — don't  be  uuaisy. 
Fenton,  sir — ehem — Fenton,  I  say — Fenton 
and  fifty  I  say." 

"  Fenton  and  a  hundred.  Dandy,  if  there's 
an  available  trace  of  him." 

"  I  don't  know  what  j'ou  call  an  available 
trace,"  replied  Dandy,  "  but  I  can  s?nd  you 
to  a  lady  who  knows  where  he  is,  and  where 
you  can  find  him." 

The  stranger  returned  fi-om  the  door,  and 
sitting  down  again  covered  his  face  vsith  his 
hands,  as  if  to  coUect  himself  ;  at  length  he 
said,  "  This  is  most  extraordinary  ;  tell  me  aU 
about  it." 

Dandy  related  that  with  which  the  reader 
is  already  acquainted,  and  did  so  with  such 
an  air  of  comic  gravity  and  pompous  superi- 
ority, that  his  master,  now  in  the  best  pos- 
sible spirits,  was  exceedingly  amused. 

"WeU,  Dandy,"  said  he,  "if  your  infor- 
mation respecting  Fenton  prove  correct, 
reckon  upon  another  hundred,  instead  of  the 
fifty  I  men  iione<l.  I  suppose  I  may  go  now  ?  " 
he  added,  smiling. 

Dandy,  still  maintaining  his  gravity,  waved 
his  hand  with  an  air  of  suitable  authority, 
intimating  that  the  other  had  permission  to 
depart.  On  going  out,  however,  he  said,  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  while  you're 
abroad,  I'd  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'd  find  out 
the  state  o'  the  funds.  Of  course,  I'U  be  in- 
vestin' ;  and  a  man  may  as  well  do  things 
with  his  eyes  open — may  as  well  examine 
both  sides  o'  the  candle-box,  you  know.  You 
may  go,  sir." 

"  Well,"  thought  the  stranger  to  himself, 
as  he  literally  went  on  his  way  rejoicing 
toward  Birney's  office,  '"no  man  in  this  life 
should  ever  yield  to  despair.  Here  was  I 
this  morning  encompassed  by  doubt  and 
darkness,  and  I  may  almost  sa-^iy  despair 
itself.  Yet  see  how  easily  and  natiu-ally  the 
hand  of  Providence,  for  it  is  nothing  less, 


has  changed  the  whole  tenor  of  my  existence 
Everj'thing  is  beginning  not  only  to  brighten, 
but  to  present  an  apj)eai-ance  of  order,  by 
which  we  shall,  I  tmst,  be  enabled  to  guide 
ourselves  through  the  maze  of  difficult}'  that 
lies,  or  that  did  lie,  at  all  events,  before  us. 
Alas,  if  the  wi'etched  suicide,  who  can  see 
nothing  but  cause  of  desiDondency  about  him 
and  before  him,  were  to  reflect  up)on  the 
possibihty  of  what  only  one  day  might  evolve 
fi'om  the  ongoing  cu-cumstiiuces  of  life,  how 
many  would  that  wholesome  reflection  pre- 
vent from  the  awful  crime  of  imiaatienee  at 
the  wisdom  of  God,  and  a  want  of  confidence 
in  his  government !  I  remember  the  case  of 
an  unhappy  young  man  who  plunged  into  a 
future  life,  as  it  were,  to-daj-,  who,  had  he 
maintained  his  jiart  until  the  next,  would 
have  found  himself  master  of  thousands.  No  ; 
I  shall  never  despair.  I  will  in  this,  as  in 
every  other  virtue,  imitate  mj-  beloved  Lucy, 
who  said,  that  to  whatever  dej^ths  of  wretch- 
edness life  might  bring  her,  she  would  never 
yield  to  that." 

"  Good'  news,  Birney  !  "  he  exclaimed,  on 
entering  that  gentleman's  office  ;  "  chanurng 
intelligence  !     Both  ai'e  found  at  last." 

"  Explain  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  replied 
the  other;  "  how  is  it?  What  has  happen- 
ed ?     Both  of  whom  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Norton  and  Fenton." 

He  then  explained  the  circiimstances  as 
they  had  been  explained  to  himself  l)y  Dan- 
dy ;  and  Birney  seemed  gi-atified  cei-tainly, 
but  not  so  much  as  the  stranger  thought  he 
ought  to  have  been. 

"How  is  this?"  he  asked  ;  "this  discov- 
ery, this  double  discover^-,  does  not  seem  to 
give  you  the  satisfaction  which  I  had  ex- 
pected it  would  ?  " 

"Perhaps  not,"  replied  the  steady  man  of 
law,  "but  I  am  highly  gratified,  notwith- 
standing, provided  everything  you  tell  me 
tui-ns  out  to  be  correct.  But  even  then,  I 
aj^iDrehend  that  the  testimony  of  this  Mrs. 
Norton,  unsupported  as  it  is  by  documentary 
evidence,  will  not  be  sufficient  for  our  jiur' 
pose.  It  wUl  require  eorrol)oration,  and  how 
are  we  to  corroliorate  it  ?  " 

"If  it  will  enable  us  to  prevent  rhh 
marriage,"  replied  the  other,  '•  I  am  satu- 
fied." 

"  That  is  very  generous  and  dicintei'esled, 
I  grant,"  said  Bimey,  "  and  what  few  are 
capable  of  ;  but  still  there  are  forms  of  law 
and  principles  of  common  justice  to  be  ob- 
served and  complied  with  ;  and  these,  at 
present,  stand  in  our  way  for  want  of  the 
docvimentary  evidence  I  speak  of." 

"  Wliat  then  ought  our  next  step  to  be  ? 
— but  I  suppose  I  can  anticipate  you — to  see 
Mrs.  Norton." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


56S 


"  Of  course,  to  see  jMi-s.  Norton  ;  and  I 
prof)ose  that  we  start  immediately.  There 
is  uo  time  to  be  lost  about  it.  I  shall  get 
on  my  boots,  and  change  my  dress  a  little, 
and,  with  this  man  of  yours  to  guide  us,  we 
shall  be  on  the  way  to  Summerfield  Cottage 
in  half-an-hour." 

"  Should  I  not  communicate  this  intelli- 
gence to  Lady  Gourlay  ?  "  said  the  stranger. 
"  It  will  restore  her  to  Ufe  ;  and  surely  the 
removal  of  only  one  day's  sorrow  such  as 
lies  at  her  heart  becomes  a  duty." 

•'But  svippose  our  information  should 
prove  incorrect,  into  what  a  dreadful  relapse 
would  j'ou  j)limge  her  then  ! " 

"  Oh,  very  true — very  true,  indeed  :  that 
is  well  thought  of ;  let  us  first  see  that  there 
is  no  mistake,  and  afterwards  we  can  proceed 
with  confidence." 

Poor  Luc}',  unconscious  that  the  events  we 
have  related  had  taken  place,  was  passing  an 
existence  of  which  every  day  brought  round 
to  her  nothing  but  anguish  and  misery.  She 
now  not  only  refused  to  see  her  brother  on 
any  occasion,  or  under  any  circumstances, 
but  requested  an  intendew  with  her  father, 
in  order  to  make  him  acquainted  with  the 
abominable  principles,  by  the  inculcation  of 
which,  as  a  rule  of  life  and  conduct,  he  had 
attempted  to  corrupt  her.  Her  father  hav- 
ing heard  this  portion  of  her  complaint,  di- 
minished in  its  heinousuess  as  it  neces-sai-ily 
was  by  her  natural  modesty,  ajipeared  very 
angry,  and  swore  roundly  at  the  young 
scapegi-ace,  as  he  called  him. 

"  But  the  truth  is,  Lucy,"  he  added,  "  that 
however  wrong  and  wicked  he  may  have 
been,  and  was,  yet  we  cannot  be  over  severe 
on  him.  He  has  had  no  oj^jiortunities  of 
knowing  better,  and  of  course  he  will  mend. 
I  intend  to  lectiu-e  him  severely  for  uttering 
such  principles  to  you;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
I  know  him  to  be  a  shrewd,  keen  young 
fellow,  who  2^1'omises  well,  notwithstanding. 
In  truth,  I  like  him,  scamp  as  he  is  ;  and  I 
believe  thiit  whatever  is  bad  in  him ' 

"  ^Miatever  is  bad  in  him  !  Why,  pajja, 
there  is  nothing  good  in  him." 

"  Tut,  Lucy  ;  I  believe,  I  say,  that  what- 
ever is  bad  in  him  he  has  picked  up  fi-om  the 
kind  of  society  he  mixed  with." 

"PajJa,"  she  replied,  "it  grieves  me  to 
hear  you,  sir,  palliate  the  conduct  of  such  a 
person — to  become  almost  the  apologist  of 
principles  so  utterly  fiendish.  You  know 
that  I  am  not  and  never  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  using  ungenerous  language  against 
the  absent.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  he 
has  violated  all  the  claims  of  a  brother — has 
foregone  all  title  to  a  sister's  love  ;  but  that 
is  not  all — I  believe  him  to  be  so  essentially 
corrupt  and  vicious  in  heart  and  soul,   so 


thoroughly  and  blackly  diabolical  in  his  prin- 
ciples— moral  I  cannot  call  them — that  I 
would  stake  my  existence  he  is  some  base 
and  plotting  impostor,  in  whose  veins  there 
flows  not  one  single  drop  of  my  pure-hearted 
mother's  blood.  I  therefore  warn  you,  sir, 
that  he  is  an  impostor,  with,  perhaps,  a  dis- 
honorable title  to  your  name,  but  none  at  all 
to  j'our  property." 

"Nonsense,  you  foolish  girl.  Is  he  not 
my  image  ?  " 

"  I  admit  he  resembles  you,  sir,  very  much, 
and  I  do  not  deny  that  he  may  be  " — she 
paused,  and  alternately  became  j^ale  and  red 
by  turns — "  what  I  mean  to  say,  sir,  is  what 
I  have  already  said,  that  he  is  not  my 
mother's  son,  and  that  although  he  may  be 
privileged  to  bear  your  name,  he  has  no 
claim  on  either  your  proj^erty  or  title.  Does 
it  not  strike  you,  sir,  that  it  might  be  to 
make  way  for  this  person  that  my  legitimate 
brother  was  removed  long  ago  ?  And  I  have 
also  heard  yourself  say  frequently,  while 
talking  of  my  brother,  how  extremely  like 
mamma  and  me  he  was." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  he  was,"  replied  her 
father,  somewhat  struck  by  the  force  of  her 
obsei-vations  ;  "  and  I  was  myself  a  good  deal 
sm-pi-ised  at  the  change  which  must  have 
taken  place  in  him  since  his  childhood. 
However,  v'ou  know  he  accounted  for  this 
himself  vers-  fairly  and  verj-  naturally." 

"  Very  ingeniously,  at  least,"  she  rejilied  ; 
"  with  more  of  ingenuity,  I  fear,  than  truth. 
Now,  sir,  hear  me  further.  You  are  awiu-e 
that  I  never  Uked  those  Corbets,  who  have 
been  always  so  deejjly,  and,  excuse  me,  sir, 
so  mysteriously  in  your  confidence." 

"  Yes,  Lucy,  I  know  you  never  did  ;  but 
that  is  a  prejudice  you  inherited  from  your 
mother." 

"I  apj^eal  to  your  ovsti  conscience,  sir, 
whether  mamma's  prejudice  against  them 
was  not  just  and  well  founded.  Yet  it  was 
not  so  much  prejudice  as  the  antipathy  which 
good  bears  to  evil,  honesty  to  fi-aud,  and 
tmth  to  darkness,  dissimulation,  and  false- 
hood. I  entreat  you,  then,  to  investigate 
this  matter,  papa  ;  for  as  sure  as  I  have  hfe, 
so  certainly  was  my  dear  brother  removed,  in 
order,  at  the  proper  time,  to  make  way  for 
this  impostor.  You  know  not,  sir,  but  there 
may  be  a  base  and  inhuman  murder  involved 
in  this  matter — nay,  a  double  murder — that 
of  my  cousin,  too  ;  yes,  and  the  worst  of  all 
murders,  the  murder  of  the  innocent  and 
defenceless.  As  a  man,  as  a  magistrate, 
but,  above  all,  a  thousand  times,  as  a  fathei' 
— as  the  father  and  uncle  of  the  very  two 
children  that  have  disappeared,  it  becomes 
your  duty  to  examine  into  this  dark  business 
thoroughly." 


564 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


'•  1  liiive  uo  reason  to  suspect  the  Corbets, 
Lucy.  I  have  ever  found  them  faithful  to 
me  and  to  my  mterests." 

"I  know,  sir,  you  have  ever  found  them 
obsequious  and  sla^'ish  and  ready  to  abet 
you  m  many  acts  which  I  regret  that  you  ever 
committed.  There  is  the  case  of  that  unfor- 
tunate man,  Trailcudgel,  and  many  similar 
ones  ;  were  they  not  as  active  and  cheerful 
in  bearing  out  your  very  harsh  orders  against 
him  and  others  of  your  tenantrj-,  as  it  they 
had  been  advancing  the  cause  of  human- 
ity ?  " 

"  Say  the  cause  of  justice,  if  you  please, 
Lucy — the  rights  of  a  landlord." 

"  But,  jjajja,  if  the  unfortunate  tenantry  by 
whose  toil  and  labor  we  live  in  affluence  and 
luxury  do  not  tind  a  friend  in  theur  landlord,  | 
who  is,  by  his  relation  to  them,  their  natural  \ 
protector,  to  whom   else  in  the  ^\ide  world 
can  they  turn '?     This,  however,   is  not  the 
subject  on  which  I  msh  to  speak.     I  do  be- 
Heve  that  Thomas  Corbet  is  deej),  design- 
ing, and  vindictive.     He  was  always  a  close, 
dark   man,   without   either   cheerfulness  or 
candor.     Beware,   therefore,  of  him  and  of 
his  family.     Nay,  he  has  a  capacity  for  being  [ 
dangerous  ;  for  it  strikes  me,  sir,  that  his  i 
intellect  is  as  far  above  his  position  in  life  as  1 
his  principles  are  beneath  it. "  i 

There  was  much  in  what  Lucy  said  that 
forced  itself    upon   her   father's   reflection,  I 
much  that  startled  him,  and  a  good  deal  that  i 
gave  him  pain.     He  paused  for  a  consider-  j 
able  time  after  she  had  ceased  to  speak,  and 
said,  ! 

"I  will  think  of  these  matters,  Lucy.  I  , 
will  probably  do  more  ;  and  if  I  find  that  \ 
they  have  jjlayed  me  foul  by  imposing  upon 

me "     He  paused  abruptly,  and  seemed 

embarrassed,  the  truth  being  that  lie  knew 
and  felt  how  completely  he  was  in  their 
power. 

"Now,  paj)a,"  said  Lucy,  "after  having 
heard  my  opinion  of  this  young  man — after 
the  wanton  outrage  upon  all  female  dehcacy 
and  virtue  of  which  he  has  been  guilty,  I 
trast  you  win  not  in  future  attenii:)t  to  ob- 
trude him  ujDon  me.  I  will  not  see  him, 
speak  to  him,  nor  acknowledge  him  ;  and 
such,  let  what  may  happen,  is  my  final  de- 
termination." 

"  So  far,  Lucy,  I  will  accede  to  your 
wishes.  I  shall  take  care  that  he  troubles 
you  with  no  more  wicked  exhortations." 

"  Thank  you,  deai-  papa  ;  this  is  kind,  and 
I  feel  it  so." 

"Now,"  said  her  father,  after  she  had 
withdrawn,  "how  am  I  to  act?  It  is  not 
impossible- but  there  may  be  much  tmth  in 
what  she  says.  I  remember,  however,  the 
death  of  the  only  son  that  could  possibly  be 


imposed  on  me  in  the  sense  alluded  to  bj 
her.  He  siuely  does  not  Uve  ;  or  if  he  does, 
the  far-sighted  sagacity  which  made  the  ac- 
count of  his  death  a  fraud  upon  my  creduhtv, 
for  such  selfish  and  treacherous  j)m-poses,  is 
worthy  of  being  concocted  in  the  deepest 
pit  of  hell.  Yet  that  some  one  of  them  has 
betrayed  me,  is  evident  fiom  the  charges 
brought  against  me  by  this  stranger  to  whom 
Lucy  is  so  devotedly  attached,  and  which 
charges  Thomas  Corbet  could  not  clear  up. 
If  one  of  these  base  but  dexterous  vdUains, 
or  if  the  whole  gang  were  to  outwit  me, 
positively  I  could  almost  blow  my  veiy  brains 
out,  for  allowing  myself,  after  all,  to  become 
their  dupe  and  plaything.  I  will  think  of 
it,  however.  And  again,  there  is  the  like- 
ness ;  there  does  seem  to  be  a  difficulty  in 
that  ;  for,  beyond  all  doubt,  my  legitimate 
child,  up  uutU  his  disapjsearance,  did  not 
beai'  in  his  countenance  a  single  feature  of 
mine  but  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  his 
mother ;  whereas  this  Tom  is  my  bom 
image  !  Yet  I  hke  him.  He  has  all  my  points  ; 
knows  the  world,  and  despises  it  as  much  as 
I  do.  He  did  not  know  Lucy,  however,  or 
he  would  have  kept  his  worldly  opinions  to 
himself.  It  is  true  he  said  very  httle  but 
what  we  see  about  us  as  the  regiUatiug  jJrin- 
ciples  of  life  every  day  ;  but  Lucy,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  no  every-day  girl,  and  will  not 
receive  such  doctrines,  and  I  am  glad  of  it. 
They  may  do  very  well  hi  a  son  ;  but  some- 
how one  shudders  at  the  contemplation  of 
their  existence  in  the  heart  and  jariuciples  of 
a  daughter.  Unfortunately,  however,  I  am 
in  the  jJower  of  these  Corbets,  and  I  feel  that 
exposure  at  this  period,  the  crisis  of  my 
daughtei-'s  marriage,  v\ould  not  only  frus- 
trate my  ambition  for  her,  but  occasion  my 
very  death,  I  fear.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but 
I  think  if  I  were  to  live  my  life  over  again,  I 
would  try  a  diS'erent  com-se." 


CHAPTEE  XXXVm. 

Antlwny  Corbet  gi'rcs  Important  Documents  to  tJie 
Stranper — An  Unpfeasmit  Disclosure  to  Dunroe 
—Norton  catches  u  Tartar. 

The  next  morning  the  stranger  was  agi-ee- 
ably  surprised  by  seeing  the  round,  rosy, 
and  benevolent  features  of  Father  M'Mahon, 
as  he  presented  himself  at  his  breakfast 
table.  Their  meeting  was  cordi;il  and  fiiendly, 
Tvith  the  exception  of  a  slight  apjiearance  of 
embai-rassment  that  was  evident  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  jjriest. 

"The  last  time  you  were  in  town,"  said 
the  former,  "I  was  sorry  to  observe  that  you 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


665 


seemed  rather  careworn  arnl  depressed  ;  but 
I  tliiuk  you  Inoli  better  now,  and  a  good  deal 
more  cheerfiil."' 

"  And  I  tliiiik  I  have  a  good  right,"  repHed 
the  priest ;  "  and  I  tliink  no  man  ought  to 
know  the  cause  of  it  better  than  youi-self.  I 
charge  you,  sir,  with  an  act  of  benevolence 
to  the  poor  of  my  parish,  through  tlieir 
humble  jiastor  ;  for  which  you  stand — I  beg 
your  pardon — sit  there,  a  guilty  man." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  other,  smiling. 

"By  means  of  an  anonymous  letter  that 
contained  a  hundred  pound  note,  sir." 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  there  is  no 
use  in  tilling  a  falsehood  about  it.  The  truth 
is,  I  was  aware  of  the  extent  to  which  you 
involved  yourself,  in  order  to  relieve  many 
of  the  small  farmers  and  other  struggling 
per.sons  of  good  repute  in  your  parish,  and  I 
thought  it  too  bad  that  you  should  suffer 
distress  yourself,  who  had  so  frequently  re- 
Heved  it  in  others." 

"God  bless  you,  my  fi-iend,"  replied  the 
priest ;  "  for  I  will  call  you  so.  I  wish  every 
man  possessed  of  wealth  was  guided  by  your 
principles.  Freney  the  Robber  has  a  new 
saddle  and  bridle,  anyhow;  and  I  came  up  to 
to\ni  to  pay  old  Anthony  Corbet  a  sum  I 
borrowed  fi'om  him  the  last  time  I  was 
here  ?  "  > 

"Oh,  have  you  seen  that  cautious  and  dis- 
agreeable old  man  ?  We  could  ni  ike  uotliing 
of  liim,  although  I  feel  cpxite  certnin  tliat  he 
knows  everything  connected  with  the  dis- 
appearance of  Lady  Gourlay's  son." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it  myself,  "repUed  the 
priest  ;  "and  I  now  find,  that  what  neither 
religion,  nor  justice,  nor  humanity  could  in- 
fluence him  to  do,  superstition  is  likely  to 
effect.  He  has  had  a  di-ame,  he  says,  in 
wliich  his  son  James  that  was  in  Lady  Gour- 
lay's service  has  ajapeared  to  him,  and 
threatens  that  unless  he  remlers  lier  justice, 
he  has  but  a  poor  chance  in  the  other 
world." 

"  That  is  not  at  all  unnatui-al,"  said  the 
stranger  ;  "  the  man,  though  utterly  wthout 
religion,  was  nevertheless  both  hesitating 
and  timid  ;  preciselj'  the  character  to  do  a 
just  act  from  a  wrong  motive." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  continued  the  priest, 
"  I  have  a  message  from  him  to  you." 

"  To  me  !  "  replied  the  other.  "  I  am  much 
obliged  to  him,  but  it  is  now  too  late.  We 
have  ascertained  where  Lady  Govirlay's  son 
is,  without  any  assistance  fi-om  him  ;  and  in 
the  course  of  this  very  day  we  shall  furnish 
ourselves  with  proper  authority  for  claiming 
and  producing  liim." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  the  priest. 
"  God  be  praised  that  the  heart  of  that 
charitable  and  Christian  woman  will  be  re- 


lieved at  last,  and  made  happy;  but  still  ] 
say,  see  old  Anthony.  He  is  as  deep  as  a 
draw-well,  and  as  close  as  an  oyster.  8ee 
him,  sir.  Take  my  advice,  now  that  the 
drame  has  fi-ightened  him,  and  call  upon  the 
old  sinner.  He  may  serve  you  in  more  ways 
than  you  know." 

"  Well,  as  you  advise  me  to  do  so,  I  shall ; 
but  I  do  not  relish  the  old  fellow  at  all." 

"  Nobody  does,  nor  ever  did.  He  and  all 
his  family  lived  as  if  everj'  one  of  them  car- 
ried a  Uttle  world  of  their  own  within  them. 
Maj'be  tliej-  do  ;  and  God  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing it,  but  I  don't  tliink  if  its  secrets  were 
known,  that  it  Avould  be  found  a  very  pleasant 
world.  May  the  Lord  change  them,  and 
turn  their  hearts  !  " 

After  some  further  chat,  the  priest  took 
his  departure,  but  promised  to  see  his  friend 
fi'om  time  to  time,  before  he  should  leave 
town. 

The  stranger  felt  that  the  priest's  advice 
to  see  old  Corbet  again  was  a  good  one. 
The  interview  could  do  no  harm,  and  might 
be  productive  of  some  good,  provided  he 
could  be  prevailed  on  to  speak  out.  He  ac- 
cordingly directed  his  steps  once  more  to 
Constitution  Hill,  where  he  found  the  old 
man  at  his  usual  post  behind  the  counter. 

"  Well,  Corbet,"  said  he,  "alive  still  ?  " 

"  Alive  still,  sir,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  can't 
be  so  always  ;  the  best  of  us  must  go." 

"  Very  true,  Corbet,  if  we  could  think  of 
it  as  we  ought ;  but,  somehow,  it  hajji^ens 
that  most  jjeople  live  in  tliis  world  as  if  they 
were  never  to  die." 

"That's  too  trae,  su" — unfortunately  too 
tiiie,  God  help  us  !  " 

"  Corbet,"  jjroceeded  the  stranger,  "  noth- 
ing can  conrince  me  that  you  don't  know 
something  about " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  old 
man  ;  "  we  had  betther  go  into  the  next 
room.  Here,  PoUy,"  he  shouted  to  his  wife, 
who  was  inside,  "  ^vnll  you  come  and  stand 
the  shop  awhile '? " 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,"  replied  the  old  wo- 
man, making  her  appearance.  "  How  do  you 
do,  sir,"  she  added,  addressing  the  stranger; 
"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well." 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  rei^lied  the  stran- 
ger :  "I  can  return  the  compliment,  as  they 
say." 

"  Keep  the  shop,  PoUy,"  said  the  old  man 
sharply,  "  and  don't  make  the  same  mistake 
you  made  awhile  ago — give  away  a  stone  o' 
meal  for  half  a  stone.  No  wondher  for  us  to 
be  poor  at  sich  a  rate  of  doiu'  things  as  that. 
Walk  in,  if  you  plaise,  sir." 

They  accordingly  entered  the  room,  and 
the  stranger,  after  they  had  taken  seats,  re- 
sumed, 


566 


WILLIAM  CAltLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  I  was  going  to  say,  Corbet,  that  nothing 
can  convince  me  that  you  don't  know  more 
about  the  disappearance  of  Lady  Gourlay's 
heir  than  you  are  disjjosed  to  acknowledge." 

The  hard,  severe,  disagreeable  expression 
returned  once  more  to  his  features,  as  he  re- 
jjlied, 

"  Troth,  sir,  it  appears  you  vnll  believe  so, 
whether  or  not.  But  now,  sir,  in  case  I  did, 
what  would  you  say  ?  I'm  talkiu'  for  suj)po- 
sitiou's  sake,  mind.  Wouldn't  a  man  de- 
sai'\'e  something  that  could  give  you  infor- 
mation on  the  subject  ?  " 

"This  avaricious  old  man,"  tliought  the 
stranger,  pausing  as  if  to  consider  the  pro- 
position, "  was  holding  us  out  all  along,  in 
order  to  make  the  most  of  his  information. 
The  information,  however,  is  already  in  our 
possession,  and  he  comes  too  late.  So  far  I 
am  gratified  that  we  are  in  a  position  to 
punish  him  by  disappointing  his  avarice." 

"  We  would,  Corbet,  if  the  information 
wei-e  necessary,  but  at  present  it  is  not ;  we 
don't  require  it." 

Corbet  started,  and  his  keen  old  eyes 
gleamed  with  an  expression  between  terror 
and  incredulity. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "you  don't  require  it! 
4i'e  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so.  Some  time  ago  we  would 
have  rewarded  you  hberally,  had  you  made 
any  available  disclosui-e  to  us  ;  but  now  it  is 
too  late.  The  information  we  had  been 
seeking  for  so  anxiously,  accidentally  came  to 
us  fi'om  another  quarter.  You  see  now, 
Corbet,  how  you  have  overshot  the  mark, 
and  pimished  yom'self.  Had  you  been  in- 
fluenced by  a  priucijile  of  common  justice, 
you  would  have  been  entitled  to  expect  and 
receive  a  most  ample  cornpensatiou  ;  a  com- 
pensation beyond  your  hopes,  probably  be- 
yond your  very  wishes,  and  certainly  beyond 
yoiu"  wants.  As  matters  stand,  however,  I 
tell  you  now  that  I  would  not  give  you  six- 
pence for  any  information  you  could  com- 
municate." 

Anthony  gave  him  a  derisive  look,  and 
pursed  up  his  thin  miserhke  lips  into  a  grin 
of  most  sinister  triumi^h. 

"  Wouldn't  you,  indeed  ?  "  said  he.  "  Ai-e 
you  quite  sure  of  what  you  say  V  " 

"Quite  certain  of  it." 

"  Well,  now,  how  positive  some  peoi^le  is. 
You  have  found  him  out,  then  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  shrewd  look.  "  You  have  found  him, 
and  you  don't  require  any  information  from 
me." 

"  Whether  we  have  found  him  or  not," 
rephed  the  other,  "  is  a  question  which  I  will 
not  answer  ;  but  that  we  require  no  infor- 
mation from  you,  is  fact.  WhUe  it  was  a 
marketable  couunodity,  you  refused  to  dis- 


pose of  it ;  but,  now,  we  have  got  the  supph 
elsewhere." 

"Well,  sii-,"  said  Anthony,  "all  I  can  say 
is,  that  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it ;  and  it's  no 
harm,  surely,  to  wish  you  joy  of  it." 

The  same  mocking  sneer  which  accom- 
panied this  obsei-^-ation  was  perfectly  vexa- 
tious ;  it  seemed  to  say,  "  So  you  think,  but 
you  may  be  mistaken,  Take  care  that  I 
haven't  you  in  my  power  stdl." 

"  'Why  do  you  look  in  that  disagreeable 
way,  Corbet?  I  never  saw  a  man  whose 
face  can  express  one  thing,  and  his  words 
another,  so  efifectuallj'  as  yoiu's,  when  you 
wish." 

"You  mane  to  say,  sir,"  he  returned,  with 
a  true  sardonic  smUe,  "  that  my  face  isn't  an 
obedient  face  ;  bvit  sm-e  I  can't  helj}  that. 
This  is  the  face  that  God  has  given  me,  and 
I  must  be  content  with  it,  such  as  it  is." 

"I  was  told  this  moniing  by  Father 
M'Mahon,"  rej)lied  the  other,  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  him  as  soon  as  he  could,  "  that  you 
had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  me." 

"  I  beheve  I  did  say  something  to  that  ef- 
fect ;  but  then  it  appeal's  you  know  eveiy- 
thing  yourself,  and  don't  want  my  assist- 
ance." 

"  Any  assistance  we  may  at  a  future  time 
requu'e  at  your  hands  we  shall  be  able  to  ex- 
tort from  you  through  the  laws  of  the  land 
and  of  justice ;  and  if  it  appeai-s  that  you 
have  been  an  accompUce  or  agent  in  such 
a  deejj  and  diaboHcal  crmie,  neither  power, 
I  nor  wealth,  nor  cunning,  shall  be  able  to 
jH'otect  you  fi'om  the  utmost  rigor  of  the 
law.  You  had  neither  mercy  nor  com- 
passion on  the  widow  or  her  child  ;  and  the 
p)robabLhty  is,  that,  old  as  you  are,  you  will 
be  made  to  taste  the  deepest  disgi'aee,  and 
the  heaviest  punishment  that  c.m  be  annexed 
to  the  crime  you  have  committed." 

A  singular  change  came  over  the  features 
of  the  old  man.  Paleness  in  age,  especially 
when  conscience  bears  its  secret  but  power- 
ful testimony  against  the  individual  thus 
charged  home  as  Corbet  was,  sometimes 
gives  an  awful,  almost  an  appalling  ex- 
pression to  the  countenance.  The  stranger, 
who  knew  that  the  man  he  addi-essed, 
though  cunning,  evasive,  and  unscrupulous, 
was,  nevertheless,  hesitating  and  timid,  saw 
by  his  looks  that  he  had  produced  an  un- 
usual impression  ;  and  he  resolved  to  follow 
it  up,  rather  to  gratify  the  momentary 
amusement  which  he  felt  at  his  alai-m,  than 
from  any  other  motive.  In  fact,  the  appoai-- 
ance  of  Corbet  was  extraordinary.  A  death- 
hke  color,  which  his  advanced  state  of  hfe 
renders  it  impossible  to  describe,  took  pos- 
session of  liim  ;  his  eyes  lost  the  bitter  ex- 
pression so  peeuliai-  to  them — his  firm  thiu 


THE  BLACK  BARON'ET. 


567 


lips  relaxed  and  spread,  and  the  comers  of 
his  mouth  droj^ped  so  lupfubriously,  that 
the  stranger,  although  he  felt  that  the  ex- 
ample of  cowermg  guilt  then  before  him  was 
a  solemn  one,  could  scarcely  refi-ain  from 
smiling  at  what  he  witnessed. 

"  How  far  now  do  you  think,  su%"  asked 
Corbet,  "  could  punishment  in  such  a  case 
go?  Mind,  I'm  putting  myself  out  of  the 
question  ;  I'm  safe,  any  how,  and  that's  one 
comfort." 

"For  a  reply  to  that  question,"  returned 
the  other,  "  you  will  have  to  go  to  the  judge 
and  the  hangman.  There  was  a  time  when 
you  might  have  asked  it,  and  answered  it 
too,  with  safety  to  yourself ;  but  now  that 
time  has  gone  b}%  and  I  fear  very  much  that 
your  day  of  grace  is  jsast." 

"  That's  very  like  what  James  tould  me  m 
my  dhrame,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  solilo- 
quy, dictated  by  his  alarm.  "  Well,  sir,"  he 
replied,  "  maybe,  afther  all — but  didn't  you 
say  awhile  ago  that  you  wouldn't  give  six- 
jience  for  any  information  I  could  furnish 
you  vidth  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  I  do." 

A  gleam  of  his  former  character  returned 
to  his  eye,  as,  gathering  up  his  hps  again, 
he  said,  "  I  could  soon  show  you  to  the 
contrarj'." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  wUl  not  do  so.  I  see  clear- 
ly that  you  are  infatuated.  It  appears  to 
me  that  there  is  an  evil  fate  hanging  over 
you,  like  some  hungry  raven,  following  and 
watching  the  motions  of  a  sick  old  horse  that 
is  reduced  to  skin  and  bone.  You're  doom- 
ed, I  think." 

"  Well,  now,"  replied  Anthony,  the  corners 
of  whose  mouth  dropped  again  at  this  start- 
bng  and  not  inappropriate  comparison,  "  to 
show  how  much  you  are  mistaken,  let  me  ask 
how  your  business  with  Lord  Cullamore 
gets  on  ?  I  believe  there's  a  screw  loose 
there  ? — eh  ?     I  mean  on  your  side — eh  ?  " 

It  wasn't  in  his  nature  to  restrain  the  sin- 
ister expression  which  a  consciousness  of  his 
advantage  over  the  stranger  caused  him  to  feel 
in  his  turn.  The  grin,  besides,  which  he  gave 
liim,  after  he  had  thrown  out  these  hints, 
had  sometliing  of  reprisal  in  it ;  and,  to  teU 
the  truth,  the  stranger's  face  now  became  as 
l)lank  and  lugnibiious  as  Anthony's  had  been 
before. 

"  If  I  don't  mistake,"  he  continued — for 
the  other  was  too  much  astonished  to  reply, 
"  if  I  don't  mistake,  there's  a  couple  o'  bits 
of  paper  that  would  stand  your  friend,  if  you 
could  lay  yoiu-  claws  upon  them." 

"  AVhether  they  could,  or  could  not,  is  no 
ailiiir  of  yours,  my  good  sir-,"  replied  the 
stranger,  rising  and  getting  his  hat ;  "  and 
whether  I  have  changed  my  mind  on   the 


subject  you  hint  at  is  a  matter  known  only 
to  myself.     I  wish  you  good-day." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Anthony,  prob- 
ably satisfied  with  the  fact  of  his  having 
turned  the  tables  and  had  liis  revenge  on 
the  stranger  ;  "I  beg  your  jiardon,  sir.  Let 
us  part  friends,  at  all  events.  Set  in  case 
now " 

"  I  will  hsten  to  none  of  those  half  sen- 
tences. You  cannot  possibly  speak  out,  I 
see  ;  in  fact,  you  are  tongue-tied  by  the  cord 
of  j'our  evil  fate.  Upon  no  subject  can  you 
speak  until  it  is  too  late." 

"  God  direct  me  now  !  "  exclaimed  Corbet 
to  himself  "  I  think  the  time  is  come  ;  for, 
unless  I  relieve  mj  conscience  before  I'm 
called — James  he  tould  me  the  other  night — 
Well,  sir,"  he  proceeded,  "  listen.  If  I  be- 
friend j-ou,  will  you  promise  to  stand  my 
friend,  if  I  should  get  into  any  difficulty  ?  " 

"  I  will  enter  into  no  comjwomise  of  the  kind 
with  you,"  said  the  other.  "  If  you  are 
about  to  do  an  act  of  justice,  you  ought  to 
do  it  without  conditions  ;  and  if  you  possctS 
any  document  that  is  of  value  to  another, 
and  of  none  to  yourself,  and  yet  will  not  re- 
store it  to  the  i^roper  owner,  you  are  grossly 
dishonest,  and  cajJable  of  all  that  will  soon,  I 
tmst,  be  established  against  you  and  your 
employers.     Good-by,  llr.  Corbet." 

"  Aisy,  sir,  aisy,"  said  the  tenacious  and 
vacillating  old  knave.  "  Aisy,  I  say.  You 
will  be  generous,  at  any  rate  ;  for  you  know 
their  value.  How  much  will  you  give  me 
for  the  papers  I  spake  of — that  is,  in  case  I 
could  get  them  for  you  ?  " 

"  Not  sixpence.  A  fi'iend  has  just  returned 
from  France,  who — no,"  thought  he,  "I  will 
not ,  state  a  falsehood — Good-day,  JIi-.  Cor- 
bet ;  I  am  wasting  my  time." 

"  One  minute,  sir — one  minute.  It  may 
be  worth  your  while." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  trifle  vdi\\  me  by  these  re- 
luctant and  penurious  communications." 

Anthony  had  laid  down  his  head  upon  his 
hands,  whose  backs  were  suj^ported  by  the 
table  ;  and  in  this  position,  as  if  he  were 
working  himself  into  an  act  of  virtue  suffi- 
cient for  a  last  effort,  he  remained  untU  the 
stranger  began  to  wonder  what  he  meant. 
At  length  he  arose,  went  up  stall's  as  on  a 
former  occasion,  but  with  less — and  not 
??)  uch  less — hesitation  and  delay  ;  he  return- 
ed and  handed  him  the  identical  documents 
of  which  M'Bride  had  dej)rived  him. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  listen  to  me.  You  know 
the  value  of  these  ;  but  that  isn't  what  I 
want  to  spake  -to  you  about,  ^^^latever  you 
do  about  the  widow's  son,  don't  do  it  without, 
lettin'  me  know,  and  consultiu'  me — ay,  and 
bein'  guided  by  me  ;  for  although  you  all 
ttiink  yourselves  right,  you  may  find  your- 


56S 


WILLIAM  CARLETOy'S   WOIiKS. 


selves  in  the  wrong  box  still.  Think  of  this 
now,  and  it  will  be  better  for  you.  I'm  not 
sure,  but  I'll  open  all  your  eyes  yet,  and  that 
before  long  ;  for  I  believe  the  time  has  come 
at  last.  Now  that  I've  given  you  these 
papers,"  (extracted,  by  the  way,  from 
M'Bride's  pockets  duiing  his  drunkenness, 
by  Ginty  Coojjer,  on  the  night  she  dogged 
him,)  "  you  must  promise  me  one  thing." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  I  suppose  you  know  where  this  boy  is  ? 
Now,  when  you're  goin'  to  find  him,  will  you 
bring  me  with  you  ?  " 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  It  'U  plaise  an  ould  man,  at  any  rate  ; 
but  there  may  be  other  raisons.  WiU  you 
ilothis?" 

The  stranger,  concluding  that  the  wisest 
Ihing  was  to  give  him  his  way,  promised  ac- 
fordingly,  and  the  old  man  seemed  some- 
what satisfied. 

"  One  man,  at  all  events,  I'll  punish,  if  I 
should  sacrifice  every  child  I  have  in  doin' 
S3  ;  and  it  is  in  order  that  he  may  be  punish- 
ed to  the  heart — to  the  maiTow — to  the  soul 
within  him — that  I  got  these  papers,  and 
gave  them  to  you." 

"Corbet,"  said  the  stranger,  "be  the 
cause  of  your  revenge  what  it  may,  its  in'in- 
ciple  in  your  heart  is  awful.  You  are,  in 
fact,  a  dreadful  old  man.  May  I  ask  how 
you  came  by  these  papers  ?  " 

"You  may,"  he  replied  ;  "but  I  won't  an- 
swer you.  At  a  future  time  it  is  likely  I  will 
— but  not  now.  It's  enough  for  you  to  have 
them." 

On  his  way  home  the  stranger  called  at 
Blmey's  office,  where  he  produced  the  docu- 
ments ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  latter 
r,'entleman  shoidd  wait  upon  Lord  CuUa- 
more  the  next  day,  iu  order  to  lay  before 
Uim  the  proofs  on  which  they  were  about 
io  proceed  ;  for,  as  they  were  now  complete, 
they  thought  it  more  respectful  to  that 
venerable  old  nobleman  to  appeal  jsrivately 
to  his  own  good  sense,  whether  it  would  not 
be  more  for  the  honor  of  his  family  to  give 
him  an  opportimity  of  yielding  quietly,  and 
without  jjubhc  scandal,  than  to  drag  the 
matter  before  the  world  iu  a  court  of  justice. 
It  was  so  aiTanged  ;  and  a  suitable  warrant 
having  been  procmed  to  enable  them  to  pro- 
duce the  body  of  the  unfortunate  Feutou, 
the  23roceediugs  of  that  day  closed  very  much 
to  their  satisfaction. 

The  next  day,  between  two  and  three 
o'clock,  a  visitor,  on  particular  business,  was 
announced  to  Lord  CuUamore  ;  and  on  be- 
ing desireil  to  walk  up,  our  fiiend  Birney 
made  his  bow  to  his  lordslni3.  Having  been 
desii'ed  to  faike  a  seat,  he  sat  down,  and  his 
tordship,  who  appeared  to  be  very  feeble. 


looked  inquiringly  at  him,  intimating  there< 
by  that  he  waited  to  know  the  object  of  his 
visit. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  attorney,  "in  the 
whole  coiu'se  of  my  professional  life,  a  duty 
so  painful  as  this  has  never  devolved  upoi: 
me.  I  come  supjjorted  with  jjroofs  sulii  • 
cient  to  satisfy  you  that  your  title  and  pro- 
perty cannot  descend  to  your  son,  Lortl 
Dunroe." 

"I  have  no  other  son,  sn,"  said  his  lord- 
ship, reprovingly. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that  you  ha\e, 
my  lord.  I  only  assert  that  he  who  is  snp- 
jjosed  to  be  the  present  heir,  is  not  reaUj-  so 
at  all." 

"  Upon  what  jjroofs,  sir,  do  j-ou  gi'ound 
that  assertion  ?  " 

"  Upon  proofs,  my  lord,  the  most  valid 
and  irrefi-agable  ;  proofs  that  cannot  be 
questioned,  even  for  a  moment  ;  and,  least 
of  all,  by  your  lordship,  who  ai'e  best  ac- 
Cjuainted  with  their  force  and  authenticity. " 

"Have  you  got  them  about  you?  " 

"  I  have  got  eoisies  of  the  documentary 
proofs,  ray  lord,  and  I  shall  now  place  them 
before  you." 

"  Yes  ;  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  see 
them." 

Bu'ney  immediately  handed  him  the  docu- 
ments, and  mentioned  the  facts  of  which 
they  were  the  proofs.  In  fact,  only  one  of 
them  was  absohtteli/  necessai-y,  and  that  was 
simply  the  record  of  a  death  duly  and  regu- 
larly attested. 

The  old  man  seemed  struck  with  dismay  ; 
for,  ruitii  this  moment  he  had  not  been  cleai'- 
ly  in  possession  of  the  facts  which  were  now- 
brought  against  him,  as  they  were  stated,  and 
made  plain  as  to  their  results,  byMi\  Buney. 

"I  do  not  know  much  of  law,"  he  said, 
"  but  enough,  I  think,  to  satisfy  me,  that  un- 
less you  have  other  and  stronger  proofs  than 
this,  you  cannot  succeed  in  disinheriting  my 
son.  I  have  seen  the  originals  of  those  be- 
fore, but  I  had  forgotten  some  facts  and 
dates  connected  with  them  at  the  time." 

"  We  have  the  collateral  proof  you  speak 
of,  my  lord,  and  can  produce  personal  evi- 
dence to  corroborate  those  which  I  have 
shown  you." 

"  May  I  ask  who  that  evidence  is  ?  " 

"A  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  my  lord — formerly 
Norton — who  had  been  maid  to  your  first 
wife  while  she  resided  privately  in  Frimce— 
was  a  witness  to  her  death,  and  had  it  duly 
registered." 

"  But  even  granting  this,  I  think  you  will 
be  called  on  to  j^i'ove  the  intention  on  my 
part :  that  which  a  man  does  in  ignorance 
cannot,  and  ought  not  to  be  called  a  violation 
of  the  law. " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


5(;s 


"  Bnt  ibe  law  't  th?£  case  will  deal  only 
with  fac'oS,  my  lord  ;  and  your  lordship  must 
ncTV  see  •v.A  feci  that  ^re  arc  in  a  cajjacity  to 
prove  theru.  And  bf-fcrs  I  piocced  further, 
my  lori?,  I  beg  to  say,  tbat  1  a:ji  instructed 
to  appeal  to  yooi  lordship's  good  sense, 
and  to  that  consideration  for  the  feeUngs  of 
your  family,  by  v/liicb,  I  tmst,  you  will  be 
mfliionced,  wlietber,  sati.-.fi.cd  as  you  must  be 
of  your  position.  H  would  not  be  more  judi- 
cious on  your  own  part  to  concede  our  just 
riglits,  seeing,  as  you  clearly  may,  that  they 
arfi  incontrovertible,  than  to  force  us  to 
Diing  the  mattnr  before  the  jiublic  ;  a  cir- 
cumstance wJiich,  so  far  as  you  are  yoiu-self 
"onofernsd,  must  be  inexpressibly  painful, 
uQd  as  rsgprds  other  members  of  your-  fam- 
ily, perfectly  deplorable  and  distressing.  We 
wish,  my  lord,  to  spare  the  innocent  as  much 
a:-j  we  can." 

"I  am  innocent,  sir  ;  your  j)roofs  only  es- 
tablish an  act  done  by  me  in  ignorance." 

"We  grant  that,  my  lord,  at  once,  and 
■without  for  a  moment  charging  you  with  any 
dishonorable  motive  ;  but  what  we  insist  on 
— can  prove — and  your  lordship  cannot  deny 
— is,  that  the  act  you  speak  of  was  dune,  and 
done  at  a  certain  jxriod.  I  do  beseech  you, 
my  lord,  to  think  well  and  seriously  of  my 
proposal,  for  it  is  made  in  a  kind  and  respect- 
ful si)irit." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  his  loi-dship, 
"  and  those  who  instmcted  you  to  regard  my 
feelings  ;  but  this  you  must  admit  is  a  case 
of  too  mucli  importance,  in  which  interests 
of  too  much  consequence  are  involved,  for 
me  to  act  in  it  without  the  advice  and  oj)in- 
iou  of  my  lavvyers." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  my  lord ;  I  es- 
jiocted  no  less  ;  and  if  youi"  lordship  mil  re- 
fer me  to  them,  I  shall  have  no  hesitation  in 
lajing  the  grounds  of  our  proceedings  be- 
fore them,  and  the  proofs  by  which  they  will 
be  sustained." 

This  was  assented  to  on  the  part  of  Lord 
CuUamore,  and  it  is  only  necessary  to  say, 
that,  in  a  few  days  subsequently,  his  lavs'j'ers, 
upon  sifting  and  thoroughly  examining 
everything  that  came  before  them,  gave  it  as 
their  opinion — and  both  were  men  of  the 
very  highest  standing — that  his  lordship  had 
no  defence  whatsoever,  and  that  his  wisest 
plan  was  to  yield  without  allowing  the  mat- 
ter to  go  to  a  pubhc  trial,  the  details  of 
which  must  so  deeply  afiiect  the  honor  of  his 
children. 

This  communication,  signed  in  the  form 
oi  a  regular  opinion  by  both  these  eminent 
gentlemen,  was  received  by  his  lordship  on 
the  fourth  i  lay  after  Bimey's  visit  to  him  on 
the  subject 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  he  had 


perused  it,  his  lordship's  bell  rang,  and  Mor- 
ty  O'Flaherty,  his  man,  entered, 

"Morty,"  said  his  lordship,  "desire  Lord 
Dmiroe  to  come  to  me ;  I  wish  to  speak  with 
him.     Is  he  within  ?  " 

"  He  has  just  come  in,  my  lord.  Yes,  my 
lord,  I'U  send  him  up." 

His  lordship  tapped  the  arms  of  his  easy 
chair  with  the  lingers  of  both  hands,  and 
looked  unconsciously  upon  his  servant,  with 
a  face  full  of  the  deepest  sorrow  and  anguish, 

The  look  was  not  lost  ujjon  Morty,  who 
sml,  as  he  went  down  stairs,  "There's  some- 
thing beyond  the  common  on  my  lord's  mind 
tliis  day.  He  was  bad  enough  before  ;  but 
now  he  looks  like  a  man  that  has  got  the 
very  heart  vvithin  him  broken." 

He  met  Dunroe  in  the  hall,  and  delivered 
his  message,  but  added, 

"  I  think  his  lordshiij  has  had  disagi-ee- 
able  tidin's  of  some  kind  to-day,  my  lord.  I 
never  saw  him  look  so  ill.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  my  lord,  I  think  he  has  death  in  his 
face."  . 

"Well,  Morty,"  repUed  his  lordship,  ad- 
justing his  coUar,  "  you  know  we  must  all 
die.  I  cannot  guess  what  unpleasant  tidings 
he  may  have  heard  to-day  ;  but  I  know  that 
I  have  heard  little  else  from  him  this  many 
a  day.  TeU  Mr.  Norton  to  see  about  the 
bills  I  gave  him,  and  have  them  cashed  as 
soon  as  possible.  If  not,  curse  me,  I'U  sliy 
a  decanter  at  his  head  after  dinner." 

He  then  went  rather  reluctantly  up  stairs, 
and  presented  himself,  in  no  very  amiable 
temper,  to  his  father. 

Having  taken  a  seat,  he  looked  at  the  old 
man,  and  found  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
with  an  expression  of  rej^roof,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  profovuid  aiHietion. 

"  Dunroe,"  said  the  earl,  "  j-ou  did  not  call 
to  inquire  after  me  for  the  last  two  or  three 
days." 

"  I  did  not  call,  my  lord,  ceriainly  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  I  inquired.  The  fact  is,  I  feel 
disinclined  to  be  lectured  at  such  a  rate  every 
time  I  come  to  see  you.  As  for  Norton,  I 
have  already  told  you,  with  every  resjject  for 
your  opinion  and  authoiity,  that  you  have 
taken  an  unfounded  j^rejudice  against  him, 
and  that  I  neither  can  nor  will  get  rid  of  him, 
as  you  call  it.  You  surely  would  not  exjiect 
me  to  act  dishonorably,  my  lord." 

"  I  did  not  send  for  you  now  to  speak  about 
him,  John.  I  have  a  much  more  serious,  and 
a  much  more  distressing  communication  to 
make  to  you." 

The  son  opened  his  eyes,  and  stared  at 
him. 

"  It  may  easily  be  so,  my  lord  ;  but  what 
is  it?" 

"  Unfortunate  young  man,  it  is  this — You 


570 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'S  WORKS. 


axe  cut  ofif  from  the  inliei-itanee  of  my  prop- 
erty and  title." 

"  Sickness,  my  lord,  and  i^eevislmess,  have 
impaired  your  intellects,  I  think.  What 
kind  of  language  is  this  to  hold  to  me,  your 
son  and  heir  '? " 

"  My  son,  John,  but  not  my  heir." 

"  Don't  you  know,  mj'  lord,  that  what  you 
say  is  iinijossible.  If  I  am  your  son,  I  am, 
of  course,  your  heir." 

"  No,  Jolm,  for  the  simplest  reason  in  the 
•world.  At  jjresent  you  must  rest  contented 
■with  the  fact  which  I  announce  to  you — for 
fact  it  is.  I  have  not  now  strength  enough 
to  detail  it ;  but  I  shall  Avhen  I  feel  that  I  am 
equal  to  it.  Indeed,  I  knew  it  not  myself, 
with  perfect  certainty,  until  to-day.  Some 
vague  susisicion  I  had  of  late,  but  the  jiroofs 
that  were  laid  before  me,  and  laid  before  me 
in  a  generous  and  forbearing  spii'it,  have  now 
satisfied  me  that  you  have  no  claim,  as  I  said, 
to  either  title  or  property." 

"  Why,  as  I've  life,  my  lord,  this  is  mere 
dotage.  A  foul  consjDiracy  has  been  got  up, 
and  you  yield  to  it  ^vithout  a  struggle.  Do 
you  think,  whatever  you  may  do,  that  I  will 
bear  this  tamely  ?  I  am  aware  that  a  con- 
spiracy has  been  getting  up,  and  /  also  have 
had  my  suspicions." 

'•It  is  out  of  my  power,  John,  to  secure 
you  the  inheritance." 

"This  is  stark  folly,  my  lord — confounded 
nonsense — if  you  will  j^ardon  me.  Out  of 
your  piower  !  Made  siUy  and  weak  in  mind 
by  illness,  your  opinion  is  not  now  worth 
much  upon  any  subject.  It  is  not  your  fault, 
I  admit ;  but,  upon  my  soul,  I  really  have 
serio'.is  doubts  whether  you  are  in  a  sufficient- 
ly sane  state  of  mind  to  manage  your  own 
affairs." 

"  Undutifiil  young  man,"  replied  his  father, 
with  bitterness,  "if  that  were  a  test  of  in- 
sanity, you  yourself  ought  to  have  been  this 
many  a  day  in  a  strait  waistcoat.  I  know  it 
is  natural  that  you  should  feel  this  blow 
deeply  ;  but  it  is  neither  natural  nor  dutiful 
that  you  should  address  your  pai^ent  in  such 
unpardonable  language." 

"  If  what  that  parent  says  be  tree,  my  lord, 
he  has  himself,  by  his  past  vices,  disinherited 
his  son." 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  old  man,  whilst  a 
languid  Hush  of  indignation  was  visible  on 
his  face,  "  he  has  not  done  so  liy  his  vices  ; 
but  you,  su',  have  morally  disinherited  your- 
self by  your  rices,  by  your  general  profligacy, 
by  your  indefensible  extravagixnce,  and  by 
your  egregious  folly,  A  man  placed  in  the 
jiosition  which  you  would  have  occupied, 
ought  to  be  a  light  and  an  exami^le  to  society, 
and  not  what  you  have  been,  a  reproach  to 
your  family,  and  a  disgrace  to  your  class. 


The  rirtues  of  a  man  of  rank  sbca'd  be  in 
proportion  to  his  station  :  but  yoi'  nave  Jis- 
tinguished  youi'?eif  only  by  boldijfr  up  to 
the  world  the  debasing  example  of  a  dishon- 
orable and  liccnlic'j"  )ife.  What  virtue  can 
you  jslead  to  estabhsh  a  ]ust  claim  to  a  po- 
sition which  demands  a  mind  capable  of  un- 
derstanding the  weighty  responsibilities  that 
are  annexed  to  it,  and  a  lieart  possessed  of 
such  enhghtened  principles  as  may  enable 
him  to  discharge  them  in  a  spirit  that  will 
constitute  him,  what  he  ought  to  be,  a  hi/yh 
example  and  a  generous  benefactor  to  his 
kind?  Not  one  :  but  if  selfishness,  confefflpt 
for  all  the  moral  obligations  of  life,  a  licen- 
tious spirit  that  mocks  at  religion  and  lookb 
upon  human  virtue  as  an  unreality  and  a  jest 
— if  these  were  to  give  you  a  claim  to  the 
possession  of  rank  and  property,  I  know  of 
no  one  more  admirably  qualified  to  enjoy 
them.  Dimroe,  I  am  not  now  far  from  tLe 
grave  ;  but  hsten,  and  pay  attention  to  my 
voice,  for  it  is  a  warning  voice." 

"  It  was  always  so,"  rejilied  his  son,  with 
sulky  indignation  ;  "  it  was  never  anything 
else  ;  a  mere  passing  bell  that  uttered  noth- 
ing but  advices,  lectures,  coffins,  and  cross- 
bones." 

"It  uttered  only  trutli  Ihen,  Dunroe,  as 
you  feel  noio  to  your  cost.  C!lmnge  your  im- 
moral habits.  I  wiU  not  bid  you  repent ;  be- 
cause you  would  only  sneer  at  the  word  ;  but 
do  endeavor  to  feel  regTet  for  the  kind  of  life 
j'ou  have  led,  and  give  up  your  evil  propen- 
sities ;  cease  to  be  a  heartless  spendthrift ; 
remember  that  you  are  a  man  :  remember 
that  you  have  imp)ortant  duties  to  perform  ; 
believe  that  there  are  such  things  as  religion, 
and  rirtue,  and  honor  in  the  world  ;  beheve 
that  there  is  a  God,  a  wise  Providence,  who 
governs  that  world  upon  princijiles  of  eternal 
truth  and  justice,  and  to  whom  you  must  ac- 
count, in  another  life,  for  your  conduct  in 
this." 

"WeU,  really,  my  lord,"  replied  Dunroe, 
"  as  it  appeai-s  that  the  lecture  is  all  you  have 
to  bestow  ujDon  me,  I  am  quite  willing  that 
yoti  should  disinherit  me  of  that  also.  I 
waive  every  claim  to  it.  But  so  do  I  not  to 
my  just  rights.  We  shall  see  what  a  court 
of  law  can  do." 

"  You  may  try  it,  and  entail  disgi-ace  upon 
yourself  and  your  sister.  As  for  my  child, 
it  wiU  break  her  heart.  My  God  !  my  child  ! 
my  child !  " 

"  Not,  certainly,  my  lord,  if  we  shoidd 
succeed." 

"  All  hopes  of  success  are  out  of  the 
question,"  replied  his  father. 

"  No  such  tiling,  my  lord.  Yoin-  mind,  as 
I  said,  is  enfeebled  by  ilhiess,  and  you  yield 
too  easily.     Such  conduct  on  your  part  is 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


571 


really  ridiculous.  We  shall  have  a  tug  for  it, 
I  am  determined." 

"Here,"  said  his  father,  "cast  your  eye 
over  these  papers,  and  they  -will  enable 
you  to  uuderstfind,  not  merely  the  grounds 
I'.pon  which  our  opjDonents  proceed,  but  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  contesting  the  matter 
with  theiii." 

Diuiroe  took  the  papers,  but  before  look- 
ing at  them  rephed,  with  a  great  deal  of 
coiiDdeace,  "you  are  quite  mistaken  there, 
my  lord,  with  eveiy  respect.  They  are  not 
in  a  jjosition  to  prove  their  allegations." 

"  How  so?  "  said  his  father. 

"  For  the  best  reason  in  the  world,  my 
lord.  We  have  had  their  jDroofs  in  oiu' 
jjossession  and  destroyed  them." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  The  fellow,  M'Bride,  of  whom  I  think 
your  lordship  knows  something,  had  their 
documents  in  his  possession." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that." 

"  Well,  my  lord,  while  in  a  drunken  fit,  he 
either  lost  them,  or  some  one  took  them  out 
of  his  pocket.  I  certaiulj'  would  have  pur- 
chased them  from  him." 

"  Did  you  know  how  he  came  by  them?" 
asked  his  father,  with  a  look  of  reproof  and 
anger. 

"  That,  my  lord,  was  no  consideration  of 
mine.  As  it  was,  however,  he  certainly  lost 
them  ;  but  we  learned  from  him  that  Bir- 
ney,  the  attorney,  was  about  to  proceed  to 
-France,  in  order  to  get  fresh  attested  copies  ; 
upon  which,  as  he  knew  the  party  there  in 
whose  hands  the  registry  was  kej^t,  Norton 
and  he  started  a  day  or  two  in  advance  of 
him,  and  on  arriving  thei-e,  they  fomid,  much 
to  our  advantage,  that  the  register  was  dead. 
M'Bride,  however,  who  is  an  adroit  fellow, 
and  was  well  acquainted  with  his  house  and 
premises,  contrived  to  secure  the  book  in 
which  the  original  record  was  made — which 
book  he  has  burned — so  that,  in  point  of 
fact,  they  have  no  legal  jn-oofs  on  which  to 
proceed." 

"  Dishonorable  man !  "  said  his  father, 
rising  up  in  a  state  of  the  deepest  emotion. 
"  You  have  made  me  weary  of  life  ;  you 
have  broken  my  heart :  and  so  you  would 
stoop  to  defend  youi-self,  or  your  rights,  by 
a  crime — by  a  cringe  so  low,  fi-audulent,  and 
base — that  here,  in  the  privacy  of  my  own 
chamber,  and  standing  face  to  face  with  you, 
I  am  absolutely  ashamed  to  call  you  my  son. 
Know,  sir,  that  if  it  were  a  dukedom,  I 
should  scorn  to  contest  it,  or  to  retain  it,  at 
the  expense  of  my  honor." 

"That's  all  very  fine  talk,  my  lord  ;  but, 
ujiou  my  soul,  wherever  I  can  get  an  ad- 
vantage, I'll  take  it.  I  see  little  of  the  honor 
or  vii-tue  you  speak  of  gouig,  and,  I  do  assure 


you,  I  won't  be  considered  at  all  remai-kabla 
for  acting  up  to  my  own  princii)les.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  by  following  yours  that  I 
should  be  so." 

"I  think,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  I  see 
the  hand  of  God  in  this.  Unfortunate, 
obstinate,  and  irreclaimable  young  man,  it 
remains  for  me  to  tell  you  that  the  very 
documents,  which  you  say  have  been  lost  by 
the  villain  M'Bride,  with  whom,  in  his 
villainy,  you,  the  son  of  an  earl,  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  associate  yourself,  ai-e  now  in  the 
possession  of  our  opponents.  Take  those 
papers  to  your  room,"  he  added,  bur.stiug 
into  tears  :  "  take  them  away,  I  am  unable 
to  prolong  this  interview,  for  it  has  been  to 
me  a  source  of  deej^er  afitliction  than  the  loss 
of  the  highest  title  or  honor  that  the  hand  of 
royalty  could  bestow." 

When  Dunroe  was  about  to  leave  the 
room,  the  old  man,  who  had  again  sat  down, 
said  : 

"  Stop  a  moment.  Of  coui'se  it  is  un- 
necessiuy  to  %x\\  I  should  hope,  that  this 
union  between  you  and  Miss  Gourlay  cannot 
proceed." 

Dunroe,  who  felt  at  once  that  if  he  allowed 
his  father  to  suppose  that  he  persisted  in  it, 
the  latter  would  immediately  disclose  his 
position  to  the  baronet,  now  replied  : 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  have  no  great  ambition 
for  any  kind  of  alliance  with  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay.  I  never  liked  him  jjersonallj',  and 
I  am  sufficiently  a  man  of  spuit,  I  trust,  not 
to  urge  a  marriage  with  a  girl  who — who — 

cannot   ajjprceiate "      He    paused,    not 

knowing  exactly  how  to  till  up  the  sentence. 

"  WTio  has  no  rehsh  for  it,"  added  his 
father,  "  and  can't  apjsreciate  your  virtues, 
you  mean  to  say." 

"  What  I  mean  to  say,  my  lord,  is,  that 
where  there  is  no  great  share  of  affection  on 
either  side,  there  can  be  but  Uttle  prospect  of 
haj)piuess." 

"  Then  you  give  up  the  match  ?  " 

"  I  give  up  the  match,  my  lord,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  You  may  rest  assui'ed 
of  that." 

"  Because,"  added  his  father,  "  if  I  found 
that  you  persisted  in  it,  and  attempted  to 
enter  the  family,  and  impose  j'ourself  on  this 
admirable  girl,  as  that  which  you  are  not,  I 
would  consider  it  my  duty  to  acquaint  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  wth  the  unfortunate  dis- 
covery which  has  been  made.  Before  you 
go  I  will  thank  you  to  read  that  letter  for 
me.  It  comes,  I  think,  fi'om  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. My  sight  is  very  feeble  to-day,  and 
perhaps  it  may  require  a  speedy  answer." 

Dimroe  opened  the  letter,  which  informed 
Lord  Cullamore,  that  it  had  afforded  him, 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  much  satisfaction   to 


572 


WILLIAM  CARLETO:f'S    WOIiKS. 


promote  Periwinkle  Crackenfudge,  Esq..  to 

the  magistracy  of  the  county  of ,  vmder- 

stiinding,  as  he  did,  from  the  communication 
of  Sir  Thomas  Goiu-lav,  enclosed  in  his  lord- 
sliips  letter,  that  he  (Crackenfudge)  was,  by 
his  m:uiy  viitues,  good  sense,  discretion, 
humanity,  and  general  esteem  among  all 
classes,  as  well  as  by  his  popularity  in  the 
country,  a  person  in  evei-y  way  titted  to 
disoh;u-ge  the  important  duties  of  such  an 
appointment. 

"  I  feel  my  mind  at  ease,"  said  the  amiable 
old  nobleman,  "  in  aiding  such  an  admirable 
country  gentleman  as  this  Crackenfudge 
must  be,  to  a  seat  on  the  bench ;  for,  after 
all,  Dunroe,  it  is  only  by  the  contemplation 
of  a  good  action  that  we  can  be  happy.  You 
may  go," 

Some  few  days  passed,  when  Dunroe, 
having  re;id  the  pajjers,  the  contents  of 
which  he  did  not  wish  Norton  to  see,  re- 
turned them  to  his  father  in  sullen  sUence, 
and  then  rang  his  bell,  and  sent  for  his  wor- 
thy associate,  that  he  might  avail  himself  of 
his  better  judgrftent. 

"  Norton, "  s:ud  he,  "  it  is  all  up  vrith  us," 

"  How  is  that,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Those  papers,  that  M 'Bride  says  he  lost, 
are  in  the  hands  of  our  enemies," 

"  Don't  beUeve  it,  my  lord,  I  saw  the 
fellow  yesterday,  and  he  told  me  that  he  de- 
stroyed them  in  a  di-unken  fit,  for  which  he 
says  he  is  ready  to  cut  his  throat," 

"But  I  have  read  the  opinion  of  my 
father's  counsel,"  replied  his  lordship,  "and 
they  say  we  have  no  defence.  Now  you 
know  what  a  lawyer  is :  if  there  were  but  a 
hair-breadth  chance,  they  would  never  make 
an  admission  that  might  keej)  a  good  fat 
case  fi'om  getting  into  their  hands.  No ;  it 
is  all  up  with  us.  The  confounded  old  fool 
above  had  everything  laid  before  them,  and 
such  is  the  upshot.     "What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  ihu-riage,  without  loss  of  time — mar- 
riage, before  your  disaster  reaches  the  ears 
of  the  Black  Biironet." 

"Yes,  but  there  is  a  difficulty.  If  the 
venerable  old  nobleman  should  hear  of  it, 
he'd  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  le.ave  me 
in  the  liu-ch,  in  addition  to  the  penalty  of  a 
tlu-ee  hours'  lecture  uijon  honor.  Every- 
thing, however,  is  admirably  aiTanged  quoad 
the  maniage.  We  have  got  a  special  hcense 
for  the  purjjose  of  meeting  our  peculiar 
case,  so  that  the  mai'ri;ige  can  be  private ; 
that  is  to  say,  can  take  place  in  the  Lidy's 
own  house.  Do  you  think  though,  that 
M'Bride  has  actually  destiwed  the  papers "? " 

"  The  drunken  raffian !  certainly.  He 
gave  me  great  insolence  a  couple  of  days 
ago," 

""Why  so?" 


"  Because  I  didn't  hand  hiiu  over  -a  Lan- 
dred  pounds  for  his  journey  and  the  theft  o! 
the  registry," 

"  And  how  much  did  yoii  give  him, 
pray  ?  " 

"  A  fifty  fiound  note,  after  h.iying  p.iid 
his  expenses,  which  was  q\iite  enou-jh  lor 
him.  However,  as  I  did  not  w;?li  to  iK-ike 
the  scoundrel  our  enemy,  I  have  pr-^mis-ed 
him  something  more,  so  that  I've  uome  on 
good  terms  with  him  again.  He  isa  sJi^'^pery 
customer." 

"  Did  you  get  the  bills  cashed  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord  ;  I  am  going  about  it  now  ; 
but  I  tell  you  beforehand,  that  I  will  have 
some  difficidty  in  doing  it.  I  hope  to 
manage  it,  however ;  and  for  that  reason  I 
must  bid  you  good-by." 

"  The  fii-st  thing  to  do,  then,  is  to  settle 
that  iigly  business  about  the  mare.  By  no 
means  must  we  let  it  come  to  trial," 

"  Yeiy  well,  my  lord,  be  it  so,"' 

Norton,  after  leaving  his  dupe  to  medi- 
tate upon  the  circumstances  in  which  he 
found  himself,  began  to  retlect  as  he  went 
along,  that  he  himself  was  necessarily  in- 
volved in  the  ruin  of  his  friend  and  pa- 
tron. 
I  "  I  have  the  cards,  howevei",  in  my  own 
hands,"  thought  he,  "and  M'Bride's  adrice 
was  a  good  one.  He  having  destroyed  the 
other  documents,  it  follows  that  this  registiy, 
which  I  have  safe  and  snug,  will  be  just 
what  his  lordship's  enemies  vnh  leaji  at.  Of 
course  they  aa-e  humbugging  the  old  peer 
about  the  other  isajjers,  and,  as  I  know,  it  is 
devilish  easy  to  humbug  the  young  one. 
My  agency  is  gone  to  the  winds  ;  but  I  think 
the  registiy  will  stiind  me  instead.  It  ought, 
in  a  case  hke  this,  to  be  well  worth  five 
thousand ;  at  least,  I  shall  ask  this  sum — 
not  saving  but  I  will  t;ike  less.  Here  goes 
then  for  an  intei-view  with  BuTiey,  who  has 
the  chai-acter  of  being  a  shrewd  fellow — 
honorable,  they  say — but  then,  is  he  not  an 

I  attorney '?     Yes,    BuTiey,    have   at   you,   my 
'  boy ; "    and  havuig   come   to   this  virtuous 

conclusion,  he  dkected  his  stejis  to  that 
gentleman's  otfice,  whom  he  found  engaged 
at  his  desk. 

"  ill-.  Biraey,  I  presume,"  with  a  very 
fashionable  bow. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Bimey,  "  that  is  my 
name." 

"Haw!  If  I  don't  mistjike,  Mr.  Bu-ney." 
with  a  veiy  English  accent,  which  no  one 
could  adopt,  when  he  pleased,  with  more 
success  than  oiu-  Keny  boy — "if  I  don't 
mistake,  we  both  made  a  jom-ney  to  France 
veiy  recently '? " 

"  That  may  be,  sir,"  rephed  Bu-ney,  "  but 

I I  am  not  aware  of  it." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


573 


"  But  I  /lam,  tliougli,"  tijsising  Bimey  the 
London  cockney. 

"  Well,  sir,"  siid  Biruej%  very  coolly,  "  and 
what  follows  from  that  ?  " 

"  Why  haw — haw — I  don't  exactly  know 
at  present ;  but  I  think  a  good  dee-al  may 
follow  fi'oui  it." 

"As  how,  sir?  " 

"  I  believe  you  were  /lOver  there  on  mat- 
ters connected  with  Lord  Cullamore's  family 
—haw  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  replied  Birney,  "  you  are  a  perfect 
stranger  to  me — I  haven't  the  honor  of 
knowing  you.  If  you  are  coming  to  me  on 
anything  connected  with  my  jjrofessional 
services,  I  will  thank  you  to  state  it." 

"  Haw  ! — My  name  is  Norton,  a  friend  of 
Lord  Dunroe's." 

"Well,  Mr.  Norton,  if  you  wUl  have  the 
goodness  to  mention  the  business  which 
causes  me  the  honor  of  your  \'isit,  I  will 
thank  you  ;  but  I  beg  to  assure  you,  that  I 
am  not  a  man  to  be  pumped  either  by  Lord 
Dunroe  or  any  of  his  friends.  You  compel 
me  to  speak  very  plainly,  sir." 

"  Haw  !  Very  good — very  good  indee-ed  ' 
but  the  truth  Ais,  I've  given  Dunroe  /mp." 

"  Well,  sir,  and  how  is  that  my  aff:iir  ? 
What  interest  can  I  feel  in  your  quan'els  ? 
Personally  I  know  very  little  of  Lord  Dun- 
roe, and  of  you,  sir,  nothing." 

"  Haw  !  but  everything  'as  a  beginning, 
Mr.  Bimey." 

"  At  this  rate  of  going,  I  fear  we  shall  be 
a  long  time  ending,  Mr.  Norton." 

"Well,"  repUed  Norton,  "I  believe  you 
are  right ;  the  sooner  we  /amderstand  each 
other,  the  better." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  replied  Birney  ;  "I  think 
so,  if  you  have  any  business  of  importance 
with  me." 

"  Well,  I  rayther  thmk  you  ^viU  find  it 
^important — that  is,  to  your  own  /iintei-ests. 
You  are  a  /iattornej',  Mr.  Birney,  and  I  think 
j-ouwDl  /tadmit  that  every  man  in  this  world, 
as  it  goes,  /(ought  to  look  to  'is  own  /(inter- 
ests." 

Birney  looked  at  him,  and  said,  verj' grave- 
ly, "  Pray,  sir,  what  is  your  business  with 
me  ?  My  time,  sir,  is  valuable.  My  time  is 
money — a  portion  of  my  landed  property, 
sir." 

"  Haw  I  Very  good  ;  but  you  //Irish  are 
so  fiery  and  impatient !  However,  I  wiU 
come  to  the  point.  You  are  about  to  /must 
that  young  scamj),  by  the  waj',  /(out  of  the 
title  and  property.  I  say  so,  because  I  /(am 
up  to  the  thing.  Yet  you  want  dockiments 
to  establish  your  case — haw?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  and  suppose  we  do  ;  you,  I 
presume,  as  the  fi-iend  of  Lord  Dunroe,  are 
not  coming  to  furnish  us  with  them  ?  " 


"That  is,  Mr.  Birney,  as  we  shall  /( under., 
stand  one  another.  You  failed  in  yovx  mis- 
sion to  France  ? ' 

"  I  shaU  hear  any  proposal,  sir,  you  have 
to  make,  but  will  answer  no  tjucstions  on 
the  subject  until  I  understand  your  motive 
for  putting  them." 

"Good — verj'cool  and  cautious — but  sup- 
pose,  now,  that  I,  who  know  you  'ave  failed 
in  procuring  the  dockiments  in  question, 
could  su25j)ly  you  with  them — haw ! — do  j'ou 
/lunderstand  me  now  ?  " 

"  Less  than  ever,  sir,  I  assure  you.  Ob- 
serve that  you  introduced  yourself  to  me  as 
the  friend  of  Lord  Dunroe.' 

"  Merely  to  connect  myself  with  the  pro- 
ceedings between  you.  I  'ave  or  /(am  about 
to  discard  him,  but  I  shauut  go  about  the 
bush  no  longer.  I'm  a  native  of  Lon'on,  w'at 
is  farmed  a  cockney — haw,  haw  ! — and  he  'as 
treated  me  /(iU — very  /iiU — and  I  am  detar- 
mined  to  retaliate." 

"How,  sir,  are  you  determined  to  retali- 
ate?" 

"The  truth  /(is,  sir,  I've  got  the  docki- 
ments you  stand  in  need  of  /(in  my  posses- 
sion, and  can  fiu'nish  you  with  them  for  a 
consideration." 

"  AVTiy,  now  you  are  intelligible.  What  do 
you  want,  Murray?    I'm  engaged." 

"  To  speak  one  word  with  you  in  the  next 
room,  sir.  The  gentleman  wants  you  to  saj' 
yes  or  no,  in  a  single  Une,  upon  Mi-.  Pair- 
field's  business,  sir — besides,  I've  a  jjiivate 
message." 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  sir,"  said  Bii'- 
ney ;  "there's  tliis  morning's  paper,  if  you 
haven't  seen  it." 

"  Well,  Bol),"  said  he,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Beware  of  that  fellow,"  said  he  :  "  I  know 
him  well ;  his  name  is  Bryan  ;  he  was  a  horse 
jockey  on  the  Curragh,  and  was  obliged  to 
fly  the  country  for  dishonesty.  Be  on  your 
guard,  that  is  till  I  had  to  say  to  you." 

"  Why,  he  says  he  is  a  Londoner,  and 
he  certainly  has  the  accent,"  replied  the 
other. 

"Keriy,  sir,  to  the  backbone,  and  a  dis- 
grace to  the  country,  for  divil  a  many  rogues 
it  produces,  whatever  else  it  may  do." 

"  Thank  you,  Murray,"  said  Bimey  ;  "  1 
will  be  doubly  guarded  now." 

This  occurred  between  Bimey  and  one  of 
his  clerks,  as  a  small  interlude  in  their  con- 
versation. 

"Yes,  sir,"  resumed  Bimey,  once  more 
taking  his  jolace  at  the  desk,  "you  can  now 
be  understood." 

"  Haw  ! — yes,  I  rayther  fiuicy  I  can  make 
myself  so  !  "  replied  Norton.  "  ^^'hat,  now, 
do  you  suppose  the  papers  in  question  may 
be  worth  to  your  friends  ?  " 


574 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"You  cannot  expect  top  to  reply  to  that 
question,"  said  Biruey  ;  "lam  acting  profes- 
sionally under  the  advice  and  instrnctions  of 
others  ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  you 
had  better  do — I  can  enter  into  no  negotia- 
tion on  the  subject  without  consulting  those 
who  have  emjjloyed  me,  and  getting  their 
consent — write  down,  then,  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  what  you  j)ropose  to  do  for  us,  and 
the  compensation  which  you  exjject  to  re- 
ceive for  any  documents  you  may  supply  us 
with  that  we  may  consider  of  value,  and  I 
shall  submit  it  for  consideration." 

"  May  I  not  compromise  myseK  by  putting 
it  on  paper,  though  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  so,  then,  don't  do  it ;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  shall  have  no  further  concern 
in  the  matter.  Verbal  communications  are 
of  little  consequence  in  an  aiifair  of  this  kind. 
Reduce  it  to  writing,  and  it  can  be  under- 
stood ;  it  will,  besides,  prevent  misconceiJ- 
tious  in  future." 

"I  trust  you  are  a  man  of  honor?"  said 
Norton. 

"I  make  no  pretensions  to  anything  so 
high,"  rephed  Bimey  ;  "  but  I  trust  I  am  an 
honest  man,  and  know  how  to  act  when  I 
ham  an  honest  man  to  deal  with.  If  you  wish 
to  serve  our  cause,  or,  to  be  plain  with  you, 
wish  to  turn  the  documents  j'ou  speak  of  to 
the  best  advantage,  make  yoiu-  jJroposal  in 
writing,  as  you  ought  to  do,  otherwise  I 
must  decline  any  further  negotiation  on  the 
subject." 

Norton  saw  and  felt  that  there  was  noth- 
ing else  for  it.  He  accordingly  took  pen 
and  ink  and  wrote  down  his  projjosal — otter- 
ing to  place  the  documents  alluded  to,  which 
were  mentioned  by  name,  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Bimey,  for  the  sum  of  five  thousand 
pounds." 

"Now,  sir,"  said  Birney,  after  looking 
over  this  treacherous  proposition,  "  you  see 
yovu-self  the  advantage  of  putting  matters 
down  in  black  and  white.  The  production 
of  this  will  save  me  both  time  and  trouble, 
and,  besides,  it  can  be  understood  at  a 
glance.  Thank  you,  sir.  Have  the  goodness 
to  favor  me  with  a  call  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
we  shall  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  This,"  said  Norton,  as  he  was  about  to 
go,  "  is  a  point  of  honor  between  us." 

"  Wiy,  I  think,  at  all  events,  it  ought," 
replied  Birnej' ;  "  at  least,  so  fur  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, it  is  not  my  intention  to  act  dishon- 
orably by  any  honed  man." 

"  Haw — haw  !  \'ery  well  said,  indeed  ;  I 
'ave  a  good  ^opinion  of  your  discretion. 
Well,  SU-,  I  wish  you  good  momeen  ;  I  shall 
call  in  a  day  or  two,  and  expect  to  'ave  a 
satisfactory  /ianswer." 

"  What  a  scountlrel !  "  exclaimed  Bimey. 


"  Here's  a  fellow,  now,  who  has  been  fleecing 
that  unfortunate  sheej)  of  a  nobleman  for  the 
last  four  years,  and  now  that  he  linds  him  at 
the  length  of  his  tether,  he  is  ready  to  betray 
and  sacrifice  him,  like  a  double-distilled  ras- 
cal as  he  is.  The  villain  thought  I  did  not 
know  him,  but  he  was  mistaken — quite  out 
in  his  calculations.  He  will  find,  too,  that 
he  has  brought  his  treachery  to  the  wrong 
market " 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Fenton  Recovered — The  Mad- House. 

Sm  Thomas  Gourlat,  on  his  return  %vith 
the  sjjecial  hcense,  was  informed  by  the  same 
sei"\'ant  who  had  admitted  the  stranger,  that 
a  gentleman  aT\aited  him  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Who  is  he,  M'Gregor  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  he  paid  you  a  ^isit 
once  at  Red  Hall,  I  think." 

"  How  could  I  know  him  by  that,  you 
blockhead  ?  " 

"He's  the  gentleman,  sir,  you  had  hot 
words  with." 

"That  I  kicked  out  one  day?  Cracken- 
fudge,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  faith,  sir  ;  not  Crackenfudge.  I  know 
him  well  enough  ;  and  devil  a  kick  your 
honor  gave  him  but  I  wished  vv'as  nine.  This 
is  a  very  different  man,  sir  ;  and  I  believe 
you  had  warm  words  with  him  too,  su-." 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  his  master  ;  "  I  remem- 
ber.    Is  he  above  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,  sir." 

A  strange  and  disagreeable  feeling  came 
over  the  baronet  on  hearing  these  words — 
a  kind  of  presentiment,  as  it  were,  of  some- 
thing unpleasant  and  adverse  to  his  plans. 
On  entering  the  drawing-room,  however,  he 
was  a  good  deal  surprised  to  find  that  there 
was  nobody  there  ;  and  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection, a  fearful  suspicion  took  possession 
of  him  ;  he  rang  the  bell  furiously. 

Gibson,  who  had  been  out,  now  entered. 

"  Wliere  is  Miss  Gourlay,  sir  ?  "  asked  his 
master,  with  eyes  kindled  by  rage  and 
alarm. 

"I  was  out,  sir,"  replied  Gibson,  "  and  can- 
not tell." 

"  You  can  never  tell  anything,  you  scoun- 
drel. For  a  thousand,  she's  off  witli  him 
again,  and  all's  ruined.  Here,  Matthews — 
M'Gregor — call  the  servants,  sir.  Where's 
her  maid? — call  her  maid.  Wh&t  a  con- 
founded fool — ass — I  was,  not  to  have  made 
that  inqjudent  baggage  tranqj  about  her 
business.  It's  true.  Lucy's  oft' — I  feel  it- — I 
felt  it.     Hang  her  hjqiocrisy  !    It's  the  case, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


575 


however,  with  ;ill  womcu.  Tliey  have  neither 
ti'uth,  nor  honesty  of  ijurjiosc.  A  comj^ound 
of  treachery,  deceit,  and  dissimulation  ;  and 
yet  I  thought,  if  there  was  a  single  indi- 
v;du;U  of  her  sex  exempted  fi-om  their  vices, 
that  she  was  that  individual.  Come  here, 
M'Gregor — come  here  you  scoundrel — do 
you  know  where  JVIiss  Gourlay  is  ?  or  her 
maid  ?  " 

."  Here's  Matthews,  sir  ;  he  says  she's  gone 
out." 

"  Gone  out ! — ^Yes,  she's  gone  out  with  a 
vengeance.  Do  you  know  where  she's  gone, 
sirra  ?  And  did  any  one  go  ^Aith  her  ?  "  he 
added,  addressing  himself  to  Matthews. 

"  I  think,  sir,  she's  gone  to  take  her  usual 
airing  in  the  carriage." 

"  Who  was  \vith  her  ?  " 

"  No  one  but  her  maid,  sir." 

"Oh,  no  ;  they  would  not  go  off  together 
— that  would  be  too  ojjen  and  barefaced. 
Do  you  know  what  dii-ection  she  took?  " 

"No,  sir;  I  didnt  observe." 

"You  stujjid  old  lout,"  replied  the  b.Ti'o- 
net,  flying  at  him,  and  mauhng  the  unfortu- 
nate man  without  mercy  ;  "  take  that — and 
that — and  that — for  your  stupidity,  ^liy 
did  you  not  obsei-ve  the  way  she  went,  you 
villain  ?  You  have  sutt'ered  her  to  elope,  you 
hound !  You  have  all  suffered  her  to  elope 
with  a  smoothfaced  impostor — a  fellow  whom 
no  one  knows — a  blackleg — a  swindler — a 
thief — a — a — go  and  saddle  half  a  dozen 
horses,  and  seek  her  in  all  directions.  Go 
instantly,  and — hold — easy — stop — hang  you 
all,  stop  I — here  she  is — and  her  m;ud  with 
her — "  he  exclaimed,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. "  Ha  !  I  am  reUeved.  God  bless  me  ! 
God  bless  me  !  "  He  then  looked  at  the  ser- 
vants mtli  sometliing  of  deprecation  in  his 
face,  and  waving  his  hand,  said,  "Go — go 
quietly  ;  and,  observe  me — not  a  word  of 
this — not  a  .syllable — for  your  lives  !  " 

His  anger,  however,  was  ouh'  checked  in 
mid  volley.  The  idea  of  her  having  received 
a  clandestine  visit  from  her  lover  during  liis 
absence  rankled  at  his  heart ;  and  although 
satisfied  that  she  was  still  safe,  and  in  his 
power,  he  could  barely  restrain  his  temjier 
within  moderate  limits.  Nay,  he  felt  angry 
at  her  for  the  alarm  she  had  occasioned 
him,  and  the  passion  he  had  felt  at  her  ab- 
sence. 

"  AV'eU,  Luc}-,"  said  he,  addressing  her,  as 
she  entered,  in  a  voice  chafed  with  passion, 
"  have  you  taken  your  drive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  p.apa,"  she  rephed  ;  "  but  it  threat- 
ened rain,  and  we  returned  earlier  that 
usual." 

"You  look  pale." 

"  I  dare  say  I  do,  sir.  I  want  rest — re- 
pose ; "  and  she  reclined  on  a  lounger  as  she 


spoke.     "It  is  surprising,  papa,  how  weak  I 
am  ! " 

"  Not  too  weak,  Lucy,  to  receive  a  stolen 
visit,  eh  ?  " 

Lucy  immediately  sat  up,  and  replied 
with  surprise,  "A  stolen  visit,  sir?  I  don't 
understand  you,  pajia." 

"Had  you  not  a  visitor  here,  in  my  ab- 
sence ?  " 

"I  had,  su',  but  the  visit  was  intended  for 
you.  Our  interview  was  perfectly  acciden- 
tal." 

"Ah !  faith,  Lucy,  it  was  too  well  timed 
to  be  accidental.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  that 
comes  to.  Accidental,  indeed  !  Lucy,  you 
should  not  say  so." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  stating  an  im- 
truth,  paf)a.  The  visit,  sir — I  should  rather 
say,  the  interview — was  purely  accidental ; 
but  I  am  glad  it  took  place." 

"  The  deuce  you  are  !    That  is  a  singular 

acknowledgment,  Lucy,  I  think." 

I       "Itistnith,  sir,  notwithstanding.      I  was 

anxious  to  see  him,  that  I  might  acquaint 

!  him  viath  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in 

my  unhappy  destiny.     If  I  had  not  seen  him, 

j  I   should   have   asked   your  permission   to 

write  to  him." 
,       "  Which  I  would  not  have  given." 
I       "  I   would    have    submitted  my  letter  to 
\  you,  su\" 

"  Even  so  ;  I  would  not  have  consented." 

"  Well,  then,  su",  as  truth  and  honor  de- 
I  manded  that  act  fi-om  me,  I  would  have  sent 
it  without  your  consent.  Excuse  me  for 
saying  this,  papa  ;  but  jou  need  not  be  told 
that  there  ai-e  some  pecuhar  cases  where 
duty  to  a  parent  must  j-ield  to  truth  and 
honor." 

"  Some  peculiar  cases  !  On  the  contrary, 
the  cases  you  speak  of  are  the  general  iide, 
\  my  girl — the  general  inile — and  ration.al  obe- 
dience to  a  parent  the  exception.  "\Miere  is 
there  a  case — and  there  are  miUions — where 
a  parent's  wish  and  A\'ill  are  set  at  naught 
and  scorned,  in  which  the  same  argument  is 
not  used?  I  do  not  rehsh  these  discussions, 
however.  Wliat  I  ■nash  to  imj^ress  uj^ou  you 
;  is  this — you  must  see  i\ns,  fellow  no  more." 

Lucy's  temples  were  immediately  in  a 
blaze.  "  Are  you  aware,  papa,  that  you  in- 
sult and  degi-ade  your  daughter,  by  ajiplying 
such  a  term  to  /w'»!  f  If  you  will  not  sjiai-e 
him,  su',  spare  me  ;  for  I  assxu-e  you  that  I 
feel  anything  said  against  him  with  ten 
times  more  emotion  than  if  it  were  uttered 
against  myself." 

"  Well,  well  ;  he's  a  fine  fellow,  a  gentle- 
man, a  lord  ;  but,  be  he  what  he  may,  you 
must  see  him  no  more." 

"  It  is  not  my  intention,  papa^  to  see  him 
again." 


576 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiKS. 


"  Yoii  must  not  write  to  him." 

"  It  will  not  be  necessary." 

"  But  you  must  not." 

"  Well,  tlien,  I  sliall  not." 

"  Nor  receive  his  letters." 

"  Nor  receive  his  letters,  knowing  them  to 
be  his." 

"  You  promise  all  this  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir,  faithf  Lilly.  I  hope  you  are  now 
satisfied,  papa '? " 

"I  am,  Lucy-— I  am.     You  are  not  so  bad 

a  girl  as  I  sus no,  you  are  a  very  good 

girl ;  and  when  I  see  you  the  Countess  of 
Cullamore,  I  shall  not  have  a  single  wish  lui- 
gratified." 

Lucy,  indeed,  poor  girl,  was  well  and  vigi- 
lantly guarded.  No  communication,  whether 
written  or  otherwise,  was  permitted  to  reach 
her ;  nor,  if  she  had  been  lodged  in  the 
deepest  dungeon  in  Euroj^e,  and  secured  by 
the  strongest  bolts  that  ever  enclosed  a  pris- 
oner, could  she  have  been  more  rigidly  ex- 
cluded fi-om  all  intercourse,  her  father's  and 
her  maids  only  excejited. 

Her  lover,  on  receiving  the  documents  so 
often  alluded  to  from  old  Corbet,  immedi- 
ately transmitted  to  her  a  letter  of  hope  and 
encouragement,  in  which  he  stated  that  the 
object  he  had  alluded  to  was  achieved,  and 
that  he  would  take  care  to  jolace  such  docu- 
ments before  her  father,  as  must  cause  even 
him  to  forbid  the  bans.  This  letter,  however, 
never  reached  her.  Neither  did  a  similar 
communication  from  ]\Ii's.  Maiiiwaring,  who 
after  three  successive  attempts  to  see  either 
her  or  her  father,  was  forced  at  last  to  give 
up  all  hope  of  preventing  the  marriage.  She 
seemed,  indeed,  to  have  been  fated. 

In  the  meantime,  the  stranger,  having,  as 
he  imagined,  relieved  Lucy's  mind  fi'om  her 
dreaded  union  with  Duuroe,  and  left  the 
further  and  more  complete  disclosure  of  that 
young  nobleman's  position  to  Mrs.  Main- 
waring,  provided  himself  with  competent 
legal  authority  to  claim  the  person  of  un- 
fortunate Fenton.  It  is  unnecessary  to  de- 
scribe his  journey  to  the  asylum  in  which  the 
wretched  young  man  was  placed ;  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  he  arrived  there  at  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  accompanied  by  old 
Corbet  and  three  officers  of  justice,  who  re- 
mained in  the  carriage  ;  and  on  asking  to 
see  the  proprietor,  was  shown  into  a  parlor, 
where  he  found  that  worthy  gentleman 
reading  a  newspaper. 

This  fellow  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
remarkable  for  thick,  massive,  and  saturnine 
features.  At  a  first  glance  he  was  not  at  all 
ill-looking ;  but,  on  examining  his  beetle 
brows,  which  met  in  a  mass  of  lilack  thick 
hair  across  his  face,  and  on  watching  the 
duU,  selfish,  cruel  eves  that  they  hung  over 


— dead  as  they  were  to  everj'  generous  emo- 
tion, and  incapalsle  of  kindling  even  at 
cruelty  itself — it  was  impossible  for  any 
man  ui  the  habit  of  observing  nature  closely 
not  to  feel  that  a  bi-utal  ruffian,  obstinate, 
indiu'ated,  and  uusciiipulous,  was  before 
him.  His  forehead  was  low  but  broad,  and 
the  whole  shape  of  his  head  such  as  would 
induce  an  intelligent  phrenologist  to  pro- 
nounce him  at  once  a  thief  and  a  murderer. 

The  stranger,  after  a  suiTey  or  two,  felt 
his  blood  boil  at  the  contemjslation  of  his 
very  visage,  which  was  at  once  jilausible  and 
diabolical  in  expression.  After  some  pre- 
liminary chat  the  latter  said  : 

"  Your  establishment,  sir,  is  admirably 
situated  here.  It  is  remote  and  isolated  ; 
and  these,  I  suppose,  ai-e  advantages  ?  " 

""VMiy,  yes,  sir,"  replied  the  doctor,  "the 
further  we  remove  our  patients  from  human 
societj',  the  better.  The  exhibition  of  reason 
has,  in  general,  a  bad  effect  upon  the  in- 
sane." 

"Ujion  what  principle  do  you  account  for 
that?"  asked  the  stranger.  "To  me  it 
would  appear  that  the  reverse  of  the  jJroposi- 
tion  ought  to  hold  trae." 

"  That  may  be,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  but 
no  man  can  form  a  correct  opinion  of  insane 
persons  who  has  not  mingled  with  them,  or 
had  them  imcler  his  care.  The  contiguity 
of  reason — I  mean  in  the  persons  of  those 
who  approach  them — alv/ays  exercises  a 
dangerous  influence  upon  lunatics  ;  and  on 
this  account,  I  sometimes  jolace  those  who 
are  less  insane  as  keepers  upon  such  as  are 
decidedly  so." 

"  Does  not  that,  sir,  seem  verj'  hke  setting 
the  bUud  to  lead  the  blind  ?  " 

"No,"  rei^lied  the  other,  with  a  heavy, 
heartless  laugh,  "your  analog}'  fails;  it  is 
rather  like  setting  a  man  with  one  eye  to 
guide  another  who  has  none." 

"  But  why  should  not  a  man  who  has  two 
guide  him  better  ?  " 

"Because  the  consciousness  that  there  is 
but  the  one  eye  between  both  of  them,  will 
make  him  proceed  more  cautiously." 

"  But  that  in  the  bUnd  is  an  act  of  rea- 
son," rejilied  the  stranger,  "  which  cannot 
be  apijlied  to  the  insane,  in  whom  reason  is 
deficient." 

"  But  where  reason  does  not  exist,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  we  must  regulate  them  by  their 
passions." 

"  By  the  exercise  of  which  passion  do  you 
gain  the  greatest  ascendency  over  them  ?  ■■ 
asked  the  stranger. 

"By  fear,  of  course.  We  can  do  noth- 
ing, at  least  verj'  little,  without  inspiring 
terror." 

"  Ah,"  thought  the  stranger,  "  I  have  now 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


677 


got  the  key  to  his  conduct ! — But,  sir,"  he 
added,  "we  never  fear  and  love  the  same  ob- 
ject at  the  same  time." 

"True  enouo-h,  sir,"  rephed  the  ruffian; 
"  but  who  could  or  ought  to  calculate  upon 
the  attaclimeut  of  a  madman  ?  Boys  are 
corrected  more  frequently  than  men,  because 
their  reason  is  not  develoised  :  and  those  in 
whom  it  does  not  exist,  or  in  whom  it  has 
been  impaired,  must  be  subjected  to  the 
same  discipline.  Terror,  besides,  is  the 
princiijle  upon  which  reason  itself,  and  aU 
society,  are  governed." 

"But  suppose  I  had  a  brother,  now,  or  a 
relative,  might  I  not  hesitate  to  place  him  in 
an  establishment  conducted  on  principles 
which  I  condemn  ?  " 

"As  to  that,  sir,"  replied  the  fellow,  who, 
expecting  a  patient,  feared  that  he  had  gone 
too  far,  "  our  system  is  an  adaptable  one  ;  at 
least,  our  application  of  it  varies  according 
to  circumstances.  As  our  first  object  is  cure, 
we  must  necessarily  allow  ourselves  consider- 
able latitude  of  experiment  until  we  hit  up- 
on the  right  key.  This  being  found,  the 
process  of  recovery,  when  it  is  possible,  may 
be  conducted  ^^•ith  as  much  mildness  as  the 
absence  of  reason  wiU  admit.  We  are  mild, 
when  we  can,  and  severe  only  where  we 
must." 

"  Shuffling  scoundrel !  "  thought  the  stran- 
ger. "  I  jjerceive  in  this  language  the 
double  dealing  of  an  unjsrincipled  villain. — 
\Vould  you  have  any  objection,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  should  look  thi'ough  your  establish- 
ment ?  " 

"  I  can  conduct  you  through  the  convales- 
cent wards,"  replied  the  doctor;  "but,  ar  '' 
said,  we  find  that  the  ai^pearance  of  s  au- 
gers— which  is  what  I  meant  by  the  cc'.agu- 
ity  of  reason — is  attended  with  very  bad, 
and  sometimes  deplorable  consequ;n':es. 
Under  all  circumstances  it  retards  a  cui-e. 
under  others  occasions  a  relapse,  and  in 
some  accelerates  the  malady  so  rapidly 
that  it  becomes  hopeless.  You  may  see  the 
convalescent  ward,  however — that  is,  if  you 
wish." 

"  You  will  oblige  me,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  "if  you  will  remain 
here  a  moment,  I  wUl  send  a  gentleman  who 
will  accompany  you,  and  explain  the  charac- 
ters of  some  of  the  patients,  should  you  de- 
sire it,  and  also  the  cause  of  their  respective 
maladie.s." 

He  then  disappeared,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
a  mild,  intelligent,  gentlemanly  man,  of 
modest  and  unassuming  manners,  presented 
himself,  and  said  he  would  feel  much  pleas- 
ure in  shc.ving  liim  the  convalescent  side  of 
the  house.  The  stranger,  however,  went 
out  and  brought  old  Corbet    in  from  the 


carriage,  where  he  and  the  officers  had  been 
sitting  ;  and  this  he  did  at  Corbet's  own  re- 
quest. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  place  before  our 
readers  any  lengthened  description  of  tliis 
gloomy  temple  of  dejjai-ted  reason.  Every 
one  who  enters  a  lunatic  asylum  for  the  first 
time,  must  feel  a  wild  and  indescribable  emo- 
tion, such  as  he  has  never  before  experienc- 
ed, and  which  amounts  to  an  extraorduiary 
sense  of  solemnitj-  and  fear.  Nor  do  the 
sensations  of  the  stranger  rest  here.  He 
feels  as  if  he  were  siuTounded  by  something 
sacred  as  weU  as  melancholy,  something  that 
creates  at  once  i^ity,  reverence,  and  awe.  In- 
deed, so  strongly  antithetical  to  each  other 
are  his  first  impressions,  that  a  kind  of  con- 
fusion arises  in  his  mind,  and  he  begins  to 
fear  that  his  senses  have  been  affected  by  the 
atmos25here  of  the  place.  That  a  shock  takes 
place  which  slightly  disarranges  the  faculty 
of  thought,  and  generates  strong  but  errone- 
ous impressions,  is  stiU  more  clearly  estab- 
lished by  the  fact  that  the  visitor,  for  a  con- 
siderable time  after  leaving  an  asyhim,  can 
scarcely  rid  himself  of  the  behef  that  every 
person  he  meets  is  insane. 

The  stranger,  on  entering  the  long  room 
in  which  the  convalescents  were  assembled, 
felt,  in  the  .silence  of  the  patients,  and  in 
their  vague  and  fantastic  movements,  that 
he  was  in  a  position  where  novelty,  in  gen- 
eral the  source  of  pleasure,  was  here  associ- 
ated only  with  pain.  Their  startling  looks, 
the  absence  of  interest  in  some  instances, 
and  its  intensity  in  others,  at  the  appearance 
of  strangers,  without  anj-  intelligent  motive 
in  either  case,  produced  a  feeling  that  seem- 
d  to  bear  the  character  of  a  disagreeable 
^-  earn. 

"  All  the  patients  here,"  said  his  conduc- 
tor, "  ai'e  not  absohitely  in  a  state  of  convales- 
cence. A  great  number  of  them  are  ;  but 
we  also  allow  such  confirmed  lunatics  as  iu-e 
harmless  to  mingle  with  them.  There  is 
scarcely  a  profession,  or  a  passion,  or  a  van- 
ity in  life,  which  has  not  here  its  rejjresenta- 
tive.  Law,  religion,  physic,  the  arts,  the 
sciences,  all  contribute  their  share  to  this 
melancholy  picture  gallerj'.  Avarice,  Ic- .  3, 
ambition,  pride,  jealousy,  ha^oiig  ovp.gi-o>vn 
the  force  of  reason,  are  here,  as  if-  ideal 
skeletons,  wild  and  gigantic — fr-etting  gam- 
bolling, moping,  gi'inning,  raving,  and  vap- 
oring— each  wrapped  in  its  own  Vision,  and 
indifferent  to  all  the  influence  of  the  collat- 
eral facidties.  There,  now,  is  a  man,  mop- 
ing about,  the  very  picture  of  stolidity  ;  ob- 
sei-ve  how  his  heavy  head  hangs  down  until 
his  chin  rests  ujjon  his  breastbone,  his 
mouth  open  and  almost  dribbhng.  That 
man,  sir,  so  unpoetical  and  idiotic  in  appear- 


578 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S   WORKS. 


ance,  imagfines  himself  the  author  of  Beat- 
tie's  'Minstrel.'  He  is  a  Scotchman,  and  I 
shall  call  him  over." 

"Come  here,  Sandy,  speak  to  this  gentle- 
man." 

Sandy,  without  raising  his  lack-lustre  eye, 
came  over  and  replied,  "  Aw — ay — 'Am  the 
author  o'  Betty's  Meustrel ; "  and  having  ut- 
tered this  piece  of  intcUigence,.  he  shuffled 
/icross  the  room,  dragging  one  foot  after  the 
other,  at  about  a  quarter  of  a  minute  per 
step.  Never  was  poor  Beattie  so  libellously 
rejjresented. 

"  Do  you  see  that  round-faced,  good-hu- 
mored looking  man,  with  a  decent  fi'ieze 
coat  on  ?  "  said  their  conductor.  "  He's  a 
wealthy  and  respectable  farmer  from  the 
county  of  Kilkenny,  who  imagines  that  he  is 
Ckrist.     His  name  is  Body  Eafferty." 

"Come  here.  Body." 

Body  came  over,  and  looking  at  the  stran- 
ger, said,  "Aira,  now,  do  you  know  who  I 
ain?     Troth,  I  go  bail  you  don't." 

"No,"  replied  the  stranger,  "I  do  not; 
but  I  hope  yoii  will  tell  me." 

"I'm  Christ,"  replied  Body;  "and,  upon 
my  word,  if  you  don't  get  out  o'  this,  I'll 
work  a  miracle  on  you." 

"Why,"  asked  the  stranger,  "what  will 
you  do  'i " 

"Troth,  I'll  turn  you  into  ablackin'  brush, 
and  polish  my  shoes  wid  you.  You  were  at 
Barney's  death,  too." 

The  poor  man  had  gone  deranged,  it 
seemed,  by  the  violent  death  of  his  only 
child — a  son. 

"  There's  another  man,"  said  the  conduc- 
tor ;  "  that  little  feUow  with  the  angry  face. 
He  is  a  shoemaker,  who  went  mad  on  the 
score  of  humanity.  He  took  a  strong  feeling 
of  resentment  against  all  who  had  flat  feet, 
and  refused  to  make  shoes  for  them." 

"How  was  that?"  inquired  the  stran- 
ger. 

"  Wliy,  sir,"  said  the  other,  smiling,  "  he 
said  that  they  murdered  the  clocks  (beetles), 
and  he  looked  upon  every  man  with  flat  feet 
as  aji  inhuman  villain,  who  deserves,  he 
says,  to  have  his  feet  chopped  oft^  and  to  be 
compelled  to  dance  a  hornj)ii3e  three  times  a 
day  on  his  stumps." 

"  "Wlio  is  that  broad-shouldered  man," 
ftsked  the  stranger,  "  dressed  in  rusty  black, 
wit  h  the  red  head  ?  " 

"He  went  mad,"  rejslied  the  conductor, 
"  on  a  principle  of  religious  charity.  He  is 
a  priest  fi-om  the  county  of  Wexford,  who 
had  been  called  in  to  baptize  the  child  of  a 
Protestant  mother,  which,  having  done,  he 
seized  a  tub,  and  placing  it  on  the  child's 
neck,  killed  it ;  exclaiming,  '  I  am  now  sure 
«f  having  sent  one  soul  to  heaven.'  " 


"  You  are  not  without  poets  here,  oi 
course  ?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"We  have,  unfortunately,"  replied  the 
other,  "  more  individuals  of  that  class  than 
we  can  well  manage.  They  ought  to  have 
an  asylum  for  themselves.  There's  a  fellow, 
now,  he  in  the  tattered  jacket  and  nightcap, 
who  has  written  a  heroic  poem,  of  eighty-six 
thousand  verses,  which  he  entitles  '  B:  Jaam's 
Ass,  or  the  Great  Unsaddled.'  Shall  I  call 
him  over '? " 

"  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  no,"  replied  the 
stranger  ;  "  keep  me  from  the  poets." 

"  There  is  one  of  the  other  sjaecies,"  re- 
plied the  gentleman,  "the  thin,  red-eyed 
fellow,  who  grinds  his  teeth.  He  fancies 
himself  a  wit  and  a  satirist,  and  is  the  author 
of  an  unpublished  poem,  called  '  The  Smok- 
ing Dunghill,  or  Parnassus  in  a  Fume.'  He 
published  several  things,  which  were  justly 
attacked  on  account  of  their  dulness,  and  he 
is  now  in  an  awful  fury  against  all  the  poets 
of  the  day,  to  every  one  of  whom  he  has 
given  an  approf)riate  position  on  the  sublime 
pedestal,  which  he  has,  as  it  were,  witli  his 
own  hands,  erected  for  them.  He  certainly 
ouji-ht  to  be  the  best  constriietor  of  a  dung- 
hill in  the  world,  for  he  deals  in  nothing  but 
dirt.  He  refuses  to  wash  his  hand.s,  because, 
he  says,  it  would  disqualify  him  from  giv- 
ing the  last  touch  to  his  poem  and  his  char- 
acters." 

"  Have  you  philosophers  as  well  as  poets 
here  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,  sir.  We  have  poetical 
philosophers,  and  philosophical  poets  ;  but, 
I  protest  to  heaven,  the  wisdom  of  Solomon, 
or  of  an  archangel,  could  not  decide  the  dif- 
ference between  their  folly.  There's  a  man 
now,  with  the  old  stocking  in  his  hand — it 
is  one  of  his  own,  for  you  may  observe  that 
he  has  one  leg  bare — who  is  pacing  up  and 
down  in  a  deep  thinking  mood.  That  man, 
sir,  was  set  mad  by  a  definition  of  his  own 
making." 

"  Well,  let  us  hear  it,"  said  the  stran- 
ger. 

"  Wliy,  sir,  he  imagines  that  he  has  dis- 
covered a  definition  for  '  nothing.'  The  defi- 
nition, however,  will  make  j'ou  smile." 

"Tixid  what,  pray,  is  it?"' 

"  Nothing,  he  says,  is— a  footless  STOCKrNG 
WITHOUT  A  LEG  ;  and  maintains  that  he  ought 
to  hold  the  first  rank  as  a  philosopher  for 
ha-^-ing  invented  the  definition,  and  deserves 
a  pension  from  the  crown." 

"  Who  are  these  two  men  dressed  in  black, 
walking  arm  in  arm  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 
"They  appear  to  be  clergymen." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  rephed  his  conductor,  "  so  they 
are  ;  two  celebrated  polemical  controversial- 
ists, who,  when  they  were  at  large,  created 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


579 


by  their  attacks,  each  upon  the  reliction  of 
the  other,  more  ill-will,  rancor  and  reUgious 
animosity,  than  either  of  theii-  religions,  ^^^tll 
all  their  virtues,  could  remove.  It  is  im- 
possible to  describe  the  evil  they  did.  Ever 
since  they  came  here,  however,  they  are  Uke 
bi'others.  They  were  placed  in  the  same 
room,  each  in  a  strong  strait-waistcoat,  for 
the  space  of  thi-ee  months  ;  but  on  being  al- 
lowed to  walk  about,  they  became  sworn 
friends,  and  now  amuse  themselves  more 
than  any  other  two  in  the  establishment. 
They  indulge  in  immoderate  fits  of  laughter, 
look  each  other  kno\\'ingly  in  the  face,  ■wink, 
and  nin  the  forefinger  u^)  the  nose,  after 
which  their  mirth  bursts  out  afresh,  and 
they  laugh  until  ihe  teai'S  come  dovm  theii* 
cheeks." 

The  stranger,  who  during  all  this  time  was 
on  the  lookout  for  poor  Fenton,  as  was  old 
Corbet,  could  observe  nobody  who  resembled 
him  in  the  least. 

"  Have  you  females  in  your  establish- 
ment ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  gentleman;  "but 
we  are  about  to  open  an  asylum  for  them  in 
a  detached  building,  wliicli  is  in  the  course 
of  being  erected.  Would  you  wish  to  hear 
any  further  details  of  these  unhappy  beings," 
he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger.  "You 
are  very  kind  and  obliging,  but  I  have  heard 
enough  for  the  present.  Have  you  a  per- 
son nainsrl  Fenton  in  your  estabUshmeut  ?  " 

"  Not,  sir,  that  I  know  of ;  he  may  be 
hers,  though ;  but  you  had  better  inquire 
from  the  proprietor  himself,  who  (mark  me, 
sir — I  say — harkee — you  have  humanity  in 
your  face) — will  probably  refuse  to  tell  you 
whether  he  is  here  or  not,  or  deny  laim 
altogether.  Harkee,  again,  sir — the  feUow 
is  a  villain — that  is,  ei^re  nous,  but  mum's 
the  word  between  us." 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  the  stranger,  "to 
bear  such  a  character  of  him  from  you,  who 
should  know  him." 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  other,  "  let  that 
pass — verbam  sap.  And  now  tell  me,  when 
have  you  been  at  the  theater  ?  " 

"  Not  for  some  months,"  returned  the 
other. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  Catalani  shake?" 

"  Yes,"  repUed  the  stranger.  "  I  have  had 
that  pleasure." 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  deUghted  that  you  have 
heard  her,  for  there  is  but  one  man  living 
who  can  rival  her  in  the  shake  ;  and,  sir.  you 
have  the  honor  of  addressing  that  man." 

This  was  said  so  mildly,  calmly,  rationally, 
and  with  that  gentlemanlike  air  of  undoubt- 
ed respectability,  which  gives  to  an  assertion 
such  ai>  impress  of  truth,  that  the  stranger, 


confused  as  he  was  by  what  he  had  seen,  felt 
it  rather  difficult  to  di-aw  the  Une  at  the  mo^ 
ment,  especially  in  such  society,  between  p 
sane  man  and  an  insane  one. 

"  Would  you  wish,  sir,"  said  the  guide, 
"  to  hear  a  specimen  of  my  powers?  " 

"If  you  please,"  rephed  the  stranger, 
"  provided  you  will  confine  yourself  to  the 
shake." 

The  other  then  commenced  a  squaU,  so 
tuneless,  wild,  jaiTiug,  and  immusical,  that 
the  stranger  could  not  avoid  smiling  at  the 
monomaniac,  for  such  he  at  once  perceived 
him  to  be. 

"You  seem  to  like  that,"  observed  the 
other,  apparently  much  gratified  ;  "  but  I 
thought  as  much,  sii' — you  are  a  man  of 
taste." 

"I  am  decidedly  of  opinion,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  that  Catalani,  in  her  best  days, 
could  not  give  such  a  specimen  of  the  shake 
as  that." 

"  Thank  you  sir,"  replied  the  singer,  tak- 
ing oft'  his  hat  and  bowing.  "  We  shaU  have 
another  shake  m  honor  of  your  excellent 
judgment,  but  it  will  be  a  shake  of  the 
hand.  Sir,  you  are  a  jiolished  and  most  ac- 
comjiUshed  gentleman." 

As  they  sauntered  up  and  dovm  the  room, 
other  symptoms  reached  them  besides  those 
that  were  then  subjected  to  their  sight.  As  a 
door  opened,  a  peal  of  wild  laughter  might 
be  heard — sometimes  groaning — and  occa- 
sionally the  most  awful  blasphemies.  Ambi- 
tion contributed  a  large  number  to  its  dreary 
cells.  In  fact,  one  would  imagine  that  the 
house  had  been  converted  into  a  temple  of 
justice,  and  contained  within  its  waUs  most  of 
the  crowned  heads  and  generals  of  Europe, 
both  lining  and  dead,  together  with  a  fair 
sample  of  the  saints.  The  Emperor  of  Russia 
was  straj^ped  down  to  a  chair  that  had  been 
screwed  into  the  tloor,  ^^-ith  the  additional 
security  of  a  strait-waistcoat  to  keep  his  ma- 
jesty quiet.  The  Pope  challenged  Henry  the 
Eighth  to  box,  and  St.  Peter,  as  the  cell  door 
opened,  asked  Anthony  Corbet  for  a  glass  of 
whiskey.     Napoleon  Bonaparte,  in  the  per- 

[  son  of  a  heroic  tailor,  was  singing  "  Bob  and 

1  Joan  ; "  and  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin  said 

I  he  would  pledge  his  mitre  for  a  good  cigar 
and  a  pot  of  porter.  Sometimes  a  fi-ightful 
yell  would  reach  theii'  ears  ;  then  a  furious 

i  set  of  howUngs,  followed  again  by  peals  of 
maniac  laughter,  as  before.  Altogether,  the 
stranger  was  glad  to  -withdraw,  which  he  did, 

j  in  order  to  prosecute  his  searches  for  Fen- 

I  ton. 

I  "Well,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  whom  he 
found  again  in  the  parlor,   "  you  have  seen 

I  that  melancholy  sight  ?  " 

I      "I  Jmve,  sir,  tid  a  melancholy  one  indeed 


sm 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


it  is  ;  but  as  I  came  on  a  matter  of  business, 
doctor,  I  think  we  had  better  come  to  the 
point  at  once.  You  have  a  younp  man  named 
Fenton  in  your  establishment  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  we  have  no  person  of  that  name 
here." 

"  A  wrong:;  name  may  have  been  purposelj' 
given  you,  sir  ;  but  the  person  I  speak  of  w 
here.  And  you  had  better  understand  me 
at  once,"  he  continued.  "  I  am  furnished 
with  such  authority  as  will  force  you  to  j)ro- 
ducehim." 

"If  he  is  not  here,  sir,  no  authority  on 
earth  can  force  me  to  produce  him." 

"We  shaU  see  that  presently.  Corbet, 
bring  in  the  officers.  Here,  sir,  is  a  warrant, 
by  whicli  I  am  empowered  to  search  for  his 
body  ;  and,  when  found,  to  secui-e  him,  in 
order  that  he  may  be  restored  to  his  just 
rights,  from  which  he  has  been  debarred  by 
a  course  of  villany  worthy  of  being  concoct- 
ed in  hell  itself." 

"  Family  reasons,  sir,  fi'equently  render  it 
necessary  that  patients  should  enter  this  es- 
tablishment under  fictitious  names.  But 
these  ai-e  matters  with  which  I  have  nothing 
to  do.  My  object  is  to  com23ly  with  the 
wishes  of  their  relatives." 

"  Youi-  object,  sir-,  should  be  to  cure,  rather 
than  to  keej}  them  ;  to  conduct  your  estab- 
Kshment  as  a  house  of  recovery,  not  as  a  pri- 
son— of  course,  I  mean  where  the  patient  is 
curable.  I  demand,  sir,  that  you  will  find 
this  yoimg  man,  and  produce  him  to  me." 

"  I3ut  provided  I  cannot  do  so,"  replied  the 
doctor,  doggedly,  "what  then?" 

"  Why,  in  that  case,  we  are  in  posses- 
sion of  a  warrant  for  your  own  ai'rest,  under 
the  proclamation  which  was  originally  jiub- 
lished  in  the  '  Hue  and  Cry,'  for  his  deten- 
tion. Sir,  you  are  now  aware  of  the  alterna- 
tive. You  produce  the  person  we  require, 
or  you  accompany  us  yourself.  It  has  been 
sworn  that  he  is  in  your  keeping." 

"  I  cannot  do  what  is  impossible.  I  will, 
however,  conduct  you  through  all  the  private 
rooms  of  the  establishment,  and  if  you  can 
find  or  identify  the  jserson  yovi  want,  I  am 
satisfied.  It  is  quite  possible  he  may  be  with 
me  ;  but  I  don't  know,  nOr  have  I  ever  knovra 
him  by  the  name  of  Fenton.  It's  a  name 
I've  never  heard  in  my  establishment.  Come, 
sir,  I  am  ready  to  show  you  every  room  in 
my  house."  ^^ 

By  this  time  the  ofiieers,  accompanied  by 
Corbet,  entered,  and  all  followed  the  doctor 
in  a  body  to  aid  in  the  search.  The  search, 
however,  was  fruitless.  Every  room,  cell, 
and  cranny  that  was  visible  in  the  establish- 
ment undenvent  a  strict  examination,  as  did 
their  unhappy  occupants.  All,  however,  in 
vain  :  and  the  doctor  now  was  about  to  as- 


sume a  tone  of  insolence  and  triumph,  when 
Corbet  said  : 

"Doctor,  all  seems  plain  here.  You  have 
done  your  duty." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  always  do  so.  No 
man  in  the  kingdom  has  given  greater  satis- 
faction, nor  stands  higher  in  that  painful  de- 
partment of  our  profession  to  which  I  have 
devoted  myself." 

"Yes,  doctor,"  repeated  Corbet,  with  one 
of  his  bitterest  giins  ;  "  you  have  done  your 
duty  ;  and  for  that  reason  I  ask  you  to  folly 
me." 

"  Where  to,  my  good  fellow  ?  "  asked  the 
other,  somewhat  crestfallen.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  spake  plainly  enough.  I  say, 
foUy  me.  I  think,  too,  I  know  something 
about  the  outs  and  ins,  the  ups  and  downs 
of  this  house  still.  Come,  sii',  we'll  show 
you  how  you've  done  your  duty  ;  but  listen 
to  me,  before  we  go  one  foot  further-  if  he's 
dead  before  my  time  has  come,  I'U  have 
your  life,  if  I  was  to  swing  on  a  thousand 
gallowses." 

One  of  the  ofiieers  here  tapped  the  doctor 
authoritatively  on  the  shoulder,  and  said, 
"  Proceed,  sir,  we  are  losing  time." 

The  doctor  saw  at  once  that  further  resis- 
tance was  useless. 

"  By  the  by,"  said  he,  "  there  is  one  pa- 
tient in  the  house  that  I  completely  forgot. 
He  is  so  desperate  and  outrageous,  however, 
that  we  were  compelled,  within  the  last  week 
or  so,  to  try  the  severest  discipline  with  him. 
He,  however,  cannot  be  the  person  you 
want,  for  his  name  is  Moore  ;  at  least,  that 
is  the  name  under  which  he  was  sent  here." 

Down  in  a  narrow,  dark  dungeon,  where 
the  damp  and  stench  were  intolerable,  and 
nothing  could  be  seen  until  a  light  was 
procvu-ed,  they  found  something  lying  on 
filthy  straw  that  had  human  shape.  The 
hair  and  beard  were  long  and  overgrown  ; 
the  features,  begrimed  with  filth,  were  such 
as  the  shai-]:)est  ej'e  could  not  recog-uize  ; 
and  the  wliole  body  was  so  worn  and  emaci- 
ated, so  ragged  and  tattered  in  appearance, 
that  it  was  evident  at  a  glance  that  foul 
practices  must  have  been  resorted  to  in 
order  to  tamper  with  life." 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  addressing 
the  stranger,  "I  wiU  leave  you  and  your 
friends  to  examine  the  patient,  as  perhaps 
you  might  feel  my  presence  a  restraint  upon 
you." 

The  stranger,  after  a  glance  or  two  at 
Fenton,  turned  around,  and  said,  sternly, 
"  Peace  ofiicer,  arrest  that  man,  and  remove 
him  to  the  parlor  as  your  prisoner.  But 
hold,"  he  added,  "let  us  first  ascertain 
whether  this  is  Mr.  Fenton  or  not." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


581 


"I  will  soon  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Corbet, 
approaching  the  object  before  them,  and 
feeling  the  left  side  of  his  neck. 

"It  is  him,  SU-,"  he  said;  "here  he  is, 
sure  enough,  at  last." 

"Well,  then,"  repeated  the  stranger,  "ar- 
rest that  man,  as  I  said,  and  let  two  of  you 
accompany  him  to  the  parlor,  and  detain 
him  there  ujitil  we  join  you." 

On  raising  the  ^Tetched  young  man,  they 
found  that  life  was  barely  in  him  ;  he  had 
been  asleep,  and  being  roused  up,  he 
screamed  aloud. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  able  to  bear  it 
— don't  Hcourge  me,  I  am  dying  ;  I  am  doing 
all  I  can  to  die.  Wiy  did  you  disturb  me  V 
I  dreamt  that  I  was  on  my  mother's  knee, 
and  that  she  was  kissing  me.  "Wliat  is  this  ? 
What  brings  so  many  of  you  now  ?  I  wish  I 
had  told  the  strange  gentleman  in  the  mn 
everything  ;  but  I  feiU'ed  he  was  my  enemy, 
and  jjerhajis  he  was.     I  am  very  hungry." 

"  Merciful  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  stran- 
ger ;  "  ai'e  such  things  done  in  a  fi'ee  and 
Christian  country?  Bring  him  up  to  the 
parlor,"  he  added,  "and  let  him  be  shaved 
and  cleansed  ;  but  be  earefid  of  him,  for  his 
lamp  of  hfe  is  nearly  exhausted.  I  thank 
you,  Corbet,  for  the  suggestion  of  the  linen 
and  clothes.  TMiat  could  we  have  done 
without  them  ?  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  fetch  him  in  this  trim." 

We  must  pass  over  these  disagi'eeable  de- 
tails. It  is  enough  to  say  that  poor  Fenton 
was  put  into  clean  linen  and  decent  clothes, 
and  that  in  a  couple  of  hours  they  were  once 
more  on  theu-  way  with  him,  to  the  metro- 
polis, the  doctor  accompanying  them,  as 
their  prisoner. 

The  conduct  of  Corbet  was  on  this  occa- 
sion very  smgular.  He  complained  that  the 
stench  of  the  dungeon  in  which  they  found 
Fenton  had  sickened  him  ;  but,  notwith- 
standing this,  something  like  ease  of  mind 
might  be  read  in  his  countenance  whenever 
he  looked  upon  Fenton  ;  something  that,  to 
the  stranger  at  least,  who  observed  liim 
closely,  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  at  last  satis- 
fied :  the  widow's  heai-t  will  be  set  at  rest, 
and  the  plans  of  this  black  ^dllain  broken  to 
pieces."  His  eye  occasionally  gleamed  wild- 
ly, and  again  his  coimtruance  grew  pale  and 
haggard,  and  he  complained  of  he.adache  and 
pains  about  his  loins,  and  in  the  small  of  his 
back. 

On  arriving  in  Dublin,  the  stranger 
brought  Fenton  to  his  hotel,  where  he  was 
desirous  to  keep  him  for  a  day  or  two,  until 
he  shoidd  regain  a  little  strength,  that  he 
might,  without  risk,  be  able  to  sustain  the 
interview  that  was  before  him.  Aware  of 
the  capricious   natiu'e  of  the  young  man's 


I  feelings,  and  his  feeble  state  of  health,  he 
himself  kept  aloof  from  him,  lest  his  pres- 
ence might  occasion  such  a  shock  as  would 
induce  anything  hke  a  fit  of  insanity — a 
circumstance  which  must  mar  the  pleasure 
and  gratification  of  his  unexpected  reappear- 
ance. That  medical  advice  ought  instantly 
to  be  2Jrocured  was  evident  from  his  extreme 
weakness,  and  the  state  of  apathy  into  which 
he  had  sunk  immediately  after  his  removal 
fi-om  the  cell.  This  was  at  once  provided  ; 
but  unfortunately  it  seemed  that  all  humiui 
skill  was  hkely  to  jJi'ove  unavailable,  as  the 
physician,  on  seeing  and  examining  him,  ex- 
j)ressed  himself  with  strong  doubts  as  to  the 
jjossibility  of  his  recovery.  In  fact,  he 
feared  that  his  unhaijpy  patient  had  not 
many  daj's  to  live.  He  ordered  him  wine, 
tonics,  and  hght  but  nutritious  food  to  be 
taken  sparingly,  and  desii-ed  that  he  should 
be  brought  into  the  open  air  as  often  as  the 
debihty  of  his  constitution  could  bear  it. 
His  comi^laint,  he  said,  was  altogether  a 
nervous  one,  and  resulted  fi'om  the  effects  of 
cruelty,  terror,  want  of  sufficient  noui'ish- 
ment,  bad  air,  and  close  confinement. 

Li  the  meantime,  the  doctor  was  commit- 
ted to  prison,  and  had  the  j)leasure  of  being 
sent,  under  a  safe  escort,  to  the  jail  of  the 
county  that  had  been  so  largely  benefited  by 
his  humane  establishment. 

As  we  are  upon  this  painful  subject,  we 
may  as  well  state  here  that  he  was  prosecu- 
ted, convicted,  and  sentenced  to  two  years' 
imf)risonment,  with  hai-d  labor. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Ludy  Oourlny  sees  her  Son. 

Havtng  done  all  that  was  possible  for  poor 
Fenton,  the  stranger  lost  no  time  in  waiting 
ui:ion  Lady  Gourlay,  that  he  might,  with  as 
much  jirudence  as  the  uncertain  state  of  the 
young  man's  health  would  jiermit,  make 
known  the  long  wished  for  communication, 
that  they  had  at  length  got  him  in  their  jjos- 
session.  His  task  was  one  of  great  difticulty, 
for  he  aijpi'ehended  that  an  excess  of  joy  on 
the  jjart  of  that  affectionate  woman  might  be 
dangerous,  when  suddenly  checked  by  the 
melancholy  probability  that  he  had  been 
restored  to  her  only  to  be  almost  immedi- 
ately removed  by  death.  He  resolved,  then, 
to  temper  his  intelligence  in  such  a  way  as 
to  cause  her  own  admirable  sense  and  high 
Christian  feeling  to  exercise  their  usual  in- 
fluence over  her  heart.  As  he  had  promised 
Corbet,  however,  to  take  no  future  steji  in 
connection  with  these  matters  without  con- 


bS2 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


suiting  him,  lie  resolved,  before  seeing  Lady 
Gourlay,  to  pay  him  a  -sdsit.  Ho  was  induced 
the  more  to  do  this  iu  consequence  of  the 
old  man's  singular  conduct  on  the  discovery 
of  Fenton.  From  the  very  first  intei'V'iew 
that  he  ever  had  with  Corbet  until  that  event, 
he  could  not  avoid  obsei-ving  that  there  was 
a  mystery  in  everything  he  did  and  said — 
something  enigmatical — unfathomable,  and 
that  his  looks,  and  the  disagTeeable  expres- 
sion which  they  occasionally  assumed,  were 
frequently  so  much  at  variance  with  his 
words,  that  it  was  an  utter  impossibility  to 
draw  anything  like  a  certain  inference  from 
them.  On  the  discovery  of  Fenton,  the  old 
man's  face  went  through  a  variety  of  contra- 
dictory expressions.  Sometimes  he  seemed 
elated — triumphant,  sometimes  depressed 
and  anxious,  and  occasionally  angry,  or  ex- 
cited by  a  feehng  that  was  altogether  unin- 
telligible. He  often  turned  his  eye  upon 
Fenton,  as  if  he  had  discovered  some  precious 
ti'easure,  then  his  countenance  became  over- 
cast, and  he  writhed  iu  an  agony  which  no 
mortal  penetration  could  determine  as  any- 
thing but  the  result  of  remorse.  Taking  aU 
this  into  consideration,  the  stranger  made 
up  his  mind  to  see  him  before  he  should  wait 
upon  Lady  Gourlay. 

Altliough  a  day  had  elajjsed,  he  found  the 
old  man  stUl  complaining  of  iUness,  which, 
he  said,  would  have  been  more  serious  had 
he  not  taken  medicine. 

"My  mind,  however,"  said  he,  "is  what's 
troublin'  me.  There's  a  battle  goin'  on 
within  me.  At  one  time  I'm  deliglited,  but 
the  delight  doesn't  give  me  pleasure  long, 
for  then,  again,  I  feel  a  weight  over  me  that's 
worse  than  death.  However,  I  can't  nor 
won't  give  it  up.  I  ho23e  I'll  liave  time  to  re- 
pent yet ;  who  knows  but  it  is  God  that  has 
put  it  mto  Taj  heart  and  kej^t  it  there  for  so 
many  years '? " 

"  Kept  what  there  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

The  old  man's  face  literally  blackened  as 
he  replied,  almost  with  a  scream,  "  Ven- 
geance !  " 

"  Tliis  language,"  replied  the  other,  "  is 
absolutely  shocking.  Consider  your  ad- 
vanced state  of  life — consider  your  present 
illness,  which  may  jjrobably  be  your  last,  and 
reflect  tliat  if  you  yourself  expect  pardon 
form  God,  you  must  forgive  your  enemies." 

"  So  I  will,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  not  till  I've 
pimished  them  ;  then  I'll  tell  them  how  I 
made  my  puppets  of  them,  and  when  I  give 
their  heart  one  last  crash — one  grind  " — and 
the  old  WTetch  ground  his  teeth  in  the  ccm- 
templation  of  this  diabolical  vision — "ay," 
he  repeated — "  one  last  gi'ind,  then  I'll  tell 
them  I've  done  with  them,  and  forgive  them; 
then — then — ay,  but  not  till  then  ! " 


"  God  forgive  you,  Corbet,  and  change 
your  heart !  "  replied  the  stranger.  "I  called 
to  say  that  I  am  about  to  inform  Lady  Gour- 
lay that  we  have  her  son  safe  at  last,  and  I 
wish  to  know  if  you  are  iu  possession  of  any 
facts  that  she  ouglit  to  be  acquainted  with  in 
connection  with  his  reuiovjil — in  fact,  to  heiu- 
anything  you  may  wish  to  disclose  to  me  on 
the  subject." 

"  I  could,  then,  disclose  to  you  something 
on  the  subject  that  would  make  you  won- 
dher ;  but  although  the  time's  at  hand,  it's 
not  come  yet.  Here  I  am,  an  ould  man — 
helpless — or,  at  aU  events,  heljiless-lookin' — 
and  you  would  hardly  believe  that  I'm  makin' 
this  black  villain  do  everything  accordin'  as 
I  wish  it." 

"  That  dark  sjiiiit  of  vengeance,"  rejilied 
the  stranger,  "  is  tiuTiingyour  brain,  I  think, 
or  you  would  not  say  so.  Whatever  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  may  be,  he  is  not  the  man 
to  act  as  the  pujjpet  of  any  person." 

"  So  you  think  ;  but  I  tell  you  he's  acting 
as  mine,  for  all  that." 

"  Well,  well,  Corbet,  that  is  your  own  af- 
fair. Have  you  anything  of  imi^ortance  to 
communicate  to  me,  before  I  see  Lady-Goui- 
lay?  I  ask  you  for  the  last  time." 

"  I  have.  The  black  villain  and  she  have 
spoken  at  last.  He  yielded  to  his  daughter 
so  far  as  to  caU  upon  her,  and  asked  her  ,to 
be  present  at  the  weddin'." 

"  The  wedding  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
looking  aghast.  "God  of  heaven,  old  man, 
do  you  mean  to  say  that  tliey  are  about  to  be 
married  so  soon '?— about  to  be  mai-ried  at 
all  ?  But  I  will  leave  you,"  he  added;  "  there 
is  no  jiossibility  of  wringing  anything  out  of 
you." 

"  Wait  aUttle,"  continued  Corbet.  "  What 
I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  won't  do  you  any  harm, 
at  any  rate." 

"  Be  quick,  then.  Gracious  heaven  ! — • 
married  ! — Curses  seize  you,  old  man,  be 
quick." 

"On  the  mornin'  afther  to-morrow  the 
marriage  is  to  take  place  in  Sir  Thomas's 
own  house.  Lord  Diuiroe's  sisther  is  to-be 
bridesmaid,  and  a  young  fellow  named  Rob- 
erts  " 

"I  know — I  have  met  him." 

"  Well,  and  did  you  ever  see  imj  one  that 
he  resemliled,  or  that  resembled  liim '?  I 
liojje  iu  the  Almighty,"  he  added,  uttering 
the  ejaculation  evidently  in  connection  with 
some  private  thought  or  purpose  of  his  ovra, 
"  I  hope  in  the  Almighty  that  this  sickness 
will  keep  ofl'  o'  me  for  a  coujsle  o'  days  at  any 
rate.  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  that  resem- 
bled him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  stranger,  starting,  for 
the   thought   had   flashed   upon   him  ;  "  he 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


583 


is  the  living  image  of  lliss  Gourlay !  Wlij 
lo  vou  ask  ?  " 

"  Bekaise,  merely  for  a  raison  I  have  ;  but 
if  j'ou  have  patience,  you'll  find  that  the 
longer  you  Uve,  the  more  you'U  know  ;  only 
at  this  time  you'll  knovir  no  more  from  me, 
harrin'  tint  this  same  young  officer  is  to  be 
his  lordship's  gi'oom's-man.  Dr.  Sombre, 
the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  is  to  marry 
them  in  the  baronet's  house.  A  Mrs.  Main- 
waring,  too,  is  to  be  there  ;  Miss  Gourlay 
begged  that  she  would  be  allowed  to  come, 
and  he  says  she  may.  You  see  now  how 
well'  I  know  everything  that  happens  there, 
don't  you  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  grin  of  triumph. 
"  But  I  tell  you  there  wiU  be  more  at  the 
same  weddin'  than  he  thinks.  So  now — ah, 
this  pain  1 — there's  another  string  of  it^ — I 
feel  it  go  through  me  like  an  aiTOw — so  now 
you  may  go  and  see  Lady  Gourlay,  and 
break  the  glad  tidin's  to  her." 

With  feelings  akin  to  awe  and  of  rej)ug- 
nance,  but  not  at  all  of  coutemiat — for  old 
Corbet  was  a  man  whom  no  one  could  de- 
spise— the  stranger  took  his  depai'tiu-e,  and 
proceeded  to  Lady  Gourlay 's,  with  a  vague 
impression  that  the  remarkable  Ukeness 
between  Lucy  and  young  Roberts  was  not 
merely  accidental. 

He  fomid  her  at  home,  placid  as  usual, 
but  with  evidences  of  a  resignation  that  was 
at  once  melancholy  and  distressing  to  wit- 
ness. The  struggle  of  this  admirable  wo- 
man's heart,  though  sustained  bj*  high 
Christian  feeling,  was,  nevertheless,  wearing 
her  away  by  slow  and  paiufid  degrees.  The 
stranger  saw  this,  and  scarcely  knew  in  what 
terms  to  shape  the  communication  he  had  to 
make,  full  as  it  was  of  ecstasy  to  the  mother's 
loving  spirit,  yet  dashed  with  such  doubt 
and  sorrow. 

"  Can  you  bear  good  tidings.  Lady  Gour- 
lay," said  he,  "  though  mingled  with  some 
cause  of  ajjprehension  ?  " 

"  I  am  in  the  hands  of  God,"  she  replied, 
"  and  feel  that  I  ought  to  receive  every  com- 
munication with  obedience.     Speak  on." 

"  Your  son  is  found  ! " 

"  What,  my  child  restored  to  me  ?  " 

She  had  been  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  but 
on  hearing  these  words  she  started  up,  and 
said  again,  as  she  placed  her  hands  upon  the 
table  at  which  he  sat,  that  she  might  sustain 
herself,  "  AVTiat,  Charles,  mj-  darling  restored 
to  me  !  Is  he  safe  ?  Can  I  see  him  ?  Re- 
stored !  restored  at  last !  " 

"  Moderate  your  joy,  my  dear  madam  ;  he 
is  safe — he  is  in  my  hotel." 

"  But  why  not  here  ?  Safe  !  oh,  at  last — 
at  last !  But  God  is  a  God  of  mercy,  espe- 
cially to  the  patient  and  long-suffering.  But 
come — oh,  come  !     Think  of  me, — pity  me, 


and  do  not  defraud  me  one  moment  of  his 
sight.     Bring  me  to  him  !  " 

'.'  Hear  me  a  moment.  Lady  Gourlay." 

"  No,  no,"  she  rei^Ued,  in  a  passion  of  joy- 
ful tears,  "  I  can  hear  you  again.  I  must  see 
my  son — my  son — my  darling  child — where 
is  my  son  ?  Here — but  no,  I  wll  ring  my 
self.  WTiy  not  have  brought  him  here  at 
once,  sir  ?     Am  not  I  his  mother  ?  " 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  the  stranger, 
calmly,  but  with  a  seriousness  of  manner  that 
checked  the  exuberance  of  her  delight,  and 
placing  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  "  hear 
me  a  moment.  Your  son  is  found  ;  but  he 
is  ill,  and  I  fear  in  some  danger." 

"  But  to  see  him,  then,"  she  replied,  look- 
ing with  entreaty  in  his  face,  "  only  to  see 
him.  After  this  long  and  dreary  absence,  to 
let  my  eyes  rest  on  my  son.  He  is  iU,  you 
say  ;  and  what  hand  should  be  near  him  and 
about  him  but  his  mother's?  Who  can 
with  such  love  and  tenderness  cherish,  and 
soothe,  and  comfort  him,  as  the  mother  who 
would  die  for  him  ?  Oh,  I  have  a  thousand 
thoughts  rushing  to  my  heart — a  thousand 
affectionate  anxieties  to  gratify- ;  but  tirst  to 
look  upon  him — to  press  him  to  that  heart 
— to  i^our  a  mother's  raptures  over  her  long- 
lost  child  !  Come  with  me — oh,  come.  If 
he  is  ill,  ought  I  not,  as  I  said,  to  see  him 
the  sooner  on  that  account?  Come,  deal' 
Charles,  let  the  carriage  be  ordered  ;  but 
that  will  take  some  time.  A  hackney-coach 
wlU  do — a  car — anything  that  wiU  bring  us 
there  with  least  delay." 

"  But,  an  interview,  my  lady,  may  be  at 
this  moment  as  much  as  his  life  is  worth  ; 
he  is  not  out  of  danger." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  not  ask  an  interview. 
Only  let  me  see  him — let  his  mother's  eyes 
rest  upon  him.  Let  me  steal  a  look — a  look  ; 
let  me  steal  but  one  look,  and  I  am  sure, 
dear  Charles,  you  will  not  gainsay  this  little 
theft  of  the  mother's  heart.  But,  ah,"  she 
suddenly  exclaimed,  "what  am  I  doing? 
Ungrateful  and  selfish  that  I  am,  to  forget 
my  first  duty  !  Pardon  me  a  few  moments  ; 
I  will  return  soon." 

She  passed  into  the  back  drawing-room, 
where,  although  the  doors  were  folded,  he 
could  hear  this  truly  pious  woman  pouring 
forth  with  tears  her  gi-atitude  to  God.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  reappeared  ;  and  such  were 
the  arguments  she  used,  that  he  felt  it  im- 
possible to  prevent  her  fi-om  gratifying 
this  natural  and  absorbing  impulse  of  the 
heart. 

On  reaching  the  hotel,  they  found,  after 
inquiring,  that  he  was  asleep,  a  cu'cumstance 
which  greatly  jjleased  the  stranger,  as  ho 
doubted  very  much  whether  Fenton  would 
have  been  strong  enough,  either  in  mind  ol 


584 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOEKS. 


body,  to  bear  sucli  an  interview  as  must  have 
taken  place  between  them. 

The  unhapjjy  young  man  was,  as  we  have 
said,  sound  asleep.  His  face  was  jjale  and 
wan,  but  a  febrile  hue  had  tinged  his  eoun- 
tenance  with  a  color  wliich,  idthough  it  con- 
cealed his  danger,  was  not  suflticient  to  re- 
move from  it  the  mom'nfid  expression  of  all 
he  had  suffered.  Yet  the  stranger  thought 
that  he  never  had  seen  him  look  so  well. 
His  face  was  indeed  a  fair  but  melancholy 
page  of  human  hfe.  The  brows  were  slightly 
knit,  as  if  indicative  of  suffering ;  and  there 
passed  over  his  features,  as  he  lay,  such  vary- 
ing expressions  as  we  may  presume  corre- 
sponded with  some  painful  dream,  by  which, 
as  far  as  one  could  judge,  he  seemed  to  be 
influenced.  Sometimes  he  looked  like  one 
that  endui'ed  pain,  sometimes  as  if  he  felt 
terror  ;  and  occasionally  a  gleam  of  pleasure 
or  joy  would  faintly  light  up  his  handsome 
but  wasted  countenance. 

Lady  Gom-lay,  whilst  she  looked  ujjon 
him,  was  obliged  to  be  supported  by  the 
stranger,  who  had  much  difficulty  in  re- 
straining her  gi'ief  within  due  bounds.  As 
for  the  tears,  they  fell  from  her  eyes  in 
showers. 

"I  must  reaUy  remove  you,  my  lady," 
he  said,  in  a  whisfier  ;  "  his  recovery,  his  very 
Hfe,  may  depend  upon  the  soundness  of  this 
sleejJ.  You  see  yourself,  now,  the  state  he 
is  in  ;  and  who  hving  has  siich  an  interest  in 
his  restoration  to  health  as  you  have  ?  " 

"I  know  it,"  she  whispered  in  reply.  "I 
will  be  quiet." 

As  they  spoke,  a  faint  smde  seemed  to 
hght  up  his  face,  which,  however,  was  soon 
changed  to  an  expression  of  terror. 

"Don't  scoui'ge  me,"  said  he,  "don't  and 
I  will  teU  you.  It  was  my  mother.  I 
thought  she  kissed  me,  as  she  used  to  do 
long  ago,  when  I  was  a  boj',  and  never 
thought  I'd  be  here."  He  then  uttered  a 
few  faint  sobs,  but  relapsed  into  a  calm  ex- 
pression almost  immediateljr. 

The  violent  beatings  of  Lady  Gourlay's 
heart  were  distinctly  felt  by  the  stranger,  as 
he  supported  her  ;  and  in  order  to  pi-event 
the  sobs  which  he  knew,  by  the  headings  of 
her  breast,  were  about  to  burst  forth,  from 
awakening  the  sleeper,  he  felt  it  best  to  lead 
her  out  of  the  room  ;  which  he  had  no 
sooner  done,  than  she  gave  way  to  a  long 
fit  of  uncontrollable  weeping. 

"  Oh,  my  child  ! — my  child  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, "  I  fear  they  have  murdered  him  ! 
Alas  !  is  he  only  to  be  restored  to  me  for  a 
moment,  and  am  I  then  to  be  childless  in- 
deed ?  But  I  will  strive  to  become  calm. 
Why  should  I  not?  For  even  this  is  a 
blessing— to  have  seen  him,  and  to  have  the 


I  melancholy  consolation  of  knowing  that  if 

he  is  to  die,  he  will  die  in  my  own  arms." 
!       "  Well,  but  I  trust,  madam,  he  won't  die. 
The  workings  of  Providence  ai-e   never  in- 
effectual, or  without  a  purpose.     Have  eour- 
j  age,  have  patience,  and  all  wiU,  I  tmst,  end 
I  happily." 

j       "  Well,    but  I   have  a  request  to   make. 

I  Allow  me  to  kiss  him  ;    I  shaU  not  disturb 

j  him  ;  and  if  he  should  recover,  as  I  trast  in 

the  Almighty's  mercy  lie  will — oh,   how   I 

j  should  like  to  teU  him  that  the  dream  about 

I  his  mother  was  not  altogether  a  dream — 

that  I  did  kiss  him.     Trust  me,  I  will  not 

awaken  him — the  fall  of  the  thistledown  will 

wiU  not  be  hghter  than  the  kiss  I  shall  give 

my  child. " 

"Well,  be  it  so,  my  lady  ;  and  get  your- 

1  self  calm,  for  you  know  not  his  danger,  if  he 

I  should  awaken  and  become  agitated." 

j      They  then  reentered  the  apartment,  and 

I  Lady  Gourlay,  after  contemplating  him  for 

I  a  moment  or  two,  stooped  dowTi  and  gently 

kissed  his  lips — once — twice — and  a   third 

time — and  a  single  tear  fell  upon  his  cheek. 

At  this  moment,  and  the  coincidence  was 

\  beautiful  and  affecting,  iiis  face  became  once 

more  irradiated  by  a  smile  that  was  singu- 

lai'ly  serene  and  sweet,  as  if  his  very  spirit 

within  him    had    recognized    and    felt    the 

affection  and  tenderness  of  this  timid  but 

loving  embrace. 

The  stranger  then  led  her  out  again,  and 
a  burden  seemed  to  have  been  taken  off'  her 
heart.  She  dried  her  tears,  and  in  grate- 
ful and  fervid  terms  expressed  the  deep  ob- 
ligations she  owed  him  for  his  generous  and 
persevering  exertions  in  seeking  out  and  re- 
storing her  sou. 

This  sleep  was  a  long  one,  and  proved 
ver}'  beneficial,  hj  somewhat  recruiting  the 
little  strength  that  had  been  left  him.  The 
stranger  had  every  measure  taken  that 
could  contribute  to  his  comfort  and  recovery. 
Two  nurse  tenders  were  procured,  to  whose 
care  he  was  committed,  under  the  general 
superintendence  of  Dandy  Dulcimer,  whom 
he  at  once  recognized,  and  by  whose  perform- 
ance upon  that  instrument  the  poor  young 
man  seemed  not  only  much  pleased,  but 
imjsroved  in  confidence  and  the  general 
powers  of  his  inteUeet.  The  physician  saw 
him  twice  a  day,  so  that  at  the  period  of 
Lady  Gourlay's  visit,  she  found  that  every 
care  and  attention,  which  consideration  and 
kiutlness,  and  auxietj'  for  his  recovery  could 
bestow  ujjon  him,  had  been  paid  ;  a  fact 
that  eased  and  satisfied  her  mind  very  much. 
One  rather  gratifying  sj-mptom  appeared 
in  him  after  he  awoke  on  that  occasion.  He 
looked  about  the  room,  and  inquired-  foi 
Dulcimer,  who  soon  made  his  appeai'ance. 


LIBRARY 

J,"  THE 

L'NIVrRSIIY'  OF  ILLINOIS 


^ 


.'A8  THEY    SPOKE.    A   FAINT   SMILE    SEEMED    TO 

JS^SOON  CHANGED  TO  AN  EXPRESSION  OF  TERROK 


LIGHT    UP    HIS    FACE.    WHICH,    HOWEVER, 


Black  Baronet — Chapter  Xi*. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


5S5 


"  Dandy,"  said  he,  for  he  had  known  him 
very  well  in  Bally  train,  "  will  you  be  angiy 
with  me  if  I  ask  you  a  question '?  Dandy,  I 
am  a  gentleman,  and  you  will  not  ti-eat  me 
ill." 

"I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  villain  that 
'ud  dare  to  do  it,  ill'.  Fen  ton,"  rephed  Dan- 
dy, a  good  deal  moved,  "  much  less  to  do  it 
tayself." 

"Ah,"  he  repUed  in  a  tone  of  voice  that 
was  enough  to  draw  tears  fi-om  any  eye, 
"  but,  then,  I  can  depend  on  no  one  ;  and  if 

they  should  bring  me  Ixxck  there "     His 

eyes  became  wild  and  full  of  hoiTor,  as  he 
spoke,  and  he  was  about  to  betray  symp- 
toms of  strong  agitation,  when  Dandy  judi- 
ciouslj'  brought  him  back  to  the  point. 

"They  won't,  ]Mi'.  Feuton  ;  don't  be  afeared 
of  that ;  you  are  among  friends  now ;  but 
what  was  the  question  you  were  goin'  to 
ask  me  ?  " 

'  "  A  question  ! — was  I  ?  "  said  he,  i3ausing, 
as  if  striding  to  recover  the  train  of  thought 
he  had  lost.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  proceeded, 
"  yes  ;  thei-e  was  a  pound  note  taken  from 
me.  I  got  it  fi'om  the  strange  gentleman  in 
the  inn,  and  I  wish  I  had  it." 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  Dandy,  "if  it  can  be 
got  at  aU,  you  must  have  it.  I'U  inquire  for 
it." 

"  Do,"  he  said  ;  "  I  wish  to  have  it." 

Dandy,  in  rejjly  to  the  stranger's  frequent 
and  anxious  inquiries  about  him,  mentioned 
this  little  dialogue,  and  the  latter  at  once 
recollected  that  he  had  the  note  in  his  pos- 
session. 

"It  may  be  good  to  gratifs*  him,"  he  re- 
pUed ;  "  and  as  the  note  can  be  of  little  use 
now,  we  had  better  let  him  have  it." 

He  accordingly  sent  it  to  him  by  Dandy, 
who  could  observe  that  the  possession  of  it 
seemed  to  give  him  pecuhar  satisfaction. 

Had  not  the  stranger  been  a  man  capable  of 
maintaining  great  restraint  over  the  exercise 
of  very  strong  feeUngs,  he  could  never  have  ! 
conducted   himself  with  so  much  calmness  j 
and  self-control  in  his  interview  vnth  Lady  j 
Gourlay  and  jioor  Fenton.     His  own  heart 
during  all  the  time  was  in  a  tumult  of  per-  : 
feet  distraction,  but  this  was  occasioned  by  I 
causes  that  bore  no  analogy  to  those  that  j 
passed  before  him.     From  the  moment  he  j 
heai'd  that  Lucy's  marriage  had  been  fixed 
for  the  next  day  but  one,  he  felt  as  if  his 
hold  upon  hope  and  life,  and  all  that  they  | 
jiromised  him,  was  lost,  and  his  happiness 
annihilated  forever  ;  he  felt  as  if  reason  were 
about  to  abandon  him,  as  if  all  existence  had 
become  dark,  and  the  sun  himself  had  been 
struck    out    of  the  system  of  the  universe. 
He  eoidd  not  rest,  and  only  with  ditficulty 
think  at  aU  as  a  sane  man  ought.     At  length 


he  resolved  to  see  the  baronet,  at  the  risk 
of  hfe  or  death — in  spite  of  every  obstacle — 
in  despite  of  all  opjjosition  ; — perish  social 
forms  and  usages — j'^i'ish  the  insolence  of 
wealth,  and  the  jealous  restrictions  of  j)aren- 
tal  tyranny.  Yes,  perish  one  and  all,  sooner 
than  he,  a  man,  with  an  unshrinking  heart, 
and  a  strong  arm,  should  tamely  suffer  that 
noble  girl  to  be  sacrificed,  ay,  murdered,  at 
the  shrine  of  a  black  and  guilty  ambition. 
Agitated,  urged,  maddened,  by  these  con- 
siderations, he  went  to  the  bai-onet's  house 
with  a  hope  of  seeing  him,  but  that  hope 
was  frustrated.     Sir  Thomas  was  out. 

"  Was  Miss  Gourlay  at  home '?  " 

"  No  ;  she  too  had  gone  out  with  her  fath- 
er," repUed  Gibson,  who  happened  to  open 
the  door. 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enough,  sir,  to  dehv- 
er  a  note  to  Miss  Gourlay '? " 

"  I  coidd  not,  sir  ;  I  dare  not." 

"I  will  give  you  five  pounds,  if  you  do." 

"It  is  impossible,  sir;  I  should  lose  my 
situation  instantly  if  I  attempted  to  dehver  it. 
Miss  Gourlay,  sir,  will  receive  no  letters  un- 
less through  her  father's  hands,  and  besides, 
sir,  we  have  repeatedly  had  the  most  positive 
orders  not  to  receive  any  fi'om  you,  above  aU 
men  living." 

"  I  will  give  you  ten  pounds." 

Gibson  shook  his  head,  but  at  the  same 
time  the  expression  of  his  countenance  be- 
gan manifestly  to  relax,  and  he  licked  his 
lips  as  he  replied,  "I — really — could — not — 
sir. " 

"  Twenty." 

The  fellow  paused  and  looked  stealthily  in 
every  direction,  when,  just  at  the  moment  he 
was  about  to  entertain  the  subject,  Thomas 
Corbet,  the  house-steward,  came  forward 
from  the  front  parlor  where  he  evidently  had 
been  listening,  and  asked  Gibson  what  was 
the  matter. 

"  This  gentleman,"  said  Gibson,  "  ahem — 
is  anxious  to  have  a — ahem — he  was  inquir- 
ing for  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Gibson,  go  down  stairs,"  said  Corbet. 
"You  had  better  do  so.  I  have  ears,  Gib.son. 
Go  dov^Ti  at  once,  and  leave  the  gentleman  to 
me." 

Gibson  again  licked  his  Ups,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  with  a  visage  rather  blank  and 
disappointed,  shmk  away  as  he  had  been  de- 
sired.    When  he  had  gone, 

"You  vrish,  sir,"  said  Corbet,  "to  have  a 
note  deUvered  to  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"I  do,  and  wiU  give  you  twenty  pounds  if 
you  deliver  it." 

"  Hand  me  the  money  quietly,"  rejsUed 
Corbet,  "  and  the  note  also.  I  shall  then 
give  you  a  f.iend's  advice." 

The    stranger    immediately  placed  both 


586 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  money  aiul  the  note  in  his  hands  ;  when 
Corbet,  having  jjut  them  in  his  pocket,  said, 
"  I  -will  dehver  the  note,  sii- ;  but  go  to  my 
father,  and  ask  lum  to  prevent  this  marriage  ; 
and,  above  all  things,  to  direct  you  how  to 
act.  If  any  man  can  serve  you  in  the  busi- 
ness, he  can." 

.  "  Could  you  not  let  me  see  Miss  Gourlay 
'herself '? "  said  the  stranger. 

"  No,  sir  ;  she  has  promised  her  father 
neither  to  see  you,  nor  to  write  to  you,  nor 
to  receive  any  letters  from  you." 

"  But  I  nmd  see  Sir  Thomas  himself,"  said 
the  stranger  determinedly. 

"  You  seem  a  good  deal  excited,  sir,"  re- 
plied Corbet ;  "  i^ray,  be  calm,  and  listen  to 
me.  I  shall  be  obUged  to  put  this  letter 
under  a  blank  cover,  which  I  will  address  in 
a  feigned  hand,  in  order  that  she  may  even 
receive  it.  As  for  her  father,  he  would  not 
see  you,  nor  enter  into  any  exj)lanation  what- 
soever with  you.  In  fact,  he  is  almost  out 
of  his  mind  with  deUght  and  teiTor  ;  with 
dehght,  that  the  marriage  is  at  length 
about  to  take  jjlace,  and  with  terror,  lest 
somethmg  might  occur  to  j^revent  it.  One 
word,  SU-.  I  see  Gibson  peeping  uf).  Go  and 
see  my  father  ;  you  have  seen  him  more  than 
once  before." 

On  the  part  of  Corbet,  the  stranger  re- 
(marked  that  there  was  something  sneaking, 
'shghtly  derisive,  and  intimating,  moreover, 
a  want  of  sincerity  in  this  short  dialogue,  an 
impression  that  was  strengthened  on  hearing 
the  relation  which  he  bore  to  the  obstinate 
old  sphinx  on  Constitution  Hill. 

"  But  pardon  me,  my  friend,"  said  he,  as 
Corbet  was  about  to  go  away ;  "if  Miss 
Gourlay  wUl  not  receive  or  open  my  letter, 
why  did  you  accept  such  a  sum  of  money 
for  it  ? "  He  paused,  not  kno^viug  exactly 
how  to  proceed,  yet  with  a  tolerably  strong 
suspicion  that  Corbet  was  cheating  him. 

"  Observe,  sir,"  replied  the  other.  "  that  I 
said  I  would  <Jf/ii-er  the  letter  only — I  didn't 
undertake  to  make  her  read  it.  But  I 
dare  say  you  are  right — I  don't  think  she 
wiU  even  fy??  it  at  all,  much  less  read  it. 
Here,  sir,  I  return  both  money  and  letter  ; 
and  I  wish  you  to  know,  besides,  that  I  am 
not  a  man  in  the  habit  of  being  susjiected 
of  improper  motives.  My  advice  that  you 
should  see  my  father  is  a  proof  that  I  am 
your  friend." 

•  The  other,  who  was  completely  outma- 
noeuvTed  by  Corbet,  at  once  decUned  to  re- 
ceive back  either  the  letter  or  notes,  and  after 
agam  pressing  the  worthy  stewai'd  to  befriend 
him  in  the  matter  of  the  note  as  far  as  he 
could,  he  once  more  paid  a  visit  to  old  j\ii- 
thony.  This  occurred  on  the  day  before  that 
appointed  for  the  marriage. 


"  Corbet,"  said  he,  addressing  him  as  he 
lay  upon  an  old  crazy  sofa,  the  tarnished  cov- 
er of  which  shone  with  dirt,  "  I  am  distract- 
ed, and  have  come  to  ask  your  advice  and 
assistance." 

"Is  it  a  helpless  ould  creature  like  me 
you'd  come  to  ?  "  rejjhed  Corbet,  hitching 
himself  ujjon  the  sofa,  as  if  to  get  ease.  "  But 
what  is  wi'ong  now  ?  " 

"  If  this  marriage  between  Miss  Gourlay 
and  Lord  Dunroe  takes  pilace,  I  shaU  lose  my 
senses." 

"  Well,  in  troth,"  replied  Anthony,  in  his 
ovm  peculiar  manner,  "  if  you  don't  get 
more  than  you  ajDpear  to  be  gifted  wth  at 
present,  you  won't  have  much  to  lose,  and 
that  will  be  one  comfort.  But  how  can  you 
exjiect  me  to  assist  you  ?  " 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  the  baronet  is 
your  pujjjiet  ?  " 

"I  did  ;  but  that  was  for  my  ends,  not  for 
yours." 

"  Well,  but  could  you  not  i:(revent  this 
accursed,  sacrilegious,  blasphemous  union  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  sj^ake  aisy,  and  keep 
yourself  quiet,"  said  Anthony;  "I  am  iU, 
and  not  able  to  bear  noise  and  caj^ering  like 
this.     I'm  a  weak,  feeble  ould  man." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Corbet,"  continued  the 
other,  with  vehemence,  "  command  my  purse, 
my  means  to  any  extent,  if  you  do  what  I 
wish." 

"I  did  Hke  monej',"  repUed  Corbet,  "  but 
of  late  my  whole  heart  is  fiUed  with  but  one 
thought  ;  and  rather  than  not  carry  that 
out,  I  would  sacrifice  every  child  I  have.  I 
love  Miss  Goui-lay,  for  I  know  she  is  a  livin' 
angel,  but " 

"  "What?  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 
would  sacrifice  her  ?  " 

"  If  I  would  saciifice  my  ovra,  do  you 
think  I'd  be  af)t  to  sjiare  her  ?  "  he  asked  with 
a  groan,  for  in  fact  his  iUness  had  rather  in- 
creased. 

"Are  you  not  better  ?"  inquired  the  stran- 
ger, moved  by  a  feehng  of  humanity  which 
nothing  could  eradicate  out  of  his  noble  and 
generous  nature.  "Allow  me  to  send  a 
doctor  to  you  '?  I  shall  do  so  at  my  own  ex- 
pense." 

7\jithony  looked  upon  him  with  more  com- 
placency, but  rephed. 

"  The  blackguard  kn-aves,  no  ;  they  only 
rob  you  first  and  kill  you  afterwards.  A 
highway -robber's  before  them  ;  for  he  kills 
you  first,  and  afther  that  you  can't  feel  the 
pain  of  being  robbed.  Well,  I  can't  talk 
much  to  you  now.  My  head's  begiuuin'  to 
get  troiiblesome  ;  but  I'll  teU  you  what  you'll 
do.  I'll  call  for  that  young  man,  Feuton, 
and  you  must  let  him  come  with  me  to  the 
wedding  to-morrow  morniu'.     indeed,  I  in- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


58? 


tended  to  take  a  car,  and  drive  over  to  ask  it 
as  a  favor  from  you." 

"  To  wliat  purjiose  should  Ke  go,  even  if 
he  were  able  V  but  he  is  too  ill." 

"  Hasn't  he  been  out  in  a  chaise  ?  " 

"He  has  ;  but  as  he  is  incapable  of  bear- 
ing any  a<?itatiou  or  excitement,  his  j)reseuce 
there  might  cause  his  death." 
'  "  No,  sir,  it  will  not ;  I  knew  him  to  be 
worse,  and  he  recovered  ;  he  will  be  better,  I 
tell  you  :  besides,  if  you  wish  me  to  sarve 
you  in  one  way,  you  must  sarve  me  in 
this." 

"  But  can  you  prevent  the  marriage  ?  " 

"What  I  can  do,  or  what  I  cannot  do,  a 
team  of  horses  won't  drag  ont  o'  me,  until 
the  time — the  hour — comes — then  !  Will 
you  allow  the  young  man  to  come,  su-  ?  " 

"  But  his  mothei',  you  say,  will  be  there, 
and  a  scene  between  them  would  be  not  only 
distressing  to  all  j^arties,  and  out  of  place, 
but  might  be  dangerous  to  him." 

"It's  because  Ins  mother's  to  be  there, 
maybe,  that  I  want  him  to  be  there.  Don't 
I  tell  you  that  I  vrant  to — but  no,  I'U  keep 
my  own  mind  to  myself — only  sink  or  swim 
without  me,  unless  you  allow  him  to 
come." 

"Well,  then,  if  lie  be  sufficiently  strong  to 
go,  I  shall  not  prevent  him,  uj)on  the  condi- 
tion that  you  will  exercise  the  mj-sterious 
influence  which  you  seem  in  possession  of 
for  the  purpose  of  breaking  up  the  mar- 
riage." 

"  I  won't  promise  to  do  any  such  thing," 
replied  Anthony.  "You  must  only  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  by  hmn'  every- 
thing to  myself.  Go  away  now,  sir,  if  you 
plaise  ;  ni}-  head's  not  right,  and  I  want  to 
keej)  it  clear  for  to-morrow." 

The  stranger  saw  that  he  was  as  inscruta- 
ble as  ever,  and  consequently  left  him,  half 
in  indignation,  and  half  impressed  by  a  lurk- 
ing hope  that,  notwithstanding  the  curtness 
of  his  manner,  he  was  determined  to  befriend 
him. 

This,  however,  was  far  fi-om  the  heart  of 
old  Corbet,  whose  pertinacity  of  purpose 
notliing'  short  of  death  itself  c^uld  either 
moderate  or  change. 

"Prevent  the  marriage,  indeed!  Oh,  ay  ! 
Catch  me  at  it.  No,  no  ;  that  must  take 
place,  or  I'm  balked  of  half  my  revenge.  It's 
when  he  finds  that  he  has,  by  his  own  bad 
and  bhnd  2)assions,  married  her  to  the  pro- 
fligate wilhoiit  the  title  that  he'U  shiver.  And 
that  scamp,  too,  the  bastard — but,  no  mat- 
ther — I  must  trj'  and  keep  my  head  clear,  as 
I  said,  for  to-morrow  will  be  a  gi-eat  day, 
either  for  good  or  e^dl,  to  some  of  them. 
Yes,  and  when  aU  is  over,  then  my  mind  will 
be  at  aise  ;  this  black  thing  that's  inside  o' 


me  for  years — drivin'  me  on,  on,  on — will  go 
about  his  business  ;  and  then,  jjlaise  good- 
ness, I  can  repent  comfortably  and  like  a 
Christian.     Oh,  dear  me  ! — my  head  !  " 


CHAPTER  XLL 


Denouement. 


At  length  the  important  morning,  fi-aught 
■with  a  series  of  such  varied  and  many-col- 
ored events,  arrived.     Sir  Thomas  trourlay, 
always  an  early  riser,  was  up  betimes,  and 
paced  his  room  to  and  fi'o  in  a  train  of  pro- 
found reflection.     It  was  evident,  however, 
fi-om  his  elated  yet  turbid  eye,  that  although 
■  delight  and  exultation  were  firevalent  in  his 
breast,  he  was  by  no  means  free  from  visita- 
,  tions  <,f  a  dark  and  painful  character.    These 
[  he  endeavored  to  fling  ott",  and  in  order  to 
do  so  more  eft'eotually,  he  gave  a  loose  rein 
to  the  contemplation  of  his  own  successful 
ambition.      Yet    he    occasionally   appeared 
anxious  and  uneasy,  and  felt  disturbed  and 
[  gloomy  fits  that  irritated  him  even  for  eu- 
j  tertaining  them.    He  was  more  than  usually 
)  nervous  ;  his   hand    shook,    and    his    stern, 
strong  voice  had  in  its  tones,  when  he  Bjioke, 
]  .the  audible  evidences  of  agitation.     These, 
;  we  say,  threw  their  deep  shadows  over  his 
j  mind  occasionally,  whereas  a  sense  of  tri- 
umph  and   gratified   pride    constituted   its 
general  tone  and  temper. 

"  Well,"  said  he,   '■  so  far  so  well :  Lucy 

wiU  soon  become  reconciled  to  this  step,  and 

all  my  projects  for  her  advancement  will  be 

— nay,  already  are,  realized.     After  all,  my 

theory  of  hfe  is  the  correct  one,  no  matter 

what  canting  priests  and  ignorant  philoso- 

jjhers  may  say  to  the  contrary.     Evei-y  man 

is  his  own  providence,  and   ought  to   be  his 

own  priest,  as  I  have  been.     As  for  a  moral 

plan  in  the  incidents  and  vicissitudes  of  life, 

I  could  never  see  nor  recognize  such  a  thing. 

Or  if  there  be  a  Pi'ovidence  that  foresees  and 

directs,  then  we  only  fidfll  his  purjjoses  by 

I  whatever  we  do,  whether  the  act  be  a  crime 

I  or  a  virtue.     So  that  on  either  side  I  am  safe. 

!  There,    to    be   sure,    is   mj'   brother's   son, 

against  whom  I  have  committed  a  crime  ;  ay, 

but  what,  after  aU,  /.-■  a  crime  ? — An  injury  to  a 

fellow-creature.    Wliat  is  a  virtue  ? — A  bene- 

I  fit  to  the  same.  Well,  he  has  sustained  an  in-. 

'  jurj-  at  my  hands — be  it  so — that  is  a  crime  ; 

but  I  and  ray  son  have  derived  a  benefit  from 

the  act,  and  this  turns  it  into  a  virtue  ;  for  as 

to  who  gains  or  who  loses,  that  is  not  a  matter 

for  the  world,   who  have   no   distinct   rule 

whereby  to  determine  its  complexion  or  its 

1  character,  unless  by  .the  usages  and  necessi- 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ties  of  life,  which  are  varied  by  climate  and 
"education  to  such  an  extent,  that  what  is 
looked  upon  as  a  crime  ui  one  country  or 
one  creed  is  frecjuently  considered  a  \irtue 
in  another.  As  for  futurity,  that  is  a  sealed 
book  which  no  man  hitherto  has  been  able 
to  open.  We  all  know — and  a  dark  and 
gloomy  fact  it  is — that  we  must  die.  Be- 
yond that,  the  searches  of  human  intellect 
cannot  go,  although  the  imagination  may 
project  itself  into  a  futurity  of  its  own 
creation.  Such  au'y  visions  are  not  subjects 
sutliciently  solid  for  belief.  As  for  me,  if  I 
believe  nothing,  the  fault  is  not  mine,  for  I 
can  find  nothing  to  beueve — nothing  that  can 
satisfy  my  reason.  The  contingencies  of 
life,  as  they  cross  and  jostle  each  other,  con- 
stitute by  their  accidental  results  the  only 
providential  wisdom  which  I  can  discei-n,  the 
proper  nsime  of  which  is  Chance.  Who  have  I, 
for  instance,  to  thank  but  mj'self — my  own 
energy  of  character,  my  o-mi  perseverance  of 
pui'jiose,  my  own  determined  vsdll — for  ac- 
complishing my  own  projects  ?  I  can  per- 
ceive no  other  agent,  either  visible  or  invisi- 
ble. It  is,  however,  a  hai'd  creed — a  painful 
creed,  and  one  which  requires  great  strength 
of  mind  to  entertain.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  when  I  reflect  that  it  may  be  only  the 
result  of  a  reaction  in  principle,  j)roceeding 
from  a  latent  conviction  that  all  is  not  right 
within,  and  that  we  reject  tlie  tribunal  be- 
cause we  are  conscious  that  it  must  condemn 
us — abjure  the  authority  of  the  court  because 
we  have  \-iolated  its  jurisdiction  ;  yes,  when 
I  reflect  upon  this,  it  is  then  that  these 
visitations  of  gloom  and  wretchedness  some- 
times agonize  my  mind  until  it  becomes  dark 
and  heated,  hke  hell,  and  I  curse  both  my- 
self and  my  creed.  Now,  however,  when 
this  marriage  shall  have  taken  jslace,  the 
great  object  of  my  life  will  be  gained — the 
great  struggle  ■will  be  over,  and  I  can 
relax  and  fall  back  into  a  life  of  comfort,  en- 
joyment, and  freedom  from  anxiety  and  care. 
But,  then,  is  there  no  risk  of  sacrificing  my 
d.aughter's  happiness  forever?  I  certainly 
would  not  do  that.  I  know,  however,  what 
influence  the  possession  of  rank,  position, 
title,  will  have  on  her,  when  she  comes  to 
know  their  value  by  seeing — ay,  and  by  feel- 
ing, how  they  are  appreciated.  There  is  not 
a  husband-hunting  dowager  in  the  world  of 
fashion,  nor  a  female  projector  or  manoeuvi-er 
in  aristocratic  life,  who  wUl  not  enable  her 
to  understand  and  enjoy  her  good  fortune. 
Every  sagacious  east  for  a  title  will  be  to 
her  a  homily  on  content.  But,  above  all,  she 
will  lie  able  to  see  and  desjsise  their  jealousy, 
to  laugh  at  theu-  envy,  and  to  exercise  at  their 
expense  that  superiority  of  intellect  and  eleva- 
tion of  rank  which  she  will  possess  ;  for  this 


I  will  teach  her  to  do.  Yes,  I  am  satisfied. 
AH  will  then  go  on  smoothly,  and  I  shall 
trouble  myself  no  more  about  creeds  or 
covenants,  whether  secular  or  spiritual." 

He  then  went  to  dress  and  shave  after  this 
complacent  resolution,  but  was  still  a  good 
deal  surprised  to  find  that  his  hand  shook  so 
disagreeably,  and  that  his  powerful  system 
was  in  a  state  of  such  general  and  unaccount- 
able agitation. 

After  he  had  di-essed,  and  was  about  to 
go  down  stairs,  Thomas  Corbet  came  to  ask 
a  favor,  as  he  said. 

"Well,  Corbet,"  rephedhis  master,  "what 
is  it?" 

"My  father,  sir,"  proceeded  the  other, 
"  wishes  to  know  if  you  would  have  any  ob- 
jection to  his  being  present  at  Miss  Gour- 
lay's  marriage,  and  if  you  would  also  allow 
him  to  bring  a  few  fi'iends,  who,  he  says,  are 
anxious  to  see  the  bride." 

"No  objection,  Corbet  —  none  in  the 
world  ;  and  least  of  all  to  youi-  father.  I 
have  found  your  family  faithful  and  attached 
to  my  interests  for  many  a  long  year-,  and  it 
would  be  too  bad  to  refuse  him  such  a 
paltry  request  as  that.  Tell  him  to  bring  his 
friends  too,  and  thej'  may  be  present  at 
the  ceremony,  if  they  wish.  It  was  never 
my  intention  that  my  daughter's  marriage 
should  be  a  jirivate  one,  nor  would  it  now, 
were  it  not  for  her  state  of  health.  Let  your 
father's  friends  and  yours  come,  then,  Cor- 
bet, and  see  that  you  entertain  them  prop- 
erly." 

Corbet  then  thanked  him,  and  was  about 
to  go,  when  the  other  said,  "  Corbet !  "  after 
which  he  paused  for  some  time. 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Corbet. 

"  I  msh  to  ask  your  opinion,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  as  to  allowing  my  son  to  be  i^res- 
ent.  He  himself  wishes  it,  and  asked  my 
consent ;  but  as  his  sister  entertains  such  an 
unaccountable  prejudice  against  him,  I  had 
doubts  as  to  whether  he  ought  to  appear  at 
all.  There  are,  also,  as  you  know,  other 
reasons." 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason,  sir,  that  ought 
to  exclude  him  the  moment, the  inarriage 
words  are  pronounced.  I  think,  sir,  with  hu 
mility,  that  it  is  not  only  his  right,  but  his 
duty,  to  be  j)reseut,  and  that  it  is  a  very  pro- 
j)er  occasion  for  you  to  acknowledge  him- 
openly." 

"  It  would  be  a  devilish  good  hit  at  Dun- 
roe,  for,  between  you  and  me,  Corbet,  I  fear 
that  his  heart  is  fixed  more  ujion  the  Gour- 
lay  estates  and  her  large  fortune  than  ujion 
the  girl  herself." 

If  I  might  advise,  sir,  I  think  he  ought  to 
be  present." 

"  And  the  moment  the  ceremony  is  over, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


589 


be  introrliiced  to  his  brother-in-law.  A  good 
hit.  I  shall  do  it.  Send  word  to  him,  then, 
Corbet.  As  it  must  be  done  some  time,  it 
may  as  well  be  done  now.  Duiu'oe  will 
of  course  be  too  much  elated,  as  he  ought 
to  be,  to  feel  the  blow — or  to  appear  to  feel 
it,  at  all  events — for  decency's  sake,  j^ou 
know,  he  must  keep  up  appearances  ;  and  if 
it  were  only  on  that  account,  we  wiU  avad 
ourselves  of  the  occasion  which  presents  it- 
self. This  is  another  point  gained.  Ithiak 
I  may  so  '  Bravo  ! '  Corbet :  I  have  managed 
everything  admirablj',  and  accomphshed  all 
my  purposes  single-handed." 

Thomas  Corbet  himself,  deej)  and  cunning 
as  he  was,  yet  knew  not  how  much  he  had 
been  kept  in  the  dark  as  to  the  events  of 
this  fatefid  day.  He  had  seen  his  father  the 
day  before,  as  had  his  sister,  and  they  both 
felt  surprised  at  the  equivocal  singularity  of 
his  manner,  well  and  thoroughly  as  they 
imagined  they  had  known  him.  It  was,  in 
fact,  at  his  suggestion  that  the  baronet's  son 
had  been  induced  to  ask  permission  to  be 
present  at  the  weddmg,  and  also  to  be  then 
and  there  acknowledged  ;  a  fact  which  the 
baronet  either  forgot  or  omitted  to  mention 
to  Corbet.  Anthony  also  insisted  that  his 
daughter  should  make  one  of  the  spectators, 
under  pain  of  disclosing  to  Su'  Thomas  the 
imposition  that  had  been  practised  on  him 
in  the  person  of  her  son.  Singular  as  it  may 
appear,  this  extraordinary  old  man,  in  the 
instance  before  us,  moved,  by  his  peculiar 
knowledge  and  sagacity,  as  if  he  had  them  on 
wires,  almost  every  person  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact,  or  whose  presence  he  con- 
sidered necessary  on  the  occasion. 

"  What  can  he  mean  ?  "  said  Thomas  to 
his  sister.  "  Surely  he  would  not  be  mad 
enough  to  make  Sir  Tliomas's  house  the 
place  in  which  to  produce  Lady  Gourlay's 
son,  the  very  individual  who  is  to  strip  him 
of  his  title,  and  your  son  of  aU  his  pros- 
pects ■? " 

"Oh  no,"  repHed  Ginty,  "certainly  not; 
otherwise,  why  have  lent  himself  to  the 
carrj'ing  out  of  our  speculation  with  respect 
to  that  boy.  Such  a  stejD  would  ruin  him — 
ruin  us  all — but  then  it  would  ruin  the  man 
he  hates,  and  that  would  gi-atify  him,  I 
know.  He  is  fuU  of  mystery,  certainly  ;  but 
as  he  will  disclose  nothing  as  to  his  move- 
ments, we  must  just  let  him  have  his  own 
way,  as  that  is  the  only  chance  of  managing 
him." 

Poor  Lucy  could  not  be  said  to  have 
awoke  to  a  morning  of  despair  and  anguish, 
because  she  had  not  slept  at  all  the  night 
before.  Having  got  up  and  dressed  herself, 
by  the  aid  of  Alice,  she  leaned  on  her  as  far- 
as  the  boudoir  to  which  allusion  has  already 


been  made.  On  aniving  there  she  sat  down, 
and  when  her  maid  looked  upon  her  coun- 
tenance she  became  so  much  alarmed  and 
distressed  that  she  burst  into  tears. 

"What,  my  dai'Ung  mistress,  is  come  over 
you  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  have  always 
spoken  to  me  until  this  unhappy  momin' 
Ob,  you  are  fairly  in  despair  now  ;  and  in- 
deed is  it  any  wonder  ?  I  always  thought, 
and  ho25ed,  and  prayed  that  something 
might  turn  up  to  prevent  this  ciu-sed  mai'- 
riage.     I  see,  I  read,  despair  in  your  face." 

Lucy  raised  her  large,  languid  eyes,  and 
looked  upon  her,  but  did  not  speak.  She 
gave  a  ghastly  smile,  but  that  was  all. 

"Speak  to  me,  dear  Miss  Gourlay,"  ex-- 
claimed  the  poor  girl,  with  a  Hood  of  tears. 
"  Oh,  only  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
your  voice ! " 

Lucy  beckoned  her  to  sit  beside  her,  and 
said,  with  ditfieulty,  that  she  wished  to  wet 
her  lips.  The  girl  knew  by  the  few  words 
she  uttered  that  her  voice  was  gone  ;  and 
on  looking  more  closely  she  saw  that  her 
lips  were  dry  and  parched.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments she  got  her  a  glass  of  water,  a  jjortion 
of  which  Lucy  drank. 

"Now,"  said  Ahce,  "that  wiU  relieve  and 
re&'esh  you  ;  but  oh,  for  God's  sake,  spake 
to  me,  and  tell  me  how  you  feel !  Miss 
Gourlay,  darlin',  you  are  in  despair  !  " 

Lucy  took  her  maid's  hand  in  hers,  and  af- 
ter looking  upon  her  with  a  smile  resembhng 
the  tirst.  replied,  "  No,  Alice,  I  will  not  de- 
spair, but  I  feel  that  I  will  die.  No,  I  -will 
not  despair,  Alice.  Short  as  the  time  is, 
God  may  interpose  between  me  and  misery 
— between  me  and  despair.  But  if  I  am 
married  to  this  man,  Alice,  my  faith  in  vir- 
tue, in  a  good  conscience,  in  truth,  purity, 
and  honor,  my  faith  in  Providence  itself  wiU 
be  shaken  ;  and  then  I  will  despair  and  die." 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  mean,  my  darlin'  Miss 
Gourlay  ? "  exclaimed  her  weeping  maid. 
"  Surely  you  couldn't  think  of  having  a  hand 
in  your  own  death  ?  Oh,  merciful  Father, 
see  what  they  have  brought  you  to  !  " 

"  Alice,"  said  she,  "  I  have  spoken  wrong- 
ly :  the  moment  in  which  I  uttered  the  last 
expression  was  a  weak  one.  No,  I  wiU 
never  doulit  or  distrust  Providence  ;  and  I 
may  die,  Alice,  but  I  wiU  never  despair." 

"  But  why  talk  about  death,  miss,  so 
much  ?  " 

"  Because  I  feel  it  lui-king  in  my  heart. 
My  physical  strength  will  break  do^\^l  under 
this  woful  calamity.  I  am  as  weak  as  an  in- 
fant, and  all  before  me  is  dark — in  this 
world  I  mean — but  not,  tliank  God,  in  the 
next.  Now  I  cannot  speak  much  more, 
Alice.  Leave  me  to  my  sdence  and  to  my 
sorrow." 


590 


WILLI A^M  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


The  affectionate  girl,  utterly  overcome, 
laid  her  head  upon  her  bosom  and  wept, 
until  Lucy  was  forced  to  soothe  and  comfort 
her  as  well  as  she  could.  They  then  sat 
silent  for  a  time,  the  maid,  however,  sobbing 
and  sighing  bitterly,  whilst  Lucy  only  ut- 
tered one  word  in  an  undertone,  and  as  if 
altogether  to  herself,  "  Misery  !    misery  !  " 

At  this  moment  her  father  tapped  at  the 
door,  and  on  being  admitted,  ordered  Alice 
to  leave  the  room  ;  he  wished  to  have  some 
private  conversation,  he  said,  with  her  mis- 
tress. 

"  Don't  make  it  long,  if  you  please,  sir," 
said  she,  "  for  my  mistress  won't  be  aquil  to 
it.  It's  more  at  the  point  of  death  than 
the  point  of  marriage  she  is." 

One  stern  look  from  the  baronet,  how- 
ever, silenced  her  in  a  moment,  and  after  a 
glance  of  most  affectionate  interest  at  her 
mistress  she  left  the  room. 

"  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  after  contem- 
plating that  asjaect  of  misery  which  could 
not  be  concealed,  "  I  am  not  at  all  pleased 
with  this  girlish  and  whining  appearance. 
I  have  done  all  that  man  could  do  to  meet 
your  wishes  and  to  make  you  happy.  I 
have  become  reconciled  to  your  aunt  for 
your  sake.  I  have  allowed  her  and  Mi's. 
Norton — Mainwaring  I  mean — to  be  present 
at  your  wedding,  that  they  might  support 
and  give  you  confidence.  You  are  about  to 
be  married  to  a  handsome  yovmg  fellow, 
only  a  little  wild,  but  who  will  soon  make 
you  a  countess.  Now,  in  God's  name,  what 
more  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  1  tliiiik,"  she  replied,  "  that  I  ought  not 
to  marry  this  man.  I  beUeve  that  I  stand 
justitied  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  in  re- 
fusmg  to  seal  my  own  misery.  The  promise 
I  made  you,  sir,  was  given  under  peculiar 
circumstances — under  terror  of  your  death. 
These  circumstances  are  now  removed,  and  it 
is  cruel  to  call  on  me  to  make  a  sacrifice  that 
is  a  thousand  times  worse  than  death.  No, 
papa,  I  wiU  not  marry  this  depraved  man — 
this  common  seducer.  I  shaU  never  unite 
myself  to  him,  let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may.     There  is  a  line  beyond  whicli 

Earental  authority  ought  not  to  go — you 
ave  crossed  it." 
"Be  it  so,  madam  ;  I  shall  see  you  again 
in  a  few  minutes,"  he  replied,  and  immedi- 
ately left  the  roam,  his  face  almost  black 
with  rage  and  disappointment.  Lucy  grew 
alarmed  at  the  terrible  abruptness  and  sig- 
nificance of  his  manner,  and  began  to  trem- 
ble, although  she  knew  not  why. 

"Can  I  violate  my  promise,"  said  she  to 
herself,  " after  having  made  it  so  solemnly? 
And  ought  I  to  marry  this  man  in  obedience 
to  my  father  ?    Alas  !  I  know  not ;  but  may 


heaven  direct  me  for  the  best !  If  I  thought  it 
would  make  papa  happy — but  his  is  a  rest.- 
less  and  ambitious  spirit,  and  how  can  I  be 
certain  of  that  ?  Maj'  heaven  direct  me  and 
guide  me !  " 

In  a  few  minutes  aftei'wards  her  father  re- 
turned, and  taking  out  of  his  pockets  a  pair 
of  joistols,  laid  them  on  the  table. 

"Now,  Lucy,"  said  he  solemnly,  and  with 
a  vehemence  of  manner  almost  frantic,  "we 
will  see  if  j'ou  cannot  yet  save  your  father's 
life,  or  whether  you  will  j^refer  to  have  his 
blood  on  youi-  soul." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  papa,"  said  his  daugh- 
ter, running  to  him,  and  throwing  or  at- 
temj^ting  to  throw  her  arms  about  him,  part- 
ly, in  the  moment  of  excitement,  to  embrace, 
and  partly  to  restrain  him. 

"  Hold  off,  madam,"  he  repUed  ;  "  hold  off; 
j'ou  have  made  me  desperate — you  have 
driven  me  mad.  Now,  mark  me.  I  ^iU  not  ask 
you  to  marry  this  man  ;  but  I  swear  bj'  all 
that  is  sacred,  that  if  j-ou  disgrace  me — if 
you  insult  Lord  Dunroe  by  refusing  to  Ije 
united  to  him  this  day — I  shall  put  the  con- 
tents of  one  or  both  of  these  pistols  through 
my  brains  ;  and  you  maj'  comfort  yourself 
over  the  corpse  of  a  suicide  father,  and  tum  ■ 
to  your  brother  for  protection." 

Either  alternative  was  sufficiently  dreadful 
for  the  i^oor  worn  and  wearied  out  girl. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  exclaimed,  again  attemist- 
ing  to  throw  her  arms  around  him  ;  "  put 
these  fearful  weapons  aside.  I  wiU  obey  you 
— I  will  many  him." 

"  This  day  ?  " 

"  This  day,  papa,  as  soon  as  my  aunt  and 
IMrs.  Mainwaring  come,  and  I  can  get  myself 
dressed." 

"  Do  so,  then  ;  or,  if  not  I  shall  not  sur- 
vive your  refusal  five  minutes." 

"  1  will,  pajia,"  she  replied,  lajlng  her  head 
upon  his  breast  and  sobbing  ;  "  I  will  maiTy 
him  ;  but  put  those  vile  and  dangerous  wea- 
pons away,  and  never  talk  so  again." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
Alice,  who  had  been  Hstening,  entered  the 
room  in  a  high  and  'towering  jjassion.  Her 
eyes  sparlded  :  her  comjjlexion  was  scarlet 
with  rage  ;  her  little  hands  were  most  hero- 
ically clenched  ;  and,  altogether,  the  very  ex- 
citement in  which  she  presented  herself, 
joined  to  a  good  face  and  fine  figure,  made  her 
look  exceedingly  interesting  and  handsome. 

"How,  madam,"  exclaimed  the  baronet, 
"  what  brings  you  here  ?  Withdraw  instant- 
ly-" 

"  How,  yourself,  sir,"  she  replied,  walking 

up  and  looking  him  fearlessly  in  the  face  ; 
"  none  of  your  '  how,  madams,'  to  me  any 
more  ;  as  there's  neither  man  nor  woman  to 
interfere  here,  I  must  only  do  it  myself." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


591 


"  Leave  the  room,  you  brazen  jade  ! " 
shouted  the  barouet ;  "  leave  the  room,  or 
it'll  be  worse  for  you." 

"  Deuce  a  one  toe  I'll  lave  it.  It  wasn't 
for  that  I  came  here,  but  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  a  tjTant  and  a  murdherer,  a  mane  old 
schemer,  that  would  marry  your  daughter  to 
a  common  swindler  and  rejsrobate,  liecause 
he's  a  lord.  But  here  I  stand,  the  woman 
that  \r\SS.  prevent  this  marriage,  if  there 
wasn't  another  faymale  from  here  to  Bally- 


"  Alice  !  "  exclaimed  Lucy,  "  for  heaven's 
sake,  what  do  you  mean  ? — what  awful  lang- 
uage is  this  ?     You  forget  yourself." 

"  That  may  be,  miss,  but,  by  the  life  in 
my  body,  I  won't  forget  you.  A  ring  won't 
go  on  you  to  that  titled  scamp  so  long  as  I 
have  a  dro})  of  manly  blood  in  my  veins — 
deuce  a  ring  !  " 

Amazement  almost  superseded  indignation 
on  the  jsart  of  the  barouet,  who  unconscious- 
ly exclaimed.  "A  i-ing  !  " 

"No — pursuin'  to  the  ring  !"  she  replied, 
accompanying  the  words  with  what  wns  in- 
tended to  be  a  fearful  blow  of  her  httle 
clenched  hand  uj^on  the  table. 

"  Let  me  go,  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  "  tiU 
I  put  the  termagant  out  of  the  room." 

"  Yes,  let  him  go,  miss,"  replied  Alley  ; 
"let  us  see  what  he'U  do.  Here  I  stand 
now,"  she  proceeded,  approaching  him  ; 
"  and  if  you  offer  to  Uft  a  hand  to  me,  I'll 
lave  ten  of  as  good  marks  in  your  face  as 
ever  a  woman  left  since  the  creation.  Come, 
now — am  I  afeard  of  you  '?  "  and  as  she  sjjoke 
she  approached  him  still  more  nearly,  with 
both  her  hands  close  to  his  face,  her  fingers 
spread  out  and  half-clenched,  reminding  one 
of  a  hawk's  talons. 

''Alice,"  said  Lucy,  "this  is  shocking;  if 
j'ou  love  me,  leave  the  room." 

"  Love  you  !  miss,"  replied  the  indignant 
but  faithful  girl,  bursting  into  bitter  tears  ; 
"  love  you ! — merciful  heaveu,  wouldn't  I 
give  my  hfe  for  you  ? — who  that  knows  you 
doesn't  love  you?  and  it's  for  that  reason 
that  I  don't  wish  to  see  you  murdhered — nor 
won't.  Come,  sir,  you  must  let  her  out  of 
this  marriage.  It'll  be  no  go,  I  tell  you. 
I  won't  suffer  it,  so  long  as  I've  strength 
and  hfe.  I'U  dash  myself  between  them. 
I'll  make  the  ole  clergyman  skip  if  he  at^ 
tempts  it ;  ay,  and  what's  more,  I'U  see 
Dandy  Dulcimer,  and  we'U  collect  a  fac- 
tion." 

"Do  not  hold  me,  Lucy,"  said  her  father  ; 
"I  must  certainly  put  her  out  of  the  room." 

"  Don't,  f)apa,"  replied  Lucy,  restraining 
him  from  laying  hands  upon  her,  "  don't, 
for  the  sake  of  honor  and  manhood.  Alice, 
for  heaven's  sake  !   if  you  love  me,  as  I  said. 


and  I  now  add,  if  you  re.spect  me,  leave  tha 
room.  You  wiU  j)rovoke  papa  past  en- 
durance." 

"Not  a  single  toe,  miss,  tiU  he  promises 
to  let  you  cut  o'  this  match.  Oh,  my  good 
man,"  she  said,  addressing  the  struggling 
baronet,  "  if  you're  for  fighting,  here  I  am 
for  j-ou  ;  or  wait,"  she  added,  whipping  up 
one  of  the  pistols,  "  Come,  now,  if  you're  a 
man  ;  take  your  ground  there.  Now  I  can 
meet  you  on  equal  terms  ;  get  to  the  corner 
there,  the  distance  is  short  enough  ;  but  no 
matther,  you're  a  good  mark.  Come,  now, 
don't  think  I'm  the  bit  of  goods  to  be  afeard 
o'  you — it's  not  the  first  jewel  I've  seen  in  my 
time,  and  remember  that  my  name  is  Mahon" 
— and  she  posted  herself  in  the  corner,  as  if 
to  take  her  ground.  "  Come,  now,"  she  re- 
peated, "you  called  me  a  'brazen  jade' 
awhile  ago,  and  I  demand  satisfaction." 

"  AHce,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  will  injure  your- 
self or  others,  if  you  do  not  lay  that  danger- 
ous weajjon  do\vn.     For  God's  sake,  Alice, 
!  lay  it  aside — it  is  loaded." 
j      "Deuce  a  bit  o'  danger,  miss,"  replied  the 
j  indignant   heroine.     "  I  know   more  about 
I  fire-arms  than  you  think  ;  my  brothers  used 
to  have  them  to  protect  the  house.    I'll  soon 
see,  at  any  rate,  whether  it's  loaded  or  not." 
While  si^eakiug  she  whipped  out  the  ram- 
rod, and,  making  the  exj)eriment  found,  that 
it  was  empty. 

"  Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  desateful  old 
tjTant :  and  so  you  came  down  blusterin' 
and  buUyin',  and  fi-ightenin'  your  child  into 
comphance,  with  a  pair  of  emjity  pistols ! 
By  the  life  in  my  body,  if  I  had  you  in  Bally- 
train,  Id ^jo.5/  you." 

"  Papa,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  must  excuse 
this — it  is  the  excess  of  her  affection  for  me. . 
Dear  Alice,"  she  said,  addressing  her,  and 
for  a  moment  forgetting  her  weakness, 
"  come  with  me  ;  I  cannot,  and  will  not  bear 
this  ;  come  with  me  out  of  the  room." 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  go  to  plaise  you,  miss, 

but  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  this  marriage 

mustn't  take   place.     Just  think  of  it,"  she 

added,  turning  to  her  master  ;  "  if  you  force 

her  to  marry  this  scamp  of  a  lord,  the  girl 

has  sense,  and  spirit,  and  common   decency, 

i  and   of  course   she'll   run  away  from  him  ; 

after  that,  it  won't  be  hard  to  guess  whoj 

shell  run  to — then  there'll  be  a  con.  crim. 

about  it,  and  it'll  go  to  the  lawyers,  and  fi'om 

j  the  lawyers  it'll  go  to  the  deuce,  and  that 

will  be  the  end  of  it ;  and  all  because  j-ou're 

I  a  coarse-minded  tyrant,  imworthy  of  having 

:  such  a  daughteii  Oh,  you  needn't  shake  your 

j  hand  at  me.     You  refused  to  give  me  satis.. 

faction,  and  I'd   now  scorn  to  notice  you. 

j  Remember  I  cowed  you,  and  for  tliat  reason 

I  never  pretend  to  be  a  gentleman  af  ther  thia" 


592 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Lucy  then  led  her  out  of  the  room,  which 
she  left,  after  tvirning  upon  her  master  a 
look  of  the  proudest  and  fiercest  defiance, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  sovereign 
contempt. 

"  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  "  is  not  this  a 
fine  specimen  of  a  maid  to  have  in  personal 
attendance  upon  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  defend  her  conduct  now,  sir," 
she  replied  ;  "  but  I  cannot  overlook  her  af- 
fection, her  truth,  her  attachment  to  me,  nor 
the  many  other  virtues  wbieli  I  know  she  pos- 
sesses. She  is  somewhat  singiilar,  I  grant, 
and  a  bit  of  a  character,  and  I  could  wish  that 
her  manners  were  somewhatless  plain;  but,on 
the  other  hand,  she  does  not  pretend  to  be  a 
fine  lady  with  her  mistress,  although  she  is  not 
without  some  harmless  vanitj';  neither  is  she 
frivolous,  giddy,  nor  deceitful ;  and  whatever 
faults  there  may  be,  papa,  in  her  head,  there 
are  none  in  her  heart.  It  is  affectionate, 
faithful,  and  disinterested.  Indeed,  whilst  I 
hve  I  shaU  look  upon  her  as  my  friend." 

"I  am  determined,  however,  she  shall  not 
be  long  under  my  roof,  nor  in  your  seiTice  ; 
her  conduct  just  now  has  settled  that  point ; 
but,  putting  her  out  of  the  question,  I  trust 
we  understand  each  other,  and  that  you  are 
prepai-ed  to  make  yoiu*  father's  heart  hapjsj'. 
No  more  objections." 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  have  said  so." 

"  You  will  go  through  the  ceremony  with 
a  good  grace  ?  ' 

"  I  cannot  promise  that,  sir  ;  but  I  shall  go 
through  the  ceremony." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  do  it  without  offence 
to  Dunroe,  and  with  as  Httle  apf)earance  of 
reluctance  as  possible." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  draw  a  painful  atten- 
tion to  myself,  papa  ;  but  you  will  please  to 
recollect  that  I  have  all  my  horror,  all  my 
detestation  of  this  match  to  contend  with  ; 
and,  I  may  add,  my  physical  weakness,  and 
the  natural  timidity  of  woman.  I  shall,  how- 
ever, go  through  the  ceremony,  provided 
nature  and  reason  do  not  fail  me." 

"Well,  Lucy,  of  coiu-se  you  will  do  the 
best  you  can.  I  must  go  now,  for  I've  many 
things  to  think  of.  Your  dresses  are  admir- 
able, and  your  Irouffneau,  considering  the 
short  time  Dunroe  had,  is  really  superb. 
Shake  hands,  my  dear  Lucy;  you  know  I 
\sdll  soon  lose  you." 

Lucy,  whose  heart  was  affection  itself, 
threw  herself  into  his  arms,  and  exclaimed, 
in  a  burst  of  gi-ief : 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  feel  that  yoii  wtII  ;  and,  per- 
haps, when  I  am  gone,  you  wiU  saj',  with  sor- 
row, that  it  would  have  been  better  to  have 
allowed  Lucy  to  be  happy  her  o-wn  way." 

"  Come,  now,  you  foolish,  naughty  girl," 
he  exclaimed  affectionately,  "  be  good — be 


good."  And  as  he  spoke,  he  kissed  her, 
pressed  her  hand  tenderly,  and  then  left  the 
I'oom. 

"  Alas ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  stiU  in  tears, 
"  how  happy  might  we  have  been,  had  this 
ambition  for  my  exaltation  not  existed  in  my 
father's  heart ! " 

If  Lucy  rose  with  a  depressed  spirit  on 
that  morning  of  sorrow,  so  did  not  Lord 
Dunroe.  This  young  nobleman,  false  and 
insincere  in  everything,  had  succeeded  in  in- 
ducing his  sister  to  act  as  brides-maid,  Sir 
Thomas  having  asked  her  consent  as  a  jjer- 
sonal  comj)liment  to  himself  and  his  daugh- 
ter. She  was  told  by  her  brother  that  young 
Roberts  would  act  in  an  analogous  capacity 
to  him  ;  and  this  he  held  out  as  an  induce- 
ment to  her,  having  obser\'ed  something 
like  an  attachment  between  her  and  the 
young  ensign.  Not  that  he  at  all  approved 
of  this  growing  predilection,  for  though 
strongly  imbued  with  all  the  senseless  and 
absurd  j^i'^judices  against  humble  bii-th 
which  disgrace  aristocratic  life  and  feeling, 
he  was  base  enough  to  overrule  his  own 
opinions  on  the  subject,  and  endeavor,  by 
this  unworthy  jjlay  iipon  his  sister's  feelings, 
to  prevail  upon  her  to  do  an  act  that  would 
throw  her  into  his  society,  and  which,  under 
any  other  circumstances,  he  would  have  op- 
f)osed.  He  desired  her,  at  the  same  time, 
not  to  mention  the  fact  to  their  father,  who, 
he  said,  entertained  a  strong  prejudice 
against  upstarts,  and  was  besides,  iudisjiosed 
to  the  marriage,  in  consequence  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay's  doubtful  reputation,  as 
regarding  the  disajipearance  of  his  brother's 
heir.  In  consequence  of  these  represen- 
tations. Lady  Emily  not  only  consented  to 
act  as  bride's-maid;  but  also  to  keep  her 
knowledge  of  the  forthcoming  marriage  a 
secret  from  her  father. 

At  breakfast  that  morning  Dunroe  was 
uncommonly  cheerful.  Norton,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  rather  depressed,  and  could  not 
be  prevailed  ujion  to  partake  of  the  gay  and 
exuberant  sjiirit  of  mirth  and  buoyancy 
which  animated  Dunroe. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Norton  ? "  said  his  lordship.  "  You  seem 
rather  annoj'ed  that  I  am  going  to  marry  a 
\erj  lovely  girl  with  an  immense  fortune  ? 
With  both,  you  know  very  wcU  that  I  can 
manage  without  either  the  CuUamore  title  or 
l^roperty.  The  Gom-lay  property  is  as  good 
if  not  better.  Come,  then,  cheer  up  ;  if  the 
agency  of  the  CuUamore  j)roperty  is  gone, 
we  shall  have  that  on  the  Gourlay  side  to 
look  to." 

"Dunroe,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  Nor- 
ton, "  I  am  thinking  of  nothing  so  selfish. 
That  which  distresses  me  is,  that  I  wiU  lose 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


593 


mj'  friend.  Tliis  lliss  Gourlay  is,  they  say,  I 
so  confoundedly  virtuous  that  I  dare  say  she  j 
will  allow  no  honest  feUow,  who  doesn't  i 
carry  a  Bible  and  a  Prayer-book  in  his  ! 
pocket,  and  quote  8crii:)tiu'e  in  conversation,  ' 
to  associate  with  you." 

"  Nonsense,  man,"  replied  Dunroe,  "  I 
have  satisfied  you  on  that  point  before.  But 
I  say,  Norton,  is  not  this  a  great  bite  on  the 
baronet,  esjjecially  as  he  considers  himself  a 
knowing  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  grant  you,  a  gi-eat  bite,  no  doubt ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  I  rather  guess  you 
may  thank  me  for  the  possession  of  IMiss 
Gom-lay,  and  the  property  which  will  go 
along  -with  her." 

"  As  how,  Norton  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  the  anony- 
mous note  which  I  wrote  to  the  baronet, 
when  I  was  over  in  Dublin  to  get  the  horse 
changed  ?  He  was  then  at  Red  Hall.  I  am 
certain  that  were  it  not  for  that  hint,  there 
would  have  been  an  elojsement.  You  know 
it  was  the  fellow  who  shot  you,  that  was 
then  in  her  neighborhood,  and  he  is  at  pres- 
ent in  town.  I  ojieued  the  baronet's  eyes  at 
all  events." 

"  Faith,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Norton, 
althoagh  I  know  you  do  me  in  money  mat- 
ters now  and  then,  still  I  believe  you  to  be  a  1 
i'.iitliful  fellow.  In  fact,  you  owe  me  more 
than  you  are  aware  of.  You  know  not  how  I 
have  resisted  the  respectable  old  nobleman's 
wishes  to  send  you  adrift  as  an  impostor  and 
cheat.  I  lield  firm,  however,  and  told  him  I 
could  never  with  honor  abandon  my  fi-iend."  ; 

"  Many    thanks,  Dunroe  ;    but    I    reaUy  ! 
must  say  that  I  am  neither  an  impostor  nor 
a  cheat ;  and  that  if  ever  a  man  was  true 
friend  and  faithful  to  man,  I  am  that  friend  i 
to  your  lordship ;  not,  God  knows,  because 
you  are.  a  lord,  but  because  you  are  a  far 
better   thing — a  regular  tramp.     A   cheat !  ! 
curse  it,"  clapping  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  to  I 
conceal  his  emotion,  "isn't  my  name  Nor- j 
ton  ?  and  am  I  not  your  friend  ?  "  ! 

At  this  moment  a  servant  came  in,  and 
handed  Lord  Dunroe  a  note,  which  he  was 
about  to  throw  to  Norton,  who  generally 
acted  as  a  kind  of  secretary  to  liim ;  but 
observing  the  depth  and  sincerity  and  also 
the  modesty  of  his  feeUngs,  he  thought  it 
indelicate  to  trouble  him  with  it  just  then. 
Breakfast  was  now  over,  and  Dunroe,  throw- 
ing himself  back  in  an  arm-chair,  opened 
the  letter — read  it — then  another  that  was 
contained  in  it ;  after  which  he  rose  up,  and 
traversed  the  room  with  a  good  deal  of  ex- 
citement. He  then  approached  Norton,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  that  might  be  said  to  have 
been,  made  up  of  heat  and  cold,  "  What  dis- 
turbs vou  ?  "  1 


Norton  winked  both  eyes,  did  the  pa- 
thetic a  bit,  then  pulled  out  his  jjocket  hand- 
kerchief, and  blew  his  nose  up  to  a  point 
little  short  of  distress  itself.  In  the  mean- 
time, Dunroe  suddenly  left  the  room  -wdthout 
Norton's  knowledge,  who  replied,  however, 
to  the  last  question,  imder  the  impression 
that  his  lordship  was  present, 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Dunroe,  the  loss  of  a  true 
friend  is  a  serious  thing  in  a  world  like  this, 
where  so  many  cheats  and  impostors  are 
going." 

To  this,  however,  he  received  no  replj- ; 
and  on  looking  round  and  finding  that  his 
dupe  had  gone  out,  he  said  : 

"  Ciu'se  the  fellow — he  has  cut  me  short. 
I  was  acting  friendship  to  tlie  life,  and  now 
he  has  disapj^eared.  However,  I  will  re- 
sume it  when  I  hear  his  foot  on  the  return. 
His  hat  is  there,  and  I  know  he  will  come 
back  for  it." 

Nearly  ten  minutes  had  elajised,  during 
which  he  was  making  the  ham  and  chicken 
disappear,  when,  on  hearing  a  foot  which  he 
took  for  granted  must  be  that  of  his  lord- 
ship, he  once  more  threw  himself  into  his 
former  attitude,  and  putting  the  handker- 
chief again  to  his  eyes,  exclaimed  : 

"No,  my  lord.  A  cheat!  Curse  it,  isn't  my 
name  Norton  ?  and  am  I  not  your  friend  ?  " 

"Why,  upon  my  soul,  Barney,  you  used 
of  ould  to  bring  out  only  one  lie  at  a  time 
but  now  you  give  them  in  pairs.  '  Isn't  my 
name  Norton  ? '  says  you.  I  kejit  the  saioret 
bekaise  j'ou  never  meddled  with  Lord  Cul- 
lamore  or  Lady  Emily,  or  attempted  j'oui 
tricks  on  them,  and  for  that  raison  you 
ought  to  thank  me.  Here's  a  note  from  Lord 
Dunroe,  who  looks  as  black  as  midnight." 

"  What !  a  note  from  Dunroe  !  "  exclaimed 
Norton.  "  Why  he  only  left  me  this  min- 
ute !     What  the  deuce  can  this  mean  ?  " 

He  opened  the  note,  and  lead,  to  his  dis 
may  and  astonishment  as  foUows  : 

"  Lifamous  and  treacherous  scoundi'el, — 
I  have  this  moment  received  your  letter  to 
Mr.  Birney,  enclosed  by  that  gentleman  to 
me,  in  which  you  offer,  for  a  certain  sum,  to 
betray  me,  by  placing  in  the  hands  of  my 
enemies  the  very  documents  you  pretended 
to  have  destroyed.  I  now  know  the  %iper  I 
have  cherished — begone.  You  are  a  cheat, 
an  impostor,  and  a  villain,  whose  name  is  nm 
Norton,  but  Bryan,  once  a  horse-jockey  on 
the  Curragh,  and  obliged  to  fly  the  country 
for  swindling  and  dishonesty.  Remove 
your  things  instantly  ;  but  that  shall  not 
prevent  me  from  tracing  you  and  hand- 
ing you  over  to  justice  for  your  knavery  and 
fraud. 

"  DUSBOB.  ' 


594 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


"  All  right !  Morty — all  right ! "  escLaimed 
Norton  ;  "  upon  my  soul,  Dunroe  is  too  gen- 
erous. You  know  he  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried to-day.  Was  that  Roberts  who  went  up 
stairs  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  young  officer,  if  that's  his 
name,"  replied  Morty. 

"  All  right !  Morty  ;  he's  to  be  gi'oom's- 
man — that  wiO  do  ;  this  requii'es  no  answer. 
The  generous  feUow  has  made  me  a  present 
on  his  wedding-day.  That  wiU  do,  Morty  ; 
you  maj'  go." 

"All's  discovered,"  he  exclaimed,  when 
Morty  was  gone  ;  "  however,  it's  not  too  late  : 
I  shall  give  him  a  Roland  for  his  Oliver  be- 
fore we  part.  It  will  be  no  harm  to  give  the 
ihe  resj)ectable  old  nobleman  a  hint  of  what's 
going  on,  at  any  rate.  This  discovery,  how- 
ever, won't  signify,  for  I  know  Dunroe.  The 
poor  fool  has  no  self-reliance  ;  but  if  left  to 
himself  would  die.  He  possesses  no  manly 
spirit  of  indejjendent  will,  no  firmness,  no 
fixed  principle — he  is,  in  fact,  a  noun  adjec- 
tive, and  cannot  stand  alone.  Dej)raved  in 
his  appetites  and  habits  of  Hfe,  he  cannot 
live  without  some  hanger-on  to  enjoy  his 
freaks  of  sillj'  and  senseless  profligacy,  who 
can  j)raise  and  laugh  at  him,  and  who  will 
act  at  once  as  his  butt,  Ids  bully,  his  pan- 
der, and  his  friend  ;  four  capacities  m  which 
I  have  served  him — at  his  own  expense,  be  it 
said.  No  ;  my  ascendancy  over  him  has 
been  too  long  estabUshed,  and  I  know  that, 
lilce  a  prime  minister  who  has  been  hastily 
dismissed,  I  shall  be  ultimately  recalled. 
-And  yet  he  is  not  without  gleams  of  sense, 
is  occasionally  sprightly,  and  has  perceptions 
of  jJi'inciple  that  might  have  made  him  a 
man — an  individual  being :  but  now,  having 
neither  firmness,  resolution  to  cany  out  a 
good  jourjiose,  nor  self-respect,  he  is  a  mis- 
erable and  wretched  cipher,  whose  whole 
value  depends  on  the  figure  that  is  next  him. 
Yes,  I  know — I  feel — he  will  recall  me  to  his 
councils. " 

At  length  the  hour  of  half-past  eleven  ar- 
rived, and  in  Sir  Thomas  Gouilay's  drawing- 
room  were  assembled  all  those  who  had  been 
asked  to  be  present,  or  to  take  the  usual 
part  in  the  marriage  ceremony.  Dr.  Som- 
bre, the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  had  just 
arrived,  and,  having  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  made  a  bow  that  would  not  have  dis- 
gi'aced  a  V)ishop.  He  was  pretty  well  ad- 
vanced in  years,  excessively  stupid,  and 
possessed  so  vile  a  memory  for  faces,  that  he 
was  seldom  able  to  recognize  his  own  guests, 
if  he  happeped  to  meet  tliem  in  the  streets 
on  the  following  day.  He  was  an  expectant 
for  2:)referment  in  the  chvirch,  and  if  the  gift 
of  a  good  appetite  were  a  successful  recom- 
uendation  for  a  mitre,   as  that  of  a  strong 


head  has  been  before  now,  no  man  was  bel 
ter  entitled  to  wear  it.  Be  this  as  it  may 
the  good  man,  who  expected  to  jjartake  o< 
an  excellent  rh'jeAner,  felt  that  it  was  a  por- 
tion of  his  duty  to  give  a  word  or  two  of  ad- 
vice to  the  young  coujile  upon  the  solemn 
and  imjiortant  duties  into  the  discharge  of 
which  they  were  about  to  enter.  According- 
ly, looking  round  the  room,  he  saw  Jlr. 
Roberts  and  Lady  Emily  engaged,  at  a  win- 
dow, in  what  apjieared  to  him  to  be  such  a 
conversation  as  might  naturally  take  place 
between  parties  about  to  be  united.  Lucy 
had  not  yet  made  her  apjjearance,  but  Dun- 
roe was  present,  and  on  seeing  the  Eev. 
Doctor  join  them,  was  not  at  all  sorrj'  at  the 
interruption.  This  word  of  advice,  by  the 
way,  was  a  stereotyped  commodity'  with  the 
i  Doctor,  who  had  not  married  a  couple  for 
i  the  last  thii-ty  years,  ■without  palming  it  on 
them  as  an  extempore  jiiece  of  admonition 
•  arising  from  that  particular  occasion.  The 
'  worthy  man  was,  indeed,  the  better  cjuahfied 
to  give  it,  having  never  been  niai-ried  him- 
self, and  might,  therefore,  be  considered  as 
perfectly  fi-ee  from  j^rejudices  affecting  either 
partj'  upon  the  subject. 
j  "  You,  my  dear  children,  are  the  parties 
I  about  to  be  united  ? "  said  he,  addressing 
Roberts  and  Lady  Emily,  with  a  bow  that 
had  in  it  a  strong  j^rofessionai  innuendo,  but 
of  what  nature  was  j'et  to  be  learned. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Roberts,  who  at  once 
I  perceived  the  good  man's  mistake,  and  was 
determi7\ed  to  carry  out  whatever  jest  might 
arise  from  it. 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  rejjhed  Lady  Emily,  blush- 
ing deeply  ;  "  we  are  not  the  ijartieis." 
!       "Because,"    proceeded    the    Doctor,     "I 
think  I  could  not  do  better  than  give  you, 
while   together,  a  few  words — just  a  little 
homily,  as  it  were — mion  the  nature  of  the 
I  duties  into  which  you  ai-e  about  to  enter.' 
1       "  Oh,  but  I  have  told  you,"  repUed  Lady 
i  Emily,  again,  "  that  we  ai-e  not  the  parties, 
I  Dr.  Sombre." 

j  "  Never  mind  her.  Doctor,"  said  Roberts, 
I  assuming,  with  becoming  gravity,  the  cha*-- 
I  acter  of  the  intended  husband :  "  the  Doc- 
I  tor,  my  dear,  knows  human  nature  too 
well  not  to  make  allowances  for  the  timidity 
pecuUar  to  yoiu'  situation.  Come,  my,  love 
:  be  firm,  and  let  us  hear  wh.at  he  has  to  say."" 
'■  "Yes,"  replied  the  Doclor.  "Icanunder- 
I  stand  that ;  I  knew  I  was  right :  and  all  you 
i  want  now  is  the  ceremony  to  make  you  man 
,  and  wife." 

"  Indisputable,  Doctor ;  nothing  can  be 
more  true.  These  words  might  almost  ap^seai 
as  an  appendix  to  the  Gospel.'' 

"  Well,  my  children,"  i^roeceded  the  Doc- 
tor, "  listen — marriage  may  be  divided " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


595 


"  I  thought  it  was  rather  a  union,  Doc- 
tor. " 

"  So  it  is,  phild,"  rejsliect  the  Doctor,  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  spirit ;  "  but  j-oii  know 
that  even  Unions  can  be  di^'idecl.  When  I 
was  induced  to  the  Union  of  Ballycomeasy 
and  Ballycomsharp  I " 

"  But,  Doctor,"  said  Robei'ts,  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  have  interrupted  you.  Will  you 
have  the  kmdness  to  proceed '?  my  fair  part- 
ner, here,  is  very  anxious  to  hear  your  little 
homOy — are  you  not,  my  love  ?  " 

Lady  EmUy  was  certainly  pressed  rather 
severely  to  maintain  her  gravity — in  fact,  so 
much  so,  that  she  was  unable  to  reply,  Rob- 
ert's composure  being  admirable. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  Doctor,  "  as  I  was 
saying — Marriage  may  be  divided  into  three 
heads " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  make  it  only  two,  if 
possible,  my  dear  Doctor,"  said  Roberta : 
"  the  appearance  of  a  third  head  is  rather 
uncomfortable,  I  think." 

— "  Into  three  heads — first,  its  duties  ; 
nest,  its  rights  ;  and  lastly,  its  tribulations." 

The  Doctor,  we  may  observe,  was  in  gen- 
eral very  unlucky,  in  the  reception  which  fell 
to  the  share  of  liis  little  homily — the  fact 
being  with  it  as  with  its  subject  in  actual 
hfe,  that  his  audience,  however  they  might 
feel  upon  its  rights  and  duties,  were  vei"j' 
anxious  to  avoid  its  tribulations  in  any  sense, 
and  the  consequence  was,  that  in  nineteen 
cases  out  of  twenty  the  reverend  bachelor 
himseK  was  left  in  the  midst  of  them.  Such 
was  his  fate  here  ;  for  at  this  moment  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  entered  the  drawing-i-oom, 
and  approaching  Lady  Emily,  said,  "  I  have 
to  apologize  to  you.  Lady  Emily,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  I  who  am  to  blame  for  Miss  Gour- 
lay's  not  having  seen  you  sooner.  On  a  sub- 
ject of  such  importance,  it  is  natural  that  a 
father  should  have  some  private  conversation 
with  her,  and  indeed  this  was  the  case  ;  al- 
low me  now  to  conduct  you  to  her." 

"There  is  no  apology  wliatsoever  neces- 
sary. Sir  Thomas,"  reislied  her  ladyship, 
taking  his  arm,  and  casting  a  rapid  but  pre- 
cious glance  at  Roberts.  As  they  went  up 
stairs,  the  baronet  said,  in  a  voice  of  great 
anxiety, 

"You  will  obhge  me.  Lady  Emily,  by 
keeping  her  from  the  looking-glass  as  much 
as  possible.  I  have  got  her  maid — who,  al- 
tliougli  rather  plain  in  her  manners,  has  ex- 
cellent taste  in  all  matters  connected  with 
the  toilette — I  have  got  her  to  say,  while 
cb'essing  her,  that  it  is  not  considered  lucky 
for  a  bride  to  see  herself  in  a  looking-glass 
or  the  day  of  her  maniage." 

"But  why  should  she  not.  Sir  Thomas?" 
asked  the  innocent  and  lovelv  girl  :  "  if  ever 


a  lady  should  consult  her  glass,  it  is  surely 
upon  such  an  occasion  as  this." 

"I  grant  it,"  he  replied;  "but  then  her 
paleness — is — is — her  looks  altogether  are 
so — in  fact,  you  may  understand  me.  Lady 
Emily — she  is,  in  consequence  of  her  very 
dehcate  health — in  consequence  of  thai, 
say,  she  is  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  living 
i  being — in  complexion  I  mean.  And  now, 
'  my  dear  Lady  Emily,  ^^■ill  you  huriy  her  ? 
I  am  anxious — that  is  to  say,  we  all  are — to 
have  the  ceremony  over  as  soon  as  it  possibly 
can.     She  wiU  then  feel  better,  of  course." 

Dr.  Sombre,  seeing  that  one  of  the  neces- 
sary audience  to  his  little  homily  had  dis- 
appeared, seemed  rather  disappointed,  but 
addressed  himseK  to  Roberts  upon  a  veiT 
difterent  subject. 

"I  dare  say,"  said  he,  "we  shall  have  a 
very  capital  cUjeitner  to-day." 

Roberts  was  startled  at  the  rapid  and 
carnal  nature  of  the  transition  in  s\ich  a 
reverend-looking  old  gentleman  ;  but  as  the 
poor  Doctor  had  sustained  a  disappointment 
,on  the  subject  of  the  homily,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  aiford  him  some  comfort  on  this. 

"I  imderstand,"  said  he,  "from  the  best 
authority,  that  nothing  like  it  has  been  seen 
for  years  in  the  city.  Several  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry  have  jjrivately  solicited  Sir 
Thomas  for  copies  of  the  bill  of  fare." 

"That  is  all  right,'' rephed  the  Doctor, 
"  that  is  aE  excellent,  my  good  young  fiiend. 
Who  is  that  large  gentleman  who  has  just 
come  in  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  sir,"  replied  Roberts,  astonished, 
"  that  is  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  himself." 

"  Bless  me,  and  so  it  is,"  replied  the  Doc- 
tor ;  "he  is  getting  very  fat — eh?  Ay,  all 
right,  and  will  make  excellent  eating  if  the 
cooking  be  good." 

Roberts  saw  at  once  what  the  worthy 
Doctor  was  thinking  of,  and  resolved  to 
suggest  some  other  tojjic,  if  it  were  only  to 
punish  him  for  bestowing  such  attention 
upon  a  subject  so  much  at  variance  with 
thoughts  that  ought  to  occupy  the  mind  of 
a  minister  of  God. 

"I  have  heard,  Doctor,  that  you  are  a 
bachelor,"  said  he.  "How  did  it  happen, 
pray,  that  you  kept  aloof  from  marriage  ?  " 

The  Doctor,  who  had  been  contemplating 
his  own  exploits  at  the  dfjitner,  now  that 
Roberts  had  mentioned  marriage,  took  it  foi 
granted  that  he  wanted  him  to  proceed  with 
his  homUy,  and  tried  to  remember  where  he 
had  left  off. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "  about  marriage  ;  I 
stojjped  at  its  tribulations.  I  thiuk  I  had 
got  over  its  rights  and  duties,  but  I  stopped 
at  its  tribulations — yes,  its  tribulations. 
Veiy  well,   my  dear  friend,"  \e  proceeded. 


596 


WILLIAM   CARLETON''S  WORKS. 


taking  him  by  the  hand,  and  leading  him 
over  to  a  comer,  "  accompany  me,  and  you 
shall  enter  them  now.  Where  is  the  young 
lady?" 

"  She  ■n'ill  be  here  by  and  by,"  repUed 
Roberts  ;  "I  think  you  had  better  wait  till 
she  comes." 

The  Doctor  paused  for  some  time,  and 
foUowiug  up  the  idea  of  the  dejdner,  said, 
"I  am  fond  of  wild  fowl  now." 

"  Oh,  fie,  Doctor,"  rephed  the  Ensign  ;  "  I 
did  not  imagine  that  so  grave  a  personage  as 
you  are  could  be  fond  of  anything  wild." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  rej)hed  the  Doctor,  "  ever  while 
you  Uve  prefer  the  wild  to  the  tame  ;  every 
one,  sir,"  he  added,  taking  the  other  by  the 
button,  "that  knows  what's  what,  in  that  re-  , 
spect,  does  it.  Well,  but  about  the  tribula- 
tions." j 

As  usual  the  Doctor  was  doomed  to  be 
left  in  them,  for  just  as  he  sjioke  the  doors 
were  tlirown  more  ^^'idely  open,  and  Lucy, 
leaning  upon,  or  rather  supported  by,  her 
aunt  and  Lady  Emily,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Mainwariug,  entered  the  room.  Her  father, 
had  been  in  close  conversation  v\ith  Dunroe  ; 
but  not  aU  his  efforts  at  self-possession  and 
calmness  could  prevent  his  agitation  and 
anxiety  from  being  visible.  Hi's  eye  was  un-  i 
settled  and  blood-shot  ;  his  manner  uneasy, 
and  his  whole  bearing  indicative  of  hope, 
ecstasy,  apprehension,  and  doubt,  all  flitting 
across  each  other  hke  clouds  in  a  sky 
troubled  by  adverse  currents,  but  each  and 
all  telling  a  tale  of  the  tumult  which  was 
going  on  within  him. 

Yes,  Lucy  was  there,  but,  alas  the  day ! 
what  a  wofnl  sight  did  she  jn-esent  to  the 
spectators.  The  moment  she  had  come 
down,  the  sei-vants,  and  all  those  who  had 
obtained  permission  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremony,  now  entered  the  large  drawing- 
room  to  witness  it.  Tom  Gourlay  entered  a 
httle  after  his  sister,  followed  iu  a  few  min- 
utes by  old  Anthony,  accomi^auied  by  Fen- 
ton,  who  leant  upon  him,  and  was  provided 
with  an  arm-chair  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
room.  After  them  came  Thomas  Corbet  and 
his  sister,  Ginty  Cooper,  together  with  old 
Sam  Roberts,  and  the  man  named  Skipton, 
with  whom  the  reader  has  ah'eady  been  made 
iicquainted. 

But  how  shall  we  describe  the  bride — the 
wretched,  heart-broken  victim  of  an  ambition 
that  was  as  senseless  as  it  was  inhuman  ?  It 
was  impossible  for  one  moment  to  glsmce  at 
her  -nithout  percei-^ing  that  the  stamp  of 
death,  misery,  and  despair,  was  upon  her ; 
and  yet,  despite  of  all  this,  she  carried  with 
her  and  around  her  a  strange  charm,  an  at- 
mosphere of  grace,  elegance,  and  beauty,  of 
majestic  virtue,  of  innate  gi-eatness  of  mind. 


of  wonderful  truth,  and  such  transparent 
purity  of  heart  and  thought,  that  when  she 
entered  the  room  all  the  noise  and  chat  and 
laughter  were  instantly  hushed,  and  a  sense 
of  solemn  awe,  as  if  there  were  more  than  a 
marriage  here,  came  over  aU  present.  Nay, 
more.  We  shall  not  pretend  to  trace  the 
cause  and  origin  of  this  extraordinary  sensa- 
tion. Originate  as  it  may,  it  told  a  power- 
fid  and  startUng  tale  to  her  father's  heart ; 
but  iu  truth  she  had  not  been  liaK  a  minute 
in  the  room  when,  such  was  the  dignified 
but  silent  majesty  of  her  sorrow,  that  there 
were  few  eyes  there  that  wei'e  not  moist 
with  tears.  The  melancholy  impressiveness 
of  her  character,  her  gentleness,  her  mourn- 
ful resignation,  the  patience  with  which  she 
suffered,  could  not  for  one  moment  be  mis- 
understood, and  the  contagion  of  sympathy, 
and  of  common  humanit}-,  in  the  fate  of  a 
creature  appareutlj'  more  di%iue  than  human, 
whose  sorrow  was  read  as  if  by  intuition, 
sj)read  through  them  with  a  feeling  of 
strong  compassion  that  melted  almost  every 
heart,  and  sent  the  tears  to  everj'  eye. 

Her  father  aj)proached  her,  and  whispered 
to  her,  and  caressed  her.  and  seemed  playful 
and  e\-en  light-hearted,  as  if  the  day  -were  a 
day  of  joy ;  but  out  strongly  against  his 
mirth  stood  the  solemn  spuit  of  her  sorrow  :, 
and  when  he  went  to  bring  over  Dunroe,  and 
when  he  took  her  passive  hand,  in  order  to 
place  it  in  his — the  agony,  the  horror,  with 
which  she  submitted  to  the  act,  were  ex- 
pressed in  a  manner  that  made  her  appeai% 
as  that  which  she  actually  was,  the  lovely 
but  pitiable  victim  of  ambition.  Alley 
iMahon's  grief  was  loud ;  Lady  Gourlay, 
]\Lrs.  Maiuwaring,  Lady  Emdy,  all  were  in 
teai-s: 

"  I  am  proud  to  see  this,"  said  Sir  Thom- 
as, bowing,  as  if  he  were  bound  to  thank 
them,  and  attemiating,  with  his  usuiil  tact,  to 
turn  their  very  symjiath}'  into  a  hollow  and 
untruthfid  compUment ;  "I  am  proud  to  see 
this  manifestation  of  strong  attachment  to 
my  daughter  ;  it  is  a  proof  of  how  she  is 
loved." 

Lucy  had  not  once  opened  her  lips.  She 
had  not  strength  to  do  so  ;  her  very  voice 
had  abandoned  her. 

Two  or  three  j^ersons  besides  the  baronet 
and  the  bridegToom  felt  a  deep  interest  in 
what  was  going  forward,  or  about  to  go  for- 
wai-d.  Thomas  Gourlay  now  absolutely 
hated  her  ;  so  did  his  mother ;  so  did  his 
uncle,  Thomas  Corbet.  Each  and  all  of 
them  felt  anxious  to  have  her  married,  iu 
order  that  she  might  be  out  of  Tom's  way, 
and  that  he  might  enjoy  a  wider  sphere  of 
action.  Old  Anthony  Corbet  stood  looking 
on,  with  his  thin  lips  compressed  closely  to- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


591 


^etlier,  his  keen  ej-es  riveted  on  the  baronet, 
ind  an  expression  legible  on  every  trace  of 
his  countenance,  such  as  might  well  have 
ponstitiited  him  some  fearful  incarnation  of 
hatred  and  vengeance.  Lady  Gourlay  was 
so  comjjletely  engrossed  by  Lucy  that  she 
did  not  notice  Fenton,  and  the  latter,  fi-om 
his  position,  could  see  nothing  of  either  the 
bride  or  the  baronet,  but  their  backs. 

Lord  Dum-oe  felt  that  his  best  course  was 
to  foUow  the  advice  of  Sir  Thomas,  which 
■was,  not  to  avail  himself  of  his  position  with 
Lucy,  but  to  observe  a  respectful  manner, 
and  to  avoid  entering  into  anj'  conversation 
whatsoever  with  her,  at  least  until  after  the 
ceremony  should  be  performed.  He  coaise- 
quently  ke^it  his  distance,  with  the  exception 
of  receiving  her  passive  hand,  as  we  have 
shown,  and  maintained  a  low  and  subdued 
conversation  with  Mr.  Roberts.  The  only 
person  likely  to  interrupt  the  solemn  feel- 
ing which  i^revailed  was  old  Sam,  who  had 
his  handkerchief  several  times  alternately  to 
his  nose  and  eyes,  and  who  looked  about 
him  with  an  indignant  expression,  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  There's  something  wi'ong 
here — some  one  ought  to  speak  ;  I  wish  my 
boy  would  step  forward.  Tliis,  siu'ely,  is  not 
the  heart  of  man." 

At  length  the  baronet  apjsroached  Lucy, 
and  seemed,  by  his  action,  as  well  as  his 
words,  to  ask  her  consent  to  something. 
Lucy  looked  at  him,  but  neither  by  her  word 
nor  gesture  appeared  to  accede  to  or  refuse 
his  request ;  and  her  father,  after  comjjlac-  : 
ently  bowing,  as  if  to  thank  her  for  her  ac- 
quiescence, said, 

"  I  think.  Dr.  Sombre,  we  require  your  ser- 
vices ;  the  parties  are  assembled  and  willing, 
and  the  ceremony  had  better  take  place." 

Thomas  Corbet  had  been  standmg  at  a 
front  window,  and  Alley  JLihon,  on  hearing 
the  baronet's  words,  instantly  changed  her 
position  to  the  fi'ont  of  Lucy,  as  if  she  in- 
tended to  make  a  sjsring  between  her  and 
Dunroe,  as  soon  as  the  matter  should  come 
to  a  crisis. 

In  the  meantime  Dr.   Sombre   advanced 
with  his  bo,)k,  and  Lord  Dunroe  was  led  over 
by  Eoberts  to  take  his  position  opposite  the 
bride,  when  a  noise  of  carriage-wheels  was 
he  ird  coming  rapidly  along,  and  stopping  as 
rapidly  at  the  hall  door.     Li  an  instant  a  i 
knock  that  almost  shook  the  house,  and  cer-  ' 
tainly  startled  some  of  the  females,  among 
whom  was  the  unhappy  bride  herself,  was  ! 
heard  at  the  hall  door,  and  the  next  moment 
Thomas  Corbet  hurried  out  of  the  room,  as 
if  to  see  who  had  amved,  instantly  followed 
by  Gibson. 

Dr.  Sombre,  who  now  stood  with  his  lin- 
ger between  the  leaves  of  his  book,  where  its 


frequent  pressure  had  nearly  obliterated  the 
word  "  obedience "  in  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, said, 

"  My  dear  children,  it  is  a  custom  of  mine 
— and  it  is  so  because  I  conceive  it  a  duty — 
to  give  you  a  few  preliminary  words  of  ad- 
vice, a  little  homily,  as  it  were,  uj)on  the 
nature  of  the  duties  into  which  you  ai'e 
about  to  enter." 

Tliis  intimation  was  received  with  solemn 
silence,  if  we  except  the  word  "Attention  !" 
which  jjroceeded  in  a  respectful  and  earnest, 
but  subdued  tone  fi'om  old  Sam.  The  Doc- 
tor looked  about  him  a  little  startled,  but 
again  proceeded, 

"  Marriage,  my  children,  maj-  be  divided 
into  three  heads  :  first,  its  duties  ;  next,  its 
rights  ;  and  lastly,  its  tribulations.  I  jjlace 
tribulations  last,  my  children,  because,  if  it 
were  not  for  its  tribulations " 

"  Mj'  good  friend,"  said  Su'  Thomas,  with 
impatience,  "  we  wiU  spare  you  the  little 
homily  you  speak  of,  until  after  the  ceremo- 
ny. I  dare  say  it  is  designed  for  married 
life  and  married  people  ;  but  as  those  for 
whose  especial  advantage  you  are  now  about 
to  give  it  are  not  man  and  wife  yet,  I  think 
you  had  better  reserve  it  untU  you  make 
them  so.  Proceed,  Doctor,  if  you  please. 
with  the  ceremony." 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasm-e  of  knowing  you, 
sir,"  replied  the  Doctor  ;  "I  shall  be  guided 
here  only  by  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  himself, 
as  father  of  the  bride." 

"Why,  Doctor,  what  the  deuce  is  the 
matter  with  you?  Am  not  I  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  ?  " 

The  Doctor  put  uj)  his  spectacles  on  his 
forehead,  and  looking  at  him  more  closely, 
exclaimed, 

"  Upon  my  word,  and  so  you  are.  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Sir  Thomas,  but  with  respect 
to  this  df'jeAner — homily,  I  would  say — its 
enunciation  hei'e  is  exceedingly  ajopropriate, 
and  it  is  but  short,  and  will  not  occupy 
more  than  about  half-an-hour,  or  three- 
quarters,  which  is  only  a  brief  sjiace  wlien 
the  happiness  of  a  whole  Ufe  is  concerned. 
Well,  my  children,  I  was  speaking  about 
this  dtjeilner,"  he  proceeded  ;  "  the  time,  as 
I  said,  will  not  occupy  more  than  half-an- 
hour,  or  probably  three-quarters  ;  and,  in- 
deed, if  our  whole  life  were  as  agi'eeably 
spent — I  refer  now  especially  to  married  Ufe 
— its  tribulations  would  not " 

Here  he  was  left  once  more  in  his  tribu- 
lations, for  as  he  uttered  the  last  word,  Gib- 
son returned,  pronouncing  in  a  distinct  but 
respectful  voice,  "  The  Elarl  of  CuUamore  ;  " 
and  that  nobleman,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of 
his  contideiitial  servant,  Morty  O'Flidierty, 
immediately  entered  the  room. 


598 


WILLIAM  C'ARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


His  venerable  look,  his  feeble  state  of 
lieultb,  but,  above  all  his  amiable  character, 
well  knoTm  as  it  was  for  everything  that 
was  honorable  and  benevolent,  produced  the 
eifect  which  might  be  expected.  All  who 
were  not  standing,  immediately  rose  up  to 
do  him  reverence  and  honor.  He  inclined 
his  head  in  token  of  acknowledgment,  but 
even  before  the  baronet  had  time  to  address 
him,  he  said, 

"  Sir  Thomas  (jourlay,  has  this  marriage 
yet  taken  place  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,"  replied  Sii'  Thomas,  "  and 
I  am  glad  it  has  not.  Yoiu-  lordship's  pres- 
ence is  a  sanction  and  an  honor  which,  con- 
sidering your  state  of  ill-health,  is  such  as 
we  must  all  duly  appreciate.  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you  here,  my  lord  ;  allow  me  to  help 
your  lordship  to  a  seat." 

"  I  thank  you,  Su-  Thomas,"  repUed  his 
lordshii:) ;  "  but  before  I  take  a  seat,  or  be- 
fore you  jsroceed  further  in  this  business,  I 
beg  to  have  some  private  conversation  with 
you." 

"  With  infinite  pleasure,  my  lord,"  replied 
the  baronet.  "  Dr.  Sombre,  whilst  his  lord- 
sliip  and  I  are  sjjeakmg,  you  may  as  well  go 
on  with  the  ceremony.  AVhen  it  is  neces- 
sary, call  me,  and  I  shall  give  the  bride 
away." 

"  Dr.  Sombre,"  said  his  lordship,  "  do  not 
proceed  vrith  the  ceremony,  untU  I  shall 
have  spoken  to  Miss  Gourlay's  father.  If  it 
be  necessary  that  I  should  speak  more  plain- 
ly, I  say,  I  forbid  the  banns.  You  will  not 
have  to  wait  long,  Doctor  ;  but  by  no  means 
proceed  with  the  ceremony  imtil  you  shall 
have  jjermission  fi'om  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay." 

Li  general,  any  circumstance  that  tends  to 
prevent  a  marriage,  where  all  the  parties 
are  assembled  to  witness  it,  and  to  enjoy 
the  festivities  that  attend  it,  is  looked  ujjon 
with  a  strong  feeling  of  dissatisfaction.  Here, 
however,  the  case  was  diti'erent.  Scarcely 
iui  individual  among  them,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  those  who  were  interested  in  the 
event,  that  did  not  feel  a  sense  of  rehef  at 
what  had  occurred  in  consequence  of  the 
appearance  of  Lord  CuUamore.  Dunroe's 
face  from  that  moment  was  literally  a  sen- 
tence of  guUt  against  himself.  It  became 
blank,  haggard,  and  of  a  ghastly  white ; 
while  his  hope  of  securing  the  rich  and  love- 
ly heiress  died  away  within  him.  He  re- 
solved, however,  to  make  a  last  effort. 

"Roberts,"  said  he,  "go  to  Sombre,  and 
whisper  to  him  to  jjroceed  vriih.  the  cere- 
mony. Get  him  to  perform  it,  and  you  su-e 
sure  of  a  certain  sister  of  mine,  who  I  rather 
suspect  is  not  indifferent  to  you." 

"  I  must  decline  to  do  so,  my  lord,"  re- 
plied  Roberts.     "iVfter  what  has  just  oc- 


curred, I  feel  that  it  would  not  be  honorable 
in  me,  neither  would  it  be  respectful  to  youi 
father.  However  I  may  esteem  youi-  sister, 
my  lord,  and  apj)reciate  her  vu'tues,  j-et  I 
am  but  a  poor  en.sign,  as  you  know,  and 
not  in  a  capacity  to  entertain  any  preten- 
sions  " 

"  Well,  then,"  rephed  Dunroe,  interi-uijt- 
iug  him,  "bring  that  old  dog  Sombre  here, 
will  you?  I  trust  you  wUl  so  far  oblige 
me." 

Roberts  complied  with  this  ;  but  the  Doc- 
tor was  equally  firm. 

"  Doctor,"  said  his  lordship,  after  urging 
several  arguments,  "  you  wiU  obhge  Sir 
Thomas  Goui'lay  veiy  much,  by  having  us 
married  when  they  come  iu.  Ifs  only  a 
paltry  matter  of  property,  that  Su-  Thomas 
acceded  to  this  morning.  Pray,  proceed 
I  with  the  ceremony,  Doctor,  and  make  two 
I  lovers  happy." 

1  "  The  word  of  your  honorable  father," 
replied  the  Doctor,  "  shall  ever  be  a  law  to 
1  me.  He  was  always  a  most  hos23itable  man  ; 
and,  unless  my  bishop,  or  the  chief  seeretaiy, 
I  or,  what  is  better  still,  the  viceroy  himself,  I 
'  do  not  know  a  nobleman  more  worthy  of 
j  respect.  No,  my  lord,  there  is  not  in  the 
i  peerage  a  nobleman  who — gave  better  din- 
!  ners." 

i      WTiat  with  this  effort  on  the  part  of  Dun- 
I  roe,  and  a  variety  of  chat  that  took  place  up- 
on the  subject  of  the  interi-uption,  at  least 
tive-and-twenty  minutes  had  ela23sed,  and  the 
company   began  to  feel  somewhat   anxious 
!  and   impatient,  when  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
I  entered  ;  and,  gracious  heaven,  what  a  fright- 
!-ful  change  had  taken  jDlace  in  him  !  Dismay, 
I  despair,  wretchedness,    misei-y,   distraction, 
\  frenzy,  were  all  struggling  for  expression  iu 
his  countenance.     He  was  followed  by  Lord 
CuUamore,    who,    when   about   to    proceed 
home,  had  changed  his  mind,  and  returned 
for  Lady  EmUy.     He  advaneeil,   stOJ    sup- 
jDorted   by  Morty,   and   approaching  Lucy, 
took  her  hand,  and  said, 

"  Miss  Gourlay,  you  are  saved  ;  and  I  thank 
God  that  I  was  made  the  instrument  of  res- 
cuing you  from  vsretchedness  and  despair, 
for  I  read  both  m  your  face.  And  now," 
he  proceeded,  addressing  the  spectators,  "I 
beg  it  to  be  understood,  that  iu  the  breaking 
off'  of  this  maiTiage,  there  is  no  earthly 
blame,  not  a  shadow  of  imputation  to  be  at- 
tributed to  Miss  Gourlay,  who  is  all  honor, 
and  dehcaey,  and  truth.  Her  father,  if  left 
to  himseU',  would  not  now  permit  her  to  be- 
come the  wiie  of  my  sou  ;  who,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  is  utterly  unworthy  of  her."  "  Atten- 
tion !  "  once  more  was  heai-d  fi-om  the  quiir- 
ter  in  which  old  Sam  stood,  as  if  beai-ing 
testimony  to  the  truth  of  his  lordship's  a* 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


599 


sertion.  "Jolin,"  saidtlie  latter,  "you  may 
tb:iuk  your  fi-iend,  Mr.  Norton,  for  enabling 
me,  within  the  last  hour,  to  save  this  admi- 
rable girl  from  the  ruin  which  her  iinion  with 
you  would  have  entailed  vipon  her.  You 
will  now  know  bow  to  appreciate  so  faitlxful 
and  honorable  a  friend." 

All  that  Dunro  must  have  felt,  may  be 
easily  conceived  by  the  reader.  The  Isaro- 
net,  however,  becomes  the  foremost  figure 
in  the  grouji.  The  strong,  the  cunning,  the 
vehement,  the  overbearing,  the  plausible, 
the  unlielieviug,  the  philosophical,  and  the 
cruel — these  were  the  di\'ided  streams,  as  it 
were,  of  his  character,  which  all,  however, 
united  to  make  up  the  dark  and  terrible  cur- 
rent of  his  great  ambition  ;  great,  however, 
only  as  a  passion  and  a  moral  impulse  of 
action,  but  puny,  vile,  and  base  in  its  true 
character  and  elements.  Here,  then,  stood 
the  victim  of  his  own  creed,  the  baffled  an- 
tagonist of  God's  providence,  who  despised 
religion,  and  trampled  iipon  its  obligations  ; 
the  man  who  strove  to  make  himself  his  own 
deity,  his  own  priest,  and  who  administered 
to  his  guiltj'  passions  on  the  altar  of  a  har- 
dened and  corrupted  heart, — here  he  stood, 
now,  struck,  stunned,  prostrated ;  whilst 
the  veil  which  had  hitherto  concealed  the 
hideousness  of  his  principles,  was  raised  up, 
as  if  by  an  awful  hand,  that  he  might  know 
what  it  is  for  man  to  dash  himself  against 
the  bosses  of  the  Almighty's  buckler.  His 
heart  beat,  and  his  brain  throbbed ;  all  pre- 
sence of  mind,  almost  aU  consciousness, 
abandoned  him,  and  he  only  felt  that  the 
great  object  of  his  life  was  lost — the  gi-eat 
plan,  to  the  completion  of  which  he  had  de- 
voted all  his  energies,  was  annihilated.  He 
inrttgined  that  ths  apartment  was  filled  with 
gloom  and  fire,  and  that  the  faces  he  saw 
about  him  were  mocking  at  him,  and  dis- 
closing to  each  other  in  whispers  the  dread- 
ful extent,  the  unutterable  depth  of  his  des- 
pair and  misery.  He  also  felt  a  sickness  of 
heart,  that  was  in  itself  difficult  to  contend 
with,  and  a  weakness  about  the  knees  that 
rendered  it  nearly  impossible  for  him  to 
stand.  His  head,  too,  became  Ught  and 
gidily,  and  his  brain  reeled  so  much  that  he 
tottered,  and  was  obliged  to  sit,  in  order  to 
prevent  himself  from  falhng.  All,  however, 
was  not  to  end  here.  This  was  but  the  first 
blow. 

Lord  Cullamore  was  now  about  to  de- 
part ;  for  he,  too,  had  become  exceedingly 
weak  and  exhausted,  bj'  the  unusual  exercise 
and  agitation  to  which  he  had  exjaosed  him- 
self. 

Old  Anthony  Corbet  then  stepjied  forward, 
and  sxid, 

"  Don't   go,    my   lord.      There's    stnuige 


things  to  come  to  Hght  this  day  and  this 
hour,  for  this  is  the  day  and  this  is  the  hour 
of  my  vengeance." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  rejjlied  his 
lordship  ;  "  I  was  scarcely  equal  to  the  ef- 
fort of  coming  here,  and  I  feel  myself  very 
feeble." 

"  Get  his  lordship  some  wine,"  said  the 
old  man,  addressing  his  son.  "  You  will  bo 
good  enough  to  stop,  my  lord,"  he  proceed- 
ed, "  for  a  short  time.  You  are  a  magistrate, 
and  your  jiresence  here  may  be  necessary." 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  sui-jirised 
at  such  language  :  "  this  may  be  serious. 
Proceed,  my  friend  :  what  disclos'ii-es  have 
you  to  make  ?" 

Old  Corbet  did  not  answer  him,  but  turn- 
ing round  to  the  baronet,  who  was  not  then 
in  a  capacity  to  hear  or  observe  anything 
apart  fi-om  the  terrible  convulsions  of  agony 
he  was  sufi'ering,  he  looked  upon  him,  his 
keen  old  eyes  in  a  blaze,  his  lips  oj^en  and 
their  expression  sharpened  by  the  derisive 
and  Satanic  triumph  that  was  legible  in  the 
demon  sneer  which  kept  them  apart. 

"  Thomas  Gourlay  !"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
sharp,  piercing  voice  of  authority  and  con- 
scious power,  "  Thomas  Gourlay,  rise  up  and 
stand  forward,  your  day  of  doom  is  come." 

"  Who  is  it  that  has  the  insolence  to  call 
my  father  Thomas  Gourlay  under  this  roof  ?  " 
asked  his  sou  Thomas,  alias  Mr.  Ambrose 
Gray.     "  Begone,  old  man,  you  are  mad." 

"  Bastard  and  impostor !"  rejjlied  An- 
thony, you  appear  before  your  time.  Thomas 
Gourlay,  did  you  hear  me  ?" 

By  an  eiibrt — almost  a  superhuman  efforr 
— the  baronet  succeeded  in  turning  his  at- 
tention to  what  was  going  forward. 

"  Wliat  is  this  ?"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  is  this  a 
tumult?  Wlio  dares  to  stu-  up  a  tumult  in 
such  a  scene  as  this  ?  Begone !"  said  he. 
addressing  several  strangers,  who  appeai'ed 
to  take  a  deep  interest  in  what  was  likely  to 
ensue.  The  house  was  his  own,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  every  one  left  the  room 
with  the  excej^tion  of  those  immediately  con- 
nected with  both  families,  and  with  the  in- 
cidents of  our  story. 

"  Let  no  one  go,"  said  Anthony,  "  tliat  I 
af)pointed  to  come  here." 

"  What !"  said  Dunroe,  after  the  strangers 
had  gone,  and  with  a  look  th:it  indicated  his 
sense  of  the  baronet's  duplicity,  "  is  this 
gentleman  your  son '?" 

"  My  acknowledged  son,  sir,"  replied  thn 
other. 

"And,  pray,  were  you  aware  of  that  thi) 
morning  ':*" 

"As  clearly  and  distinctly  as  you  wer<i 
that  you  had  no  earthly  claim  to  the  title 
wliicOi  you  bear,  nor  to  the  property  of  your 


oOO 


WILLIAM  CARLhTOJS'S   WORKS. 


father,"  replied  the  baronet,  viith  a  look  that 
matched  that  of  the  other.  There  they 
stood,  face  to  face,  each  detected  iu  his  dis- 
honor and  iniquity,  and  on  that  account  dis- 
qualiiied  to  reciiminate  upon  each  other, 
for  their  mutual  perfidy. 

"  Corbet,"  said  the  baronet,  now  recover- 
ing himself,  "  what  is  this  ?  Eesisect  my 
house  and  family — resj)ect  ray  guests.  Go 
home  ;  I  pardon  you  this  foUy,  because  I 
see  that  yovi  have  been  too  Uberal  in  your 
potations  this  morning." 

"  You  mistake  me,  sir,"  replied  the  adroit 
dd  man  ;  "I  am  going  to  do  you  a  service. 
<JaU  forward  Thomas  Gourlay." 

This  considei'ably  relieved  the  baronet, 
who  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  his  son 
whom  he  had  called  in  the  first  instance. 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Lord  CuUamore,  "  is 
it  possible.  Sir  ThomaS;  that  you  have  re- 
covered your  lost  son  ?  " 

"  It  is,  my  lord, "  replied  the  other.  '  'Thom- 
iis,  come  over  till  I  present  you  to  my  dear 
friend  Lord  CuUamore." 

Yoimg  Gourlay  advanced,  and  the  earl 
was  in  the  act  of  extending  his  hand  to  him, 
when  old  Anthony  interposed,  by  drawing 
it  back. 

"Stop,  my  lord,"  said  he  ;  "  that  hand  is 
the  hand  of  a  man  of  honor,  but  you  must 
not  soil  it  by  touchin'  that  of  a  bastard  and 
impostor." 

"That  is  my  son,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir 
Thomas,  "and  I  acknowledge  him  as  such." 

"  So  you  maj',  sir,"  rejjlied  Corbet,  "  and  so 
you  ought ;  but  I  say  that  if  he  is  yoiir  son, 
he  is  also  my  grandson." 

"Corbet,"  said  his  lordshij),  "you  had 
1  letter  explain  yoiu-self.  This,  Sir  Thomas, 
is  a  matter  very  disagi-eeable  to  me,  and 
which  I  should  not  wish  even  to  hear  ;  but 
as  it  is  possible  that  the  interests  of  my  dear 
friend  here.  Lady  Gourlay,  may  be  involved 
in  it,  I  think  it  my  duty  not  to  go." 

"Her  ladyship's  interests  are  involved  in 
it,  my  lord,"  re2)lied  Corbet  ;  "and  you  are 
right  to  stay,  if  it  was  only  for  her  sake. 
Now,  my  lady,"  he  added,  addressing  her, 
"  I  see  how  yovi  are  sufferin',  but  I  ask  it  as 
a  favor  that  you  will  keep  yourself  quiet,  and 
let  me  go  on." 

"  Proceed,  then,"  said  Lord  CuUamore  ; 
"  and  do  you.  Lady  Gourlaj',  restrain  your 
emotion,  if  you  can." 

"Thomas  Gourlay — I  epake  now  to  the 
father,  my  lord,"  said  Corbet. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  sir !  "  said  the  bar- 
onet, haughtily  and  indignantly,  "Sir  Thom- 
us  Gourlay  ! " 

"  Tliomas  Gourlay,"  persisted  Corbet,  "  it 
is  now  nineteen  years,  or  thereabouts,  since 
you  engaged  me,  myself — I  am  the  man — to 


take  awaj'  the  son  of  yoiu-  brother,  and  you 
know  the  ordhers  you  gave  me.  I  did  so  -. 
I  got  a  mask,  and  took  liim  away  with  me 
on  the  pretence  of  bringin'  him  to  see  a  jiup- 
pet-show.  WeU,  he  disappeared,  and  youf 
mind,  I  suppose,  was  aisy.  I  tould  you  all 
was  right,  and  every  yeai'  fi'om  that  to  this 
you  have  paid  me  a  pension  of  fifty  pounds.'' 

"The  man  is  mad,  my  lord,"  said  Sir 
Thomas  ;  "  and,  under  aU  cu'cumstances,  he 
makes  himself  out  a  viUain." 

"  I  can  perceive  no  evidence  of  madness, 
so  far,"  repUed  his  lordship  ;  "  proceed." 

"  None  but  a  viUain  ^\ould  have  served 
your  purf)Oses  ;  but  if  I  was  a  villain,  it 
wasn't  to  bear  out  yoiu-  wishes,  but  to  sat- 
isfy' my  own  revenge." 

"  But  what  cause  for  revenge  could  you 
have  had  against  him  ? "  asked  his  lord- 
shi}:). 

"  TMiat  cause  ?"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
whilst  his  countenance  grew  dark  as  night, 
"what  cause  against  the  viUain  that  seduced 
my  daughter — that  brought  disgrace  and 
shame  ujjon  my  famUy — that  broke  through 
the  ties  of  nature,  which  ai-e  always  held  sa- 
cred in  our  country,  for  she  was  his  own 
foster-sister,  my  lord,  suclded  at  the  same 
breasts,  nui'sed  in  the  same  arms,  and  fed 
and  clothed  and  noiuished  by  the  same 
hand  ; — yes,  my  lord,  that  brought  shame 
and  disgrace  and  madness,  my  lord — ay, 
madness  uidou  m_y  child,  that  he  deceived 
and  cornij)ted,  luider  a  solemn  oath  of 
marriage.  Do  jou  begin  to  uudherstand 
me  now,  my  lord  ?  " 

His  lordship  made  no  replj^  but  kept  his 
eyes  intently  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Well,  my  lord,  soon  after  the  disappear- 
ance of  Lady  Gourlay "s  chUd,  his  own  went 
in  the  same  way  ;  and  no  search,  no  hunt,  no 
attempt  to  get  him  ever  succeeded.  He,  any 
more  than  the  other,  could  not  be  got.  My 
lord,  it  was  I  removed  him.  I  saw  far  before 
me,  and  it  was  I  removed  him  ;  yes,  Thomas 
Govuiay,  it  was  I  left  you  childless — at  least 
of  a  son." 

"  You  must  yourself  see,  my  lord,"  said 
the  baronet,  "that — that — when  is  tliis  mar- 
riage to  take  j)lace  ? — what  is  this  ? — I  am 
quite  confused  ;  let  me  see,  let  me  see — j'es, 
he  is  such  a  viUain,  my  lord,  that  you  must 
perceive  he  is  entitled  to  no  ci-edit — to  none 
whatsoever." 

"Well,  my  lord,"  proceeded  Corbet. 

"I  think,  my  lord,"  said  Thomas  Corbet, 
stepping  forward,  "  that  I  ought  to  acquaint 
youi-  lordship  with  my  father's  infirmity. 
Of  late,  my  lord,  he  has  been  occasionally 
unsettled  in  his  senses.  I  can  prove  this  on 
oath." 

"And  if  what  he  states  be  tnie," rejilied 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


601 


liis  lordship,  "I  am  not  surprised  at  it.  It 
is  only  right  we  should  heai-  him,  however. 
As  I  have  ah-eady  said,  I  can  perceive  no 
traces  of  insanity  about  him." 

"  Ah,  my  lord,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  it 
would  be  well  for  him  if  he  could  prove  me 
mad,  for  then  his  nephew,  the  bastard,  might 
have  a  chance  of  succeeding  to  the  Gourlay 
title,  and  the  estates.  But  I  must  go  on. 
Well,  my  lord,  after  ten  years  or  so,  I  came 
one  day  to  Mr.  Gourlay — he  was  then  caUed 
Sir  Thomas — and  I  tould  him  that  I  had  re- 
lented, and  couldn't  do  with  his  brother's 
son  as  I  had  promised,  and  as  he  wished  me. 
'  He  is  hving,'  said  I,  '  and  I  wish  you  would 
take  him  uudher  your  own  care.'  I  won't 
wait  to  tell  you  the  abuse  I  got  from  him  for 
not  fulfiUin'  his  wishes  ;  but  he  felt'  he  was 
in  my  power,  and  was  forced  to  continue 
mj'  ijension  and  keep  himself  quiet.  Well, 
my  lord,  I  brought  him  the  boy  one  night, 
undher  the  clouds  of  darkness,  and  we  con- 
veyed him  to  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Here  he  was  interrui^ted  by  something  be- 
tween a  gi'oau  and  a  scream  from  Lady  Gour- 
lay, who,  however,  endeavored  immediately 
to  restrain  her  feelings. 

"From  that  day  to  this,  my  lord,  the 
cruelty  he  received,  sometimes  in  one  mad- 
house and  sometimes  in  another,  sometimes 
in  England  and  sometimes  in  Ireland,  it 
would  be  terrible  to  know.  Everything  that 
could  wear  away  life  was  attempted,  and  the 
instruments  in  that  black  villain's  hands 
were  weU  jiaid  for  their  cruelty.  At  length, 
my  lord,  he  escaped,  and  waudhered  about 
tiU  he  settled  do-\vn  in  the  town  of  BaUy- 
traui.  Thomas  Gourlay — then  Sir  Thomas 
— had  been  away  with  his  familj'  for  two  or 
tlii'ee  years  in  foreign  pai-ts,  but  when  he 
went  to  his  seat.  Red  Hall,  near  that  town, 
he  wasn't  long  there  tiU  he  found  out  that 
the  young  man  named  Feuton — something 
unsettled,  they  said,  in  his  mind — was  his 
brother's  son,  for  the  baronet  had  been  in- 
formed of  his  escape.  Well,  he  got  him 
once  more  into  his  clutches,  and  in  the  dead 
hour  of  night,  himself — you  there,  Thomas 
(lourlay — one  of  your  villain  servants,  by 
name  Gillespie,  and  my  ovsm  son — you  that 
stand  there,  Thomas  Corbet — afther  making 
the  poor  boy  dead  drunk,  brought  him  oiF  to 
one  of  the  mad-houses  that  he  had  been  in 
liefore.  He,  Mr.  Gourlay,  then — or  Sir 
Thomas,  if  you  like — went  with  thera  a  part 
of  the  way.  Providence,  my  lord,  is  never 
;isleep,  however.  The  keejaer  of  the  last 
mad-house  was  more  of  a  devil  tlian  a  man. 
'The  letter  of  the  bai-onet  was  ^^i-itten  to  the 
man  that  had  been  there  before  liim,  but  he 
was  dead,  and  this  villain  took  the  boy  and 
the  moue}'  that  had  been  sent  with  him,  and 


there  he  suffered  what  I  am  afi-aid  he  w  il] 
never  get  the  bettlier  of. " 

•■'  But  what  became  of  Sir  Thomas  Gour- 
lay's  son  ?  "  asked  his  lordship  ;  "  and  where 
now  is  Lady  Gourlay 's  ?  " 

"  They  are  both  in  this  room,  my  lord. 
Now,  Tliomas  Gouiiay,  I  wiU  restore  youi' 
son  to  you.  Advance,  Black  Baronet,"  said 
the  old  man,  walking  over  to  Fenton,  wdth  a 
condensed  tone  of  vengeance  and  triumjoh  in 
his  voice  and  featui-es,  that  filled  all  present 
with  awe.  "  Come,  now,  and  look  ujjou  your 
own  work — think,  if  it  will  comfort  you,  up- 
on what  you  made  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
suffer.  There  he  is,  Black  Baronet ;  there  is 
your  son — dead  !  " 

A  sudden  murmur  and  agitation  took 
place  as  he  jsointed  to  Feuton ;  but  there 
was  now  something  of  command,  nay,  abso- 
lutely of  grandeur,  in  his  revenge,  as  weU  as 
in  his  whole  manner. 

"  Keej)  quiet,  all  of  you,"  he  exclaimed, 
raising  his  ai'm  with  a  spirit  of  authorit}'  and 
power  ;  "keep  quiet,  I  say,  and  don't  disturb 
the  dead.     I  am  not  done." 

"  I  must  inten'upt  you  a  moment,"  said 
Lord  Dunroe.  "I  thought  the  person — the 
unfortunate  young  man  here — was  the  sou  of 
Sii-  Thomas's  brother?  " 

"  And  so  did  he,"  replied  Corbet ;  "  but  I 
will  make  the  whole  thing  simple  at  wanst. 
When  he  was  big  enough  to  be  grown  out  of 
his  father's  recollection,  I  brought  back  his 
own  sou  to  him  as  the  son  of  his  brother. 
And  while  the  black  villain  was  huggin'  him- 
self with  deUght  that  all  the  sufferings,  and 
tortui'es,  and  hellish  scourgings,  and  chains, 
and  cells,  and  darkness,  and  damj),  and 
cruelty  of  all  shapes,  were  breakin'  down  the 
son  of  his  brother  to  death — the  heir  that 
stood  between  himself  and  his  unlawful 
title,  and  his  unlawful  iirojDerty — instead  of 
that,  they  were  all  inflicted  upon  his  own 
lawfidly  begotten  son,  who  now  hes  there — 
dead  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  ? "  said  his  lordshii^  ;  "  what  is 
WTong  ? " 

Sir  Thomas's  conduct,  whilst  old  Corbet 
was  proceeding  to  detail  these  frightful  and 
harrowing  developments,  gave  once  or  twice 
strong  symptoms  of  iucohereucy,  more,  in- 
deed, by  his  action  than  his  language.  He 
seized,  for  instance,  the  person  next  him,  un- 
fortunate Dr.  Sombre,  and  after  squeezing 
liis  arm  until  it  became  too  painful  to  bear, 
he  ground  his  teeth,  looked  into  his  facSj 
and  asked,  "  Do  you  thiuk — would  you  swear 
— that — that — ay — that  there  ?'.s  a  God  ?  " 
Then,  looking  at  Corbet,  aud  trying  to  re- 
collect himself,  he  exclaimed,  "  Villain,  de- 
mon, devil ; "  and  he  then  struck  or  rathei 


002 


WILLIAM  C'ARLETON\S    WOIiKS. 


throttled  the  Doctor,  as  he  sat  beside  him. 
They  succeeded,  however,  in  composiiifjj  liim, 
but  his  eyes  were  expresfiive  of  such  wildness 
and  horror  and  blood-shot  frenzy,  that  one 
or  two  of  them  sat  close  to  liim,  for  the 
purpose  of  restraining  his  tendency  to  vio- 
lence. 

Lady  Gourlay,  on  hearing  that  Fentoa  was 
not  her  son,  wept  bitterly,  exclaiming, 
"Alas!  I  am  twice  made  childless."  But 
Lucy,  who  had  awakened  out  of  the  death- 
like stupor  of  misery  which  had  oppressed 
her  all  the  morning,  now  became  conscious 
of  the  terrible  disclosures  which  old  Corbet 
was  making  ;  and  on  heai-ing  that  Fenton 
was,  or  rather  had  been,  her  brother,  she 
flew  to  him,  and  on  looking  at  his  pale, 
handsome,  but  lifeless  features,  she  threw 
her  arms  around  him,  kissed  his  Ups  in  an 
agony  of  sorrow,  and  exclaimed,  "And  is  it 
thus  we  meet,  my  brother  !  No  word  to  re- 
cognize j'our  sistei  ?  No  glance  of  that  eye, 
that  is  closed  forever,  to  welcome  me  to  your 
heart  ?  Oh !  miserable  fate,  mj'  brother ! 
We  meet  in  death.  Yon  are  now  with  our 
mother  ;  and  Lucy,  your  sister,  whom  you 
never  saw,  will  soon  join  you.  You  are 
gone  !  Your  wearied  and  broken  spirit  fled 
from  disgrace  and  sorrow.  Yes ;  I  shaU 
soon  meet  you,  where  your  lips  will  not  be 
passive  to  the  embraces  of  a  sister,  and  where 
your  eyes  will  not  be  closed  against  those 
looks  of  affection  and  tenderness  which  she 
was  j)repared  to  give  you,  but  which  you 
could  not  receive.  Ah,  here  there  is  no  re- 
pugnance of  the  heart,  as  there  was  in  the 
other  instance..  Here  are  my  blessed  moth- 
er's features  ;  and  nature  tells  me  that  you 
are — oh,  distressing  sight ! — that  j'ou  were 
my  brother." 

"  Keejj  silence,"  exclaimed  Corbet,  "  you 
must  hear  me  out.  Thomas  Gourlay,  there 
Ues  your  son  ;  I  don't  know  what  you  may 
feel  now  that  you  know  he's  j'our  ovn\ — and 
well  you  know  it ; — but  I  know  his  suft'erings 
gave  you  veiy  little  trouble  so  long  as  you 
thought  that  he  was  the  child  of  the  widow  of 
your  brother  that  was  dead.  Well  now,  my 
lord,"  he  jiroceeded,  "  you  might  think  I've 
had  verj-  good  revenge  upon  Thomas  Gour- 
laj'  ;  but  there's  more  to  come." 

"  Attention  !  "  from  old  Sam,  in  a  voice 
that  stai-tled  almost  every  one  present. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  I  must  fulfil  my  work. 
Stand  forward,  Sir  Edward  Gourlay.  Stand 
forward,  and  go  to  your  affectionate  mother's 
arms." 

"  I  fear  the  old  man  is  unsettled,  certain- 
ly," said  his  lordshiji.  "  Sir  Edwaid  Gour- 
lay ! — there  is  no  Sir  Edward  Gourlay  here." 

"  Attention,  Ned  ! "  exclaimed  old  Sam, 
again  taking  the  head  of  his  cane  out  of  his 


mouth,  where  it  had  got  a  merciless  mumb- 
ling for  some  time  past.  "Attention,  Ned  ': 
you're  called,  my  boy." 

Old  Corbet  went  over  to  Ensign  Roberts, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  led  him  to 
Lady  Gourlay,  exclaiming,  "  There,  my  lady, 
is  your  son,  and  proud  you  may  be  out  of 
him.  There  is  the  reid  heir  of  the  Gourlay 
name  and  the  Gourlaj'  property.  Look  at 
him  and  his  cousin,  your  niece,  and  see  how 
they  resemble  one  another.  Look  at  his 
father's  features  in  his  face  ;  but  I  have  plenty 
of  proof,  full  satisfaction  to  give  you  be- 
sides." 

Lady  Gourlay  became  pale  as  death. 
"  Mysterious  and  just  Providence,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  can  this  be  true  ?  But  it  is — it 
must — there  are  the  features  of  his  depai-ted 
father — his  figure — his  every  look.  He  is 
mine ! — he  is  mine  !  My  heart  recognizes 
him.  Oh,  my  son  ! — my  child  ! — are  you  at 
length  restored  to  me  ?  " 

Young  Roberts  was  all  amazement.  "Uliilst 
Lady  Gourlay  spoke,  he  looked  over  at  old 
Sam,  whose  son  he  actually  believed  himself 
to  be  (for  the  fine  old  fellow  had  benevolent- 
ly imposed  on  him),  and  seemed  anxious  to 
know  what  this  new  pai'entage,  now  ascribed 
to  him,  could  mean. 

"  All  right,  Ned  !  Corbet  is  good  authority: 
but  although  I  knew  you  were  not  mine,  1 
could  never  squeeze  the  tiiith  out  of  him  as 
to  who  your  father  was.  It's  ti-ue,  in  spite  of 
all  he  said,  I  had  suspicions  ;  but  what  could 
I  do  ? — /  could  prove  nothing." 

We  will  not  describe  this  restoration  of  the 
widow's  son.  Our  readers  can  easily  con- 
ceive it,  and,  accordingly,  to  their  imagina- 
tion we  will  leave  it. 

It  was  attended,  however,  by  an  incident 
which  we  caimot  pass  over  without  some 
notice.  Lady  Emily,  on  witnessing  the  ex- 
traordinary turn  which  had  so  providenti^diy 
taken  place  in  the  f.ite  and  fortune  of  her 
lover,  was  observed  by  Mrs.  Mainwaring  to 
!  grow  very  piile.  A  consciousness  of  injury, 
which  our  readers  will  j^resently  understand, 
l^revented  her  fr'om  offering  assistance,  but 
running  over  to  Lucy,  she  said,  "I  fear, 
Miss  Gourlay,  that  Lady  Emily  is  iU." 

Lucy,  who  was  all  tenderness,  left  her 
brother,  over  whom  she  had  been  weeping, 
j  and  flew  to  her  as.sistance  just  in  time  to 
prevent  her  fo-om  falling  oft"  her  chair.  She 
had  swooned.  Water,  however,  and  essences, 
and  other  appliances,  soon  restored  her  ;  and 
on  recovering  she  cast  her  eyes  about  the 
room  as  if  to  seaj-ch  for  some  one.  Lady 
Gourlay  had  her  ann  round  her,  and  was 
chilling  her  temples  at  the  time.  Those 
lovely  fa^Ti-Uke  eyes  of  hers  had  not  far  to 
seiu'ch.     Roberts,  now   voung   Sii-  Edw;ii-i.l 


i 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


603 


frourlay,  had  been  standing  near,  contem- 
plating Ler  "beautiful  features,  and  deeply 
alarmed  by  her  illness,  when  their  eyes  met ; 
and,  to  the  surjarise  of  Lucy  Gourlay,  a 
blush  so  modest,  so  beautiful,  so  exquisite, 
but  yet  so  legible  in  its  exjjression,  took 
place  of  the  paleness  which  had  been  there 
before.  She  looked  up,  saw  the  direction  of 
iher  sou's  eyes,  then  looked  significantly  at 
Lucy,  and  smiled.  The  tell-tale  blush,  in 
fact,  discovered  the  state  of  their  hearts,  and 
never  was  a  history  of  pure  and  innocent  love 
more  appropriately  or  beautifully  told. 

This  significant  httle  episode  did  not  last 
long  ;  and  when  Lady  Emilj'  found  herself 
recovered,  -Thomas  Corbet  advanced,  and 
said  :  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  father, 
by  saying  that  the  young  man  who  has 
just  died  was  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay "s  son. 
You  know  in  your  heart  that  this  " — point- 
ing to  his  nejjhew — "is  his  true  and  legiti- 
mate heir.  You  know,  too,  that  his  illegiti- 
mate son  hiis  been  dead  for  years,  and  that  I 
myself  saw  him  buried." 

"  My  lord,  pay  attention  to  what  I'll  speak," 
said  his  father.  "If  the  bastard  died,  and  if 
my  son  was  at  his  burial,  and  saw  him  laid 
in  the  grave,  he  can  tell  us  where  that  grave 
is  to  be  found,  at  least.  His  father,  however, 
will  remember  ihc  laUouing." 

The  unexpected  nature  of  the  question, 
and  its  direct  bearing  upon  the  circumstance 
before  them,  baffled  Thomas  Corbet,  who 
left  the  room,  affecting  to  be  too  iudigTiaut 
to  reply. 

"  Now,"  proceeded  his  father,  "  he  knows 
he  has  stated  a  falsehood.  I  have  proof  for 
every  word  I  said,  and  for  every  circumstance. 
There's  a  paper,"  he  added,  "  a  pound  note, 
that  will  prove  one  link  in  the  chain,  for  the 
very  person's  name  that  is  written  on  it  by 
tiie  poor  young  man  himself,  I  have  here. 
He  can  2>rove  the  mark  on  his  neck,  wlieu  in 
outher  despair,  the  poor  creature  made  an 
attempt  on  his  own  life  with  ajjiece  of  glass. 
And  wliat  is  more,  I  have  the  very  clothes 
they  both  wore  when  I  took  them  away.  Li 
short,  I  have  everything  full  and  clear  ;  but 
I  did  not  let  either  my  son  or  daughter 
know  of  my  exchangin'  the  childre',  and 
j)alnun'  Thomas  Gourlay's  o^vn  son  on  him 
as  the  sou  of  his  brother.  That  saicret  I 
kept  to  myself,  knowiu'  that  I  couldn't  trust 
them.  And  now,  Thomas  Gourlay,"  he  said, 
"  my  revenge  is  complete.  There  you  stand, 
a  guilfcj-  and  a  disgraced  man  ;  and  with  all 
your  wisdom,  and  wealth,  and  power,  what 
were  you  but  a  mere  tool  and  puppet  in  my 
hands  up  to  this  hour  ?  There  you  stand, 
without  a  house  that  you  can  call  your  own 
— stripped  of  your  false  title — of  your  false 
property — but  not  altogether  of  your  false 


character,  for  the  world  knew  pretty  well 
what  that  was  " 

Corbet's  daughter  then  came  forward,  and 
laying  her  hand  on  the  baronet's  shoulder, 
said,  "  Do  you  know  me,  Thomas  Gourlay '?  " 

"  No,"  rephed  the  othei',  looking  at  her 
with  fury ;  "you  are  a  spectre  ;  I  have  seen 
you  before  ;  you  appeared  tc>  me  ouee,  and 
your  words  were  false.  Begone,  you  are  a 
spectre — a  spirit  of  evil." 

"  I  am  the  spirit  of  death  to  you,"  she  re- 
phed; "but  my  j)rophetic  announcement  was 
true.  I  called  you  Thomas  Gourlay  then, 
and  I  call  you  Thomas  Gourlay  now — for 
such  is  yoiu-  name  ;  and  your  false  title  is 
gone.  That  j'oung  man  there,  named  after 
you,  is  my  son,  and  you  ai'e  his  father — for 
I  am  Jaciuta  Corbet :  so  far  my  father's 
words  are  true  ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  hii^ 
revenge,  my  son  would  have  inherited  your 
name,  title,  and  property-.  Here  now  I  stand 
the  victim  of  youi-  treachery  and  falsehood, 
which  for  yeai's  have  driven  me  mad.  But 
now  the  spirit  of  the  futm'e  is  ujjon  me  ; 
and  I  tell  you,  that  I  read  frenzy,  madness, 
and  death  in  youi-  face.  You  have  been 
gudty  of  great  crimes,  but  you  will  be  guilt- 
ier of  a  greater  and  a  darker  stiU.  I  read  that 
in  your  coward  spirit,  for  I  know  you  well. 
I  also  am  revenged,  but  I  have  been  punish- 
ed ;  and  my  own  sufferings  have  taught  me 
to  feel  that  I  am  stiU  a  woman.  I  loved  j-qu 
once  -  I  hated  you  long  ;  but  now  I  pity  you. 
Yes,  Thomas  Gourlay,  she  whom  you  drove 
to  madness,  and  imposture,  and  misery,  for 
long  years,  can  now  look  down  ujjon  j-ou 
with  pity !  " 

Having  thus  spoken,  she  left  the  room. 

We  may  add  here,  in  a  few  brief  words, 
that  the  jJi'oof  of  the  identity  of  each  of  the 
two  individuals  in  question  was  clearly,  le- 
gally, and  most  satisfactorily  established  ; 
in  addition  to  which,  if  farther  certainty  had 
been  wanting.  Lady  Gourlay  at  once  knew  her 
son  by  a  very  peculiar  mole  on  his  neck,  of  a 
three-cornered  shape,  resembling  a  triangle. 

The  imijortant  events  of  the  day,  so  deeply 
affecting  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  and  his  family, 
had  been  now  brought  to  a  close  ;  all  the 
strangers  withdrew,  and  Fen  ton's  body  was 
brought  up  stairs  and  laid  out.  Lady  Emily 
and  her  father  went  home  together  ;  so  did 
Roberts,  now  Sir  Edward  Gourlay,  and  his 
dehghted  and  thankful  mother.  Her  confi- 
dence in  the  providence  of  God  was  at  length 
amply  rewarded,  and  the  widow's  heart  at 
last  was  indeed  made  to  sing  for  joy. 

"  Well,  Ned,  my  boy,"  said  old  Sam,  turn- 
ing to  Su'  Edward,  after  having  been  intro. 
duced  to  his  mother,  "  I  hope  I  haven't  lost 
a  son  to-day,  although  yom-  mother  gained 
one '? " 


604 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  I  woiild  be  unworthy  of  my  good  for- 
tune, if  you  did,"  replied  yir  Edward. 
"  Whilst  I  have  life  and  sense  and  memory  I 
shall  ever  look  upon  you  as  my  father,  and 
my  best  friend." 

"Eight,"  replied  the  old  soldier  ;  "  but  I 
knew  it  was  before  you.  He  was  no  every- 
day plant,  my  lady,  and  so  I  told  my  Beck. 
Your  ladyship  must  see  mj'  Beck,"  he  added  ; 
"she's  the  queen  of  wves,  and  I  knew  it 
from  the  first  day  I  married  her  ;  my  heart 
told  nie  so,  and  it  was  all  right — all  the  heai't 
of  man." 

The  imfortunate  old  Doctor  was  to  be 
pitied.  He  walked  about  with  his  finger  in 
his  book,  scarcely  knowing  whether  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard  was  a  dream,  or  a  reality. 
Seeing  Lord  Dimroe  about  to  take  his 
dejsarture,  he  ajiproached  him,  and  said, 
"  Pray,  sir,  are  we  to  have  no  d'ji'diuT  after 
all  ?  Ai'e  not  you  the  young  gentleman  who 
was  this  day  found  out — discovered  ? 

Duuroe  was  either  so  comf)letely  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  his  ill  fortune,  that 
he  did  not  hear  him,  or  he  would  not  deign 
him  an  answer. 

"  Tliis  is  really  too  bad,"  continued  the 
Doctor;  "neither  a  marriage  fee  nor  a 
dejeuner  !  Too  bad,  indeed  !  Here  are  the 
tribulations,  but  not  the  marriage  ;  imder 
which  melancholy  circumstances  I  may  as 
well  go  on  my  way,  although  I  cannot  do  it 
as  I  expected  to  have  done — rejoicing. 
Good  mornmg,  Mr.  Stoker." 

Our  readers  ought  to  be  sufficiently  ac- 
quainted, we  presume,  with  the  state  of 
Lucy's  feelings  after  the  events  of  the  day 
and  the  disclosures  that  had  been  made. 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay — we  may  as  weU  caU 
him  so  for  the  short  time  he  will  be  on  the 
stage  —  stunned — crushed — wrecked —  iiun- 
ed,  was  instantlj'  obhged  to  go  to  bed.  The 
shock  sustained  by  his  system,  both  physi- 
cally and  mentally,  was  terrific  in  its  character, 
and  fearful  in  its  results.  His  incoherency 
almost  amounted  to  frenzy.  He  raved — he 
stormed — he  cursed — he  blasphemeil ;  but 
amidst  this  dark  tumult  of  th<iught  and 
passion,  there  might  ever  be  observed  the 
prevalence  of  the  monster  evil — the  failure  of 
liis  ambition  for  his  daughter's  elevation  to 
the  rank  of  a  countess.  Never,  indeed,  was 
there  such  a  tempest  of  human  passion  at 
work  ui  a  brain  as  raged  in  his. 

"  It's  a  falsehood,  I  didn't  murder  my 
son,"  he  raved  ;  "or  if  I  did,  what  care  I 
about  that  ?  I  am  a  man  of  steel.  My 
daughter — my  daugliter  was  my  thought. 
Well,  Dunroe,  all  is  right  at  last — eh?  ha — 
ha — ha !  I  managed  it ;  but  I  knew  my 
system  was  the  right  one.  Lady  Dunroe  ! — 
veiy  good,  veiy  good  to   begin  with  ;  but 


not  what  I  wish  to  see,  to  heai-,  to  feel  before 
I  die.  Curse  me,  now,  if  I  died  without 
seeing  her  Countess  of  CuUamore,  but  I'd 
break  mj'  heai't.  '  Make  way,  there — way 
for  the  Countess  of  Cullamore  !  ' — ha  !  does 
not  that  sound  weU?  But  then,  the  old 
Earl !  Curse  him,  what  keeps  him  on  the 
stage  so  long  ?  Away  with  the  old  carrion  ! 
— away  with  him  !  But  what  was  that  that 
happened  to-day,  or  yesterday?  ^Misery, 
torture,  perdition  !  —  disgraced,  undone, 
ruined  !  Is  it  true,  though  ?  Is  this  joy  ?  I 
expected — I  feared  somethiug  like  this.  Will 
no  one  tell  me  what  has  happened  ?  Here, 
Lucy-— Countess  of  Cullamore  ! — where  are 
you  ?  Now,  Lucy,  noAV — put  yDur  heel  on 
them — grind  them,  my  girl — remember  the 
cold  and  distrustful  looks  your  father  got 
from  the  world — especially  from  those  of 
your  OMTi  sex — remember  it  all,  now,  Lucy — 
Countess  of  Cullamore,  I  mean — remember 
it,  I  say,  my  lady,  for  yoiu'  father's  sake. 
Now,  my  girl,  for  pride ;  now  for  the 
haughty  sneer  ;  now  for  the  aristocratic  air 
of  disdain  ;  now  for  the  day  of  triumph  over 
the  mob  of  the  gi'eat  vulgar.  And  that 
fellow — that  reverend  old  shark  who  would 
eat  any  one  of  his  Christian  brethren,  if  they 
were  only  sent  uj)  to  him  disguised  as  a 
turbot — the  divine  old  lobster,  for  his  thin 
red  nose  is  a  perfect  claw — the  divine  old 
lobster  couldn't  tell  me  whether  thei-e  was  a 
God  or  not.  Curse  him,  not  he  ;  but  hold, 
I  must  not  be  too  severe  upon  him  :  his  god 
is  his  belly,  and  mine  was  my  ambition.  Oh, 
oh  !  what  is  this — what  does  it  all  mean  ? 
What  has  happened  to  me  ?  Oh,  I  am  ill,  I 
fear  :  perhajjs  I  am  mad.  Is  the  Countess 
there — the  Countess  of  Cullamore,  I  mean  ?  " 

Many  of  his  subsecj^uent  incoherencies  were 
still  more  violent  and  appalling,  and  some- 
times he  would  have  got  up  and  committed 
acts  of  outrage,  if  he  had  not  been  eloselj' 
watched  and  restrained  by  foi-ce.  AMiether 
his  complaint  was  insanity  or  brain  fever,  or 
the  one  as  symptomatic  of  the  other,  even  his 
medical  attendants  could  scarcely  determine. 
At  all  events,  whatever  medical  skiU  and 
domestic  attention  could  do  for  him  was 
done,  but  with  verj'  little  hopes  of  success. 

The  effect  of  the  scene  which  the  worn 
and  invaUd  Earl  had  witnessed  at  Sir  Thom- 
as Gourlay 's  were  so  exhausting  to  his  weak 
fnme  that  they  left  very  Uttle  strength  be- 
hind them.  Yet  he  complained  of  no  jiar- 
ticular  illness ;  all  he  felt  was,  an  easy  but 
general  and  certain  decay  of  his  physical 
powers,  leaving  the  mind  and  intellect  strong 
and  clear.  On  the  day  following  the  scene 
in  the  baronet's  house,  we  must  present  him 
to  the  reader  seated,  as  usual — for  he  could 
not  be  prevailed  upou  to  keep  his  bed — in 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


60iS 


his  arm-chair,  wi  h  the  papers  of  the  day  be- 
fore him.  Near  him,  ou  another  seat,  was 
Sii-  Edward  Gourlay. 

"  Well,  Sir  Edward,  the  proofs,  you  say, 
have  been  all  satisfactory." 

'■Perfectly so,  mj'  lord,"  replied  the  young 
baronet ;  "  we  did  not  allow  yesterday  to 
close  without  making  evei'ything  clear.  We 
have  this  morning  had  counsel's  opinion 
upon  it,  and  the  jjroof  is  considered  decis- 
ive." 

"  But  is  Lady  Emily  herself  awai-e  of  your 
attachment '? " 

"Why,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir  Edward, 
blusliing  a  little,  "  I  may  say  I  think  that — 
ahem  1 — she  has,  in  some  sort,  given — a — 
ahem  ! — a  kind  of  consent  that  I  should 
spsak  to  your  lordship  on  the  subject. ' 

"  My  dear  young  fi-iend,"  said  his  lordship, 
whose  voice  became  tremidous,  and  wliose 
face  gi-ew  like  the  whitest  ashes. 

"  Have  you  got  iU,  my  lord?"  asked  Sir 
Edward,  a  good  deal  alarmed  :  "  shall  I  ring 
for  assistance  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  his  lordship  ;  "  no  ;  I  only 
wi.sh  to  say  that  j'ou  know  not  the  extent  of 
your  own  generosity  in  making  this  pro- 
posal.' 

"Generosity,  my  lord!  Your  lordship 
will  pardon  me.  In  this  case  I  have  aU  the 
honor  to  receive,  and  nothing  to  confer  in 
exchange." 

"  Hear  me  for  a  few  minutes,"  replied  his 
lordship,  "  and  after  you  shall  have  heard 
me,  you  will  then  be  able  at  least  to  under- 
stand whether  the  proposal  you  make  for 
mj'  daughter's  hand  is  a  generous  one  or 
not.  My  daughter,  Sii'  Edwai'd,  is  illegiti- 
mate." 

"  Illegitimate,  my  lord  !  "  replied  the  other, 
with  an  evident  shock  which  he  could  not 
conceal.  "  Great  God  !  my  lord,  your  "Tords 
are  impossible." 

"  My  young  fi-iend,  they  are  both  p(  ssible 
antl  true.     Listen  to  me  : 

"  In  early  life  I  loved  a  young  lady  of  a 
decayed  but  respectable  family.  I  commu- 
nicated our  attachment  to  mj'  friends,  who 
pronoimced  me  a  fool,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  attribute  my  affection  for  her  to  art  ou 
the  part  of  the  lady,  and  intrigue  on  that  of 
her  relatives.  I  was  at  the  time  deej)ly,  al- 
most irretrievablj-,  embarrassed.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  I  knew  that  the  imputations  against 
Maria,  for  such  was  her  name,  as  well  as 
against  her  relatives,  were  utterly  false  ;  and 
as  a  proof  I  did  so,  I  followed  her  to  Fr.uice, 
where,  indeed,  I  had  fii-st  met  her.  Well, 
we  were  privately  married  there  ;  fo",  al- 
though young  at  the  time,  I  was  not  without 
a  spirit  of  false  pride  and  amliition,  that 
tended  to  prevent  me  fi'om  acknowledging 


vsx\  marriage,  and  encountering  boldly,  as  ] 
ought  to  have  done,  tlie  resentment  of  my 
relations  and  the  sneers  of  the  world.  Ow- 
ing to  this  unmanly  spiiit  on  my  part,  our 
mai-riage,  though  strictly  coiTect  and  legal  in 
every  resiject,  was  nevertheless  a  private  one, 
as  I  have  said.  Li  the  meantime  I  had  en- 
tered parliament,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to 
dwell  upon  the  popularity  with  which  my 
efforts  there  were  attended.  I  consequently 
lived  a  good  deal  apart  fi'om  my  wife,  whom 
I  had  not  courage  to  present  as  such  to  tho 
world.  Every  day  now  established  mj'  suc- 
cess in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  increased 
my  ambition.  The  constitution  of  my  wife 
had  been  natiu'ally  a  dehcate  one,  ami  I  un- 
derstood, subsequently  to  oiu-  union,  that 
there  had  been  decUne  in  her  familj'  to  such 
an  extent,  that  nearly  one-ha'f  of  them  had 
died  of  it.  In  this  way  we  lived  for  four 
years,  having  no  issue.  About  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fifth  my  wfe's  he;xlth  be- 
gan to  decUne,  and  as  that  session  of  parUa- 
ment  was  a  very  busy  and  a  very  imjiortant 
one,  I  was  but  little  with  her. .  Ever  since 
the  period  of  our  marriage,  she  had  been  at- 
tended by  a  faithful  maid,  indeed,  rather  a 
companion,  well  educated  and  accomj)lished, 
named  Norton,  subsequently-  maiTied  to  a 
cousin  of  her  own  name.  After  a  short  visit 
to  my  wife,  in  whose  constitution  decline  had 
now  set  in,  and  whom  I  ought  not  to  have 
left,  I  retimied  to  parliament,  more  than 
ever  ambitious  for  distinction.  I  must  do 
myself  the  justice  to  say  that  I  loved  her 
tenderly  ;  but  at  the  same  time  I  felt  disap- 
pointed at  not  having  a  family.  On  return- 
ing to  London  I  found  that  my  brother,  who 
had  opposed  all  notion  of  my  marriage  ^dth 
jjecuhar  bitterness,  and  never  spoke  of  my 
wife  wit;h  resj)ect,  was  himself  about  to  be 
married  to  one  of  the  most  fascinating  crea- 
tiu'BS  on  whom  my  eyes  ever  rested  ;  and, 
what  was  equally  agreeable,  she  had  an  im- 
mense fortune  in  her  own  right,  and  was, 
besides,  of  a  high  and  distinguished  family. 
"  She  was  beautiful,  she  was  rich — she 
was,  alas !  ambitious.  WeU,  we  met,  we 
conversed,  we  compared  minds  with  each 
other  ;  we  sang  together,  we  danced  together, 
until  at  length  we  began  to  feel  that  the  ab- 
sence of  the  one  caused  an  unusual  depres- 
sion in  the  other.  I  was  said  to  be  one  ol 
the  most  eloquent  commoners  of  the  day — 
her  family  were  powerful — my  wife  was  in  a 
decline,  and  recovery  hopeless.  Here,  then, 
was  a  career  for  ambition  ;  but  that  was  not 
all.  I  was  poor — emban-assed  almost  beyond 
hope — on  the  very  verge  of  niin.  Indeed, 
so  poor,  that  it  was  as  much  o^-ing  to  the 
inability  of  maintaining  my  wife  in  her  prop- 
er  rank,  as  to  fear  of  mv  friends  and  the 


606 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


world,  ihat  I  did  not  publicly  acknowledge 
lier.  But  why  dwell  ou  this?  I  loved  the 
^nman  whose  heart  and  thought  had  be- 
longed to  mj'  brother — loved  her  to  madness  ; 
and  soon  perceived  that  the  passion  was 
mutual.  I  had  not,  however,  breathed  a 
syllable  of  love,  nor  was  it  ever  my  intention 
to  do  so.  My  brother,  however,  was  gradu- 
ally thrown  off,  treated  \\'ith  coldness,  and 
ultimately  with  disdain,  while  no  one  sus- 
pected the  cause.  It  is  painful  to  dweU  up- 
on subsequent  occurrences.  My  brother 
grew  jealous,  and,  being  a  high-spirited 
youjg  man,  released  Lady  Emily  from  lier 
engagement.  I  was  mad  with  love  ;  and  this 
conduct,  honorable  and  manly  as  it  was  in 
him,  occasioned  an  explanation  between  me 
and  Lady  Emily,  in  which,  weak  and  vacillat- 
ing as  I  was,  m  the  frenzy  of  the  moment  I 
disclosed,  avowed  my  passion,  and — but  why 
proceed  ?  We  loved  each  other,  not '  wisely, 
but  too  well.'  My  brother  sought  and  ob- 
tained a  foreign  lucrative  ai323ointment,  and 
left  the  country  in  a  state  of  mind  which  it 
is  very  difficult  to  describe.  He  refused  to 
see  me  on  his  departure,  and  I  have  never 
seen  him  since. 

"The  human  heart,  my  young  fiiend,  is 
a  great  mystery.  I  now  attached  myself  to 
Lady  Emily,  and  was  about  to  disclose  my 
marriage  to  her  ;  but  as  the  state  of  my 
wife's  health  was  hopeless,  I  declined  to  do 
so,  in  the  expectation  that  a  little  time  might 
set  me  free.  Mj'  wife  was  then  living  in  a 
remote  little  village  in  the  south  of  France  ; 
most  of  her  relatives  were  dead,  and  those 
who  survived  were  at  the  time  living  in  a 
part  of  Connaught,  Galw-jy,  to  which  any 
kind  of  intelligence,  much  less  foreign,  sel- 
dom ever  made  its  way.  Now,  I  do  not 
want  to  justify  myself,  because  I  cannot  do 
so.  I  said  this  moment  that  the  human 
heart  is  a  gi-eat  mystei-y.  So  it  is.  ^^^lilst 
my  passion  for  Lady  EmUy  was  literally  be- 
yond aU  restraint,  I  nevertheless  felt  visita- 
tions of  remorse  that  were  terrible.  The  image 
of  my  gentle  Maria,  sweet,  contented,  affec- 
tionate, and  uncomplaining,  would  some- 
times come  before  me,  and — pardon  me,  my 
friend  ;  I  am  very  weak,  but  I  will  resume 
in  a  few  moments.  Well,  the  struggle  with- 
in me  was  great.  I  had  a  young  duke  as  a 
rival ;  but  I  was  not  only  a  rising  man,  but 
actuallj'  had  a  party  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. Her  family,  higli  and  ambitious, 
were  anxious  to  procure  my  jsolitical  sup- 
port, and  held  out  the  prospect  of  a  peerage. 
My  wife  was  djing  ;  I  loved  Lady  Emily  ;  I 
was  without  offspring  ;  I  was  poor  ;  I  was 
ambitious.  She  was  beautiful,  of  high  family 
and  powerful  connections  ;  she  was  im- 
mensely rich,  too,  highly  accomplished,  and 


enthusiastically  attached  to  me.  These  were 
temptations. 

"At  this  period  it  so  fell  out  that  a  sister 
of  my  wife's  became  governess  in  Lad^i 
Emily's  family  ;  but  the  latter  were  ignorant 
of  the  connection.  This  alarmed  me,  fright- 
ened me  ;  for  I  feared  she  would  disclose 
my  mai'riage.  I  lost  no  time  in  bringing 
about  a  private  inteniew  mth  her,  in  which 
I  entreated  her  to  keep  the  matter  secret, 
stating  that  a  short  time  would  enable  me 
to  bring  her  sister  with  evlal  into  j^ulilic  life. 
I  also  prevailed  iijjon  her  to  give  up  her 
situation,  and  furnished  her  with  money  for 
Maria,  to  whom  I  sent  her,  with  an  assur- 
ance that  my  house  should  ever  be  her 
home,  and  that  it  was  coutraiw  to  my  wishes 
ever  to  hear  my  wife's  sister  becoming  a 
governess  ;  and  this  indeed  was  true.  I  also 
wrote  to  my  wife,  to  the  effect  that  the 
pressure  of  my  parliamentary  duties  would 
prevent  me  from  seeing  her  for  a  couple  of 
months. 

"  In  this  position  matters  were  for  about 
a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  when,  at  last,  a 
letter  reached  me  fi-om  my  sister-in-law. 
giring  a  detailed  account  of  my  wife's  death, 
and  stating  that  she  and  jNIiss  Norton  were 
about  to  make  a  tour  to  Italy,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  acquiring  the  language.  This  letter 
was  a  diabolical  falsehood.  Sir  Edward  ;  but 
it  accomplished  its  purj^ose.  She  had 
gleaned  enough  of  intelligence  in  the  family, 
by  obseiTation  and  otherwise,  to  believe 
that  my  wife's  death  alone  would  enable  me, 
in  a  short  time,  to  become  united  to  Lady 
Emily  ;  and  that  if  my  marriage  with  her 
took  place  w  hilst  her  sister  lived,  I  believing 
her  to  be  dead,  she  would  punish  me  for 
what  she  considered  my  neglect  of  her,  and 
my  unjustifiable  attachment  to  another  wo- 
man during  Maria's  Ufe.  All  communica- 
tion ceased  between  us.  My  wife  was  un- 
able to  write ;  but  from  what  her  sister 
stated  to  her,  probably  with  exaggerations, 
her  pride  prevented  her  from  holding  jmy 
correspondence  with  a  husband  who  refused 
to  acknowledge  his  maniage  with  her,  and 
whose  affections  had  been  transferred  to 
another.  At  all  events,  the  blow  took  eft'ect. 
Believing  her  dead,  and  deeming  myself  at 
liberty,  I  msuiied  Lady  Emily,  after  a  lapse 
of  six  months,  exactly  as  many  weeks  before 
the  death  of  my  first  wife.  Of  course  you 
perceive  now,  my  friend,  th^t  my  last  mar- 
riage was  uuU  and  void  ;  and  that,  hurried 
on  bj'  the  eager  impulses  of  love  and  ambi- 
tion, I  did,  without  knowing  it,  an  act  wiiich 
has  made  my  children  illegitimate.  It  is 
true,  mj^  union  with  Lady  Emily  was  pro- 
ductive to  me  of  gi-eat  results.  I  was  created 
an  Irish  peer,  in  consequence  of  the  suppoi't 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


607 


I  gave  to  my  wife's  connections.     The  next 
step  was  an  eai-ldom,  with  an  Eughsh  peer- 
age,   together   with    such   an   accession    of 
property  in  right  of  my  wife,  as  made  me 
rich  beyond  my  wishes.      So  far,  you  may 
say,  I  was  a  successful  man  ;   but  the  world 
cannot  judge  of  the  heart,  and  its  recollec- 
tions.     My    second    wife    was   a  virtuous 
woman,    high,    haughty,   and   correct ;    but 
notwithstanding  our  early  enthusiastic  affec- 
tion,  the  experiences  of  domestic  life  soon 
taught  us  to  feel,  that,  after  aU,  our  dispo- 
sitions aud  tastes  were  unsuitable.    She  was 
fond   of  show,   of  equipage,   of  fashionable 
amusements,    and    that    empty   dissipation 
which  constitutes   the  sulistance  of  aristo- 
cratic existence.     I,  on  the  contrary,  when 
not  engaged  in  pubUc  life,  with  which  I  soon 
gi-ew   fatigued,  was   devoted  to  retirement, 
to_  domestic  enjoyment,  and  to  the  duties 
which   devolved   upon   me  as  a  parent.     I 
loved  my  children  with  the  greatest  tender- 
ness, and  applied  myself  to  the  cidtivation 
of  their    principles,    aud    the    progress   of 
then"  education.      All,  however,   would  not  [ 
do.     I  was  unhappy  ;  uuhap])y,  not  only  in  j 
my  present  wife,  but  in  the  recollection  of  | 
the  gentle   and  affectionate   Maria.     I  now  I 
felt  the  fuU  enormity  of  my  crime  against ; 
that  patient  and  angelic  behig.     Her  memo-  j 
rj'  began  to   haunt   me — her   virtues   were 
ever   in  my  thoughts  ;    her   qviiet,    uncom-  \ 
plaining  submission,  her  love,  devotion,  ten-  j 
derness,  all  rose  up  in  fearful  array  against  j 
me,  until  I  felt  that  the  abiding  principle  of  j 
my  existence  was  a  deej)  remorse,  that  ate  j 
its  way  into  my  hajijiiuess  day  by  day,  and  j 
has  never  left  me  through  my  whole  subse-  j 
f|uent   life.      This,   however,    was   attended 
with   some   good,  as  it  recalled  lae,   in  an 
especial   manner,   to   the   nobler   duties   of 
hum:iuity.     I  felt  now  that  truth,  aud  a  liigh 
sense  of  honor,  could  alone  enable  me  to 
redeem  the  past,  and  atone  for  my  conduct 
with  respect  to  Maria.      But,   above  all,   I 
felt  that  independence  of  mind,  self-restraint, 
and  firmness  of  character,  were  vu'tues,  priu- 
cijjles,  what  you  wiU,  without  which  man  is 
but  a  cipher,  a  tool  of  others,  or  the   sport 
of  circumstances. 

"  My  second  wife  died  of  a  cold,  caught 
by  going  ratlier  thinly  dressed  to  a  fashion- 
able part}-  too  soon  after  the  birth  of  Emily  ; 
and  my  son,  having  become  the  pet  and 
spoiled  child  of  his  mother  and  her  relatives, 
soon  became  imbued  with  fashionable  folhes, 
which,  despite  of  all  my  care  and  vigilance, 
I  am  grieved  to  say,  have  degenerated  into 
worse  and  more  indefeusilile  principles. 
He  had  not  reached  the  period  of  manhood 
when  he  altogether  threw  oft"  all  regard  for 
wiy  control  over  him  as  a  father,  and  led  a 


life  since  of  which  the  less  that  is  said  thfe 
better. 

"The  facts  connected  -with  my  second 
mai'riage  have  been  so  clearly  established 
that  defence  is  hopeless.  The  registry  of 
our  marriage,  and  of  my  first  wife's  death, 
have  been  laid  before  me,  and  Mrs.  Main- 
waring,  herself,  was  ready  to  substantiate 
and  prove  them  by  her  personal  testimony. 
My  own  counsel,  able  and  eminent  men  as 
they  are,  have  dissuaded  me  fi'om  bringing 
the  matter  to  a  trial,  and  thus  making  pubUc 
the  disgrace  which  must  attach  to  my  chil- 
di'en.  You  now  understand,  Sir  Edward,  the 
full  extent  of  your  generosity  in  proposing 
for  my  daughter's  hand,  and  j'ou  also  under- 
stand the  nature  of  my  private  communica- 
tion yesterday  with  your  uncle." 

"  But,  my  lord,  how  did  yoiu-  brother  be- 
come aware  of  the  circumstances  you  have 
just  mentioned  ?  " 

"  Through  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  who  thought 
it  unjust  that  a  jarotiigate  should  inherit  so 
much  jjroijei'ty,  with  so  bad  a  title  to  it, 
whilst  there  were  ^drtuous  and  honorable 
men  to  claim  it  justly  ;  such  are  the  words 
of  a  note  on  the  subject  which  I  have  re- 
ceived from  her  this  very  morning.  Thus 
it  is  that  vice  often  punishes  itself.  Now, 
Sir  Edward,  I  am  ready  to  hear  you." 

"  My  lord,"  replied  Sir  Edward,  "  the 
case  is  so  pecuUar,  so  completely  out  of  the 
common  coiu'se,  that,  morally  speaking,  I 
cannot  look  upon  your  children  as  illegiti- 
mate. I  have  besides  great  doubts  whether 
the  prejudice  of  the  world,  or  its  pride, 
which  visits  upon  the  head  of  the  innocent 
child  the  error,  or  crime  if  you  will,  of  the 
guilty  parent,  ought  to  be  admitted  as  a 
prmciple  of  action  in  Ufe." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  eai-1  ;  "  but  on  the  other 
hand,  to  forbid  it  altogether  might. tend  to 
relax  some  of  the  best  principles  in  man  and 
woman.  Vice  must  frequently  be  followed 
up  for  punishment  even  to  its  consequences 
as  well  as  its  immediate  acts,  otherwise 
virtue  were  little  better  than  a  name.  For 
this,  however,  there  is  a  remedy — an  act  of 
parliament  must  be  procured  to  legitimatize 
my  children.  I  shall  take  care  of  that,  al- 
though I  may  not  live  to  see  it,"  * 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  my  lord,  I  cannot  but 
think  that  in  the  eye  of  religion  and  morality 
your  children  are  certainly  legitimate ;  all 
that  is  against  them  being  a  point  of  law. 
For  my  part,  I  earnestly  beg  to  renew  my 
2)roposal  for  the  hand  of  Lady  Emily." 

"  Then,  Sir  Edward,  you  do  not  feel  your- 
self detened  by  anything  I  have  stated?" 

*  Tills  was  dene,  and  the  circumstance  is  still 
remembered  by  many  persjna  in  the  north  ol 
Ireland. 


608 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  My  lord,  I  love  Lady  Emily  for  her  own 
sake — and  for  her  own  sake  only." 

"Then,"  replied  her  father,  "bring  her 
here.  I  feel  very  weak — I  am  getting 
heavj'.  Yesterday's  diselosm-es  gave  me  a 
shock  which  I  fear  will — but  I  trust  I  am 
prepared — go — remember,  however,  that  my 
darling  child  knows  nothing  of  what  I  have 
mentioned  to  you — Dunroe  does.  I  had 
not  courage  to  tell  her  that  she  has  been 
placed  bj'  her  father's  pride,  by  his  ambition, 
and  by  his  want  of  moral  restraint,  out  of 
the  jjale  of  Ufe.     Go,  and  fetch  her  here." 

That  they  approadhed  him  with  exulting 
hearts — that  he  joined  their  hands,  and 
blessed  them — is  aU  that  is  necossai-y  to 
be  mentioned  now. 

In  the  course  of  that  evening,  a  reverend 
dignitary  of  the  chuirh,  Dean  Pahner,  whom 
we  have  mentioned  occasionallj-  in  this  nar- 
rative, and  a  very  different  man  indeed  from 
our  fi-eind  Dr.  Sombre,  called  at  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay's  to  inquire  after  his  health,  and  to 
see  Miss  Gourlay.  He  was  shown  up  to  the 
drawiug  room,  where  Lucy,  verj'  weak,  but 
still  reheved  fi'om  the  great  e\il  which  she 
had  dreaded  so  much,  soon  joined  him. 

"Miss  Gourlay,"  said  he,  "I  trust  yoiu- 
father  is  better  ?  " 

"  He  is  better,  sir,  in  mere  bodily  health. 
The  cupping,  and  blistering,  and  loss  of 
blood  from  the  arms,  have  relieved  him,  and 
his  ddirium  has  nearly  passed  away ;  but, 
then,  he  is  silent  and  gloomy,  and  dejaressed, 
it  would  seem,  beyond  the  reach  of  liojje  or 
consolation." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  see  me  ?  " 

"  No,  su',  he  would  not,"  she  rejjhed. 
"  Two  or  three  clergymen  have  called  for 
that  i^urpose  ;  but  the  very  mention  of  them 
threw  him  into  a  state  almost  bordering  on 
frenzy." 

"Under  these  circumstances,"  replied  the 
good  Dean,  "it  would  be  ■'.vi'ong  to  press 
him.  WTien  he  has  somewhat  recovered,  I 
hope  he  may  be  jirevailed  on  to  raise  his 
thoughts  to  a  better  life  than  this.  And 
now,  my  dear  young  lad}',  I  have  a  favor  to 
request  at  your  hands." 

"At  mine,  sir!  If  there  is  any  thing 
within  my  power " 

"This  is,  I  assure  you." 

"  Pray,  what  is  it,  sii'?" 

"  Would  you  so  far  obUgc  ^iie  as  to  re- 
ceive a  visit  fi'om  Lord  Dimroe  ?  " 

"  In  any  other  thing  within  the  limits  of 
my  power,  sir — in  auj'thing  that  ought  to 
be  asked  of  me — I  would  feel  great  jaleasure 
in  obliging  you  ;  but  in  this  you  must  ex- 
cuse me." 

"  I  saw  Lord  Cullamore  in  the  early  part 
of  the  day,"  replied  Dean  Palmer,  "  and  he 


told  me  to  say,  that  it  was  his  wish  you 
should  see  him  ;  he  added,  that  he  felt  it 
was  a  last  request." 

"  I  shall  see  him,"  replied  the  generous 
girl,  "instantly;  for  his  lordship's  sake  I 
shall  see  him,  although  I  cannot  conceive 
for  what  pui-pose  Lord  Dunroe  can  wish 
it." 

"  It  is  sufficient.  Miss  Gourlay,  that  you 
consent  to  see  him.  He  is  below  in  my 
carriage  ;  shall  I  bring  him  up  ?  " 

"  Do  so,  sir.  I  am  going  to  jsrevail,  if  1 
can,  on  papa,  to  take  a  composing  draught, 
which  the  doctors  have  ordered  him.  I 
shall  retuna  again  in  a  few  minutes." 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  had  got  up  some 
hoiu's  before,  and  was  seated  in  an  ai-m- 
chair  as  she  entered. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now,  papa  ? "  she 
asked,  with  the  utmost  affection  and  ten- 
derness ;  "  oh,  do  not  be  dej^ressed  ;  through 
aU  changes  of  life  your  Lucy's  affections 
will  be  with  you." 

"  Lucy,"  said  he,  "  come  and  kiss  me." 

In  a  moment  her  ai'ms  were  about  his 
neck,  and  she  whispered  encouragingly, 
whilst  caressing  him,  "Papa,  now  that  I 
have  not  been  thrust  down  that  fearful  abj-ss, 
believe  me,  we  shall  be  very  hajjpy  yet." 

He  gave  her  a  long  look  ;  then  shook  his 
head,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Endeavor  to  keep  up  your  spii'its,  dear- 
est paj)a ;  you  seem  depressed,  but  that  is 
natural  after  what  you  have  suffered.  Will 
•  you  take  the  composing  di'aught '?  It  will 
I  relieve  j'ou." 

"  I  believe  it  will,  but  I  cannot  take  it 
,  from  your  hand  ;  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
ujion  her  with  a  melancholy  gaze  as  he 
s^joke. 

"  And  why  not  from  mine,  jjapa '?  Surely 
you  would  not  change  your  mind  uqw.  You 
have  taken  all  yom-  medicine  fi'om  me,  up 
to  this  moment." 

"  I  will  take  it  myself,  presently,  Lucy." 

"  Will  you  jiromise  me,  fjapa  ?  "  she  said, 
endeavoring  to  smile. 

"Yes,  Lucy,  I  promise  you." 

"  But,  papa,  I  had  forgotten  to  say  that 
Lord  Dunroe  has  called  to  ask  an  intei-view 
with  me.  He  and  Dean  Palmer  axe  now  in 
the  drawing-room." 

"  Have  you  seen  him?  "  asked  her  father. 

"Not  yet,  papa." 

"  Will  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Lord  CuUamore  sent  the  Dean  to  me  to 
say,  that  it  was  his  earnest  request  I  should 
— his  last." 

"  His  last !  Lucy.  Well,  then,  see  him — 
there  is  a  great  deal  due  to  a  lad  request." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall  see  him.  Well,  good- 
by,  paj)a.      Eemember  now  that  you  take 


THE  BLACK  BAROXET. 


609 


the  oomposiug  draugliv ;  I  shall  return  to 
j'ou  after  I  have  seen  Lord  Dunroe." 

Shb  was  elosinp:  the  door,  when  he  re- 
called her.     "Lucy,"  said  he,  "  come  here." 

"  Well,  i^apa  ;  well,  dearest  papaV  " 

"Kiss  me  again,"  said  he. 

She  stooped  as  before,  and  jiutting  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  liim  like  a  child. 
He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked  on  her 
with  the  same  long  earnest  look,  and  put- 
ting it  to  his  lips,  kissed  it  ;  and  as  he  did, 
Lucy  felt  a  tear  fidl  upon  it.  "  Lucy,"  said 
he,  "  I  have  one  word  to  say  to  you." 

Lucy  was  ah-eadv  in  tears  ;  that  one  Utile 
dj-op — the  symptom  of  an  emotion  she  had 
never  witnessed  before — and  she  trasted  the 
forerunner  of  a  softened  and  repentant  heart, 
had  already  melted  hers. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "ftmiivf  me." 

The  floodgates  of  her  heart  and  of  her  eyes 
orere  opened  at  once.  She  tlu-ew  herself  on 
his  bosom  ;  she  kissed  him,  and  wept  long 
and  loudl}-. 

He,  in  the  meantime,  had  regained  the 
dread  composure,  that  death-like  calmness, 
into  which  he  had  passed  from  his  frenzy. 

'■  Forgive  you,  papa  ?  I  do — I  do,  a  thou- 
sand times  ;  but  I  have  nothing  to  forgive. 
Do  I  not  know  that  all  yoiu'  plans  and  pur- 
poses were  for  my  advancement,  and,  as  you 
hoped,  for  my  hapjjiness  ?  " 

•'  Lucv,"  said  he,  "  disgrace  is  hard  to 
beai- ;  but  still  I  would  have  borne  it  had 
my  great  object  in  that  advancement  been 
accomplished  ;  but  bow,  here  is  the  disgrace, 
yet  the  object  lost  forever.  Then,  my  son, 
Lucy — I  am  his  murderer  ;  but  I  knew  it 
not ;  and  even  that  I  could  get  over  ;  but 
ijoH,  that  is  what  jH-ostrates  me.  And,  again, 
to  have  been  the  puppet  of  that  old  villain  ! 
Even  that,  however,  I  could  bear  ;  yes,  every- 
thing but  i/oii .' — that  was  the  great  cast  on 
which  my  whole  heart  was  set ;  but  now, 
mocked,  despised,  detested,  baffled,  detect- 
ed, defeated.  However,  it  is  all  over,  hke  a 
croubled  dream.  Dry  youi-  eyes  now,"  he 
added,  "and  see  Dunroe." 

"  Would  i/ou  v\-ish  to  see  Dean  Palmer, 
oajia  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Lucy  ;  not  at  all ;  he  could  do 
Mf  no  good.  Go,  now,  and  see  Dunroe,  and 
do  not  let  me  be  disturbed  for  an  hour  or 
two.  You  know  I  have  seen  the  body  of  my 
sou  to-day,  ;uid  I  wsh  I  had  not." 

"  I  am  st)rrv  you  did,  jjapa  ;  it  has  de- 
pressed you  very  much." 

"  Go,  Lucy,  go.  Jn  a  couple  of  hours  I — 
Go,  dear;  don't  keep  his  lordship  waiting." 

Poor  Lucy's  heart  was  in  a  tumult  of  de- 
light as  she  went  dowTi  staii-s.  In  the  whole 
course  of  her  life  she  had  never  witnessed 
in   her  father  an}-thing  of  tender  emotion 


until  then,  and  the  tear  that  feU  upon  her 
hand  she  knew  was  the  only  one  she  ever 
saw  him  shed. 

"I  have  hojae  for  papa  yet,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  was  about  to  enter  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  "I  never  thought  I  loved  him  so 
much  as  I  find  I  do  now." 

On  advancing  into  the  room,  for  an  in- 
stant's time  she  seemed  confused ;  her  con- 
fusion, however,  soon  became  sui-prise — 
amazement,  when  Dean  Palmer,  taking  our 
friend  the  stranger  by  the  hand,  led  him 
to^^'ard  her,  exclaiming,  "  Allow  me,  ]\Iiss 
Gourlay,  to  have  the  honor  of  presenting  to 
j'ou  Lord  Duni'oe. " 

"Lord  Dunroe  !"  exclaimed  Lucy,  in  her 
turn,  looking  aghast  with  astonishment. 
"  What  is  this,  sii' — what  means  this,  gentle- 
men ?  This  liouse,  praj-  recoUeet,  is  a  house 
of  death  and  of  suffering." 

"It  is  the  trath,  Miss  Goui-lay,"  repHed 
the  Dean.  "  Here  stands  tL3  veritable  Lord 
Dunroe,  whose  father  is  now  the  eai-1  of  Cul- 
lamore." 

"But,  su',  I  don't  imderstand  this." 

"It  is  ver}-  easilj-  understood,  how'ever, 
Miss  Goiu'lay.  This  gentleman's  father  was 
the  late  Eai-l's  brother  ;  and  he  being  now 
dead,  his  son  here  inherits  the  title  of  Lord 
Dunroe." 

"  But  the  late  Earl's  son  "? " 

"  Has  no  claim  to  the  title,  jMiss  Gourlay. 
His  lordshij)  here  vaO.  give  you  the  jiarticu- 
lars  at  leisure,  and  on  a  more  befitting 
occasion.  I  saw  the  late  Earl  to-day,  not 
long  before  his  death.  He  was  calm,  re- 
signed, and  fuU  of  that  Chi'istian  hope  which 
makes  the  death  of  the  righteous  so  beauti- 
fid.  He  was  not,  indeed,  without  sorrow  ; 
but  it  was  soothed  by  his  confidence  in  the 
mercy  of  God.  and  his  belief  in  the  necessity 
and  wisdom  of  sorrow  and  affliction  to  puri- 
fy ajid  exalt  the  heart." 

"And  now,  Lucy,"  said  the  stranger — for 
so  we  shall  call  him  still — taking  her  hand 
in  his,  "I  trust  that  all  obstacles  between 
oui'  union  are  removed  at  last.  Our  love 
has  been  stronj;fy  tested,  and  you  espeeiaUy 
have  suffered  much.  Yoiu-  tnist  in  Provi- 
dence, however,  hke  that  of  Lady  Gourlay, 
has  not  been  in  vain  ;  and  as  for  me,  I 
learned  much,  and  I  hoj^e  to  learn  more, 
from  your  great  and  noble  example.  I 
concealed  my  name  for  many  reasons  :  part- 
ly from  deUcacy  to  my  uncle,  the  late  Earl, 
and  his  family  ;  and  i  was  partly  forced  to 
do  it,  in  consequence  of  an  ajiprehension 
that  I  had  killed  a  nobleman  in  a  hasty  duel. 
He  was  not  killed,  liowever,  thank  God  ;  nor 
was  his  wound  so  dangerous  as  it  looked  at 
first  ;  neither  was  I  aware  until  afterwardij 
that  the  individual  who  forced  me  into  it  was 


610 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


my  own  cousin  Dunroe.  It  would  have  been 
very  inconvenient  to  me  to  have  been  appre- 
hended and  probably  cast  into  prison  at  a 
time  when  I  had  so  manj'  interests  to  look 
after ;  and,  indeed,  not  the  least  of  my  mo- 
tives was  the  fear  of  precipitating  your  fa- 
ther's enmity  against  Lady  Gourlay's  son, 
iby  discovering  that  I,  who  am  her  nephew, 
shoultl  have  been  seen  about  the  town  of  Bal- 
lytrain,  where,  when  a  boy,  I  had  spent  a 
good  deal  of  my  early  life.  Had  he  known 
my  name,  he  would  have  easily  susjjected  my 
object.  Your  mother  was  aware  of  my  de- 
sign in  coming  to  Ii'eland ;  but  as  I  knew 
the  risk  of  involving  my  uncle's  children, 
and  the  good  old  man's  reputation  besides, 
in  a  mesh  of  public  scandal  at  a  time  when 
I  did  not  feel  certain  of  being  able  to  estab- 
lish my  claims,  or  rather  my  father's,  for  I 
myself  was  indiliereut  to  them,  I  resolved  to 
keei?  as  quiet  as  jjossible,  and  not  to  disclose 
myself  even  to  you  until  necessity  should 
compel  me." 

Much  more  conversation  ensued  in  con- 
nection with  matters  in  which  our  lovers  felt 
more  or  less  interest.  At  length  the  gentle- 
men rose  to  go  away,  when  Gillesjjie  thrust  a 
face  of  horror  into  the  door,  and  exclaimed, 
bolting,  as  he  spoke,  behind  the  Dean,  "  O, 
gentlemen,  for  God's  sake,  save  me  !  I'll  cou- 
tesK  and  acknowledge  everything." 

"  AMiat's  the  matter,  Su- '?  "asked  the  Dean. 

"The  dead  man,  sir;  he's  sitting  up  in 
the  bed  :  and  I  know  what  he's  come  back 
for.  You're  a  j)arson,  sir,  and,  for  heaven's 
sake,  stand  between  him  and  me." 

On  proceeding  to  the  room  where  the 
baronet's  sou  had  been  laid  out,  they  foimd 
him  sittuig,  certainly,  on  the  bedside,  won- 
dering at  the  habiliments  of  death  which 
were  about  him.  That  which  all  had  suj^- 
posed  to  have  been  death,  was  only  a  lit  of 
catalepsy,  brought  on  him  by  the  appearance 
of  his  father,  who  had,  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion, left  a  terrible  impress  of  himself 
upon  his  mind,  and  who,  he  had  been  in- 
formed some  years  before,  was  the  cause  of 
all  his  suil'erings.  Even  at  the  sight  of  Lucy 
herself,  he  had  been  deejjly  agitated,  although 
he  could  not  tell  why.  He  was  immediately 
attended  to,  a  physician  sent  for,  and  poor 
Lucy  felt  an  elevation  of  heai't  and  spirits 
which  she  had  not  experienced  for  many  a 
long  day. 

'•  Oh,  do  not  go,"  she  said  to  her  lover 
and  the  Dean,  "  until  I  communicate  to 
papa  this  twofold  intelligence  of  delight ; 
your  strange  good  fortune,  and  the  resur- 
rection, I  may  term  it,  of  my  brother.  The 
very  object — the  great  engrossing  object  of 
papa's  life  and  ambition  gained  in  so  won- 
derful a  way  !    Do,  pray,  gentlemen,  remain 


for  a  few  minutes  until  I  see  him.     O,  what 
delight,  what  ecstasy  will  it  not  give  him  !" 

8he  accordingly  went  up  stairs,  slowly  it 
is  true,  tor  she  was  weak ;  and  nothing 
further  was  heard  except  one  wild  and  fear- 
ful scream,  whose  sharp  tones  j)enetrated 
through  the  whole  house. 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Dunroe,  "  here  is 
evil.  Goodness  me  ! — it  is  Miss  Gourlay's 
voice  ;  I  know  it.  Let  us  go  up ;  I  fear 
something  is  ■«Ti-oug  with  her  father." 

Tliey   accordingly   sought    the    baronet's 
apartment,  attended  by  the  servants,  whom 
Lucy's  wild  scream  had  alarmed,  and  brought 
also  toward  the  same  direction.     On   enter- 
ing the  room,  the  body  of  Lucy  was   found 
lying   beside,  or   rather  across   that  of  her 
father,  whom,   on  removing  her,  they  found 
to   be  dead.     Beside  him  lay  a  little  i^hial, 
on  which  there  was  no  label,  but  the   small 
portion  of  liquid  that  was  found  in  it  was  clear 
'  and  colorless  as  water.     It  was  jirussic  acid. 
I  Lucy  was  immediately   removed,    and   com- 
!  niitted  to  the  care  of  Alley  Malion  and  some 
i  of  the  other   females,  and  the  body  of  the 
baronet  was  raised  and  placed  upon  his  own 
bed.     The  Dean  and  Lord   Dunroe   looked 
ujjon  his  hfeless  but  stern  featmes   with   a 
feeling  of  awe. 

"  AJas  !  "  exclaimed  the  good  Dean,  "and 
is  it  thus  he  has  gone  to  his  gi-eat  account '? 
■W^e  shall  not  foUow  his  spirit  into  another 
life  :  but  it  is  miserable  to  reflect  that  one 
hour's  j)atience  might  have  saved  him  to  the 
world  and  to  God,  and  showed  him,  after  all, 
that  the  gi-eat  object  of  his  life  had  been  ac- 
complished. Blind  and  impatient  reasoner  ! 
— what  has  he  done  '? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dunroe,  looking  on  him 
with  a  feeling  of  profound  melancholy  ; 
"  there  he  lies — quiet  enough  now — the 
tumults  of  his  strong  spirit  are  over  forever. 
That  terrible  heart  is  still  at  last — that  liery 
jjulse  wiU  beat  no  more !  " 

We  have  now  very  little  to  state  whicli 
our  readers  may  not  anticipate.  Lucy  and 
Lady  Emily,  each  made  happy  in  the  gi'eat 
object  of  woman's  heart — love,  only  exchang- 
ed residences. 

Lucy's  Hfe  was  a  long  and  bountiful  bless- 
ing to  her  feUow-creatures.  Her  feelings 
were  never  contracted  within  the  n.aiTow 
circle  of  her  own  class,  but  embraced  the 
great  one  of  general  humanity.  She  acted 
upon  the  noljle  principle  of  receiving  fi-oai 
God  the  ample  gifts  of  wealth  and  position, 
not  for  the  purpose  of  wasting  them  in 
expensive  and  selfish  enjoyments,  but  for 
that  of  causing  them  to  diffuse  among  lier 
fellow-creatures  the  greatest  jiossible  portion 
of  happiness.  This  slie  considered  Iier  higlt 
destination,  and  well  and  nobly  she  fulUlleu 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


Gil 


it.  In  this,  the  great  and  true  purpose  of 
life,  her  husband  and  she  went  heart-in- 
heart,  hand-in-hand  ;  nor  were  Sir  Edward 
(lourlay,  and  his  kind  and  gentle  Emily,  far 
hchiud  them  in  all  their  good-will  and  good 
works. 

Lord  Dunroe,  having  no  strength  of  char- 
acter to  check  his  profligate  imj)ulses,  was, 
in  the  covirse  of  some  years,  thrown  off  by 
all  his  high  connections,  and  reduced  to 
areat  indigence.  Norton's  notion  of  his 
character  was  correct.  The  society  of  that 
treacherous  sharjier  was  necessary  to  him, 
and  in  some  time  after  they  were  reconciled. 
Norton  ultimately  became  driver  of  a  cele- 
brated mail-coach  on  the  great  York  road, 
and  the  other,  its  guard ;  thus  resolving,  as 
it  would  seem,  to  keep  the  whij)-hand  of  the 
weak  and  foolish  nobleman  in  every  position 
of  life.  Several  of  our  English  readers  may 
remember  them,  for  they  were  both  remark- 
able characters,  and  great  favorites  with  the 
public. 

Dandy  Dulcimer  and  Alley  followed  the 
example  of  their  master  and  mistress,  and 
were  amply  pro\'ided  for  by  their  friends, 
with  whom  they  lived  in  confidential  inti- 
macy for  the  greater  portion  of  their  Uves. 

Thomas  Corbet,  his  sister,  and  her  son, 
disappeared  ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  they 
went  to  America. 

M'Bride,  in  a  short  time  after  the  close  of 
our  narrative,  took  a  relish  for  foreign  travel, 
and  resolved  to  visit  a  certain  bay  of  botaid- 
cal  celebrity  not  far  from  the  antijaodes.  That 
he  might  accomplisli  this  j)oint  with  as  httle 
difficulty  as  possible,  he  asked  a  gentleman 
one  evening  for  the  loan  of  his  watch  and 
purse  ;  a  circumstance  which  so  much 
tickled  the  fancy  of  a  certain  facetious  judge 
of  witty  memoiy,  that,  on  hearing  a  full 
account  of  the  transaction,  he  so  far  and 
successfully  interfered  with  the  government 
as  to  get  his  expenses  during  the  journey 
defrayed  by  his  Majesty  himself.  His  last 
place  of  residence  in  this  country  was  a  very 


magnificent  one  near  Kilmaiuham,  where  he 
led  a  private  and  secluded  life,  occasionally 
devoting  himself  to  the  progress  of  machinery 
in  his  hours  of  recreation,  but  uniformly 
declining  to  take  country  exercise. 

Poor  Trailcudgel  was  restored  to  his  farm  : 
and  Lucy's  brother  lived  with  her  for  many 
j'ears,  won  back  by  her  affection  and  kind- 
ness to  the  perfect  use  of  his  reason  ;  and  it 
was  well  known  that  her  children,  boys  and 
girls,  were  all  very  fond  of  Uncle  Thomas. 

Old  Corbet  took  to  devotion,  became  verj" 
rehgious,  and  lost  in  temper,  which  was 
never  good,  as  much  as  he  seemed  to  gain 
by  penitence.  He  died  suddenly  from  a  fit 
of  paralysis,  brought  on  by  the  loss  of  a 
thirty  shilling  note,  which  was  stolen  fi'om 
his  till  by  Mrs.  M'Bride. 

On  the  occasion  of  Lucy's  marriage  with 
her  lover.  Father  M'Mahon,  who  was  invited 
to  a  double  wedding — both  Sii'  Edward  ajid 
Dunroe  being  married  on  the  same  day — 
rode  all  the  waj'  to  Dublin  upon  Freney  the 
Robber,  in  order  that  his  fi-iend  might  see 
the  new  saddle  upon  Freney,  and  the  priest 
himself  ujDon  the  new  saddle.  Mr.  Birney 
was  also  of  the  j)arty,  and  never  was  his 
round  rosy  face  and  comic  roUing  eye  more 
replete  with  humor  and  enjoyment ;  and  as 
a  reward  for  his  integrity,  as  well  as  for  the 
abiUty  with  which  he  assisted  the  stranger, 
we  may  as  well  mention  that  he  was  made 
Law  Agent  to  Jjoth  properties — a  recompense 
which  he  well  deserved.  We  need  scarcely 
say  that  old  Sam  and  Beck  were  also  there ; 
that  their  healths  were  drunk,  and  that  old 
Sam  told  them  how  there  was  nothing  more 
plain  than  that  there  never  was  such  a  wife 
in  existence  as  his  Beck,  and  that  Providence 
all  through  intended  Ned  to  be  restored  to  his 
own — he,  old  Sam,  always  acting  in  this 
instance  as  Adjutant  under  Pro\ddence.  It 
was  clear,  he  said — quite  evident — every- 
thing the  work  of  Providence  on  the  one 
hand,  and  on  the  other,  "  all  the  heart  of 
man  I " 


The  Evil  Eye; 

OE,    THE    BLACK    SPECTRE. 


PREFACE. 

There  is  very  little  to  be  said  about  tbis 
book  in  the  shape  of  a  preface.  The  super- 
stition of  the  Evil  Eye  is,  and  has  been,  one 
of  the  most  general  that  ever  existed  among 
men.  It  may  puzzle  jjhilosophers  to  ask 
whj-  it  prevails  wherever  mankind  exists. 
There  is  not  a  country  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  where  a  behef  in  the  influence  of  the 
Evil  Eye  does  not  prevail.  In  my  own  young 
days  it  was  a  settled  dogma  of  belief.  I 
have  reason  to  know,  however,  that,  like 
other  superstitions,  it  is  fast  fading  out  of 
the  public  mind.  Education  and  knowledge 
will  soon  banish  those  idle  and  senseless 
superstitions  :  indeed,  it  is  a  veiy  difficult 
thing  to  accoimt  for  their  existence  at  all.  I 
tliink  some  of  them  have  come  down  to  us 
from  tlie  times  of  the  Druids, — a  class  of  men 
whom,  excepting  what  is  called  their  human 
sacrifices,  I  resiiect.  My  own  opinion  is, 
that  what  we  term  human  sacnjices  was 
nothuig  but  their  habitual  mode  of  executing 
ci'imiuals.  Tolaud  has  written  on  the  sub- 
ject and  left  us  very  httle  the  wiser.  'S^^lo 
could,  after  all,  give  us  information  upon  a 
subject  which  to  us  is  only  like  a  dream  ? 

What  first  suggested  the  story  of  the  Evil 
Eye  to  me  was  this  :  A  man  named  Case, 
who  hves  within  a  distance  of  about  three  or 
four  hundred  yards  of  my  residence,  keejjs  a 
large  daily  ;  he  is  the  jDossessor  of  five  or 
six  and  twenty  of  the  finest  cows  I  ever  saw, 
and  he  told  me  that  a  man  w'ho  was  an 
enemy  of  his  kOled  three  of  them  by  his 
overlooking  them, — that  is  to  say,  by  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Evil  Eye. 

The  opinion  in  Ii-eland  of  the  Evil  Eye  is 
this  :  that  a  man  or  woman  possessing  it  may 
hold  it  harmless,  unless  there  is  some  selfish 
design  or  some  spiint  of  vengeance  to  call  it 
into  operation.  1  was  aware  of  this,  and  I 
accordingly  constructed  my  stor\'  upon  that 
principle.  I  have  nothing  further  to  add : 
the  story  itself  will  detail  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  L 

Short  and  Preliminary. 

In  a  certain  part  of  Ireland,  inside  the 
borders  of  the  county  of  Waterford,  lived 
two  respectable  families,  named  Lindsay  and 
Groodwm,  the  fonner  being  of  Scotch  descent. 
Then-  respective  residences  were  not  more 
than  three  miles  distant ;  and  the  intimacy 
that  subsisted  between  them  was  founded, 
for  many  years,  ujaon  mutual  good-will  and 
esteem,  with  two  excej)tions  only  in  one  of 
the  families,  which  the  reader  wiU  under- 
stand in  the  course  of  our  narrative.  Each 
ranked  in  the  class  kno^Ti  as  that  of  the 
middle  gentry.  These  two  neighbors — one 
of  whom,  Mr.  Lindsay,  was  a  magistrate — 
were  contented  with  their  lot  in  life,  which 
was  sufficiently  respectable  and  independent 
to  secure  to  them  that  true  hapfiiness  wliicli 
is  most  fi-equently  annexed  to  the  middle 
station.  Lindsay  was  a  man  of  a  kind  and 
hberal  heart,  easy  and  j^assive  in  his  nature, 
but  with  a  good  deal  of  sarcastic  humor,  yet 
neither  severe  nor  prejudiced,  and,  conse- 
quently, a  popular  magistrate  as  well  as  a 
popular  man.  Goodwin  might  be  said  to 
possess  a  similar  disposition  ;  but  he  was  of 
a  more  quiet  and  unobtrusive  character  than 
his  cheerfid  neighbor.  .  His  mood  of  mind 
was  placid  and  serene,  and  his  heai't  as  ten- 
der and  affectionate  as  ever  beat  in  a  human 
bosom.  His  jDrincipa'  enjoyment  lay  in 
domestic  hfe — in  the  society,  in  fact,  of  his 
wife  and  one  beautiful  daughter,  his  only 
child,  a  girl  of  nineteen  when  our  tale  oijens. 
Lindsay's  family  consisted  of  one  son  and 
two  daughters  ;  but  his  -ndfe,  who  was  a 
widow  when  he  maiTied  her.  had  another 
son  by  her  first  husband,  who  had  Iseen 
abroad  almost  since  his  chddliood,  vdih.  a 
grand-imele,  whose  intention  was  to  provide 
for  him,  being  a  man  of  gi'eat  wealth  and  a 
bachelor. 

We  have  akeady  said  that  the  two  families 
were  upon  the  most  intimate  and  friendly 


(i]4 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


terms  ;  but  to  this  there  was  one  ,  exception 
in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Lindsay,  whose  natural 
disposition  was  impetuous,  implacable,  and 
overbeariiif^  ;  equally  destitute  of  domestic 
tenderness  and  good  temper.  She  was,  in 
f;ict,  a  woman  whom  not  even  her  own 
children,  gifted  as  they  were  with  the  best 
and  most  affectionate  dispositions,  could  love 
as  children  ought  to  love  a  j)arent.  Utterly 
devoid  of  charity,  she  was  never  known  to 
bestow  a  kmd  act  upon  the  poor  or  dis- 
tressed, or  a  kind  word  upon  the  absent. 
Vituperation  and  calumny  were  her  constant 
weapons  ;  and  one  would  imagine,  by  the 
frequency  and  bitterness  with  which  she 
wielded  them,  that  she  was  in  a  state  of 
pei-petual  warfai-e  with  society.  Such,  in- 
deed, was  the  case  ;  but  the  evils  which  re- 
sulted from  her  wanton  and  indefensible 
aggressions  upon  private  character  almost 
uniformly  recoiled  upon  her  own  head  ;  for, 
as  far  as  her  name  was  known,  she  was  not 
only  unpopuliU',  but  odious.  Her  husband 
was  a  man  naturally  fond  of  peace  and 
quietness  in  his  own  house  and  family  ;  and, 
rather  than  occasion  au'ything  in  the  shape  of 
domestic  disturbance,  he  continued  to  treat 
her  intemperate  authority  sometimes  with  in- 
ditferenee,  sometimes  with  some  sarcastic  ob- 
servation or  other,  and  occasionally  with  open 
and  undisguised  contempt.  In  some  instan- 
ces, however,  he  departed  from  this  ajiathetic 
line  of  conduct,  and  turned  upon  her  with 
a  degree  of  asperity  and  violence  that  was  as 
impetuous  as  it  was  decisive.  His  reproaches 
v/^ere  then  general,  broad,  fearful ;  but  these 
were  seldom  resorted  to  unless  when  her 
tamper  had  gone  beyond  all  reasonable 
limits  of  endurance,  or  in  defence  of  the 
absent  or  inofit'ensive.  It  mattered  not,  how- 
ever, what  the  reason  may  have  been,  they 
never  failed  to  gain  their  object  at  the  time  ; 
for  the  woman,  though  mischievous  and 
wicked,  ultimately  quailed,  yet  not  without 
resistance,  before  the  exasperated  resentment 
of  her  husband.  Thpse  occasional  victories, 
however,  which  he  gained  over  her  with  re- 
luctance, never  prevented  her  fi'om  treating 
him,  in  the  ordinary  business  of  life,  with  a 
systematic  exhibition  of  abuse  and  scorn. 
Much  of  this  lie  bore,  as  we  have  said  ;  but 
whenever  he  chose  to  retoi-t  upon  her  with 
her  OAvn  weapons  in  their  common  and  minor 
skirmishes,  she  found  his  sarcasm  too  cool 
ajid  lilting  for  a  temper  so  \iolent  as  hers, 
and  the  consequence  was,  that  nothing  en- 
raged her  more  than  to  see  him  amuse  him- 
self at  her  expense. 

This  woman  had  a  brother,  who  also  lived 
in  the  same  neighborhood,  and  who,  al- 
though so  closely  related  to  her  by  blood, 
^as,   nevertheless,  as  different  from  her  in 


both  character  and  temper  as  good  could  bo 
fi'om  evil.  He  was  wealthy  and  generous, 
free  from  everj^hing  hke  a  worldly  spirit, 
and  a  wai-m  but  luiostentatious  benefactor 
to  the  i^oor,  and  to  such  individuals  as  upon 
inquiry  he  found  to  be  entitled  to  his  benef- 
icence. His  wife  had,  some  j'ears  before, 
died  of  decline,  which,  it  seems,  was  hered- 
itary in  her  family.  He  felt  her  death  as  a 
calamity  which  depressed  his  heart  to  the 
uttermost  depths  of  affliction,  and  from 
which,  indeed,  he  never  recovered.  All  that 
remained  to  him  after  her  demise  was  a 
beautiful  little  girl,  around  whom  his  aflfec- 
tions  gathered  with  a  degree  of  tenderness 
that  was  rendered  almost  jiaLuful  by  the  ap- 
prehension of  her  loss.  Agnes,  from  her 
eighth  or  ninth  year,  began  to  manifest 
slight  symptoms  of  the  same  fatal  malady 
which  had  carried  away  her  mother.  These 
attacks  filled  his  heart  with  those  feai-ftd 
forebodings,  which,  whilst  they  threw  him 
into  a  state  of  teiTor  and  alarm,  at  the  same 
time  rendered  the  love  he  bore  her  such  as 
may  be  imagined,  but  cannot  be  expressed. 
It  is  only  when  we  feel  the  jjrobabiUty  of 
losing  a  beloved  object  that  the  heart  awakens 
to  a  more  exquisite  percejstion  of  its  affec- 
tions for  it,  and  wonders,  when  the  isaiuful 
symptoms  of  disease  ajipear,  why  it  was 
heretofore  unconscious  of  the  full  extent  of 
its  love.  Such  was  the  nature  of  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton's feelings  for  his  daughter,  whenever 
the  short  cough  or  hectic  cheek  hapjiened 
to  make  their  apjiearance  from  time  to  time, 
and  foreshadow,  as  it  were,  the  certainty  of 
an  early  death  ;  and  then  he  should  be  child- 
less— a  lonely  man  in  the  world,  j)0ssess- 
ing  a  heart  overflowing  -with  affection,  and 
yet  without  an  object  on  which  lie  could 
lavish  it,  as  now,  mth  hapi:)iiiess  and  delight. 
He  looked,  therefore,  ujjon  dechne  as  upon  an 
ap23roaching  foe,  and  the  father's  heart  lie- 
came  sentinel  for  the  welfare  of  his  child, 
and  watched  every  symijtom  of  the  dreaded 
disease  that  threatened  her,  with  a  vigilance 
that  never  slept.  Under  such  circumstances 
we  need  not  again  assure  our  readers  that 
his  parental  tenderness  for  this  beautiful 
girl — now  his  "  only  one,"  as  he  used  to  call 
her — was  such  as  is  rare  even  in  the  most 
affectionate  families  ;  but  in  this  case  the 
sKght  and  doubtful  tenvu'e  which  liis  apj^re- 
hensions  told  him  he  had  of  her  existence 
raised  his  love  of  her  almost  to  idolatry. 
StiU  she  improved  in  person,  gi-aee,  and  in- 
tellect ;  and  although  an  occasional  shadow, 
as  transient  as  that  which  passes  over  and 
makes  dim  the  floweiy  fields  of  May  or 
Aj^ril,  darkened  her  father's  heart  for  a 
time,  yet  it  passed  away,  and  she  danced  on 
in  the  light  of  youthful  huapiainess,  without  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


615 


single  trace  of  anxiety  or  care.  Her  father's 
affection  for  her  was  not,  however,  confined 
to  herself ;  on  the  contrary,  it  j^assed  to  and 
enihraced  every  object  that  was  dear  to  her 
— her  favorite  books,  her  favorite  jilaythings, 
and  her  favorite  companions.  Among  tlie 
latter,  without  a  single  rival,  stood  her  young 
friend,  Alice  Goodwin,  who  was  then  about 
her  own  age.  Never  was  the  love  of  sisters 
greater  or  more  beautiful  than  that  which 
knit  the  innocent  hearts  of  tliose  two  gii-ls 
together.  Their  affections,  in  short,  were 
so  dependent  upon  each  other  that  sej):u'a- 
tion  and  absence  became  a  source  of  anxiety 
and  uneasiness  to  each.  Neither  of  them 
had  a  sister,  and  in  the  fervor  of  their  at- 
tachment, they  entered  into  a  solemn  en- 
gagement that  each  of  them  should  consider 
herself  the  sister  of  the  otlier.  This  inno- 
cent exj)eriment  of  tlie  heart — for  such  we 
must  consider  it  in  these  two  sisterless  girls 
— was  at  least  rewarded  by  comjilete  suc- 
cess. A  new  affinity  was  superadded  to 
friendship,  and  the  force  of  imagination 
completeil  what  the  heart  begun. 

Next  to  Agnes  was  Alice  Goodwin  awarded 
a  place  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  heart.  'Tis  true 
he  had  nieces  ;  but  in  consequence  of  the 
bitter  and  exasperatmg  temper  of  their 
uother,  who  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
u  incendiary  among  her  relations,  he  had 
.ot  spoken  to  her  for  years  ;  and  this  fact 
ccasioned  a  compai'dtive  estrangement  be- 
ween  the  families.  Sometimes,  however, 
er  nieces  and  she  visited,  and  were  always 
upon  good  terms  ;  but  Agnes's  heart  had 
been  preoccupied  ;  and  even  if  it  had  not, 
the  heartless  predictions  of  her  aunt,  wlio 
entertained  her  with  the  cheering  and  con- 
soling information  that  "  she  had  death  in 
her  face,"  and  tliat  "  she  knew  fi-om  the  high 
color  of  her  cheek  that  she  would  soon  fol- 
low her  mothei%"  would  have  naturally  es- 
tranged the  families.  Now,  of  this  appre- 
hension, above  aU  others,  it  was  the  father's 
wish  that  Agnes  should  remain  ignorant ; 
and  when  she  repeated  to  him,  with  teai-s  in 
her  eyes,  the  merciless  purport  of  her  aunt's 
observations,  he  rephed,  with  a  degi-ee  of 
calm  resentment  which  was  unusual  to 
him, 

"  Agnes,  my  love,  let  not  anything  your 
aunt  may  say  alarm  you  in  the  least ;  she  is 
no  prophetess,  my  dear  child.  Your  life,  as 
is  that  of  aU  Ms  creatui-es,  is  in  the  hands  of 
God  who  gave  it.  I  know  her  avaricious 
and  acrimonious  disposition — her  love  of 
wealth,  and  her  anxiety  to  aggrandize  her 
family.  As  it  is,  she  vtdU  live  to  regret  the 
day  she  ever  uttered  those  cruel  words  to 
you,  my  child.  You  shall  visit  at  your 
uucle'a  no  more.     Whenever  the  other  mem- 


I  bers  of  her  family  may  please  to  come  here, 
1  we  shall  receive  them  with  kindness  and  af^ 
fection  ;  but  I  will  not  suft'er  you  to  run  the 
risk  of  listening  to  such  unfeehng  prognos- 
tications in  future." 

In  the  meantime  her  health  continued  in  a 
j  state  sufficiently  satisfactory  to  her  father. 
It  is  true  an  occasional  alarm  was  felt  from 
time  to  time,  as  a  slight  cold,  accompanied 
with  its  hard  and  unusual  cough,  happened 
to  supervene  ;  but  in  general  it  soon  disap- 
peared, and  in  a  brief  space  she  became  per- 
fectly recovered,  and  free  fi'om  every  sj'mp- 
tom  of  the  di-eadful  malady. 

Li  this  way  the  tenor  of  her  i^ure  and  in- 
nocent Ufe  went  on,  until  she  reached  her 
sixteenth  year.  Never  did  a  happier  young 
creature  enjo}'  existence — never  lived  a  being 
more  wortlij-  of  hajjpiness.  Her  inseparable 
and  bosoin  friend  was  Alice  Goodwin,  now 
her  sister  according  to  their  artless  compact 
of  love.  They  spent  weeks  and  mouths  al- 
ternately with  each  other  ;  but  her  father 
never  jDermitted  a  day  to  pass  '^^ithout  seeing 
her,  and  every  visit  filled  his  hapjjy  spirit 
with  more  hopeful  auticiiiations. 

At  this  period  it  occurred  to  him  to  have 
their  portraits  drawn,  and  on  hearing  him 
mention  this  intention,  then-  young  heai'ts 
were  ecstatic  with  dehght. 

"But,  pajm,"  said  Agnes,  "if  you  do  I 
have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"  Granted,  Agnes,  if  it  be  possible." 

"  O,  quite  possible,  jjapa ;  it  is  to  get 
both  our  portraits  painted  in  the  same 
frame,  for,  do  you  know,  I  don't  think  I 
cduld  feel  happy  if  Alice's  portrait  was  sep- 
arated from  mine." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  darling — it  shall  be 
done." 

And  it  »-'as  done,  accordingly  ;  for  what 
father  could  refuse  a  request  founded  uj^- 
on  an  affection  so  tender  and  beautiful  as 
theirs  ? 

Agnes  has  now  entered  her  seventeenth 
year — but  how  is  this?  Wliy  does  her 
cheek  begin  to  get  alternately  pale  and  red  ? 
And  why  does  the  horizon  of  the  father's 
heart  begin  to  darken  ?  Alas  !  it  is  so — the 
spoHer  is  ujiou  her  at  last.  Appetite  is  gone 
— her  si^irits  are  gone,  unless  in  these  occa- 
sional ebullitions  of  vivacity  which  resemble, 
the  lightnings  which  flash  fi-om  the  cloud 
that  is  gathering  over  her.  It  would  be 
painful  to  dwell  mintitely  upon  the  history 
of  her  illness — upon  her  angelic  imtience  and 
submission  to  the  will  of  God,  and  upon  the 
affection,  now  consecrated  by  approaching 
death  into  something  sacred,  which  she  ex-, 
hibited  to  her  father  and  Alice.  The  latter 
was  never  from  her  during  the  progress  of 
that  mournful  decline.     The  poor  dying  givj 


616 


WILLIAM  C^iRLETON'S    WORKS. 


found  all  the  tenderest  offices  of  love  and 
frieuds'uii)  anticipated.  Except  heaven  she 
had  scarcely  anything  to  wish  for.  But  who 
can  even  iniaguie  the  hopeless  agony  of  her 
father's  soul  V  She  had  been  the  single  re- 
maining plank  which  bore  hini  through  a 
troubled  ocean  to  a  calm  and  delightful  har- 
bor ;  but  now  she  is  going  down,  leaving 
him  to  struggle,  weak  and  exhausted  for  a 
little,  and  then  the  same  dark  waves  will 
cover  them  both. 

At  length  the  dreadful  hour  arrived — the 
last  sHght  spasm  of  death  was  over,  and  her 
spotless  soul  passed  into  heaven  fi-om  the 
bereaved  arms  of  her  hopeless  and  distracted 
father,  who  was  reduced  by  the  depth  and 
wildness  of  despair  to  a  state  of  agony  which 
might  wring  comjsassion  from  a  demon. 

On  the  morning  of  her  interment,  Alice, 
completely  prostrated  by  excess  of  grief  and 
watching,  was  assisted  to  bed,  being  unable 
to  accomplish  even  the  short  distance  to  her 
father's  house,  and  for  nearly  a  fortnight 
serious  doubts  were  entertained  of  her 
recovery.  Her  constitution,  however,  though 
not  naturally  strong,  enabled  her  to  rally, 
and  in  three  weeks'  time  she  was  barely 
able  to  go  home  to  her  family.  On  the  day 
following  Mr.  Hamilton  called  to  see  her — a 
task  to  which,  under  the  dreadful  weight  of 
his  sorrow,  he  was  scarcely  equal.  He  said 
he  considered  it,  however,  his  duty,  and  he 
accordingly  went.  His  visit,  too,  was  very 
short,  nor  had  he  miich  to  say,  and  it  was 
well  he  had  not ;  for  he  could  by  no  exertion 
have  summoned  sufficient  fortitude  for  a 
lengthened  conversation  on  a  subject  arising 
fi'om  the  loss  of  a  child  so  deeply  beloved. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  "I  know  the  arrange- 
ment entered  mto  between  you — and — 
and " 

Here  he  was  overcome,  and  could  not  for 
a  few  minutes  maintain  sufficient  oalmuess  to 
proceed,  and  poor  Alice  was  almost  as  deeply 
aflected  as  liimself.  At  last  he  strove  to 
go  on. 

"  You  know,"  he  resumed,  "  the  agree- 
ment I  allude  to.  You  were  to  be  sisters, 
and  you  were,  sisters.  Well,  my  dear  Alice, 
for  /)('/•  sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own,  and  as 
»he  looked  upon  you  in  that  affectionate 
light,  the  contract  between  you,  as  far  as  it 
now  can  be  done,  shall  be  maintained.  Hence- 
forth you  ai-e  my  daughter.  I  adojit  you. 
All  that  she  was  to  have  shall  be  yours, 
reverting,  however,  should  you  die  without 
issue,  to  my  nephew,  Henry  Woodward  ;  and 
should  he  die  childless,  to  his  brother,  Charles 
Lindsay  ;  and  should  he  die  without  off- 
spring, then  to  my  niece  Maria.  I  have 
arranged  it  so,  and  have  to  say  that,  except 
tlie  hope  of  meeting  mr  child  in  death,  it  is 


now  the  only  consolation  left  me.  I  am,  1 
know,  fulliUing  her  wishes  ;  and,  my  dear 
Alice,  you  will  reheve  my  heart — my  broken 
heart—by  accepting  it." 

■'  O,  would  to  God,"  rephed  Alice,  sobbing 
bitterly,  "  that  I  coidd  give  a  thousand  times 
as  much  to  have  our  beloved  Agnes  back 
again  !  I  have  now  no  sister  !  Alas  !  alas  1 
I  have  now  no  sister  !  " 

"Ah,  my  child,"  he  replied,  "for  now  1 
will  call  you  so,  your  grief,  though  deep  raid 
poignant,  wiU  pass  away  in  time,  but  mine 
will  abide  with  me  whilst  I  stay  here.  That 
jieriod,  however,  will  not  be  long  ;  the  prop 
of  my  existence,  the  source  of  my  hapjiiness, 
is  gone  ;  and  I  will  never  know  what  happi- 
ness is  until  I  rejoin  her  and  her  blessed 
mother.  Good-by,  my  daughter ;  I  wil! 
have  neither  reply  nor  remonstrance,  nor 
will  I  be  moved  by  any  argument  fi-om  this 
my  resolution." 

He  then  passed  out  of  the  house,  entered 
his  carriage  with  some  difficulty,  and  pro- 
ceeded home  with  a  heart  considerably 
relieved  by  what  he  had  done. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Alice  and  her  father 
did  subseqvieutly  remonstrate  with  him  upon 
the  subject.  He  refused  to  hsten  to  them, 
and  said  his  determination  was  immovable. 

"  But,"  he  added,  "  if  it  be  any  satisfaction 
to  you  to  know  it,  I  have  not  forgotten  my 
relations,  to  whom  I  have  left  the  legacies 
originally  intended  for  them.  I  would  have 
left  it  directly  to  Henry  Woodward,  were  it 
not  that  his  grasping  mother  sent  him  to 
another  relition,  fi'om  ^\"hom  she  calcidated 
that  he  might  have  larger  expectations  ;  and 
I  hope  he  may  realize  them.  At  all  events, 
my  relatives  will  find  themselves  in  exactly 
the  same  position  as  if  our  beloved  Agnes 
had  Hved.'' 

Mr.  Hamilton,  then  advanced  in  j'ears — for 
Agues  might  be  termed  the  cliild  of  his  old 
age — did  not  smwive  her  death  twelve 
months.  That  afflictmg  event  fairly  broke 
him  down.  Death,  however,  to  him  had  no 
terrors,  because  he  had  nothing  to  detam 
him  here.  On  the  contrary,  he  looked  to  it 
only  as  a  release  from  sorrow  ;  an  event  that 
wovild  soon  wipe  away  all  tears  from  his 
eyes,  di-aw  the  sting  of  affliction  fi'om  his 
heart,  and  restore  him  once  more  to  his  be- 
loved Agnes  and  her  deai-  mother.  He 
looked  foi-ward  oidy  to  close  his  eyes  against 
the  world  and  sleep  vsith  them — and  so  lie 
did. 

Wien  his  vdM  was  ojiened,  the  astonish- 
ment and  dismay  of  his  relations  may  be 
easUy  imagined,  as  well  as  the  bitterness  of 
theii"  disappointment.  The  bequeathal  ol 
the  bulk  of  liis  jji-operty  to  a  stranger,  who 
coidd  urge  no  claim  of  consanguinity  upon 


i 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


611 


liim,  absolutely  astonished  them  ;  and  their 
resentment  at  his  caprice — or  rather  what 
they  termed  his  dotage — was  not  only  deej), 
liut  loud.  To  sav  the  truth,  such  an  unex- 
pected demise  of  propei-ty  was  strongly  cal- 
culated to  try  their  temper.  After  the  death 
of  Agnes — an  event  which  filled  the  unfeel- 
ing and  worldly  heart  of  her  aunt  with  delight 
— they  made  many  a  domestic  calculation,  and 
held  many  a  family  council  as  to  the  mode 
in  which  their  uncle's  projserty  might  be 
distributed  among  them,  and  many  anticipa^ 
tions  were  the  result,  because  there  was  none 
in  the  usual  descent  of  jsroperty  to  inherit  it 
but  themselves.  Now,  in  all  this,  they  acted 
very  naturally — just,  perhaps,  as  you  or  I, 
gentle  reader,  would  act  if  placed  in  similar 
cii'cumstances,  and  sustained  by  the  same 
expectations. 

In  the  meantime  matters  were  not  likely 
to  rest  in  quiet.  Murmurs  went  abroad, 
hints  were  given,  and  broader  assertions  ad- 
vanced, that  the  old  man  had  not  been  capa- 
ble of  making  a  will,  and  that  his  mind  had 
been  so  completely  disordered  and  prostra- 
ted by  excessive  grief  for  the  loss  of  his 
daugliter,  that  he  became  the  dupe  and  vic- 
tim of  undue  influence  in  the  person  of  a 
selfish  and  artful  girl — that  artful  girl  being 
no  other  than  Ahce  Goodwin,  aided  and 
abetted  by  her  family.  Every  circumstance, 
no  matter  how  tri\'ial,  that  could  be  raked 
up  and  collected,  was  now  brought  together, 
and  stamped  with  a  character  of  significance, 
in  order  to  establish  hisi  dotage  and  their 
fraud.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  ujion 
this.  In  due  time  the  matter  came  to  a 
trial,  for  the  will  had  been  disputed,  and, 
after  a  patient  hearing,  its  validity  was  eom- 
jjletely  established,  and  all  the  hopes  and 
expectations  of  the  Lindsays  blovro  into  air. 

In  the  meantime,  and  while  the  suit  was 
pending,  the  conduct  of  Alice  was  both  gen- 
erous and  disinterested.  She  pressed  her 
parents  to  allow  her,  under  the  jjeculiar  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case,  to  renounce  the  be- 
quest, inasmuch  as  she  thought  that  IMi'. 
Hamilton's  relatives  had  a  stronger  and  prior 
claim.  This,  however,  they  peremptorily 
refused  to  do. 

"  I  care  not  for  money,"  said  her  father, 
"  nor  have  I  much  to  spare  ;  but  you  must 
consider,  my  dear  Alice,  that  tke  act  upon 
the  part  of  ili\  Hamilton  was  a  spontaneous 
demise  of  his  o\\'n  j)roperty,  as  a  reward  to 
you  on  behalf  of  his  daughter,  for  the  affec- 
tion which  you  bore  her,  and  which  sub- 
sisted between  you.  You  were  her  nurse, 
lier  fi'iend,  her  sister  ;  ;s  ou  tended  her  night 
and  daj'  during  her  long  illness,  even  to  the 
injury  of  your  health,  and  almost  at  the  risk 
of  yoiu-  very  Ufc.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that 


I  Sir.  Hamilton  had  had  male  heii-s  ;  in  that 
case,  the  Lindsays  would  have  been  just  as 
I  they  are,  jierhaps  not  so  well ;  for  he  might 
not  have  left  them  even  a  legacy.  Then,  they 
'"unjustly  tax  us  with  fraud,  circumvention, 
[  and  the  practice  of  undue  influence  ;  and,  in- 
deed, have  endeavored  to  stamp  an  indehble 
stain  upon  your  character  and  honor.    Every 
I  man,  my  dear,  as  the  proverb  has  it,  is  at 
j  Kberty  to  do  what  he  pleases  with  his  own, 
I  according  to  his  fi-ee  will,  and  a  reasonable 
I  disposition.     Let  me  hear  no  more  of  this, 
then,  but  enjoy  with  gi-atitude  tliat  which 
God  and  j-our  kind  fiieud  have  bestowed  up- 
on you." 

We  need  not  assure  our  readers  that  the 
Lindsays  henceforth  were  influenced  by  an 
unfriendly  feehng  toward  the  Goodwins,  and 
that  all  intereoui-se  between  the  families  ter- 
minated. On  the  part:  of  Sirs.  Lindsay,  this 
degenerated  into  a  spiiit  of  tlie  most  intense 
hatred  and  mahgnity.  To  this  enmity,  how- 
ever, there  were  exceptions  in  the  family, 
and  strong  ones,  too,  as  the  reader  will  per- 
ceive in  the  cotu'se  of  the  story. 

Old  Lindsay  himself,  although  he  men- 
tioned the  Goodwins  with  moderation,  could 
not  help  feeUng  strongly  and  bitterly  the  loss 
of  property  which  his  children  had  sustained, 
ovring  to  this  unexpected  disposition  of  it  by 
their  uncle.  Here,  then,  were  two  families 
who  had  lived  in  mutual  good-will  and  in- 
timacy, now  placed  fi-onting  each  other  in  a 
sfitrit  of  hostihty.  The  Goodwins  felt  indig- 
nant that  their  motives  shoidd  be  misinter- 
preted by  what  they  consiilered  deUberate 
falsehood  and  misrepresentation  ;  and  the 
Lindsays  could  not  look  in  silence  u25on  the 
proi^erty  which  they  thought  ought  to  be 
theirs,  transfeiTed  to  the  j^ossession  of  stran- 
gers, who  had  wheedled  a  dotard  to  make  a 
will  in  theu'  favor.  Such,  however,  in  thou- 
sands of  instances,  are  the  consequences  oi 
the 

"  Opes  irritamenta  malorum. " 

The  above  facts,  in  connection  with  these 
two  families,  and  the  future  incidents  of  our 
narrative,  we  have  deemed  it  necessary,  for 
the  better  understanding  of  what  follows,  to 
place  in  a  preliminary  sketch  before  our 
readers. 


CHAPTER  n. 

A' Murderer' s   Wake  and  the  Arrival  of  a  Stran- 
ger. 

It  is  the  month  of  June,  and  the  sun  has 
gone  down  amidst  a  mass  of  those  red  and 
angry  clouds  which  jn'ognosticate  a  night  oi 
storm  and  tempest.     The  air  is  felt  to  be 


SIS 


WILLIAM   CARLETON-S   WORKS. 


oppressive  and  sultry,  and  the  -whole  sky  is 
overshadowed  with  gloom.  On  such  a  uight 
the  spirit  sinks,  cheerfulness  abandons  the 
heart,  and  an  indefinable  anxiety  depresses 
it.  This  impression  is  not  peculiar  to  man,' 
who,  on  such  occasions,  is  only  subject  to  the 
same  instinctive  ajapreheusion  which  is 
kno\vn  to  influence  the  irrational  animals. 
The  clouds  are  gathering  in  black  masses  ; 
but  there  is,  nevertheless,  no  opening  be- 
tween them  through  which  the  sky  is  visible. 
The  gloom  is  imbroken,  and  so  is  the  silence  ; 
and  a  jJerson  might  imagine  that  the  great 
operations  of  Nature  had  been  suspended 
and  stood  still.  The  outlying  cattle  betake 
them  to  shelter,  and  the  very  dogs,  with  a 
subdued  imd  timid  bark,  seek  the  hearth, 
and,  with  ears  and  tail  hanging  in  terror,  lay 
themselves  do\vn  ui^on  it  as  if  to  ask  protec- 
tion from  man.  On  such  a  niglit  as  this  we 
will  request  tlie  reader  to  foUow  us  toward  a 
district  that  trenches  u23on  the  foot  of  a  dark 
mountain,  from  whose  precipitous  sides 
masses  of  gTay  rock,  apparently  embedded  in 
heath  and  fern,  protrude  themselves  in  un- 
couth and  gigantic  shapes.  'Tis  tiiie  they 
were  not  then  visible  ;  but  we  wish  the 
reader  to  understand  the  character  of  the 
whole  scenery  through  which  we  pass.  We 
diverge  from  the  highway  into  a  mountain 
road,  which  resembles  the  body  of  a  serpent 
when  in  motion,  going  literally  up  one  ele- 
vation, and  doviTi  another.  To  the  right, 
deep  glens,  gullies,  and  ravines  ;  but  the  dark- 
ness with  which  they  are  now  filled  is  thick 
and  impervious  to  the  eye,  and  nothing 
breaks  the  silence  about  us  but  the  rush  of 
the  mountain  torrent  over  some  jutting 
f)recipice  below  us.  To  the  left  aU  is  gloom, 
as  it  would  be  even  were  there  light  to  guide 
the  sight,  because  on  that  side  spreads  a 
black,  interminable  moor.  As  it  is  we  can 
see  nothing  ;  yet  as  we  get  along  we  find 
that  we  are  not  alone.  Voices  reach  our 
ears ;  but  they  are  not,  as  usual,  the  voices 
of  mirth  and  laughter.  These  which  we  hear 
— and  they  are  not  far  from  us — are  grave 
and  serious  ;  the  utterance  thick  and  low,  as 
if  those  from  whom  they  jiroceed  were  ex- 
pressing a  sense  of  sympathy  or  horror.  We 
have  now  advanced  up  this  rugged  path 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  highway  we  have 
mentioned,  and  discovered  a  light  wliich  \\ill 
guide  us  to  our  destination.  As  we  apinoacli 
the  house  the  jseople  are  increasing  in  jjoint 
of  numbers  ;  but  stiU  their  conversation  is 
marked  by  the  same  strange  and  peculiar 
character.  Pei'haps  the  solemn  depth  of 
their  voices  gains  something  by  tlie  ominous 
aspect  of  the  sky  ;  but,  be  this  as  it  may, 
the  feeling  wliich  it  occasions  fills  one  mth 
a  clitTerent  and  distinct  sense  of  discomfort. 


We  ourselves  feel  it,  and  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing ;  for,  along  this  wild  and  rugged  path 
of  darkness,  we  are  conducting  the  reader  to 
the  wake  of  a  murderer.  We  have  now  ar- 
rived within  tiity  yards  of  the  house,  wliich, 
however,  we  cannot  see,  for  nothing  but  a 
solitary  light  is  visible.  But,  lo  !  a  flash  of 
lightning !  and  there  for  a  moment  is  the 
whole  nigged  and  savage  scenery  revealed. 
The  huge,  j)oiuted  mountains,  the  dreary 
wastes,  the  wikl,  stiU  glens,  the  naked  hills 
of  granite,  and  the  tremendous  piles  of 
rocks,  ready,  one  would  think,  to  crash  down 
fi'om  the  positions  where  they  seem  to  hang, 
if  only  assailed  by  a  strong  gale  of  wind — 
these  objects,  we  say,  were  fearful  and  starts 
ling  in  themselves  ;  but  the  sensations  which 
they  25roduced  were  nothing  in  comp)ai-ison 
with  the  sight  of  an  uniJaiuted  deal  coHin 
which  stood  near  the  door,  against  the  sida 
waU  of  the  house.  The  ajipearauce  of  a 
cofSn,  but  esjjeciaUy  at  night,  is  one  that 
casts  a  deep  shadow  over  the  sj^irit-s,  because 
it  is  associated  with  death,  of  which  it  is  the 
melancholy  and  depressing  exponent ;  but 
to  look  upon  it  by  such  an  awful  though 
transient  light  as  that  which  2)roeeeds  fi'om 
the  angry  fires  of  heaven,  and  to  reflect  uj^on 
the  terrible  associations  of  blood  and  crime 
wliich  mingle  themselves  with  that  of  a 
murderer,  is  a  dreadful  but  wholesome 
homily  to  the  heai't.  We  now  enter  the 
house  of  death,  where  the  reader  must  sup- 
pose liimself  to  be  present,  and  shall  go  on 
to  describe  the  scene  which  presents  itself. 

On  entering,  we  found  the  house  nearly 
crowded  ;  but  we  could  observe  that  there 
were  very  few  of  the  young  and  light-hearted 
present,  and  scarceh'  any  females,  unless 
those  who  were  related  to  the  family  of  the 
deceased,  or  to  himself.  The  house  was  low 
and  long,  and  the  kitchen  in  which  they  had 
laid  him  out  was  spacious,  but  badly  fur- 
nished. Altogether  its  destitution  was  cal- 
culated to  deejien  the  sense  of  awe  which 
impressed  those  who  had  come  to  spend  the 
night  with  the  miserable  widow  and  wailiug 
orj)hans  of  the  murderer. 

The  unfortunate  man  had  been  executed 
that  morning  after  having  acknowledged  his 
crime,  and,  as  the  laws  of  that  i^eriod  with 
respect   to  the  interment  of  the  convicted 
dead  were  nt)t  so  strict  as  they  are  at  pro- 
sent,  the  body  was  restored  to  his  friends,  in 
order   that  they  might  bury  it  when  and 
where  they  wished.     The  crime  of  the  un- 
happy man  was  deep,  and  so  was  that  which 
occasioned  it.      His  daughter,  a  young  and 
!  beautiful  girl,  had  been  seduced  by  a  gentle- 
[  man  in  the  neighborhood  who  was  unmar- 
;  ried  ;  and  that  act  of  guUt  and  weakness  on 
her  pai-t  was  the  tii'st  act  that  ever  brought 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


61S 


shame  upon  the  family.  All  the  terrible 
passions  of  the  father's  heart  leaped  into 
action  at  the  ruin  of  his  child,  and  the  dis- 
grace which  it  entailed  upon  his  name.  The 
fury  of  domestic  afl'ection  stimulated  his 
heart,  and  bhized  in  his  ferain  even  to  mad- 
ness. His  dauEfhter  v,-as  obUged  to  tiy  with 
her  infant  and  conceal  herself  from  his 
vengeance,  though  the  unhaijpy  girl,  until 
the  occurrence  of  that  woful  calamity,  had 
been  the  solace  and  tlie  sunshine  of  his  Ufe. 
The  guilty  seducer,  however,  was  not  doomed 
to  escape  the  penalty  of  his  crime.  Morrissey 
— for  that  was  the  poor  mans  uame — eared 
not  for  law  ;  whether  it  was  to  recompense 
him  for  the  degradation  of  his  daughter,  or 
to  punish  him  for  inflicting  the  vengeance  of 
outraged  nature  upon  the  author  of  her  ruin. 
What  compensation  could  satisfy  his  heart 
for  the  infamy  entailed  upon  her  and  him  ? 
what  paltry  damages  from  a  jury  could 
efface  her  shame  or  restore  her  innocence  ? 
Then,  the  man  was  j^oor,  and  to  the  poor, 
under  such  cii'cumstances,  there  exists  no 
law,  and,  consequently,  no  redress.  He 
strove  to  picture  to  himself  his  beautiful  and 
innocent  child  ;  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
bring  the  image  of  her  eM'ly  and  guiltless 
life  near  him.  The  injury  was  m-ejaarable, 
and  could  only  be"  atoned  for  by  the  blood  of 
the  destroyer.  He  could  have  seen  her  borne 
shameless  and  unpolluted  to  the  grave,  with 
the  deep,  but  natural,  sorrow  of  a  father  ;  he 
could  have  lived  with  her  in  destitution  and 
misery ;  he  could  have  begged  with  her 
through  a  hard  and  harsh  world  ;  he  could 
have  seen  her  pine  in  want ;  moan  upon  the 
bed  of  sickness  ;  nay,  more,  he  could  have 
seen  her  spirit  pass,  as  it  were,  to  the  God 
who  gave  it,  so  long  as  that  spirit  was  guilt- 
less, and  her  humble  name  \vithout  sjiot  or 
stain  ;  yes,  he  could  have  witnessed  and 
borne  all  this,  and  the  blessed  memory  of  her 
virtiies  would  have  consoled  him  in  his 
bereavement  and  his  sorrow.  But  to  reflect 
that  she  was  tramplecj  down  into  guilt  and 
infamy  by  the  foot  of  the  hcentious  libertine, 
was  an  event  that  cried  for  blood  ;  and  blood 
he  had,  for  he  miu-dered  the  seducer,  and 
that  with  an  insatiable  rapacity  of  revenge 
that  was  terrible.  He  literally  battered  the 
head  of  his  victim  out  of  all  shape,  and  left 
liim  a  dead  and  worthless  mass  of  inanimate 
matter.  The  crime,  though  desiserate,  was 
openly  committed,  and  there  were  sufiScient 
vfitnesses  at  his  trial  to  make  it  a  short  one. 
On  that  morning,  neither  jiriest,  nor  fiiar, 
'.lor  chaplain,  nor  jailer,  nor  sherift"  could 
wring  fi'om  him  one  single  exp)ression  of 
regi'et  or  repentance  for  what  he  had  done.  I 
The  only  reply  he  made  them  was  this — 
"Don't    trouble    me;    I    knew    '.vhat    my  i 


I  fate  was  to  be,  and  wiU  die  with  satisfac- 
I  tion," 

I      After  cutting  him  do\\Ti,  his  body,  as  we 

have  said,  was  delivered  to  his  friends,  who, 

having  wrajiped  it  in  a  quilt,  conveyed  it  on 

I  a  common  car  to  his  own  house,  where  he 

'  received  the  usual  ablutions  and  oiiices  of 

death,*  and  was  composed  upon  his  own  bed 

I  into  that  attitude  of  the  grave  which  will 

I  never  change. 

The  house  was  nearly  filled  with  grave  and 
aged  people,  whose  conversation  was  low, 
1  and  imj)ressed  with  solemnity,  that  origina- 
^  ted  from  the  painful  and  melancholy  spmt 
I  of  the  event  that  had  that  morning  taken 
I  place.      A  deal  tij)le  was  set  lengthwise  on 
j  the  floor ;  on  this  were  candles,  joipes,  and 
jjlates  of  cut  tobacco.  .  In  the  usual  cases  of 
;  death  among  the  poor,  the  Ijed  on  which  the 
corpse  is  stretched  is  festooned  with  white 
I  sheets,  borrowed  for  the  occasion  from  the 
'  wealthier  neighbors.     Here,  however,  there 
was  nothing  of  the .  kind.      The  associations 
connected  ^^^th  murder  were  too  apjialling 
and    terrible   to   place   the   rites   required, 
either  for  the  wake  or  funeral  of  the  mur- 
derer, within  the  ordinary  claims  of  humanity 
for  these  oftices  of  civility  to  ^^■hich  we  have 
alluded.     In  this  instance  none  of  the  neigh- 
bors would  lend  sheets  for  what  thej'  con- 
sidered an  unholy  purjiose  ;  the  bed,  there- 
fore, on  which  the  body  lay  had  nothing  to 
ornament  it.     A  jjlaiu  drugget  quilt  was  his 
onfy  covering,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  want 
of  a  better. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  a 
corpse,  but  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
seen  that  of  a  murderer.  I  looked  upon  it 
^^^th  an  impression  which  it  is  ditfieult,  if 
not  impossible,  to  describe.  I  felt  my  uei-ves 
tingle,  and  my  heart  palpitate.  To  a  young 
man,  fi-esh,  and  fiUed  -with  the  light-hearted 
humanity  of  youth,  ap^iroximatiou  to  such 
an  object  as  then  lay  before  me  is  a  singular 
trial  of  feeling,  aud  a  painful  test  of  moral 
coui-age.  The  sight,  however,  and  the  reflec- 
tions connected  with  it,  rendered  a  long 
contemplation  of  it  impossible,  and,  besides, 
I  had  other  objects  to  engage  my  attention. 
I  now  b'^gan  to  observe  the  friends  and 
immediate  connections  of  the  deceased.  In 
all,  there  were  only  seven  or  eight  women,, 
including  his  wife.  There  were  four  boys| 
and  no  daughters  ;  for,  alas  !  I  forgot  to 
inform  the  reader  that  his  fallen  daughter 
was  his  only  oue  ;  a  fact  which,  notwith- 
standing his  guilt,  must  surely  stir  up  the 
elements  of  our  humanity  in  mitigation  of 
his  madness. 

This  house  oi  mourning  was,  indeed,  a 
strange,  a  solemn,  and  a  peculiar  one.  The 
women  sat  near  the  bed  upon  stools,  and 


620 


WILLIAM   CARLETOIf'S  WORKS. 


such  other  seats  as  they  had  prepared.  The 
wife  and  his  two  sisters  were  rocking  them- 
selves to  and  fi'o,  as  is  the  custom  wlien 
manifesting  j^rofound  sorrow  in  Irish  wake- 
houses  ;  the  other  women  talked  to  each 
other  in  a  low  tone,  amounting  almost  to  a 
whisper.  Their  conduct  was  marked,  in 
fact,  by  a  grave  and  mysterious  monolony  ; 
but  after  a  little  reflection,  it  soon  became 
painfully  intelligible.  Here  was  shame,  as 
well  as  guilt  and  sorrow — here  was  shame 
endeavoring  to  restrain  sorrow  ;  and  hence 
the  silence,  and  the  struggle  between  them 
which  it  occasioned.  The  wife  from  time  to 
time  turned  her  heavy  eyes  upon  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  corpse  ;  aad  after  the  tu\st 
sensations  of  awe  had  departed  fi'om  me,  I 
ventured  to  look  ujjou  it  with  a  purpose  of 
discovering  in  its  features  the  lineaments  of 
guilt.  Owing  to  the  natui-e  of  his  death, 
that  collapse  which  causes  the  flesh  to  shrink 
almost  immediately  after  the  spiiit  has  de- 
parted was  not  visible  here.  The  face  was 
rather  fuU  and  livid,  but  the  exjjression  was 
not  such  as  penitence  or  a  conviction  of 
crime  could  be  supposed  to  have  left  behind 
it.  On  the  contrary,  the  whole  countenance 
had  somewhat  of  a  placid  look,  and  the  gen- 
eral contour  was  unquestionably  that  of  af- 
fection and  benevolence. 

It  was  easy,  however,  to  perceive  that  this 
agonizing  rei^traiut  upon  the  feeUngs  of  that 
lo\ing  wife  could  not  last  long,  and  that  the 
task  which  the  jioor  woman  was  endeavoring 
to  perform  in  deference  to  the  conventional 
opinions  of  society  was  beyond  her  streng'th. 
Hers,  indeed,  was  not  a  common  nor  an  un- 
divided soiTow  ;  for,  alas,  she  had  not  only 
the  loss  of  her  kind  husband  and  his  igno- 
minious death  to  distract  her,  but  the  shame 
and  degi'adation  of  their  only  daughter 
which  occasioned  it ;  and  what  a  trial  w-as 
that  for  a  single  heart !  From  time  to  time 
a  deep  back-drawing  sob  would  proceed 
from  her  Hps,  and  the  eye  was  again  fixed 
upon  the  still  and  unconscious  features  of 
her  husband.  At  length  the  chord  was 
touched,  and  the  heart  of  the  wife  and  moth- 
er coiild  restrain  itself  no  longer.  -The  chil- 
dren had  been  for  some  time  whispering  to- 
gether, eridently  endeavoring  to  keep  the 
youngest  of  them  still ;  but  they  found  it  im- 
fjossible — he  must  go  to  awaken  his  daddy. 
This  was  too  much  for  them,  and  the  poor 
things  burst  out  into  an  imcontrollable  wail 
of  sorrow.  The  conversation  among  the 
spectators  was  immediately  hushed  ;  but  the 
mother  started  to  her  feet,  and  turning  to 
the  bed,  bent  over  it,  and  raised  a  cry  of 
agony  such  as  I  never  heard  nor  hope  ever 
to  hear  again.  She  clapped  her  hands,  and 
rocking  herself  up  and  dovsai  over  him,  gave 


vent  to  her  accumulated  gi-ief,  which  now 
rushed  like  a  torrent  that  had  been  dammed 
ujD  and  overcome  its  baniers,  from  her 
heart. 

"O  HariT,"  said  she  in  Irish— but  we 
translate  it — "  O  HaiTy,  the  husband  of  the 
kind  heart,  the  loving  father,  and  the  good 
man  !  O  Haiiy,  Han-y,  and  is  it  come  to 
this  with  you  and  me  and  oiu-  chDdre  !  They 
may  say  what  they  will,  but  you're  luit  a 
murderer.  It  was  yom-  love  for  our  unfor- 
tunate Nannie  that  made  you  do  what  j'ou 
did.  O,  what  was  the  w'orld  to  you  without 
her  !  Wasn't  she  the  light  of  your  eyes,  and 
the  sweet  jjulse  of  your  loring  heart !  And 
did  ever  a  girl  love  a  father  as  she  loved  you, 
tiU  the  destroyer  came  across  her — ay,  the 
destroyer  that  left  us  as  we  now  are,  sunk  in 
sorrow  and  misery  that  wUl  never  end  in 
this  world  more  !  And  now,  what  is  she, 
and  w  hat  has  the  destroyer  made  her  ?  O, 
when  I  think  of  how  you  sought  after  her 
you  loved  as  you  did,  to  take  her  life,  and 
when  I  think  of  how  she  that  loved  you  as 
she  did  was  forced  to  fly  from  the  hand  that 
would  pluck  out  your  own  heart  sooner  than 
injure  a  hair  of  her  head — so  long  as  she 
•was  innocent — O,  whAi  I  think  of  all  this, 
and  look  iipon  you  lying  there  now,  and  all 
for  the  love  you  bore  her,  how  can  my  heai't 
bear  it,  and  how  can  I  live.  O,  the  des- 
troyer, the  villain  !  the  devil !  what  has  he 
wrought  ujjon  us  !  But,  thank  God,  he  is 
Ijunished — the  father's  love  punished  him. 
They  are  Hars  !  you  are  no  murderer.  The 
mothei''s  heart  within  me  tells  me  that  you 
did  what  was  right — you  acted  like  a  man, 
my  husband.  God  bless  you,  and  mako 
your  soul  hajipy  for  its  love  to  Nannie.  I'll 
kiss  you,  Harry — I'U  kiss  you,  my  heart's 
treasure,  for  your  noble  deed — but  t)  Harry, 
you  don't  know  the  hjas  of  sorrow  that  kiss 
you  now.  Sure  they  are  the  lips  of  your 
own  Rose,  that  gave  her  young  heavt  to  you, 
and  was  hajipy  for  it.  Don't  feei  ashamed, 
Han-y  ;  it's  a  good  uiau's  case  to  die  the 
death  you  did,  and  be  at  rest,  as  I  hope  you 
ai-e,  for  you  are  not  a  murderer  ;  and  if  you 
are,  it  is  only  in  the  eye  of  the  law-,  and  it 
was  your  love  for  Nannie  that  did  it." 

This  woeful  dirge  of  the  mother's  heai-t, 
and  the  wife's  sorrow,  had  almost  every  eye 
in  tears  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  impossible 
that  the  sympathy  for  her  should  not  be 
deep  and  general.  They  all  knew  the  ex- 
cellence and  mildness  of  her  husband's  char- 
acter, and  that  even-  word  she  uttered  con- 
cerning him  was  truth. 

Li  Irish  wakehouses,  it  is  to  lie  observed, 
the  door  is  never  closed.  The  heat  of  the 
house,  and  the  crowding  of  tt.e  neighbors  to 
it,    render   it   necessary  that   it   should   ba 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OK,    TEE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


621 


open  ;  but  independently  of  this,  we  believe 
it  a  general  custom,  as  it  is  also  to  keep  it  so 
dui-iug  meals.  This  last  arises  from  the 
sijirit  of  hosjjitahty  jiecuhar  to  the  Irish 
people. 

When  his  ^dfe  had  uttered  the  words 
"you  are  uo  murderer,"  a  yoirng  and  beauti- 
ful gii'l  eutered  the  house  in  sutiicieut  time 
to  have  heard  them  distinctly.  She  was 
tall,  her  shajje  was  of  the  tiuest  symmetry, 
her  features,  in  spite  of  the  distraction 
which,  at  first  glance,  was  legible  in  them, 
were  absolutely  fascinating.  They  all  knew 
her  well ;  but  the  moment  she  made  her  ap- 
pearance, the  conversation,  and  those  ex- 
pressions of  symj^athy  which  were  passing 
from  one  to  another,  were  instantly  checked  ; 
and  nothing  now  was  felt  but  comjoassion 
for  the  terrible  oi'deal  that  they  knew  was 
before  her  mother.  She  rushed  uj)  to 
where  her  mother  had  sat  down,  her  eyes 
Mashing,  and  her  long  brown  hair  floating 
about  her  white  shoulders,  which  were  but 
scautilj'  covered. 

"You  talk  of  a  murderer,  mother,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  You  talk  of  a  murderer,  do 
you  ?  But  if  miu'der  has  been  com,mitted,  as 
it  has,  / — /  am  the  miu'derer.  Keep  back 
now,  let  me  look  upon  mj'  innocent  father 
— upon  that  father  that  /  have  miu'dered." 

She  apijroached  the  bed  on  which  he  lay, 
her  eyes  still  flashing,  and  her  bosom  pant- 
ing, and  there  she  stood  gazing  upon  his 
features  for  about  two  minutes. 

The  silence  of  the  corpse  before  them  was 
not  deeper  than  that  which  her  unexpected 
jjresence  occasioned.  There  she  stood  gaz- 
ing on  the  dead  body  of  her  father,  evidently 
torn  by  the  pangs  of  agony  and  remorse,  her 
hands  clenching  and  ojiening  by  turns,  her 
wild  and  unwinking  eyes  riveted  ujion  those 
moveless  features,  which  his  love  for  her  had 
so  often  Ut  uf)  with  happiness  and  pride. 
Her  mother,  who  was  alarmed,  shocked, 
stunned,  g;ized  upon  her,  but  could  not 
speak.  At  length  she  herself  broke  the 
silence. 

"Mother,"  said  she,  "I  came  to  see  my 
father,  for  I  know  he  won't  strike  me  now, 
and  he  never  did.  O,  no,  because  I  ran 
away  from  him  and  fi"om  all  of  you,  but  not 
till  after  I  had  deserved  it ;  before  that  I  was 
safe.  Mother,  diln't  my  father  love  me 
once  better  than  his  own  life  ?  I  think  he 
did.  O,  ye.s,  and  I  returned  it  by  murdering 
him — ^Ijj'  sending  him — that  father  there 
tliat  loved  me  so  well — by — by  sending  him 
to  the  liauijm;)n — to  a  death  of  disgrace  and 
shame.  That's  what  his  oivn  Nannie,  as  he 
used  to  call  me,  did  for  him.  But  no  shame 
- — no  guilt  to  you,  father  ;  the  shame  and 
the   guilt  are  i/uur  own  Nannie's,  and  that's 


the  only  comfort  I  have  ;  for  you're  happy, 
what  I  will  never  be,  either  in  this  world  o( 
the  next.  You  are  now  in  heaven  ;  but  you 
will  never  see  your  own  Nannie  (here." 

The  recollections  caused  by  her  appear- 
ance, and  the  heart-rending  language  she 
used,  touched  her  mother's  heart,  now  soft- 
ened by  her  sufl'eriugs  into  pity  for  her 
affliction,  if  not  into  a  portion  of  the  former 
aft'eetiou  which  she  bore  her. 

"  O  Nannie,  Nannie  !  "  said  she,  now  weep- 
ing  bitterly  upon   a  fresh   sorrow,   "  don't 
talk  that  way — don't,  don't ;    you  have  re- 
pentance to  turn  to  ;    and  for  what  you've 
done,  God  ■  will  yet  forgive  you,  and  so  will 
1  your  mother.     It  was  a  gi-eat  crime  in  you  ; 
j  but  God  can  forgive  the  gi'eatest,  if  his  own 
[  creatures  w  ill  turn  to  him  with  sorrow  for 
what  they've  done." 

She  never  once  turned  her  eyes  uj^on  her 
j  mother,  nor  raised  them  for  a  moment  fi'om 
I  her  father's  face.  In  fact,  she  did  not  seem 
1  to  have  heard  a  single  syllable  she  said,  and 
this  was  evident  fi-om  the  vdid  but  alfecting 
abstractedness  of  her  manner. 

"Mother!"  she  exclaimed,  "that  man 
they  say  is  a  miu-derer,  and  yet  /  am  not 
worthy  to  touch  him.  Ah  !  I'm  alone  now 
— altogether  alone,  and  he — he  that  loved 
me,  too,  was  taken  away  fi'om  me  bj'  a  cruel 
death — ay,  a  cruel  death  ;  for  it  was  barbar- 
ous to  kill  him  as  if  he  was  a  wild  beast — 
ay,  and  without  one  moment's  notice,  with 
aU  his  sins  upon  his  head.  He  is  gone — he 
is  gone  ;  and  there  Hes  the  man  that  mui-- 
dered  him — there  he  lies,  the  sinner ;  curse 
upon  his  hand  of  blood  that  took  him  1 
loved  fi-om  me  !  O,  my  heart's  breakin'  and 
my  brain  is  boilin' !  What  wUl  I  do  ?  Where 
will  I  go  ?  Am  I  mad  ?  Father,  my  curse 
iijjon  yoti  for  your  deed  of  blood  !  I  never 
thought  I'd  hve  to  curse  you  ;  but  you  don't 
hear  me,  nor  know  what  I  sutt'er.  Shame, 
disgrace— -ay,  and  I'd  bear  it  all  for  hin  sake 
that  you  j)lunged,  like  a  murderer,  as  you 
were,  into  eternity.  How  does  any  of  you 
know  what  it  is  to  love  as  I  did  ?  or  what  it 
is  to  lose  the  man  you  love  by  a  death  so 
ci-uel  ?  And  this  hail-  that  he  praised  so 
much,  who  wiU  praise  it  or  admire  it  now, 
when  he  is  gone  ?  Let  it  go,  too,  then.  I'll 
not  keep  it  on  me — I'll  tear  it  off — otf !  "       ( 

Her  paroxysm  had  now  risen  to  a  degree 
of  furj'  that  fell  little,  if  anything,  short  of 
insanity — temjjorary  insanity  it-  certainly 
was.  She  tore  her  beautiful  hair  from  her 
head  in  handfuls,  and  would  have  proceeded 
to  still  greater  lengths,  when  she  was  seized 
by  some  of  those  present,  in  order  to  re 
strain  her  violence.  On  finding  that  she  was 
held  fast,  she  looked  at  them  with  blading 
eyes,  and  struggled  to  set  herself  free  ;  but 


622 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS.' 


on  finding  her  efforts  vain,  she  panted  deep- 
ly thi-ee  or  foui-  times,  threw  back  her  head, 
and  fell  into  a  tit  that,  from  its  violence, 
resembled  epilejasy.  After  a  lapse  of  ten 
minutes  or  so,  the  spasmodic  action,  hav- 
ing probably  wasted  her  physical  strength, 
ceased,  and  she  lay  in  a  quiet  trance  ;  so 
quiet,  indeed,  that  it  might  have  jiassed  for 
death,  were  it  not  for  the  deep  exjsi'ession  of 
pain  and  suttering  which  lay  upon  her  face, 
and  betrayed  the  fury  of  the  moral  temjiest 
which  swept  through  her  heart  and  brain. 
All  the  mother's  grief  now  was  hushed — all 
the  faculties  of  her  soul  were  now  concen- 
trated on  her  daughter,  and  absorbed  by 
the  intense  anxiety  she  felt  for  her  recovery. 
She  sat  behind  the  poor  girl,  and  drew  her 
body  back  so  that  her  head  rested  on  her 
bosom,  to  which  she  jsressed  her,  kissing  her 
passive  lips  with  streaming  ej'es. 

"  O,  darhug  Nannie  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
"  strive  and  rouse  youi'self  ;  it  is  your  loving 
mother  that  asks  you.  Waken  up,  poor 
misled  and  heart-broken  girl,  waken  up  ;  I 
forgive  you  all  your  errors.  O,  avillish  ma- 
chree  (sweetness  of  my  heart),  don't  you  hear 
that  it  is  your  mother's  voice  that's  spakin' 
to  you  ! " 

She  was  still,  however,  insensible ;  and 
her  little  brothers  were  all  in  tears  about 
her. 

"  O  mother  ! "  said  the  oldest,  sobbing, 
"  is  Nannie  dead  too '?  When  she  went  away 
from  us  you  bid  us  not  to  cry,  that  she 
would  soon  come  back  ;  and  now  she  has 
only  come  back  to  die.  Nannie,  I'm  your 
own  little  Frank  ;  won't  you  hear  me  !  Nan- 
nie, will  you  never  wash  my  face  of  a  Sunday 
morning  more  V  will  you  never  comb  down 
my  hair,  put  the  pin  in  my  shii-t  collar,  and 
kiss  me,  as  you  used  to  do  before  we  went 
to  Mass  together  ?  " 

The  jjoor  mother  was  so  much  overcome 
by  this  artless  allusion  to  her  innocent  life, 
involving,  as  it  did,  such  a  manifestation  of 
affection,  that  she  wept  until  fairly  exliaust- 
ed,  after  which  she  turned  her  eyes  up  to 
heaven  and  exclaimed,  whilst  her  daughter's 
inanimate  body  still  lay  in  her  arms, 

"  O  Lord  of  mercy,  will  you  not  look  down 
with  pity  and  compassion  on  me  this  night !  " 

In  the  course  of  about  ten  minutes  after 
this  her  daughter's  eyes  began  to  till  with 
those  involuntary  tears  which  betoken  in 
females  recovery  from  a  tit ;  they  streamed 
quietly,  but  in  torrents,  down  her  cheek. 
She  gave  a  deep  sigh,  opened  her  eyes, 
looked  around  her.  first  with  astonishment, 
and  then  toward  tlie  bed  with  a  start  of 
horror. 

"  ^Vhere  am  I  ?  "  said  she. 

"  You  are  with  me,  darhn',"  replied  tlie 


mother,  kissing  her  Hps,  and  whisperinf», 
"  Nannie,  I  forgive  j'ou — I  forgive  you  ;  and 
whisper,  your  father  did  before  he  went  to 
death." 

She  smiled  faintly  and  sorrowfully  in  her 
mother's  f;ice,  and  said,  "iMolher,  I  didii'f. 
know  that."  After  which  she  got  up,  and 
proceeding  to  the  bed,  she  fell  upon  his 
body,  kissed  his  lips,  and  indulged  in  a 
wild  and  heart-breaking  wail  of  giief.  This 
evidently  afforded  her  relief,  for  she  now 
became  more  calm  and  collected. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  I  must  go." 

"  WTiy,  sure  you  won't  leave  us,  Nannie  ?" 
replied  the  other  -^^ith  affectionate  alarm. 

"  O,  I  must  go,"  she  repeated  ;  "  bring  me 
the  children  till  I  see  them  once — Frank 
first." 

The  mother  accordingly  brought  them  to 
her,  one  by  one,  when  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  them  in  turn,  not  without  bitter 
tears,  whilst  they,  poor  things,  were  aU  in 
an  uproar  of  sorrow.  She  then  ajJiiroached 
her  mother,  threw  herself  in  her  arnls,  and 
again  wept  wildly  for  a  time,  as  did  that  af- 
flicted mother  along  with  her. 

"  Mother,  farewell,"  said  she  at  length — 
"farewell ;  think  of  me  when  I  am  far  away 
— think  of  your  unfortunate  Nannie,  and  let 
every  one  that  hears  of  my  misfortune  think 
of  all  the  misery  and  all  the  crime  that  may 
come  fi'om  one  false  and  unguarded  step." 

"  O,  Nannie  darling,"  replied  her  mother, 
"  don't  desert  us  now  ;  sure  you  wouldn't 
desert  your  mother  now,  Nannie  ?  " 

"  If  my  life  could  make  you  easy  or  hajipy, 
mother,  I  could  give  it  for  your  sake,  worth- 
less now  and  unhappy  as  it  is  ;  but  I  am 
going  to  a  far  country,  where  my  shame  and 
the  misfortinies  I  have  caused  will  never  be 
known.  I  must  go,  for  if  I  lived  here,  my 
disgrace  would  always  be  before  you  and 
myself  ;  then  I  would  soon  die,  and  I  am 
not  yet  fit  for  death." 

With  these  words  the  mihapjjy  girl  passed 
out  of  the  house,  and  was  never  after  that 
night  seen  or  heard  of,  but  once,  in  that 
part  of  the  country. 

In  the  meantime  that  most  pitiable  mother, 
whose  atidicted  heart  could  only  iiltemate 
from  one  piercing  sorrow  to  another,  sat 
downi  once  more,  and  poured  forth  a  tor- 
rent of  grief  for"  her  uuhapi\y  daughter, 
whom  she  feai-ed,  she  woidd  never  see 
again. 

Those  who  were  present,  now  that  the 
distressing  scene  which  we  have  attemj)ted 
to  describe  was  over,  began  to  chat  togethei 
with  more  freedom. 

"Tom  Kennedy,"  said  one  of  them,  ao 
costing  a  good-natured  young  fellow,  with  a 
cleiu-,  pleasant  eye,  "how  are  aU  yom*  family 


J 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


623 


at  Beeet  Grove  ?  Oiild  Gof  d'.vin  and  liis 
pretty  dauffliter  oiin;lit  to  feel  theiiiselves  in 
good  spiiits  after  fjaiuinnj  the  lawsuit  in  the 
case  of  j\Ir.  HamUtou's  \\ill.  They  bate  the 
Lindsays  all  to  sticks." 

'■  And  why  not,"  rei^lied  Kennedy  ;  "who 
had  a  Ijetther  right  to  dispose  of  his  proper- 
ty than  the  man  that  owned  it "?  and,  indeed, 
if  any  one  livin'  desarved  it  from  another. 
Miss  Alice  did  fiom  him.  She  nearly 
brought  herself  to  death's  door,  in  attending 
upon  and  niu'sing  her  sister,  as  she  called 
poor  Jliss  Agnes  ;  and,  as  for  her  giief  at 
her  death,  I  never  saw  anything  like  it,  ex- 
cept " — he  added,  looking  at  the  unfortun- 
ate widow — "  where  there  was  blood  relation- 
ship." 

"  Well,  iipou  my  sowl,"  observed  another, 
"  I  can't  blame  the  Lindsaj^s  for  feehng  so 
bittherly  about  it  as  they  do.  Maj'  I  never 
see  yesthei-day,  if  a  brother  of  mine  had 
pro2)erty,  and  left  it  to  a  stranger  instead  of 
to  his  own — that  is  to  say,  my  ehildre — I'd 
take  it  for  granted  that  he  was  fizzeu  down 
stairs  for  the  same.  It  was  a  shame  for  the 
ould  sinner  to  scorn  his  own  relations  for  a 
stranger." 

"  WeU,"  said  another,  "  one  thing  is  clear 
— that  since  he  did  bUnk  them  about  the 
proj^erty,  it  couldn't  get  into  betther  hands. 
Yoiu-  master,  Tom,  is  the  crame  of  a  good 
landlord,  as  far  as  his  projserty  goes,  and 
much  good  may  it  do  him  and  his  !  I'll  go 
bail  that,  as  far  as  Miss  Alice  herself  is  cou- 
sarned,  many  a  hungry'  mouth,  will  be  tilled 
many  a  naked  back  covered,  and  many  a 
heavy  heart  made  hght  through  the  manes 
of  it." 

"Faith,"  said  a  third  spokesman,  "and 
that  wouldn't  be  the  case  if  that  skinflint 
barge  of  Lindsay's  had  got  it  in  her  clutches. 
At  any  rate,  it's  a  shame  for  her  and  them  to 
abuse  the  Goodwins  as  they  do.  If  ould 
Hamilton  left  it  to  them  surely  it  wasn't  their 
fault." 

"Never  mind,"  said  another,  "I'U  lay  a 
wager  that  ^L-s.  Lindsay's  son — I  mane  the 
step-son  that's  now  abroad  with  the  imele-  — 
will  be  sent  for,  and  a  maiTiage  will  foUow 
between  him  and  Miss  Good-n-in." 

"It  maybe  so,"  rej)lied  Tom,  "but  it's  not 
very  probable.  I  know  the  man  that's  Ukely 
to  walk  into  the  property,  and  well  worthy 
he  is  of  it." 

"  Come,  Tom,  let  us  hear  who  is  the  luckj' 
youth  ?  " 

"FamUy  saierets,"  replied  Tom,  "is  not  to 
be  rovaled.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  he  is  a 
tnie  gentleman.  Give  me  another  blast  o' 
the  pipe,  for  I  must  go  home." 

Tom,  who  was  servant  to  JNIr.  Goodwin, 
having  now  taken  his  "  blast,"  wished  them 


'  good-night  ;  liut  before  he  went  lie  took  the 
'  soiTOwing  widow's  cold  and  passive  hand  in 
i  his,  and  said,  whilst  the  tears  stood  in  his 
I  eyes, 

"  May  God  in  heaven  pity  you  and  support 
I  your  heart,  for  you  are  the  sorely  tried  wo- 
man this  miserable  night !  " 

He  then  bent  his  steps  to  Beech  Grove, 
his  master's  residence,  the  hour  being  be- 
tween twelve  and  one  o'clock. 
j      The  night,  as  we  have  ah-eady  said,  had 
i  been  calm,  but  gloomy  and  opjjressive.    Now, 
however,  the  wind  had  sj^ruug  up,  and,  by 
I  the  time  Kennedy  commenced  his  journey 
{  home,  it  was  not  only  tempestuous  but  m- 
\  creasing  in  strength  and  fury  every  moment 
This,  however,  was  not  all  ; — the  rain  came 
j  down  in  torrents,  and  was  battered  against 
his  j)erson  wdth  such  force  that  in  a  few  mo- 
ments he  was  drenched  to  the  skin.     So  far, 
I  it  was  wind  and  rain — dreadful  and  tempes- 
j  tuous  as  they  were.     The  storm,  however, 
was   only  half  ojseued.     Distant   flashes  of 
Ughtuing  and  sullen  growls  of  thunder  pro- 
i  ceeded  from  the  cloud  masses  to  the  right, 
j  but  it  was   obvious   that   the  thundeiings 
above  them   were   only   commencing   their 
'  deejJ  and  terrible  pealiugs.     In  a  short  time 
I  they  increased  in  riolenee  and  fury,  and  re- 
I  sembled,  in  fact,  a  West  Indian  hurricane 
i  more  than  those  storms  which  are  peculiar 
j  to  our  milder  climates.     The  tempest-voice 
I  of  the  wind  was  now  in  dreadful  accordance 
j  with  its  power.     Poor  Kennedj',  who  fortu- 
natelj'  knew  every  step  of  the  nigged  road 
along  which  he  struggled  and  staggered,  was 
fi'equently  obhged   to  crouch   himself  and 
hold  by  the  projecting  crags  about  him,  lest 
the  strength  of  the  blast  might  hurl  him 
over  the  rocky  precipices  by  the  edges  of 
j  which  the  road  went.     With  gi-eat  difficulty, 
however,  and  not  less  danger,  he  succeeded 
in  getting  into  the  open  highwaj-  below,  and 
into  a  thickly  inhabited   eoimtiy.     Here  a 
new  scene  of  terror  and  confusion  awaited 
him.     The  whole  neighborhood  around  him 
were  up  and  in  alarm.     The   shoutings  of 
'  men,  the  screams  of  women  and  children,  all 
j  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  dread  and  consterna- 
tion,  pierced   his   eai's,    even   through    the 
united  rage  and  roaring  of  the  wind  and 
thunder.     The  people  had  left  their  houses, 
as  they  usually  do  in  such  cases,  fi'om  ar 
i  apprehension  that  if  they  remained  in  them 
I  they  might  be  buried  in  their  ruins.     Some 
had  got  ladders,  and  attempted,  at  the  risk 
of  then-  hves.  to  secure  the  thatch  upon  the 
roofs  by  placing  flat  stones,  sods,  and  svich 
'  other  materfals.  as  by  their  weight,  might 
keep  it  from  being  borne  oft"  like  dust  upon 
the  wings  of  the  tempest.     Their  voices,  and 
screams,  and  lamentations,  in  accordance,  as 


624 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


tliej  were,  with  the  uproar  of  the  elements, 
added  a  new  featiu-e  of  terror  to  this  dread- 
ful tumult.  The  Hghtnings  now  became 
more  vivid  and  fi-equent,  and  the  pealing  of 
the  thunder  so  loud  and  near,  that  he  felt 
his  very  ears  stunned  by  it.  Ever}'  cloud,  as 
tlie  hghtnings  flashed  fi-om  it,  seemed  to 
open,  and  to  disclose,  as  it  were,  a  furnace 
of  blazing  fire  within  its  black  and  awful 
shroud.  The  whole  couutry  around,  with 
aU  its  terrified  jDopulation  running  about  in 
confusion  and  dismay,  were  for  the  moment 
made  as  clear  and  distinct  to  the  eye  as  if  it 
were  noonday,  with  this  difference,  that  the 
scene  borrowed  fi'om  the  red  and  sheeted 
flashes  a  wild  and  spectral  character  which 
the  light  of  day  never  gives.  In  fact,  the 
human  figures,  as  they  ran  hiu-riedly  to  and 
fro,  resembled  those  images  which  present 
themselves  to  the  imagination  in  some 
fi'ightful  dream.  Nay,  the  very  cattle  in  the 
fields  could  be  seen,  in  those  flashing  glimji- 
ses,  huddled  up  together  in  some  sheltered 
comer,  and  coweriug  with  terror  at  this  aw- 
ful uproar  of  the  elements.  It  is  a  very 
strange,  but  stUl  a  weU-known  fact,  that 
neither  man  nor  beast  wishes  to  be  alone 
during  a  thunder-storm.  Contiguity  to  one's 
feUow  creatures  seems,  by  some  unaccount- 
able instinct,  to  lessen  the  apprehension  of 
danger  to  one  individual  when  it  is  likely  to 
be  shared  by  many,  a  feeling  which  makes 
the  coward  in  the  field  of  battle  fight  as 
coiu'ageously  as  the  man  who  is  natui'ally 
brave.        « 

The  tempest  had  not  yet  dimiuished  any 
of  its  power  ;  so  far  from  that,  it  seemed  as 
if  a  night-battle  of  artUlery  was  going  on, 
and  raging  stiU  with  more  violence  in  the 
clouds.  Thatch,  doors  of  houses,  glass,  and 
almost  everything  light  that  the  winds  could 
seize  upon,  were  flying  in  difl'erent  direc- 
tions through  the  air  ;  and  as  Kennedy  now 
staggered  along  the  main  road,  he  had  to 
pass  through  a  grove  of  oaks,  beeches,  and 
immense  ash  trees  that  stretched  on  each 
side  for  a  considerable  distance.  The  noises 
nere  were  new  to  him,  and  on  that  account 
the  more  fi-ightful.  The  groauiugs  of  the 
huge  trees,  and  the  shrieking  of  their  huge 
branches  as  they  were  crushed  agamst  each 
other,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  supernat- 
ural voices  of  demons,  exulting  at  their  par- 
ticipation in  the  terrors  of  the  storm.  His 
imj^ression  now  was  that  some  guilty  sor- 
cerer had  raised  the  author  of  evil,  and  being 
unable  to  lay  him,  the  latter  was  careering 
in  vengeance  over  the  earth  until  he  should 
be  appeased  by  the  life  of  som^  devoted  vic- 
tim— for  such,  when  a  storm  more  than 
usually  destructive  and  powerful  arises,  is 
the  genenil  superstition  of  the  people — at 


least  it  was  so  among  the  ignorant  in  our 
early  youth. 

In  all  thunder-storms  there  appears  to  be 
a  regular  gradation — a  beginning,  a  middle, 
and  an  end.  They  commence  tu'st  Avith  a 
noise  resembling  the  crackling  of  a  file  of 
musketry  where  the  tire  runs  along  the  hne, 
man  after  man  ;  then  they  increase,  and  go 
on  deepening  their-  terrors  until  one  stun- 
ning and  tremendous  burst  tiikes  place, 
which  is  the  acme  of  the  tempest.  After  this 
its  power  gradually  diminishes  in  the  same 
way  as  it  increased — the  peals  become  less 
loud  and  less  frequent,  the  lightning  feebler 
and  less  brilliant,  until  at  length  it  seems  to 
take  another  course,  and  after  a  fe^v  ex- 
hausted volleys  it  dies  away  with  a  hoarse 
grumble  in  the  distance. 

Still  it  thundered  and  thundered  terribly; 
nor  had  the  sweep  of  the  wind-tempest  yet 
lost  any  of  its  fury.  At  this  moment  Ken- 
nedy discovered,  by  a  succession  of  those 
flashes  that  were  lighting  the  couutrj'  ju'ound 
him,  a  tall  yoimg  female  without  cloak  or 
bonnet,  her  long  hair  sometimes  streaming 
in  the  wind,  and  sometimes  blown  up  in  con- 
fusion over  her  head.  She  was  proceeding  at 
a  tottering  bui  eager  pace,  CAidentlv  under 
the  influence  of  wUdness  and  distraction,  or 
rather  as  if  she  felt  there  was  something 
either  mortal  or  spectral  iu  pursuit  of  her. 
He  hailed  her  by  her  name  as  she  passed 
him,  for  he  knew  her,  but  received  no  reply. 
To  Tom,  who  had,  as  the  reader  knows,  been 
a  witness  of  the  scene  we  have  described, 
this  fearfid  ghmpse  of  Nannie  Moriissey's 
desolation  and  misery,  imder  the  pelting  of 
the  pitiless  storm  and  the  angry  roar  of  the 
elements,  was  distressing  in  the  highest 
degiee,  and  fiUed  his  honest  heart  with  com- 
passion for  her  sufl'erings. 

He  was  now  making  his  way  home  at  his 
utmost  sjaeed,  when  he  heard  the  tramjjling 
of  a  horse's  feet  coming  on  at  a  rapid  pace 
behind  him,  and  on  looking  back  he  saw  a 
horseman  making  his  way  iu  the  same  di- 
rection with  himself.  As  he  advanced,  the 
repeated  flashes  made  them  distinctly  visible 
to  each  other. 

"  I  say,"  shouted  the  horseman  at  the  top 
of  his  lungs,  "  can  you  direct  me  to  any  kind 
of  a  habitation,  where  I  may  take  shelter?  " 

"  Spealv  louder,"  shouted  Tom;  "I  can't 
hear  you  for  the  wind." 

Tlie  other,  in  a  voice  still  more  elevated, 
relocated  the  question,  "  I  want  to  get  under 
the  roof  of  some  human  habitation,  if  there 
be  one  left  standing.  I  feel  that  I  have 
gone  astray,  and  this  is  no  night  to  be  out 
in." 

"Faith,  SU-,"  again  shouted  Tom,  "it's 
pure  gosjiel  you're  spakin',  at  any  rate.     A 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OE,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


625 


hiibitation !  ^VllT,  upon  my  credibility, 
tlieyd  not  deserve  a  habitation  tliat  'ud  re- 
fuse to  ojjen  the  door  for  a  dog  on  svieli  a 
night  as  this,  much  less  to  a  human  creature 
with  a  sowl  to  be  saved.  A  habitation  ! 
Well,  I  think  I  can,  and  one  where  you'll 
be  well  treated.  I  sujjpose,  sii',  you're  a 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  Speak  out,"  shouted  the  traveller  in  his 
turn  ;  "  I  can't  hear  you." 

Tom  shaded  Ms  mouth  with  his  hand,  and 
shouted  again,  "  I  suppose,  su-,  you're  a  gen- 
tleman ?  " 

"Why,  I  siippose  I  am,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger, rather  haughtily. 

"  Becaise,"  shouted  Tom,  "  devil  a  traneen 
it  'ud  signify  to  them  I'm  bringing  you  to 
whether  you  are  or  not.  The  poorest  man 
in  the  parish  would  be  sheltered  as  well  as 
you,  or  maybe  a  betther  man." 

"  Axe  we  near  the  house  ?  "  said  the  other. 

"  It's  just  at  hand,  sir,"  rej^lied  Tom,  "and 
thanks  be  to  God  for  it ;  for  if  ever  the  de%dl 
was  abroad  on  mischief,  he  is  this  night,  and 
may  the  Lord  save  us  !  It's  a  night  for  a 
man  to  tell  his  grandchiltlre  about,  and  he 
inaj-  call  it  the  '  night  o'  the  big  storm.'  " 

A  lull  had  now  taken  place,  and  Tom 
heard  a  laugh  from  the  stranger  which  he 
did  not  much  rehsh  ;  it  was  contemptuous 
and  sarcastic,  and  gave  him  no  veiy  good 
opinion  of  his  companion.  They  had  now 
arrived  at  the  entrance-gate,  which  had  been 
l}lo^^^l  open  by.  the  ^^olence  of  the  tempest. 
On  proceeding  toward  the  house,  they  found 
that  their  way  was  seriously  obstracted  by 
the  fall  of  several  trees  that  had  been  blown 
dovrn  across  it.  With  some  difficulty,  how- 
ever, they  succeeded  in  reaching  the  house, 
where,  ailthough  the  hour  was  late,  they 
found  the  whole  family  up,  and  greatlj' 
alarmed  by  the  violence  of  the  hurricane. 
Tom  went  in  and  found  jVIi-.  and  jMrs.  Good- 
win in  the  parlor,  to  both  of  w^hom  he  stated 
that  a  gentleman  on  horseback,  who  had  lost 
his  way,  requested  shelter  for  the  night. 

"Certainly,  Kennedy,  certainly  ;  why  did 
you  not  bring  the  gentleman  m  ?  Go  and 
desire  Tom  Stinton  to  take  his  horse  to  the 
stable,  and  let  him  be  rubbed  down  and 
fed.  In  the  meantime,  biing  the  gentleman 
in." 

"  Bir,"  said  Tom,  going  to  the  bottom  of 
the  hall  door-steps,  "  will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  walk  in  ;  the  masther  and  mis- 
thress  are  in  the  parlor  ;  for  who  could  sleep 
on  such  a  night  as  this  ?  " 

On  enteiing  he  was  received  with  the 
warmest  and  most  cordial  hospitality. 

"  Sir,"  said  Sir.  Goodwin,  "  I  speak  in  the 
name  of  myself  and  my  wife  when  I  bid  you 
heartily  welcome  to  whatever  my  roof  can  af- 


ford you,  especially  on  such  an  awful  nighi 
as  this.  Take  a  seat,  sir  ;  you  must  want  re- 
freshments before  you  put  ott'  those  wel 
clothes  and  betake  youi'self  to  bed,  after  the 
dreadful  severity  of  such  a  tempest." 

"  I  have  to  apologize,  sir,  for  this  trouble," 
rephed  the  stranger,  "  and  to  thank  you 
most  sincerely  for  the  kindness  of  the  re- 
ception you  and  your  lady  have  given  to  an 
utter  stranger." 

"  Do  not  mention  it,  sir,"  said  J\Ii'.  Good- 
win ;  "  come,  j)ut  on  a  dry  coat  and  waist- 
co.at,  and,  in  the  meantime,  refi'eshments  will 
be  on  the  table  in  a  few  minutes.  The 
servants  are  all  up  and  wdU  attend  at  once. 

The  stranger  refused,  however,  to  change 
his  clothes,  but  in  a  few  minutes  an  abundant 
cold  suj^per,  with  wine  and  spirits,  were 
jilaced  upon  the  table,  to  all  of  which  he  did 
such  ample  justice  that  it  would  seem  as  if 
he  had  not  dined  that  day.  The  table  hav- 
ing been  cleared,  ]Mr.  Goodwin  joined  him 
in  a  glass  of  hot  brandy  and  water,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  pressing  him  to  take  a  couple 
more,  whilst  his  wife,  he  said,  was  getting  a 
bed  and  room  jirej^ared  for  him.  Their 
chat  for  the  next  half  hour  consisted  in  s 
discussion  of  the  storm,  which,  although 
much  abated,  was  not  j'et  over.  At  length, 
after  an  intimation  that  his  room  was  ready 
for  him,  he  wthdrew,  accompanied  by  a  ser- 
vant, got  into  an  admirable  bed,  and  hi-  a 
few  minutes  was  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTEE  HL 

Breakfast  next  morning. —  Woodward,  on  hi/>  wof 
Ilotne,  meets  a  Stranger. — Their  Gonversation. 

The  next  morning  he  joined  the  family  in 
the  breakfast  parlor,  where  he  was  received 
with  much  kindness  and  attention.  The 
stranger  was  a  young  man,  probably  about 
twenty-seven,  well  made,  and  with  features 
that  must  be  pronounced  good  ;  l>ut,  from 
whatever  cause  it  proceeded,  thej-  were  felt 
to  be  by  no  means  agi'eeable.  It  was  im- 
possible to  quarrel  with,  or  find  faidt  with 
them  ;  their  symmetry  was  perfect ;  the  lipo 
well  defined,  but  hard  and  evidently  unfeel- 
ing ;  his  brows,  which  joined  each  other, 
were  black,  and,  what  was  very  j^eeuliar, 
were  heaviest  where  they  met — a  circum- 
stance which,  notwithstanding  the  regularity 
of  his  other  featui'es,  ga\e  him,  unless  when 
he  smiled,  a  fi'owniug  if  not  a  sinister  aspect. 
That,  however,  which  was  most  remarkable 
in  his  features  was  the  extraordinary  fact 
that  his  eyes  were  each  of  a  difl'erent  color, 
one  being  black  and  piercing  in  its  gleam, 


026 


WILLIAM  Cxi RL ETON  'S    WORKS. 


md  the  other  gray  ;  from  which  circum- 
stance he  was  known  from  his  childhood  by 
the  name  of  Harry  na  Suil  Gloir — Suil  Gloir 
being  an  epithet  always  bestowed  by  the 
Iiish  upon  persons  who  possessed  eyes  oi 
that  unnatiu'ul  character.  This  circumstance, 
however,  was  not  observed  on  that  occasion 
by  any  of  the  family.  His  general  manners, 
though  courteous,  were  cold,  and  by  no 
means  such  as  were  calculated  either  to 
bestow  or  inspire  confidence.  His  language, 
too,  was  easy  enough  when  he  spoke,  but  a 
cold  habit  of  resei-ve  seemed  to  permeate  his 
whole  beinp-,  and  to  throw  a  chiU  upon  the 
feelings  of  those  to  whom  he  addressed  him- 
self. So  much  was  this  the  case  that  wlien  ever 
he  assumed  an  aii"  of  famiharity  a  dark, 
strange,  and  imdefinable  sjairit,  which  was 
strongly  felt,  seemed  not  only  to  contradict 
his  apparent  lu'banity,  but  to  impress  his 
auditors  with  a  sense  of  uneasiness  some- 
times amounting  to  pain — an  impression, 
however,  for  which  they  could  not  at  aU 
account. 

"Sir,"  said  llr.  Goodwin,  "I  hojje  you 
slept  well  after  what  you  suffered  under  the 
tempest  of  last  night  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  never  enjoyed  a 
•sounder  niglit's  sleep  in  my  life,"  replied 
their  guest ;  "  and  were  it  not  for  the  season- 
able shelter  of  youi"  hospitable  roof  I  know 
not  wliat  would  have  become  of  me.  I  am 
unacquainted  with  the  country,  and  having 
lo.st  my  way,  I  knew  not  where  to  seek  shel- 
ter, for  the  night  was  so  dreadfully  dark  that 
unless  by  the  flashes  of  the  hghtning  nothing 
could  be  seen." 

"  It  was  certainly  an  awful — a  terrible 
night,"  observed  his  host ;  "  but  come,  its 
severity  is  now  past ;  let  me  see  you  do  jus- 
tice to  your  fare  ; — a  little  more  ham  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  rephed  the  other  ;  "  if 
you  please.  Indeed,  I  cannot  compl.iin  of  my 
appetite,  which  is  at  all  times  excellent " — 
and  he  certainly  corroborated  the  ti-uth  of 
his  statement  by  a  sharp  and  vigorous  attack 
upon  the  good  things  before  him. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin,"  we  feel  happy 
to  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  oj^euing  our 
doors  to  you  last  night  ;  and  there  is  only 
one  other  circumstance  which  could  complete 
our  gratification." 

"  The  gratification,  madam,"  he  reiilied, 
"  as  weU  as  the  gratitude,  ought  to  be  all  on 
my  side,  although  I  have  no  doubt,  and  can 
have  none,  that  the  consciousness  of  yoiu" 
kindness  and  hospitality  are  equally  gratify- 
ing on  yours.  But  may  I  ask  to  what  you 
(lUude,  madam  ?  " 

"You  are  evidently  a  gentleman,  sir,  and 
a  stranger,  and  we  would  feel  obliged  by 
knowing — " 


"O,  I  beg  yom-  pardon,  madam,^  he  re-- 
j)lied,  interrupting  her;  "I  presume  that 
you  ai'e  good  enough  to  flatter  me  by  a  wish 
to  know  the  name  of  the  individual  whom 
your  kindness  and  hospitahty  have  placed 
under  such  agreeable  obligations.  For  my. 
I^art  I  have  reason  to  bless  the  tempest 
which,  I  may  say,  brought  me  under  your 
roof.  'It  is  an  ill  wind,'  says  the  proverb, 
'  that  blows  nobodj^  good  ; '  and  it  is  a  clear 
case,  my  very  kind  hostess,  that  at  this  mo- 
ment we  are  mutually  ignorant  of  each  other. 
I  assure  you,  then,  madam,  that  I  am  not  a 
knight-errant  travelling  in  disguise  and  in 
quest  of  adventure,  but  a  plain  gentleman, 
by  name  Woodward,  step-son  to  a  neighbor 
of  yours,  Mr.  Lindsay,  of  KathfiUan  House. 
I  need  scarcely  say  that  I  am  Mrs.  Lindsay's 
son  by  her  first  husljand.  And  now,  madam, 
may  I  beg  to  know  the  name  of  the  family 
to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  so  much  kind- 
ness." 

Mrs.  Goodwin  and  lier  husband  exchanged 
glances,  and  something  like  a  shght  cloud 
appeared  to  overshadow  for  a  moment  the 
exjjression  of  theu'  countenances.  At  length 
Mr.  Good'ttdn  spoke. 

"My  name,  sir,"  he  proceeded,  "  is  Good- 
win ;  and  until  a  recent  melancholy  event, 
youi"  family  and  mine  were  upon  the  best 
and  most  cordial  terms  ;  but,  unfortunately, 
I  must  say  that  we  are  not  so  now — a  cir- 
cumstance which  I  and  mine  deeply  regret. 
You  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  the 
knowledge  of  yoiu-  name  and  connections 
could  make  the  slightest  difference  in  our 
conduct  toward  you  on  that  account.  Your 
family,  Mr.  Woodward,  tlu'ew  off  our  friend- 
ship and  disclaimed  all  intimacy  with  us  ; 
but  I  presume  you  are  not  ignorant  of  the 
cause  of  it." 

"  I  should  be  imcandid  if  I  were  to  say  so, 
sir.  I  am  eutii'ely  awai-e  of  the  cause  of  it ; 
but  I  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  blame 
whatsoever  to  be  attached  to  either  you  or 
yoiu's  for  the  act  of  my  poor  uncle.  I  as- 
sui-e  you,  su',  I  am  sorry  that  my  family 
failed  to  consider  it  in  its  proper  light  ;  and 
you  will  permit  me  to  request  that  you  will 
not  identify  my  conduct  \\ii\i  theirs.  So  far 
as  I  at  least  am  concerned,  my  uncle's  dis- 
230sition  of  his  property  shall  make  no  breach 
nor  occasion  any  coolness  between  us.  On 
the  contrary,  I  shall  feel  honored  by  being 
permitted  to  pay  my  resisects  to  you  all,  and 
to  make  myself  worthy  of  your  good  opin- 
ions." 

"  That  is  generously  spoken,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," rephed  the  old  man ;  "  and  it  will  af- 
ford us  sincere  j)leasiu'e  to  recij)rocate  the 
sentiments  you  have  just  expi'essed." 

"You  make  me  quite  happy,  su-,"  rephed 


TUE  EVIL  EYE;    Oli,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


627 


Woodward,  bowing  very  courteously.  "  This, 
[  presume,  is  tlie  young  lady  to  whom  my 
cousin  Agnes  was  so  much  attached  ?  " 

"  She  is,  sir,"  i-eplied  her  father. 

"  ]\Iight  I  hoiae  for  the  honor  of  being  pre- 
sented to  her,  Mr.  Goodwiu  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  sir.  Alice,  my  dear, 
although  you  ah'eady  know  who  this  gentle- 
man is,  j'et  allow  me,  nevertheless,  to  pre- 
sent him  to  you." 

The  formal  introduction  accordingly  took 
place,  after  which  Woodward,  turning  to 
Sirs.  Goodwin,  said, 

"  I  am  not  surjirised,  madam,  at  the  pre- 
dilection which  my  cousin  entertained  for 
Miss  Goo  Iwin,  even  from  what  I  see  ;  but  I 
feel  that  I  am  restrained  by  her  presence 
from  exp:  essing  myself  at  further  length.  I 
have  onlj  to  say  that  I  wish  her  every  hap- 
piness, long  life,  and  health  to  enjoy  that  of 
which  sts  seems,  and  I  am  certain  is,  so 
worthy." 

He  accomf)anied  those  words  ^vith  a  low  bow 
and  a  very  gracious  smile,  after  which,  his 
horse  having  been  brought  to  the  door,  he 
took  his  leave  \rith  a  great  deal  of  politeness, 
and  rode,  according  to  the  directions  re- 
ceived fi-om  Mi:  Goodwin,  toward  his  father's 
house. 

After  his  departure  the  family  began  to 
discuss  his  character  somewhat  to  the  follow- 
ing, effect  : 

"  That  is  a  fine  yoimg  man,"  said  Mr. 
Goodwin,  "  hberal-minded  and  generous,  or 
I  am  much  mistaken.  What  do  you  think, 
Mai'tha,"  he  added,  addi'essing  his  wife. 

"Upon  my  word,"  repUed  that  lady,  "I 
am  much  of  your  opinion — yet  I  don't  know 
sither  ;  aLihough  pohte  and  com'teous,  there 
is  someth'jig  rather  disagi-eeable  about  him." 

"  Why,"  inquired  her  husband,  "  what  is 
there  dis£  gi-eeable  about  him  ?  I  could  per- 
ceive nothing  of  the  sort  ;  and  w-hen  we  con- 
sider that  his  uncle,  who  left  this  property  to 
Alice,  was  his  mother's  brother,  and  that  he 
was  nephew  by  blood  as  well  as  by  law,  and 
that  it  was  the  old  man's  original  intention 
that  the  property  should  go  directly  to  him, 
or  in  default  of  issue,  to  his  brother — I  think 
■when  we  consider  this,  Martha,  that  we 
cannot  but  entertain  a  favoi'able  imjji'ession 
of  him,  considering  what  he  has  lost  bj'  the 
imexjsected  turn  given  to  his  prospects  in 
consequence  of  his  uncle's  wiU.  Alice,  my 
dear,  what  is  your  opinion  of  him  ?  " 

"Indeed,  papa,"  she  replied,  "I  have  had 
— as  we  all  have  had — but  a  very  slight  op- 
portunity to  form  any  opinion  of  him.  As 
for  me,  I  can  judge  only  by  the  imjjressions 
which  his  conversation  and  person  have 
left  upon  me." 

"  Well,  anything  favorable  or  otherwise  ?  " 


"  Anything  at  all  hid  favorable,  papa — • 
I  experienced  something  like  pain  durin" 
breakfast,  and  felt  a  strong  sense  of  rehel 
the  moment  he  left  the  room." 

"  Poor  child,  impressions  are  nothing. 
I  have  met  men  of  whom  first  imj)ressiona 
were  uniformly  unfavorable,  who,  notwith- 
standing their  rough  outsides,  were  j)ersous 
of  sterling  worth  and  character." 

"Yes,  papa,  and  men  of  great  plausibility 
and  ease  of  manner,  who,  on  the  contrary, 
were  deep,  hypocritical  and  selfish  when 
discovered  and  their  hearts  laid  open.  As 
regards  Mr.  Woodward,  however,  heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  place  the  impressions 
of  an  ignorant  girl  like  myself  against  the 
knowledge  and  exjserience  of  a  man  who 
has  had  such  oiDjjortunities  of  knowing  the 
v.'orld  as  you.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  whilst 
he  seemed  to  breathe  a  very  generous  spirit, 
my  impressions  were  completely'  at  variance 
with  every  sentiment  he  uttered.  Perhaps, 
however,  I  do  him  injustice — and  I  should 
regret  that  very  much.  I  will  then,  in  de- 
ference to  your  opuiion,  pajja,  endeavor  to 
control  those  imj)ressious  and  think  as  well 
of  him  as  I  can." 

"  You  are  right,  Alice,  and  T  thank  you. 
We  should  never,  if  possible,  suffer  ourselves 
to  be  prematurely  ungenerous  in  our  esti- 
mate of  strangers,  esj)eeiaLly  when  we  know 
that  this  world  is  filled  with  the  most  ab- 
surd and  ridiculous  jjrejudices.  How  do 
you  know,  my  dear  child,  that  jours  is  not 
one  of  them  ?  " 

"Ahce,  love,"  said  her  mother,  "I  think, 
upon  reflection,  your  father  is  right,  as  he 
always  is  ;  let  us  not  be  less  generous  than 
this  j'oung  man,  and  you  know  it  iirndd  be 
imgenerous  to  prejudge  him ;  and  this 
comes  the  more  strange  from  you,  my  love, 
inasmuch  as  I  never  yet  heard  you  express 
a  prejudice  almost  against  any  person." 

"Because  I  don't  remember,  mamma,  that 
I  ever  felt  such  an  impression — jsrejudice — 
call  it  what  you  ^vill — against  any  individual 
as  I  do  against  this  man.  I  absolutely  fear 
him  without  knowing  why." 

"  Precisely  so,  my  dear  Alice,"  rephed  her 
father,  "precisely  so;  and,  as  you  say,  ivith- 
out  knowing  v:hy.  Li  that  one  phrase,  my 
child,  you  have  defined  prejudice  to  the  let^ 
ter.  Fie,  Ahce  ;  have  more  sense,  my  dear  : 
have  more  sense.  Dismiss  this  foolish  pre- 
judice against  a  young  man,  who,  fi'om  what 
he  said  at  breakfast,  is  entitled  to  better 
feelings  at  your  hands." 

"  As  I  said,  papa,  I  shall  certainly  strive  to 
do  so." 

Alice  Goodwin's  person  and  character 
must,  at  this  stage  of  our  narrative,  be  made 
knowni  to  our  reatlers.     As  to  her  person,  it 


6S8 


WILLIAM  CARLETOys    WORKS. 


is  only  suificient  to  say  that  she  was  a  tall, 
beautiful  girl,  of  exceeding  grace  aud  wou- 
derful  proportions.  There  was,  however,  a 
softness  about  her  appearance  of  constitu- 
tional dehcaey  that  seemed  to  be  incompatilile 
with  a  strong  mind,  or  j^erhaps  we  should 
rather  say  that  was  identical  with  an  excess 
of  feeling.  This  was  exhibited  in  the  tender- 
■aess  of  her  attachment  to  Agues  Hamilton, 
and  in  the  agonizing  giief  which  she  ex- 
perienced at  her  death — a  grief  which  .  had 
weUnigh  become  fatal  to  a  girl  of  her  fi-agile 
organization.  The  predominant  trait,  how- 
ever, in  her  character  was  ti)uidity  and  a 
teri'or  of  a  hundred  trifles,  which,  in  the 
generahty  of  her  sex,  would  occasion  only 
indifference  or  laughter.  On  that  very 
morning,  for  instance,  she  had  not  recovered 
from  her  pamful  apprehensions  of  the 
thunder-storm  which  had  occurred  on  the 
preceding  night.  Of  thunder,  but  especially 
of  lightning,  she  was  afraid  even  to  pusiUau- 
imity  ;  indeed  so  mucli  so,  that  on  such  oc- 
cuiTences  she  would  bind  her  eyes,  fly  down 
stairs,  and  take  refuge  in  the  cellar  until  the 
hurly-burly  in  the  clouds  was  over.  This, 
however,  was  not  so  much  to  be  wondered 
at  by  those  who  live  in  our  present  aud  more 
enlightened  days  ;  as  our  readers  wiU  admit 
when  they  are  told  that  the  jjeriod  of  our 
narrative  is  in  the  reign  of  that  tnily  religious 
monarch,  Charles  the  Second,  who,  conscious 
of  his  inward  and  invisible  grace,  was  known 
to  exhaust  himself  so  liberally  of  his  virtue, 
when  touching  for  the  Evil,  that  there  wns 
very  little  of  it  left  to  regulate  that  of  his 
own  private  life.  In  those  days  Ireland  was 
a  mass  of  social  suj^erstitions,  and  a  vast 
number  of  cures  in  a  variety  of  diseases 
were  said  to  be  jjerformed  by  witches,  wiz- 
ards, faiiy-men,  fairy-women,  aud  a  thousand 
other  iuipostors,  who,  supported  by  the  gross 
ignorance  of  the  people,  carried  that  which 
was  first  commenced  in  fi'aud  and  cunning 
into  a  self-delusion,  which,  in  jjrocess  of 
time,  led  them  to  become  dupes  to  their  own 
impostures.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
then,  that  Alice  Goodwin,  a  young  creature 
of  a  warm  imagination  and  extraordinary 
constitutional  timidity,  should  feel  the  full 
force  of  the  superstitions  which  swarmed 
around  her,  and  imi)regnated  her  fancj'  so 
strongly  that  it  teemed  with  an  unhealthy 
creation,  which  frequently  rendered  her  ex- 
istence ijainful  by  a  morbid  ap])rehensiou  of 
wicked  and  suj^ernatural  influences.  In 
other  respects  she  was  artlessuess  itself, 
could  never  understand  what  falsehood 
meant,  and,  as  to  truth,  her  unsj)otted  mind 
was  transparent  as  a  sunbeam.  Our  readers 
are  not  to  understiuid,  however,  that  though 
cppai'ently  flexible  iuid  ductile,  she  possessed 


no  power  of  moral  resistance.  So  veiy  fal 
fi'om  that,  her  disposition,  wherever  she 
thought  herself  right,  was  not  only  firm  and 
unbending,  but  sometimes  rose  idmost  to 
obstinacy.  This,  however,  never  appeared, 
unless  she  considered  herself  as  standing 
vijjon  the  basis  of  tiiith.  In  cases  where 
her  judgment  was  at  fault,  or  when  she 
could  not  see  her  way,  she  was  a  perfect 
child,  and,  like  a  child,  shordd  be  taken  by 
the  hand  and  supported.  It  was,  however', 
when  minghng  in  society  that  her  timidity 
aud  bashfuluess  were  most  observable  ;  these, 
however,  were  accompanied  with  so  much 
natiu'al  grace,  and  unafi'ected  innocence  o.V 
manner,  that  the  general  charm  of  her  whol(\ 
character  was  fascinating  and  irresistible ; 
nay,  her  very  weidsnesses  created  an  atmos- 
phere of  love  and  symj^athy  arouid  her  that 
nobody  could  breathe  without  feeling  her  in- 
fluence. Her  fear  of  ghosts  and  fairies,  her 
dread  of  wizards  and  ^\itches,  of  vise  women 
and  stroUing  conjurers,  with  tlie  s.ij)crstitious 
accounts  of  whom  the  couutrj-  then  abound- 
ed, were,  in  the  ej'es  of  her  more  strong- 
minded  fiiends,  only  a  source  of  that  caress- 
ing aud  indulgent  aflection  wliich  made  its 
artless  aud  innocent  object  more  dear  to 
them.  Eveiy  one  knows  with  what  natural 
affection  and  tenderness  we  love  the  object 
which  clings  to  us  for  support  uuder  the 
apprehension  of  danger,  even  when  we  our- 
selves are  satisfied  that  the  apprehension  is 
groundless.  So  was  it  mth  Alice  Goodwin, 
whose  harmless  foibles  and  weaknesses,  as- 
sociated as  they  were  with  so  much  truth  and 
purity,  rendered  her  the  dsa'liug  of  sdl  whc- 
knew  her. 

Woodward  had  not  proceeded  far  on  his 
way  when  he  was  overtaken  by  ar  equestrian. 
who  came  up  to  him  at  a  smart  pace,  wliich, 
however,  he  checked  on  getting  beside  him. 

"  A  tine  morning,  sir,  afle  •  an  awfu2 
night,"  observed  the  stranger. 

"It  is,  RU',"  replied  Woodwai'd,  "and  a 
most  awful  night  it  assuredly  was.  Have 
you  heard  whether  there  has  been  destruc- 
tion to  life  or  i)roperty  to  any  extent  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  to  hfe,"  replied  his  compan- 
ion, '•  but  seriously,  I  understand,  to  pro- 
perty. If  you  had  ridden  far  you  must  have 
observed  the  number  of  dwelling-houses  aud 
out  offices  that  have  been  unroofed,  aud  some 
of  them  altogether  blown  do\\ii." 

"I  have  not  ridden  far,"  said  "\Voodwai-d  ; 
"  I  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  the  house 
of  a  country  gentleiuau  named  Goodwin,  who 
lives  over  in  the  trees." 

"You  were  fortunate  in  finding  shelter 
anywhere,"  rejjhed  the  stranger,  "  during 
such  a  tempest.  I  remember  nothing  like 
it." 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


629 


As  they  proceeded  along,  indulging  in 
similar  chat,  they  observed  that  five  or  six 
countrymen,  who  had  been  walking  at  a 
smart  pace,  about  a  couple  of  hundred  j'ards 
bffore  them,  came  suddenly  to  a  stand-still, 
and,  after  appearing  te>  consult  together, 
they  darted  off  the  road  and  laid  themselves 
down,  as  if  with  a  view  of  concealment,  be- 
hind the  gi'assj'  ditch  which  ran  along  it. 

"  What  can  these  jiersous  mean  ?"  asked 
Woodward ;  "  they  seem  to  be  concealing 
themselves." 

"Unquestionably  they  do,"  replied  the 
stranger  ;  "  ana  yet  there  appears  to  be  no 
jjursuit  after  them.  I  certainly  can  give  no 
guess  as  to  their  object." 

W'hile  attempting,  as  the;,-  went  along,  to 
account  for  the  conduct  of  the  peasants, 
they  were  i  aet  by  a  female  with  a  head  of 
hair  that  A/as  nearly  blood-red,  and  whose 
featiu'es  were  hideously  ugly,  or  rather,  we 
should  say,  absoluteh'  revolting.  Her  brows, 
which  were  of  the  same  color  as  the  hair, 
were  knit  i^ito  a  scowl,  such  as  is  occasioned 
by  an  intense  expression  of  hatred  and 
malignity,  yet  which  was  rendered  almost 
frightful  by  a  squmt  that  would  have  dis- 
tigvired  the  features  of  a  demon.  Her  coarse 
hair  laj-  matted  together  in  stiff,  wiiy  waves 
on  each  side  of  her  head,  from  whence  it 
streamed  down  her  shoulders,  wliich  it 
covered-  like  a  cape  of  scarlet.  As  they 
approached  each  other,  she  glanced  at  them 
with  a  look  from  which  they  could  only  infer 
tliat  she  seemed  to  meditate  the  murder  of 
each,  and  yet  there  was  mingled  with  its 
maUgnity  a  bitter  but  derisive  expression 
that  was  perfectly  diabohcal. 

"  What  a  frightful  hag ! "  exclaime<l 
W'oodward,  addressing  his  companion  ;  "  I 
never  had  a  perfect  conception  of  the  face  of 
an  ogress  until  now  !  Did  you  observe  her 
wah'us  tusks,  as  they  projected  over  her 
misshapen  nether  lip  ?  The  hag  ajspears  to 
be  an  impersonation  of  all  that  is  evil. " 

"  She  may  be  a  vei-y  harmless  creature  for 
all  that,"  replied  the  other;  "we  are  not 
to  judge  by  appearances.  I  know  a  man 
who  had  murder  depicted  in  his  counten- 
ance, if  ever  a  man  had,  and  yet  there  Uved 
not  a  kinder,  more  humane,  or  benevolent 
creature  o}  i  earth.  He  was  as  simple,  too, 
as  a  child,  and  the  most  affectionate  father 
and  husbi  iid  that  ever  breathed.  These, 
however,  n  ay  be  exceptions  ;  for  most  cer- 
tainly I  aai  of  opinion  that  the  countenance 
ma}'  be  eo:  isidered,  in  general,  a  very  certain 
(ndex  to  the  character  and  disjiosition.  But 
'vhat  is  this  ? — here  are  the  men  returning 
from  their  journey,  let  us  question  them." 

"Pray,"  said  Woodward,  addressing 
ihem,     "  if  it  be  not  impertinent,  may  I  iu- 


cpiire  why  you  ran  in  such  a  hurry  off  the 
road  just  now,  and  hid  j'ourselves  behind  the 
ditch  ?  " 

"Certainly,  sir,  you  may,"  replied  one  of 
them  ;  "we  wor  on  oiu"  way  to  the  fair  of 
Ivnoekmore,  and  we  didn't  wish  to  meet 
Pugshy  Roe  "  (Red  Peggy). 

"  But  why  should  you  not  wish  to  meet 
her  ?  " 

"  Bekaise,  sir,  she's  unlucky — unlucky  in 
the  thaee  ways — unlucky  to  man,  unlucky  to 
baste,  and  unlucky  to  business.  She  over- 
looks, sir  ;  she  has  the  Evil  Eye — the  Lord 
be  about  us  !  " 

"The  Exil  Eye,"  repeated  Woodward, 
diyly  ;  "and  pray,  what  harm  could  her  evil 
eye  do  you  ?  " 

"  WTiy,  nothing  in  the  world,"  replied  the 
man,  uiiively,  "  baiTin"  to  wither  us  off  o'the 
earth — that's  all." 

"  Has  she  been  long  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 
asked  the  stranger. 

"  Too  long,  your  honor.  Sure  she  over- 
looked Biddy  Nelligan's  child,  and  it  never 
did  good  afterwards." 

"  And  I,"  said  another,  "  am  iudebted  to 
the  thief  o'  hell  for  the  loss  of  as  good  a  cow 
as  ever  iiUed  a  piggin." 

"  Well,  sure,"  observed  a  third,  "Father 
MuUen  is  goiu'  to  read  her  out  next  Sun- 
day fi'om  the  althar.  She  has  been  banished 
from  every  jJarish  in  the  couuthry.  Indeed, 
I  believe  he's  goin'  to  drowia  the  candles 
against  her,  so  that,  plaise  the  Lord,  she'll 
have  to  tramp." 

"  How  does  she  live  and  maintain  her- 
self ?  "  asked  the  stranger  again. 

"  Why,  sir,"  rep)lied  the  man,  "  she  tuck 
possession  of  a  waste  cabin  and  a  bit  o'  gar- 
den belongin'  to  it ;  and  Larry  Sullivan,  that 
owns  it,  was  goin'  to  put  her  ovit,  when,  Lord 
save  us,  he  and  his  whole  family  were  saized 
with  sickness,  and  then  he  sent  word  to  her 
that  if  she'd  take  it  off"  o'  them  and  put  it  on 
some  one  else  he'd  let  her  stay." 

"And  did  she  do  so  ?  " 

"  She  did,  sir  ;  eveiy  one  o'  them  recov- 
ered, and  she  put  it  on  his  neighbor,  poor 
Harry  Commiskey  and  his  family,  that  used 
to  visit  them  every  day,  and  fi'om  them  it 
went  over  the  country — and  bad  luck  to 
her !  Devil  a  man  of  us  would  have  had 
luck  or  grace  in  the  fair  to-day  if  we  had 
met  her.  That's  another  gift  she  has — 
to  bring  bad  luck  to  any  one  that  meets  her 
first  in  the  momiu' ;  for  if  they're  goin' 
U2)on  any  business  it's  sure  not  to  thrive 
with  them.  She's  worse  than  Mrs.  Lindsay  ; 
for  Mrs.  Lindsay,  although  she's  unlucky  to 
meet,  and  unlucky  to  cattle,  too,  has  no 
power  over  any  one's  life  ;  but  they  say  it 
has  always  been  iu  hur  family,  too." 


630 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Tlie  equestrians  tlien  ijroceeded  at  a 
rather  brisk  2:)ace  uutil  they  had  got  dear  of 
the  peasants,  when  thej  pulled  up  a  little. 

"  That  is  a  strange  sujierstition,  sii',"  said 
Woodward,  musingly. 

"It  is  a  very  common  one  in  this  country, 
at  all  events,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  and  I  be- 
lieve pretty  general  in  others  as  weU  as 
here." 

"Do  you  place  any  faith  in  it  ?  "  asked  the 
other. 

The  stranger  paused,  as  if  investigating 
the  subject  in  question,  after  which  he  re- 
plied, 

"  To  a  certain  extent  I  do  ;  but  it  is  upon 
this  principle,  that  I  believe  the  force  of 
imagination  on  a  weak  mind  constitutes  the 
malady.     What  is  youi'  own  opinion  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  it  is  not  a  superstition  but  a 
fact  ;  a  fact,  too,  which  has  been  frequently 
proved  ;  and,  what  is  more,  it  is  known,  as 
the  man  said,  to  be  hereditary  in  famiUes." 

"  I  don't  give  credence  to  that,"  said  the 
stranger. 

"  Why  not,  sir  ?  "  replied  Woodward  ; 
"iu'e  not  the  moral  quahties  hereditary?  are 
not  the  tempers  and  dispositions  heredi- 
tary, as  well  as  decline,  insanity,  scrofula, 
and  other  physical  comijlaints  ?  " 

Tlie  stranger  paused  again,  and  said, 
"  Perhaps  so.  There  is  certainly  much  mys- 
tery in  human  nature  ;  more,  probably, 
than  we  can  conceive  or  be  aware  of.  Time, 
however,  and  the  jJi'ogress  of  science,  will 
develop)  much.  But  who  was  this  IVIi-s. 
Lindsay  that  the  man  spoke  of  ?  " 

"That  lady,  sir,"  rejahed  the  other,  "is 
my  mother." 

The  stranger,  from  a  feeling  of  delicacy, 
made  no  observation  upon  this,  but  pro- 
ceeded to  take  another  view  of  the  same 
subject. 

"  Suppose,  then,"  he  added,  "  that  we  ad- 
mit the  fact  that  the  eye  of  a  certain  indi- 
vidual can  transfuse,  by  the  force  of  strong 
volition,  an  evil  influence  into  the  being  or 
bodily  system  of  another — why  should  it 
happen  that  an  eye  or  touch  charged  with 
henefivenci',  instead  of  evil,  should  fail  to 
affect  with  a  sanative  contagion  those  who 
labor  under  many  diseases  ?  " 

"  The  only  reply  I  can  make  to  your 
question,"  said  Woodward,  "  is  this :  the  one 
has  been  long  and  generally  known  to  exist, 
whereas  the  latter  has  never  been  heard  of, 
which  most  assiu'edly  would  not  have  been 
the  case  if  it  had  ever  existed  ;  as  for  the 
cure  of  the  King's  Evil  it  is  a  royal  imposture. " 

"I  believe  in  the  latter,"  observed  the  oth- 
er calmly. 

"  Upon  what  grounds  ?  "  asked  hi^  com- 
panion. 


"  Simply  because  I  know  a  person  who 
possesses  the  sanative  power  I  spesik  of." 

"And  I  beheve  in  the  former,"  replied 
Woodward,  "  and  upon  better  gi'ounds  stiO, 
because  I  possess  it  myself." 

"  You  will  pardon  me,"  said  the  other ; 
"  but  I  hesitate  to  beheve  that." 

Woodward,  who  felt  this  imputation 
against  his  veracity  with  resentment,  eud- 
denly  jiulled  u]}  his  horse,  and,  turning  hiiii- 
self  on  the  saddle,  looked  upon  his  compan- 
ion with  an  exjsression  that  was  as  extraordi- 
nary as  it  was  blighting.  The  stranger,  on 
the  other  hand,  reinmg  in  /;  is^  hor.«.e,  and  tak- 
ing exactly  the  same  attitude  as  Woodward, 
bent  his  eye  on  him  in  return  ;  and  there 
they  sat  opposite  to  each  other,  where  we 
will  leave  them  until  we  describe  the  some- 
what extraordinary  man  who  had  become  the 
fellow-traveller  of  the  hero  of  tht  breakfast 
table. 

He  was  mounted  upon  a  powerful  charg- 
er ;  for  indeed  it  was  e\ident  at  a  ,>lance  that 
no  other  would  have  been  eqjal  to  his 
weight.  He  was  well-dressed — that  is  to 
say,  in  the  gai-b  of  a  country  gentleman  of 
the  day.  He  wore  his  own  hair,  however, 
which  tell  in  long  masses  over  his  shoulders, 
and  a  falling  collar,  which  came  down  over 
his  breast.  His  person  was  robust  and 
healthy  looking,  and,  what  is  not  very  usual 
in  large  men,  it  was  remarkable  for  the  most 
consummate  j^roportion  and  symmetry.  He 
wore  boots  and  silver  spurs,  and  his  feet 
were  unusually  small,  considering  his  size, 
as  were  also  his  hands.  That,  however, 
which  struck  the  beholder  with  ;;mazement, 
was  the  manly  beauty  of  his  features.  At  a 
first  glance  this  was  visible  ;  but  on  contem- 
jalating  them  more  closely  you  began  to  feel 
something  strange  and  wonderful  associated 
with  a  feeling  of  veneration  and  pleasure. 
Even  this,  however,  was  comparatively  little 
to  what  a  still  more  deliberate  jjerusal  of 
that  face  brought  to  Ught-  There  could  be 
read  that  extraordinary  union  of  humility  tmd 
grandeur ;  but  above  all,  and  beyond  all 
other  exjiressions,  there  proceeded  from  his 
eyes,  and  radiated  like  a  halo  from  evei-y 
part  of  his  countenance,  a  sense  of  power 
which  was  felt  to  be  irresistible.  His  eyes, 
indeed,  were  almost  transparent  with  light 
— a  hght  so  clear,  benignant,  v  id  strong, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  v.-itucxand  their 
glance,  radiant  with  benevolence  though  it 
was.  The  surrender  to  that  glfjice,  how- 
ever, was  a  willing  and  a  pleasing  one.  Tlie 
spectator  submitted  to  it  as  an  individual 
would  to  the  eye  of  a  blessed  spirit  that  was 
known  to  communicate  nothing  but  good. 
There,  then,  they  sat  contemplating  one  an. 
other,  each,  as  it  were,   in  the  exercise  o\ 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   TUE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


C31 


some  particular  power,  wliieli,  in  this  case, 
ajjpeared  to  depend  altogether  on  the  ex- 
pressions of  the  eye.  The  gaze  was  long 
and  combative  in  its  character,  and  consti- 
tuted a  trial  of  that  moral  strength  which 
each,  in  the  j)eculiar  constitution  of  his  be- 
ing, seemed  to  possess.  After  some  time, 
however.  Woodward's  glance  seemed  to  lose 
its  conceutrative  power,  and  gradually  to  be- 
come vague  and  blank.  In  a  little  time  he 
felt  himself  rapidly  losing  ground,  and  could 
hardly  avoid  thinking  that  the  eyes  of  his  oji- 
ponent  were  looking  into  his  very  soul :  his 
eyehds  quivered,  liis  eyes  assumed  a  dull 
and  listless  appearance,  and  ultimately  clos- 
ed for  some  moments — he  was  vanquished, 
and  he  felt  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  said  his 
companion  at  length,  "and  why  did  you 
look  at  me  with  such  a  singular  gaze  ?  I 
hope  you  do  not  feel  resentment  at  what  I 
said.  '  I  hesitated  to  believe  you  onlj'  be- 
cause I  thought  you  might  be  mistaken." 

"I  entertain  no  resentment  against  you," 
replied  Woodward  ;  "but  I  must  confess  I 
feel  astonished.  Pray,  allow  me  to  ask,  su-, 
are  you  a  medical  man '? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  other  ;  "I  never 
received  a  medical  education,  and  yet  I  per- 
form a  great  number  of  cures." 

"Then,  sir,"  said  Woodward,  "I  take  it, 
with  everj'  respect,  that  you  must  be  a 
quack." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  a  quack  to  work  a 
cure  without  medicine  ?  "  replied  the  other  ; 
"  /  cure  ivifhcut  medicine,  and  that  is  more 
than  tlie  quack  is  able  to  do  with  it ;  I,  con- 
sequently, cannot  be  a  quack." 

".Then,  in  the  devU's  name,  what  are 
you  ?  "  asked  Woodward,  who  felt  that  his 
extraordinary  fellow-traveller  was  amusing 
himself  at  his  expense. 

"I  reply  to  no  interrogatory  urged  upon 
such  authority."  said  the  stranger  ;  "  but  let 
me  advise  you,  young  man,  not  to  allow 
that  mysterious  and  malignant  power  which 
you  seem  to  possess  to  gratify  itself  by  in- 
jury to  your  fellow-creatures.  Let  it  be  the 
principal  purpose  of  your  life  to  serve  them 
by  evei-y  means  within  your  reach,  other- 
wise you  wiU  neglect  to  your  cost  those 
great  duties  for  which  God  created  you. 
i*\irewell,  my  friend,  and  remember  my 
words  ;  for  they  are  uttered  in  a  spirit  of 
kindness  and  good  feeUng." 

They  had  now  arrived  at  cross-roads  ;  the 
stranger  turned  to  the  right,  and  Woodward 
proceeded,  as  directed,  toward  Rathfillan 
House,  the  residence  of  his  father 

The  building  was  a  tolerably  large  and 
comfortable  one,  without  any  pretence  to 
architectural  beauty.     It  liad  a  plain  porch 


before  the  hall- door,  v.'ith  a  neat  lawn, 
through  which  wound  a  pretty  drive  up  to 
the  house.  On  each  side  of  the  lawn  was  a 
semicircle  of  fine  old  trees,  that  gave  an  an- 
cient appearance  to  the  whole  place. 

Now,  one  might  imagine  that  Woodward 
would  have  felt  his  heart  bound  with  aifoc- 
tion  and  delight  on  his  return  to  all  that 
ought  to  have  been  dear  to  him  after  so 
long  an  absence.  So  far  from  that,  how- 
ever, he  returned  in  disappointment  and  ill- 
temper,  for  he  calculated  that  miless  there 
had  been  some  indefensible  neglect,  or  un- 
justifiable offence  oftered  to  his  uncle  Ham- 
ilton by  his  family,  that  gentleman,  who,  he 
knew,  had  the  character  of  being  both  affec- 
tionate and  good-natured,  would  never  have 
left  his  jDroperty  to  a  stranger.  The  ahena- 
tion  of  this  property  from  himself  was,  in- 
deed, the  bitter  reflection  which  rankled  in 
his  heart,  and  established  in  it  a  hatred 
against  the  Goodwins  which  he  resolved 
by  some  means  to  wreak  upon  them  in  a 
si^irit  of  the  blackest  vengeance.  Indepen- 
dently of  this,  we  feel  it  necessary  to  say 
here,  that  he  was  utterly  devoid  of  domestic 
atfection,  and  altogether  insensible  to  the 
natural  claims  and  feehngs  of  consanguinity. 
His  uncle  abroad,  for  instance,  had  frequently 
urged  him  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  relatives,  and, 
of  course,  to  sujjply  him  liberally  with  the 
necessary  funds  for  the  journey.  To  every 
such  suggestion,  however,  he  gave  a  decided 
negative.  "  If  they  wish  to  see  me,"  he 
would  reply,  "  let  them  come  and  see  me  : 
as  for  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  see  them,  and 
I  shall  not  go." 

This  unnatural  indifference  to  the  claims 
of  blood  and  afi'ection,  not  only  startled  his 
uncle,  but  shook  his  confidence  in  the  honor 
and  integrity  of  his  favorite.  Some  further 
discoveries  of  his  dishonesty  ultimately  led 
to  his  exj)ulsion  from  the  heart  of  that  kind 
relative,  as  well  as  from  the  hospitable  roof 
of  which  he  proved  himself  so  unworthy. 

With  such  a  natural  disposition,  and  af- 
fected as  he  must  have  been  by  a  train  of 
circumstances  so  decidedly  adverse  to  his 
hopes  and  isrosisects,  our  readers  need  not 
feel  surprised  that  he  should  return  home  in 
anything  but  an  agreeable  mood  of  miad. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

Woodward  mcein  a  Guide — Jlit  Rrc.rption  at  Home 
— Preparations  for  a  Fete. 

WooDWAED  rode  slowly,  as  he  indulged  in 
those  disagreeable  reflections  to  which  we 
alhided.  until  he  reached  a  second  cross- 
roads, where  he  found  himself  somewhat  ut 


632 


WILLIAM  CAliLETON'S  W01iI{S. 


li  loss  ¥/lietlier  to  turn  or  ride  straight  on- 
wax-d.  While  pausing  for  a  moment,  as  to 
which  ■way  he  should  take,  the  mellow 
whistle  of  some  person  behind  him  indulging 
in  a  light-hearted  Ii-ish  air,  caused  him  to 
look  back,  when  he  saw  a  well-made,  com- 
pact, good-looking  young  fellow  approach- 
ing, who,  finding  his  attention  evidently  di- 
rected to  him,  concluded  his  melody  and  re- 
spectfully touched  his  hat." 

"  Pray,  my  good  friend,"  said  Woodward, 
"  can  you  direct  me  to  Rathtillan,  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Lindsay,  the  magistrate  ?  " 

"  Misther  Lindsay's,  is  it?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  said  so." 

"Well,  I  think  I  can,  sir." 

"  Yes  ;  but  are  you  sure  of  it?  " 

"Well,  I  think  J  am,  sir." 

"  You  think  !  why,  d. — n  it,  sir,  do  you 
iiot  know  whether  you  are  or  not  ?  " 

"  May  I  ax,  sir,"  inquired  the  other  in  his 
turn,  "  if  j'ou  are  a  i-eligious  character  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  the  devil  lias  that  to  do  with 
the  matter  in  question  ?  "  said  Woodward, 
beginning  to  lose  his  temper.  "I  ask  you  to 
direct  me  to  the  residence  of  a  certain  gen- 
tleman, and  you  ask  me  whether  I  am  a  re- 
ligious character  ?  WTiat  do  you  mejin  by 
that?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "  not  much, 
I'm  afeard — only  if  you  had  let  me  speak, 
which  you  didn't,  God  pardon  you,  I  was  go- 
ing to  say,  that  if  you  knew  the  way  to 
heaven  as  well  as  I  do  to  Misther  Lindsay's 
you  might  call  yourself  a  hai^jiy  man,  and 
born  to  luck." 

Woodward  looked  with  something  of  curi- 
osity at  his  new  companion,  and  was  a  good 
deal  struck  with  his  appearance.  His  age 
might  be  about  twenty-eight  or  fi'om  that  to 
tliirty;  his  figure  stout  and  well-made  ;  his 
features  were  decidedly  Milesian,  but  then 
they  were  Milesian  of  the  best  character  ; 
wis  mouth  was  firm,  but  his  lifis  full,  red, 
and  handsome  ;  his  clear,  merry  eyes  would 
puzzle  one  to  determine  whether  they  were 
gray  or  blue,  so  equally  were  the  two  colors 
blended  in  them.  After  a  very  brief  conver- 
sation with  liim,  no  one  could  doubt  that 
liumor  formed  a  jwedominant  trait  in  his 
disposition.  In  fact,  the  spirit  of  the  forth- 
coming jest  was  visible  in  his  countenance 
before  the  jest  itself  came  forth;  but  although 
his  whole  featiu'es  bore  a  careless  and  buoy- 
ant exjjression,  yet  there  was  no  mistaking 
in  them  the  unquestionable  evidences  of 
great  shrewdness  and  good  sense.  He  also 
indulged  occasionally  in  an  ironical  and 
comic  sarcasm, which,  however,  was  never  di- 
rected agninst  his  friends  ;  this  he  reserved 
for  certain  individuals  whose  character  en- 
titled them  to  it  at  his  hands.   He  also  drew 


the  long-bow,  when  he  wished,  with  gi-eat 
skill  and  eii'ect.  Woodward,  after  having 
scrutinized  his  countenance  for  some  time, 
was  about  to  make  some  inquiiies,  as  a 
stranger,  concerning  his  family  and  the 
reputation  they  bore  in  the  neighborhood, 
when  he  found  himself,  considerably  to  his 
surj^iise,  placed  in  the  witness-box  for  a 
rather  brisk  tire  of  cross-examination. 

"You  are  no  stranger  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  I  presume,"  said  he,  with  a  view  of 
bringing  him  out  for  his  own  covert  and 
somewhat  ungenerous  jjurposes. 

"  I  am  no  stranger,  sure  enough,  sir,'' 
repUed  the  other,  "  so  far  as  a  good  slice  of 
the  countlmi  side  goes  ;  but  if  I  am  not  you 
are,  sii',  or  I'm  out  in  it." 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  stranger  here." 

"  Never  mind,  sir,  don't  let  that  disthress 
you  ;  it's  a  good  man's  case,  sir.  Did  you 
thravel  far,  wid  submission  ?  I  spake  in 
kindness,  sir." 

"  Wiy,  yes,  a — a — ^pretty  good  distance; 
but  about  Mr.  Lindsay  and — " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  crossed  over,  sir,  I  sui3j)0se  ?  1 
mane  from  the  other  side  ?  " 

"  O  !  you  want  to  know  if  I  crossed  the 
Channel?" 

"  Had  you  a  pleasant  passage,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  tolerable." 

"  Thank  God  !  I  hope  you'll  make  a  long 
stay  with  us,  sir,  in  this  pai't  of  the  comithry. 
If  you  have  any  business  to  do  ^rith  Jlr. 
Lindsay — as  of  coorse  you  have — why,  I 
don't  think  you  and  he  will  quaiTel ;  and  by 
the  way,  sir,  I  know  him  and  the  family 
well,  and  if  I  only  got  a  giimj)se,  I  could 
throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  guide  you  in  dalin' 
wid  him — that  is,  if  I  knew  the  business." 

"As  to  that,"  rejjlied  Woodward,  "it  is 
not  very  particular  ;  I  am  only  coming  on  a 
pretty  long  visit  to  him,  and  as  you  say  you 
know  the  family,  I  would  feel  glad  to  heaJ 
what  you  think  of  them." 

"  Misther  Lindsay,  or  rather  Misther 
Charles,  and  you  will  have  a  tine  time  of  it, 
sir.  There's  delightful  tishin'  here,  and  the 
best  of  shootin'  and  huntin'  in  hai-vest  and 
winter — that  is,  if  you  stop  so' long." 

"  Wliat  kind  of  a  man  is  IVIi-.  Lindsay?  " 

"  A  tine,  clever  *  man,  sir  ;  six  feet  in  his 
stockin'  soles,  and  made  in  proportion." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  nothing  about  his 
figure  ;  is  the  man  rejsuted  good  or  bad  ?  " 

"  Why,  just  good  or  bad,  sir,  according  as 
he's  treated." 

"Is  he  well  liked,  then?  I  trust  you  im- 
derstand  me  now." 

"  By  his  friends,  sir,  no  man  betther — bj 
them  that's  his  enemies,  not  so  well." 

*  Portly,  large,  comely. 


*XUE  GAZE  WAS  LONG  AND  COMBATIVE  IN  ITS  CHABACTEB,  AND  CONSTITUTED  A  TRIAL   OF  THAT   MOBAL   8TBENGTH  WHICH 

EACHj  IN  THE  PECULIAR  coNsxiTUTiON  OF  HI3  BEiNQ,  SEEMED  TO  POSSESS. — JSvU  Eye;  OT  the  Block  SpectTc,  Page  631. 


LIBRARY 

:,:  THE 

^NiVERSiVy  OF  ILLINOIS 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


633 


"  You  mentioned  a  son  of-  his,  Charles,  I 
think  ;  what  kind  of  a  young  fellow  is  he  ?  " 

"  Verj-  like  his  father,  sir." 

"  I  see ;  well,  I  thank  you,  my  fi-iend,  for 
the  Hberality  of  your  information.  Has  he 
any  daughters  ?  " 

'■  Two,  sir  ;  but  very  unlike  their  mother." 

"Why,  what  kind  of  a  woman  is  their 
mother  V  " 

"  She's  a  saint,  sir,  of  a  sartin  class — ever 
and  always  at  her  prayers,"  {solto  voce,  "such 
as  they  are — cursing  her  feUow-cratiu-es 
fi-om  morniu'  till  night.") 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  it  is  a  good  thing  to 
be  religious." 

"Devil  a  better,  sir  ;  but  she,  as  I  said,  is 
a  siint yVom — heaven  "  {gotto  voce,  "  and  veiy 
far  fi'om  it  too.)  But,  sir,  there's  a  lady  in 
this  neighborhood — I  won't  name  her — that 
has  a  tongue  as  sharp  and  poisonous  as  if 
she  lived  on  rattlesnakes  ;  and  she  has  an 
eye  of  her  own  that  they  say  is  every  bit  as 
dangerous." 

"  And  who  is  she,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"Why,  a  very  intimate  friend  of  IMr.s. 
Lindsay's,  and  seldom  out  of  her  company. 
Now,  sir,  do  you  see  that  house  wid  the  tiill 
ehimleys,  or  rather  do  j'ou  see  the  tail  chim- 
leys — for  you  can't  see  the  house  itself? 
That's  where  the  family  we  sjjake  of  Kves, 
and  there  you'll  see  JVIrs.  Liudsay  and  the 
lady  I  mention." 

Woodward,  in  fact,   knew  not  what  to 
make  of  his  guide  ;  he  found  him  inscrut- 
able, and  deemed  it  useless  to  attempt  the 
extortion  of  any  fui'ther  intelligence   from 
him.     The   latter   was   ignorant  that    Mrs. 
Lindsay's  son  was  expected   home,  as  was 
every  member  of  that  gentleman's  family. 
He  had,  in  fact,  given  them  no  information 
of  his  return.     The  dishonest  fraud  which 
he  had  practised  upon  his  uncle,  and  the 
apprehension  that  that  good  old  man  had 
transmitted  an  account  of  his  delinquencj-  to 
his  relatives,  prevented  him  from  writing,  j 
lest   he   might,  by   subsequent   falsehoods,  j 
contradict  Jiis  uncle,    and   thereby   involve  ' 
himself    in   deeper    disgi-ace.      His    uncle, 
however,  was  satisfied  with  having  got  rid  of  ; 
him,  and  forbore  to  render  his  relations  un-  [ 
happy  by  any  complaint  of  his  conduct.  His 
hojje  was,  that  Woodward's  expulsion  from 
his  house,  and  the  withdrawal  of  his  affec-  I 
tious   from    him,    might,    upon    reflection,  j 
cause  him  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf — an  eti'ort 
which   would   have   been   difficult,  perhaps 
impracticable,  had  he  transmitted  to  them  a 
full  explanation  of  his  perfidy  and  ingrati- 
tude. 

A  thought  now  occurred  to  Woodward 
with  reference  to  himself.  He  saw  that  his 
guide,  after  ha-^Tng  pointed  out  his  father's 


house  to  him,  was  stOl  keeping  hiiir  com- 
pany. 

"Perhaps  you  are  coming  out  of  your 
way,"  said  he  ;  "you  have  been  good  enough 
to  show  me  ]\Ii\  Lindsay's  residence,  and  I 
have  no  further  occasion  for  youi-  services. 
I  thank  you :  take  this  and  drink  my 
health ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he  offered  him 
some  sUver. 

"  Many  thanks,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  ia  a 
far  dift'erent  tone  of  voice,  "  many  thanks  ; 
but  I  never  resave  or  take  payment  for  an 
act  of  cirility,  especially  from  any  gentle- 
man on  his  way  to  the  family  of  Mi\  Lindsay. 
And  now,  sir,  I  wUl  tell  you  honestly  and 
openly  that  there  is  not  a  better  gentleman 
alive  this  day  than  he  is.  Himself,  his  son, 
and  daughter  *  are  loved  and  honored  by  all 
that  know  them  ;  and  woe  betide  the  man 
that  'ud  dare  to  cruck  (crook)  his  linger  at 
one  of  them." 

"  You  seem  to  know  them  very  well." 

"  I  have  a  good  right,  sir*,  seein'  that  I  have 
been  in  the  family  ever  since  I  was  a  gorson." 

"Audis^Irs.  Lindsay  as  popular  as  her 
husband  ?  " 

"  She  is  his  wife,  sir — the  mother  of  his 
children,  and  my  misthress  ;  afther  that  you 
may  judge  for  yoiu'self." 

"  Of  coui-se,  then,  you  are  aware  that  they 
have  a  son  abroad." 

"  I  am,  sir,  and  a  fine  young  man  they 
say  he  is.  Nothing  vexes  them  so  much  as 
that  he  won't  come  to  see  them.  He's  never 
off  their  tongue  ;  and  if  he's  aquil  to  what 
they  say  of  him,  upon  my  credit  the  sim 
needn't  take  the  trouble  of  shiniu'  on  him." 

"Have  they  any  expectation  of  a  visit 
from  him,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  hear,  sir  ;  but  I  know  that 
nothing  would  rise  the  cockles  of  their  hearts 
aquU  to  seein'  him  among  them.  Poor  fel- 
low !  Mr.  Hamilton's  wiU  was  a  bad  busi- 
ness for  him,  as  it  was  thought  he'd  have 
danced  into  the  pi-operty.  But  then,  they 
say,  his  other  uncle  will  pro\'ide  for  him, 
especially  as  he  took  him  fi-om  the  family, 
by  all  accounts,  on  that  condition." 

This  iuformation — if  information  it  could 
be  called — was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
wormwood  and  gaU  to  the  gentleman  on 
whose  ears  and  into  whose  heart  it  fell.  The 
consciousness  of  his  present  position — dis- 
carded by  a  kind  uncle  for  dishonesty,  and 
deprived,  as  he  thought,  by  the  caprice  or 
mental  imbeeiUty,  of  another  uncle,  of  a  pro- 
perty amounting  to  upwards  of  twelve  him- 
di'ed  per  annum — sank  upon  his  heart  with 
a  feeling  which  filled  it  with  a  deep  and  al- 

*  His  daughter  Jane  was  with  a  relation  in  Eng 
land,  and  does  not  appeal"  in  this  romance. 


634 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


most  bla9f)liemons  resentment  at  every  per- 
son concerned,  wliieb  he  could  scai'cely  re- 
press from  the  observation  of  his  guide. 

"  What  is  3'our  name '?"  said  he  abmptly 
to  him  ;  and  as  he  asked  the  question  he 
fixed  a  glance  ujjon  him  that  startled  his 
companion. 

The  latter  looked  at  him,  and  felt  sur- 
prised at  the  fearful  expression  of  his  eye  ; 
in  the  meantime,  we  must  say,  that  he  had 
not  an  ounce  of  coward's  flesh  on  his  bones. 

"  "V^Tiat  is  my  name,  sir?"  he  reislied. 
"  Faith,  afther  that  look,  if  you  don't  know 
my  name,  I  do  yours ;  there  was  your 
mother's  eye  fastened  on  me  to  the  life. 
However,  take  it  easy,  sir  ;  devil  a  bit  I'm 
afeared.  If  you're  not  her  son,  Misther 
Woodward,  why,  I'm  not  Barney  Casey, 
that's  all.  Don't  deny  it,  sir ;  you're  wel- 
come home,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  as  they 
all  will  be." 

"Harkee,  then,"  said  Woodward,  "you 
are  right ;  but,  mark  me,  keejj  quiet,  and  al- 
low me  to  manage  matters  in  my  own  way  ; 
not  a  syllable  of  the  discovery  you  have 
made,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you.  I  am  not 
a  person  to  be  trifled  with." 

"  Troth,  and  you'i-e  right  there,  sir ;  it's 
what  I  often  said,  often  say,  and  often  will  say 
of  myself.  Barney  Casey  is  not  the  boy 
to  be  trifled  wid." 

On  arriving  at  the  house,  Barney  took 
round  the  horse — a  hired  one,  by  the  way — 
to  the  stable,  and  Woodward  knocked.  On 
the  door  being  opened,  he  inquired  if  Mr. 
Luidsay  was  within,  and  was  answered  in  the 
affirmative. 

"  Will  you  let  him  know  a  gentleman 
wishes  to  see  him  for  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

"  What  name,  sir,  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"  O,  it  doesn't  matter — say  a  gentleman." 

"  Step  into  the  parlor,  sir,  and  he  will  be 
vrith  you  immediately." 

He  did  so,  and  there  was  but  a  very  short 
time  when  his  step-father  entered.  Short, 
as  the  time  was,  however,  lie  could  not  pre- 
vent himself  fi'om  reverting  to  the  strange 
equestrian  he  had  met  on  his  way,  nor  to 
the  extraordinary  ascendancy  he  had  gained 
over  him.  Another  young  man  placed  in 
this  circumstances  would  have  felt  agitated 
and  excited  by  his  ajiproaching  interview 
with  those  who  were  so  nearly  related  to 
him,  and  whom,  besides,  he  had  not  seen  for 
such  a  long  period  of  time.  To  every  such 
emotion,  however,  he  was  absolutely  insen- 
sible ;  there  was  no  beating  jjulse,  no 
heaving  of  the  bosom,  not  a  nerve  disturbed 
by  the  tremulous  vibrations  of  awakened 
affection,  no  tumult  of  the  heart,  no  starting 
tear — no  !  there  was  nothing  of  all  this — 
but,   on  the  contrary,  a  calm,  cold,    imper- 


turbable spirit,  so  dead  and  ignorant  of  do- 
mestic attachment,  that  the  man  could 
neither  feel  nor  understand  what  it  meant. 

When  his  step-father  entered,  he  natur- 
ally bowed  to  the  stranger,  and  motioned 
him  to  a  seat,  which  the  other  accordingly 
took.  Lindsay  certainly  was,  as  Barney 
Casey  had  said,  a  very  iine-looking  man  for 
his  years.  He  was  tall,  erect,  and  portly, 
somewhat  inclined  to  coqmlency,  of  a  hand- 
some, but  florid  coimtenance,  in  which 
might  be  read  a  large  expression  of  cheerful- 
ness and  good  humor,  together  with  that 
peculiar  tinge  which  results  fi-om  convivial- 
ity. Indeed,  there  could  scarcely  be  wit- 
nessed a  more  striking  contrast  than  that 
between  liis  open,  kind-looking  features,  and 
the  sharp,  disagreeable  symmetry  which 
marked  those  of  his  step-son  with  such  a 
dark  and  unpleasant  character. 

"  My  servant  tells  me,"  said  Lindsay, 
courteously,  "  that  you  wished  to  see  me." 

"  I  did,  sir,"  replied  Woodward  ;  "  in  that 
he  spoke  correctly  ;  I  wished  to  see  you,  and 
I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"I  thank  j-ou,  sir,"  replied  the  other, 
bowmg  again  ;  "  but — ahem — in  the  mean- 
time, sir,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me." 

"And  intend  to  keep  it,  sir,  for  a  Kttle," 
replied  Woodward  wth  one  of  his  cold  smiles. 
"I  came  to  sjseak  to  you,  sir,  concerning 
your  son  who  is  abroad,  and  to  ask  if  you 
have  recently  heard  from  himself  or  his 
vmcle." 

"  O,  then,  I  presume,  sir,"  replied  Lind- 
say, "you  are  an  acquaintance  or  friend  of 
his  ;  if  so,  allow  me  to  bid  you  welcome  ; 
nothing,  I  assure  you,  could  afford  either 
myself  or  my  family  gi-eater  jjlcisiu'e  than 
to  meet  and  show  attention  to  any  friend  of 
his.  Unfortunately,  we  have  heard  nothing 
from  him  or  his  uncle  for  nearly  the  last 
year  and  a  half ;  but,  you  will  be  doubly 
welcome,  sir,  if  you  can  assure  us  that  they 
are  both  well.  His  uncle,  or  rather  I  should 
say  his  grand-uncle,  for  in  that  relation  he 
stands  to  him,  adopted  him,  and  a  kinder 
man  does  not  live." 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Woodward  and  his  uncle 
are  both  well,  the  formei",  I  think,  sir,  is  your 
I  step-son  only." 

"Don't  say  o>-ihj,  sir,  he  is  just  as  much 
!  the  son  of  my  affection  as  his  brother,  and 
now,  sir,  may  I  request  to  know  the  name  of 
the  gentleman  I  am  addressing  ?  " 

"  Should  you  wish  to  see  Hcury  Wood- 
ward himself,  sii'  ?  " 

"Dear  sir,  nothing  would  delight  me 
more,  and  all  of  us,  especially  his  mother ; 
yet  the  ungi-ateful  boy  would  never  come 
near  us,  although  he  was  pressed  and  urged 
to  do  so  a  huntU'ed  times." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


635 


"  Well,  then,  sir,"  replied  that  gentleman, 
rising  uj),  "  he  now  stands  before  you  ;  I  am 
Henry  Woodward,  father." 

A  hug  that  half  strangled  him  was  the  first 
acknowledgment  of  his  identitj'.  "  Zounds, 
my  dear  Hany — Hany,  my  dear  boy,  you're 
welcome  a  thousand  times,  ten  thousand 
times.  Stand  oti"  a  Uttle  till  I  look  at  you  ; 
fine  young  feUow,  and  your  mother's  image. 
Ciadzooks,  I  was  stujiid  as  a  block  not  to 
know  you  ;  but  who  would  have  dreamed  of 
it.  There,  I  say — hallo,  Jenny  ! — come  here, 
aU  ot  you  ;  here  is  Harry  at  last.  Are  you 
aU  deaf,  or  asleejJ  ?  " 

These  words  he  shouted  out  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  and  in  a  few  minutes  his  mother, 
Charles,  and  his  sister  Maria  entered  the 
room,  the  two  latter  in  a  state  of  transjjort. 

"Here,  Jenny,  here  he  is;  you  have  the 
first  claim ;  confoimd  it,  Charley,  Maria, 
don't  strangle  the  boy  ;  ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

In  fact,  the  precaution,  so  far  as  the  affec- 
tionate brother  and  sister  were  concerned, 
was  anything  but  needless.  His  mother, 
seeing  their  eagerness  to  embrace  him,  which 
they  did  with  tears  of  delight,  stood  calmly 
by  until  he  was  disentangled  from  their 
arms,  when  she  approached  him  and  im- 
j5riuted  two  kisses  upon  his  lii^s,  with  an  in- 
difference of  manner  that,  to  a  stranger, 
would  have  been  extraordinary,  but  which, 
to  those  who  were  present,  excited  no  sur- 
prise ;  for  she  had  scarcely,  during  her  life, 
ever  kissed  one  of  her  own  children.  Nothing, 
indeed,  could  exceed  the  tumultuous  exulta- 
tion of  sjjirits  with  which  they  received  him, 
nor  was  honest  Lindsay  himself  less  joyously 
affected.  Yet  it  might  be  observed  that 
there  was  a  sparkle  in  the  eye  of  his  mother, 
which  was  as  singular  as  it  was  concentrated 
and  intense.  Such  an  expression  might  be 
observed  in  a  menagerie  when  a  tigress,  in- 
dolently dallying  -with  one  of  her  cubs, 
exhibits,  even  in  repose,  those  fiery  scintilla- 
tions in  the  eye  which  startle  the  beholders. 
The  light  of  that  eye,  thoiigh  intense,  was 
cold,  calculating,  and  disagreeable  to  look 
upon.  Tlie  frigidity  of  her  manner  and  re- 
ception of  him  might,  to  a  certain  extent,  be 
accounted  for  from  the  fact  that  slie  had 
gone  to  his  uncle's  several  times  for  the  pur- 
pose of  seeing  him,  and  watching  his  inter- 
e.sts.  Let  us  not,  therefore,  impute  to  the 
coldness  of  her  habits  any  want  of  affection 
for  him  ;  on  the  contrary,  his  little  finger 
was  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  her  than  the 
bodies  and  souls  of  all  her  other  children, 
adding  to  them  her  husband  himself,  put 
together.  Besides,  she  was  jjerfeetly  unsus- 
ceptible of  emotions  of  tenderness,  and,  con- 
sequently, a  woman  of  jjowerful  will,  inflex- 
ible determination,  and  the  most  inexorable 


resentments.  She  was  also  ambitious,  as  far 
as  she  had  scope  for  it,  within  her  sjDhere  of 
life,  and  would  have  been  painfulh'  penurious 
in  her  family,  were  it  not  that  the  fiery  reso- 
lution of  her  husband,  when  excited  bj'  long 
and  intolerable  provocation,  was  at  all  times 

I  able  to  subdue  her — a  superiority  over  her 
will  and  authority  which  .she  never  forgave 
him.  In  fact,  she  neither  loved  himself,  nor 
anything   in   common  with   him ;   and  the 

]  natural  affection  which  he  displayed  on  the 
return  of  her  sou  was  one  reason  why  sAe 

i  received  him  with  such  apparent  indifference. 

j  To  all  the  rest  of  the  famUy  she  had  a  heart 
of  stone.     Since  her  second  marriage  they 

!  had  lost  three  cliildren  ;  but,  so  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  each  of  them  went  down  into 
a  teaiiess  grave.  She  had  once  been  hand- 
some ;  but  her  beauty,  like  her  son's,  was 
severe  and  disagreeable.    There  is,  however, 

I  such  a  class  of  beauty,  and  it  is  principally 

!  successful  with  men  who  have  a  yvnchanl  for 
overcoming  difficulties,  because  it  is  well 
known  that  the  fact  of  conciliating  or  sub- 
duing  it  is  justly   considered  no  ordinary 

1  achievement.     A  great  number  of  our  old 

I  maids   may   trace   their  solitude  and  theu" 

[  celibacy  to  the  very  questionable  gift  of  such 
beauty,  and  the  dispositions  which  usually 
accompany  it.  She  was  tall,  and  had  now 
grown  thin,  and  her  featui-es  had  become 
sharpened  by  ill-temper  into  those  of  a  liesh- 
less,  angulai'-faced  vixen.  Altogether  she 
was  a  faithful  exponent  of  her  own  evil  and 
intolerable  disijosition  ;  and  it  was  said  that 
she  had  inherited  that  and  the  "  unlucky 
eye"  fi-om  a  family  that  was  said  to  have 
been  deseiwedly  unpopular,  and  equally  un- 
scrupulous in  their  resentments. 

"  Well,  Harry,"  said  she,  after  the  warm- 
hearted ebullition  of  feeling  produced  by  his 
ajjpearance  had  subsided,  "  so  you  have 
returned  to  us  at  last ;  but  indeed  you 
return  now  to  a  blank  and  dismal  prosjject. 
Miss  Goodwin's  adder  tongue  has  charmed 
the  dotage  of  your  silly  old  uncle  to  some 
purpose  for  herself." 

"  Confoiind  it,  Jennjr,"  said  her  husband, 
"  let  the  young  man  breathe,  at  least,  before 
you  bring  uji  that  eternal  subject.  Is  not 
the  matter  over  and  decided  ?  and  where  is 
the  use  of  your  making  both  yourself  and  us 
unhappy  by  discussing  it '? " 

"  It  may  be  decided,  but  it  is  not  over, 
Lindsay,"  she  rejDlied  ;  "don't  imagine  it :  I 
shall  pursue  the  Goodwins,  especially  that 
sorceress,  Alice,  with  a  vengeance  that  will 
annul  the  wUl,  and  circumvent  those  who 
wheedled  him  into  the  making  of  it.  My 
curse  upon  them  all,  as  it  will  be  !  " 

"  Harry,  when  you  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  yom-  mother,"  said  his  step- 


636 


WILLIAM  CARLETON\S   WOIiKS. 


father,  "  you  -wnW.  get  sick  of  this.     Have  you  I 
breakfasted  ;  for  that  is  more  to  the  point  V  " 

"I  have,  sir,"  replied  the  other;  "  and  you  • 
would  scai'celj'  guess  where  ; "  aud  here  he 
smiled    and    glanced    significantly    at    his 
mother.  [ 

""Why,  I  suppose,"  said  Lindsay,  "in 
whatever  inn  you  stojaped  at." 

"  No,"  he  rephed  ;  "I  was  obliged  to  seek 
shelter  from  the  storm  last  night,  and  where 
do  you  think  I  found  it  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows.     WTiere  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  with  your  fiieud  and  neighbor, 
Mr.  Goodwin." 

"  No  fi'iend,  Hariy,"  said  his  mother ; 
"  don't  say  that." 

"  I  slejst  there  last  night,"  he  proceeded, 
"  and  breakfasted  there  this  morning,  and 
nothing  could  exceed  the  cordiality  and 
kindness  of  my  reception." 

"Did  they  know  who  you  were?"  asked 
his  mother,  with  evident  interest. 

"  Not  till  this  morning,  at  breakfast." 

"  Well,"  said  she  again,  "  when  they 
heard  it  ?  " 

"  Whj',  their  attention  and  kindness  even 
redoubled,"  rephed  her  son  ;  "  and  as  for 
IVIiss  Goodwin  herseU',  she's  as  elegant,  as 
sweet,  and  as  lovely  a  girl  as  I  ever 
looked  on.  Mother,  I  beg  you  to  entertain 
no  implacable  or  inveterate  enmity  against 
her.  I  wiU  stake  my  existence  that  she 
never  stooped  to  any  fraudulent  circumven- 
tion of  my  poor  uncle.  Take  my  word  for 
it,  the  intent  aud  execution  of  the  will  must 
be  accounted  for  otherwise." 

"Well  and  truly  said,  Harry,"  said- his 
step-father — "  well  and  generously  said  ; 
give  me  your  hand,  my  boy  ;  thank  you. 
Now,  madam,"  he  proceeded,  addressing  his 
tvife,  "  what  have  you  to  say  to  the  ojainion 
of  a  man  who  has  lost  so  much  by  the  trans- 
ictiou,  when  you  heai'  that  that  opinion  is 
jiven  in  her  favor  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  Harry,"  observed  his 
sister,  "  she  is  all  that  you  have  said  of  her, 
and  much  more,  if  you  knew  her  as  we  do  ; 
she  is  all  disinterestedness  and  truth,  and 
the  most  unselfish  girl  that  ever  breathed." 

Now,  there  were  two  persons  present  who 
paused  upon  hearing  this  intelligence  ;  one 
of  whom  listened  to  it  with  unexpected 
pleasure,  and  the  other  with  mingled  emo- 
tions of  pleasure  aud  pain.  The  first  of 
these  were  Mrs.  Lindsay,  and  the  other  her 
son  Charles.  Mi-s.  Lindsay,  whose  eyes 
were  not  for  a  moment  off  her  son,  under- 
stood the  significant  glance  he  had  given  her 
when  he  launched  forth  so  heartily  in  the 
praise  of  Alice  Goodwin  ;  neither  did  the 
same  glance  escape  the  observation  of  his 
brother    Charles,    who    inferred,    naturally 


enough,  fi'om  the  w:irmth  of  the  eulogium 
that  had  been  passed  upon  her,  that  she  had 
made,  jDerhajjs,  too  favorable  an  impression 
upou  his  brother.  Of  this,  however,  the 
reader  shall  hear  more  in  due  time. 

"  Well,"  said  the  mother  slowly,  and  in  a 
meditating  voice,  "  jierhaps,  after  all,  we 
maj'  have  done  her  injustice.  If  so,  no  23er- 
son  would  regi'et  it  more  than  myself ;  bat 
we  shaU  see.  You  parted  from  them,  Han-y, 
on  friendly  terms  ?  " 

"I  did,  indeed,  my  dear  mother,  and  am 
permitted,  almost  soUcited,  to  make  theu- 
further  acquaintance,  and  cultivate  a  fiiendly 
intimacy  with  them,  which  I  am  determined 
to  do." 

"  Bravo,  Harry,  my  fine  fellow  ;  and  we 
will  be  on  fiiendly  terms  with  them  once 
more.  Poor,  honest,  aud  honorable  old 
Goodwin  !  what  a  jjity  that  either  disunion  or 
enniitj'  should  subsist  between  us.  No  ;  the 
families  must  be  once  more  cordial  aud  affec- 
tionate, as  they  ought  to  be.  Bravo,  Harry  ! 
your  return  is  jsrophetic  of  peace  and  good 
feeling  ;  and,  confound  me,  but  you  shall 
have  a  bonfire  this  night  for  your  generosity 
that  will  shame  the  sun.  The  tar-ban-els  shall 
blaze,  and  the  beer-ban-els  shall  run  to  cele- 
brate your  apjDearance  amongst  us.  Come, 
Charley,  let  us  go  to  RathfiUim,  and  get  the 
townsfolk  to  prepare  for  the  fete :  we  must 
have  fiddlers  and  pipers,  and  plenty  of  dan- 
cing. Barney  Casey  must  go  among  the 
tenants,  too,  and  order  them  all  into  the 
town.  Mat  ]\Ivilcahy,  the  inn-keeper,  miist 
give  us  his  best  room ;  and,  my  life  to 
yours,  wc  wiU  have  a  pleasant  night  of 
it." 

"George,'"  exclaimed  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of 
cjuerulous  remonstrance,  "you  know  how 
exj)ensive — " 

"  Confound  the  expense  and  your  penury 
both,"  exclaimed  her  husband ;  "is  it  to 
your  own  son,  on  his  return  to  us  aftef  such 
an  absence,  that  you'd  grudge  the  esjiense  of 
a  blazing  bonfire  ?  " 

"  Not  the  bonfire,"  replied  his  wife,  "but — " 

"  Ay,  but  the  cost  of  drink  to  the  tenants. 
"Wliy,  uj)ou  my  soul,  Harry,  your  mother  is 
anything  but  popidai-  here,  you  must  know  ; 
and  I  think  if  it  were  not  from  respect  to  me 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  she'd  be  indicted 
for  a  witch.  Gadzooks,  Jenny,  will  I  never 
get  sense  or  Hbei-ality  into  your  head  "?  Ay, 
and  if  you  go  on  after  your  usual  fashion,  it 
is  not  imlikely  that  you  may  have  a  tar-bar- 
rel of  your  own  before  long.  Go,  you  and 
Harry,  and'teU  your  secrets  to  each  other 
while  we  prepare  for  the  jubilation.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must  get  up  an  extempore  din- 
ner to-day — the,.sc^  dinner  will  come  in  due 
time,  and  be  a   diti'ereut  affair  ;  but  at  all 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPEC  TEE. 


637 


events  some  of  the  neighbors  we  must  have 
to  join  us  in  the  jovialities — hun-oo  !  " 

"  Well,  George,"  said  she,  with  her  own 
peculiar  smile,  "  I  see  you  are  in  one  of  j-our 
moods  to-day." 

"  Ay,  right  enough,  the  imperatiue  one,  my 
dear." 

"  And,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  would 
not  certainly  become  me  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  any  honor  bestowed  uijon  my  son  Harry  ; 
so  I  perceive  you  must  o:ily  have  it  your  o^vn 
way — /  consent." 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  you  do  or  not. 
When  matters  come  to  a  push,  I  am  always 
master  of  my  own  house,  and  ever  will  be 
so — and  you  know  it.  Good-bj',  Harry,  we 
will  be  back  in  time  for  dinner,  with  as 
many  friends  as  we  can  pick  up  on  so  short 
notice — hurroo  !  " 

He  and  Charles  accordingly  went  forth  to 
make  the  necessary  preparations,  and  give 
due  notice  of  the  bonfire,  after  which  they 
succeeded  in  securing  the  attendance  of  about 
a  dozen  guests  to  jsartake  of  the  festivity. 

Barney,  in  the  meantime,  having  received 
his  orders  for  collecting,  or,  as  it  was  then 
called,  warning  in  the  tenantry  to  the  forth- 
coming bonfire,  proceeded  upon  liis  message 
in  high  sj^irits,  not  en  account  of  the  honor 
it  was  designed  to  confer  on  Woodward, 
against  whom  he  had  already  conceived  a 
strong  antipathy,  in  consequence  of  the  re- 
semblance he  bore  to  his  motlier,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  fun  and  amusement  which  he 
purposed  to  enjoy  at  it  himself.  The  first 
house  he  went  into  was  a  small  country 
cabin,  such  as  a  petty  fanner  of  five  or  six 
acres  at  that  time  occupied.  The  door  was 
not  of  wood,  but  of  wicker-work  woven  across 
long  wattles  and  plastered  over  with  clay 
mortar.  The  house  had  two  small  holes  in 
the  fi'ont  side-walls  to  admit  the  light  ;  but 
during  severe  weather  these  were  filled  up 
with  straw  or  rags  to  keep  out  the  storm. 
On  one  side  of  the  door  stood  a  large  ourra, 
or,  "  ould  man,"  for  it  was  occasionally 
termed  both — composed  of  In'ambles  and 
wattles  tied  up  lengthwise  together — about 
the  height  of  a  man  and  as  thick  as  an 
ordinary  sack.  This  was  nsed,  as  they 
termed  it,  "  to  keep  the  wind  fi-om  the  door." 
If  the  blast  came  from  the  right,  it  was 
placed  on  that  side,  and  if  from  the  left,  it 
was  changed  to  the  opposite.  Chimneys,  at 
that  period,  were  to  be  found  only  upon  the 
houses  of  extensive  and  wealthy  farmers,  the 
only  substitute  for  them  being  a  simple  hole 
in  the  roof  over  the  fireplace.  The  small 
fanner  in  qiiestion  cultivated  his  acres  with 
a  spade  :  and  after  sowing  his  grain  he  hai'- 
rowed  it  in  with  a  lai"ge  thorn  bvish,  which 
he  himself,  or  one  of  liis  sons,  dragged  over 


it  with  a  heavy  stone  on  the  top  to  keep  it 
close  to  the  surface.  When  BiU'ney  entered 
this  cabin  he  found  the  mnithee,  or  woman  of 
the  house,  engaged  in  the  act  of  gi-inding 
oats  into  meal  for  their  dinner  with  a  quern, 
consisting  of  two  diminutive  millstonea 
turned  by  the  hand ;  this  was  placed  uj^on  a 
jyrmkxen,  or  coarse  ajjrou,  spread  under  it 
on  the  floor  to  i-eceive  the  meal.  An  old 
woman,  her  mother,  sat  spinning  flax  with 
the  distaff — for  as  yet  flax  wheels  were  scarce- 
ly kno\vn — and  a  lubberly  young  fellow  about 
sixteen,  with  able,  well  shaped  Hmbs  and 
great  promise  of  bodily  strength,  sat  before 
the  fire  managing  a  double  task,  to  wit,  roast- 
ing, first,  a  lot  of  potatoes  in  the  gveithaugh, 
which  consisted  of  half  embers  and  hall 
ashes,  glowing  hot ;  and,  secondly,  at  a 
Uttle  distance  from  the  larger  lighted  tui-f, 
two  duck  eggs,  which,  as  well  as  the  potatoes, 
he  tiinied  fi'om  time  to  tune,  that  they 
might  be  equally  done.  All  this  he  conduct- 
ed by  the  aid  of  what  was  termed  a  muddha 
vridha,  or  rustic  tongs,  which  was  nothing 
more  than  a  wattle,  or  stick,  broken  in  the 
middle,  between  the  ends  of  which  he  held 
both  his  potatoes  and  his  eggs  while  turning 
them.  Two  good-looking,  fi-esh-colored  gii'ls 
were  squatted  on  their  hunkers  (hams),  cut- 
ting potatoes  for  seed — late  as  the  season 
was — with  two  case  knives,  v/hich  had  been 
borrowed  from  a  neighboring  farmer  of  some 
wealth.  The  dress  of  the  women  was  similar 
and  simple.  It  consisted  of  a  long-bodied 
gown  that  had  only  half  skii-ts  ;  that  is  to 
say,  instead  of  encompassing  the  whole  per- 
son, the  lower  part  of  it  came  foiTvard  only 
as  far  as  the  hip  bones,  on  each  side,  leaving 
the  front  of  the  petticoat  exjiosed.  Thi.s 
posterior  part  of  the  gown  would,  if  left  to 
faU  to  its  full  length,  have  formed  a  train 
behind  them  of  at  least  tvm  feet  in  length. 
It  was  pinned  up,  however,  to  a  convenient 
length,  and  was  not  at  all  an  ungraceful 
garment,  if  we  except  the  sleeves,  whii'h  went 
no  farther  than  the  elbows — a  fashion  in 
tlress  which  is  always  unbecoming,  especially 
when  the  arms  are  thin.  The  hair  of  the 
elder  woman  was  doubled  back  in  front, 
fi'om  about  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  and 
the  rest  of  the  head  was  covered  by  a  doivd 
cap,  the  most  primitive  of  all  female  head- 
dresses, being  a  plain  shell,  or  skuU-cap,  as 
it  were,  for  the  head,  pointed  behind,  and 
without  any  fiinge  or  border  whatsoever. 
This  turning  up  of  the  hair  was  peculiai 
only  to  manied  hfe,  of  which  condition  i\ 
was  universally  a  badge.  The  young  females 
wore  theirs  fastened  behind  by  a  skewer , 
but  on  this  occasion  one  of  them,  the  young- 
est, allowed  it  to  fall  in  natural  ringlets 
about  her  cheeks  and  shoulders. 


638 


IVIZLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  God  save  all  here,"  said  Bai-ney,  as  he 
entered  the  house. 

"  God  save  you  kindly,  Barney,"  was  the 
instant  reply  from  all. 

"  Ah,  JVLs.  Davoren,"  he  proceeded,  "  ever 
the  same  ;  by  this  and  by  that,  if  there's  a 
■woman  h^'ing  ignorant  of  one  thing,  and  you 
are  that  woman." 

"  Sorrow  off  you,  Barney !  well,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Idleness,  achora.  Now,  let  me  see  if 
you  have  e'er  a  finger  at  all  to  show  ;  for  up- 
on my  honorable  word  they  ought  to  be 
worn  to  the  stumps  long  ago.  Well,  and 
how  are  you  all?  But  sure  I  needn't  ax. 
Faith,  you're  ciiishin'  the  blanUier*  anyhow, 
and  that  looks  well." 

"We  must  hve,  Barney  ;  'tis  a  jioor  shift 
we'd  make  'idout  the  praties  and  the  brorjhan," 
(meal  poi-ridge). 

"  What  news  fi-om  the  big  house?" 

"News,  is  it?  Come,  Corney,  come,  girls, 
bounce  ;  news  is  it  ?  O,  faitha',  tniu  it's  I 
that  has  the  news  that  will  make  you  all 
shake  your  feet  to-night." 

"  Blessed  saints,  Barney  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Bounce,  I  say,  and  off  wid  ye  to  gather 
brusna  (dried  and  rotten  brambles)  for  a  bon- 
fire m  the  gi'eat  town  of  Eathfillan." 

"  A  bonfire,  Barney !  Ai'ra,  why,  man 
alive?" 

"  Why  ?  ^Tiy,  bekaise  the  masther's  step- 
son and  the  mistlu'ess's  ovra  pet  has  come 
home  to  us  to  set  the  counthiy  into  a  state 
o'  eonflxgi-ation  wid  his  beauty.  There  w'ou't 
be  a  whole  cap  in  the  barony  before  this  day 
week.  They're  to  have  fiddlers,  and  i:)ip)ers, 
and  danein',  and  drinkin'  to  no  end  ;  and  the 
glory  of  it  is  tliat  the  masther,  God  bless 
him,  is  to  pay  for  all.     Now  !  " 

The  younger  of  the  two  girls  sprang  to 
her  feet  with  the  elasticity  and  agility  of  a 
deer. 

"  O,  bcetha,  Barney,"  she  exclaimed,  "  but 
that  will  be  the  fun  !  And  the  misthress's 
son  is  home?  Arra,  what  is  he  like,  Bar- 
ney ?  Is  he  as  handsome  as  Masther 
Charles  ?  " 

"  I  hope  he's  as  good,"  snid  her  mother. 

"As  good,  Bridget?  !No,  but  wofth  a 
shipload  of  him  ;  he  has  a  pair  of  ej'es  in  his 
head,  Granua,"  {am/lice,  Grace,)  addressing 
the  younger,  "  that  'ud  tiu-n  Glr/ulhin  (the 
dark  glen)  to  noonday  at  midnight  ;  divil  a 
lie  in  it ;  and  his  hand's  never  out  of  his 
pocket  vrid  generosity." 

"  O,  mother,"  said  Grace,  "  won't  we  all 
go?" 

"Don't  ax  your  mother  anything  about 


*  jBfant(T,  a  well-known  description  of  oats.  It 
■was  so  called  from  hnving:  been  originally  imported 
from  Blantire  in  Scotland. 


it,"  replied  Barney,  "bekaise  mother,  and 
father,  and  sister,  and  brother,  daughter  and 
son,  is  all  to  come." 

"  jVi-ra,  Barney,"  said  Bridget  Davoren, 
for  such  was  her  name,  "  is  this  gentleman 
Hke  his  ecald  of  a  mother  ?  " 

"  Hasn't  a  feature  of  her  purtj'  face,"  he  re- 
jihed,  "  and,  to  the  back  o'  that,  is  veiy  much 
given  to  rehgion.  Troth,  my  own  opinion  is, 
he'U  be  one  of  ourselves  yet ;  for  I  can  tell 
you  a  saicret  about  him." 

"A  saicret,  Bai'ney,"  said  Grace  ;  "maybe 
he's  married  ?  " 

"  Mairied,  no  ;  he  toidd  me  himself  this 
mornin'  that  it's  not  his  intention  ever  to 
maiTy  'till  he  meets  a  l^urty  girl  to  plaise 
him  ;  he'U  keep  a  loose  foot,  he  says,  and  an 
aisy  conscience  till  then,  he  says  ;  but  the 
saicret  is  this,  he  never  aits  flesh  mate  of  a 
Friday — when  he  cant  get  it.  Indeed,  I'm 
afeared  he's  too  good  to  be  long  for  this 
world  ;  but  stiU,  if  the  Lord  was  to  take 
him,  woiddn't  it  be  a  jjroof  that  he  had  a 
great  regard  for  him  !  " 

Grace  Davoren  was  flushed  and  excited 
with  delight.  She  was  about  eighteen, 
rather  tall  for  her  age,  but  roundly  and  ex- 
quisitely moulded  ;  her  glossy  ringlets,  as 
they  danced  about  her  cheeks  and  shoulders, 
were  black  as  ebony  ;  but  she  was  no  Jiru- 
nclte  ;  for  her  skin  was  milk  white,  and  that 
portion  of  her  bosom,  which  was  uncovered 
by  the  simple  nature  of  her  dress,  threw 
back  a  poUshed  light  like  ivoiy  ;  her  figui-e 
was  jserfection,  and  her  white  legs  were  a 
finer  specimen  of  symmetry  than  ever  sup- 
ported the  body  of  the  Venus  de  Mcdicis. 
This  was  all  excellent ;  but  it  was  the  spark- 
ling lustre  of  her  eyes,  and  the  radiance  of 
her  whole  countenance,  that  attracted  the 
beholder.  If  there  was  anything  to  be  found 
fault  with,  it  was  in  the  spirit,  not  in  the 
physical  perfection,  of  her  beauty.  There 
was,  for  instance,  too  much  warmth  of  color- 
ing and  of  constitution  visible  in  her  whole 
exquisite  jaerson  ;  and  sometimes  her  glances 
would  puzzle  you  to  determine  whether  they 
were  those  of  innocence  or  of  chaUenge.  Bo 
this  as  it  may,  she  was  a  rare  specimen  of 
rustic  beauty  and  buoyancy  of  sijirit. 

"  O,  Barney,"  said  she,  "  that's  the  pleas- 
antest  news  I  heai-d  this  month  o'  Sundays 
— sich  daucin'  as  we'll  have !  and  maybe  I 
won't  foot  it,  and  me  got  my  new  shoes  and 
drugget  gown  last  week  ; "  and  here  she  lilted 
a  gay  Irish  air,  to  which  she  set  a-dancing 
with  a  lightness  of  foot  and  vivacity  of  man- 
ner that  threw  her  whole  countenance  into  a 
most  exquisite  glow  of  mirthful  beauty. 

"  Granua,"  said  her  mother,  repi'oringly, 
"  tlunk  of  yourself  and  what  3  ou  are  about  ; 
if  you  woru't  a  light-hearted,  and,  I'm  afeard. 


TEE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    TEE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


639 


A  light-headed,  p;irl,  too,  you  wouldn't  go  on 
as  j'ou  do,  especiiilly  when  you  know  what  you 
know,  aud  what  Barney  here,  too,  knows." 

"  Ah,"  said  Barney,  his  whole  manner  im- 
mediately changing,  "  have  you  heard  from 
kim,  poor  fellow  ?  " 

"  Torle^y's  gone  to  the  mountains,"  she  re- 
plied, "  aud — bat  here  he  is.  Well,  Torley, 
what  news,  asthore  ?  '" 

Her  husband  having  jjassed  a  friendly 
greeting  to  Barney,  sat  down,  and  having 
taken  oiT  his  hat,  lifted  the  skirt  of  his 
cothamore  (big  coat)  and  wiped  the  per- 
spiration off  his  large  and  manly  forehead, 
on  which,  however,  were  the  traces  of  deep 
care.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  but 
at  length  said : 

"Bi'idget,  give  me  a  drink." 

His  wife  took  a  wooden  noggin,  which  she 
dipped  into  a  chiu'n  and  handed  him.  Hav- 
ing finished  it  at  a  draught,  he  wiped  his 
mouth  with  his  gathered  palm,  breathed 
deeply,  but  was  still  silent. 

"  Torley,  did  you  hear  me  ?  'WTiat  news  of 
that  unfortunate  boy  ?  " 

"  No  news,  Bridget,  at  least  no  good 
news  ;  the  boy's  an  outlaw,  and  will  be  an 
outlaw — or  rather  he  won't  be  an  outlaw 
long  ;  they'll  get  him  soon." 

"  But  why  would  they  get  him  ?  hasn't  he 
sense  enough  to  keep  from  them  ?  " 

"  That's  just  what  he  has  not,  Bridget ;  he 
has  left  the  mountains  and  come  down  some- 
where to  the  Infield  country  ;  but  where,  I 
cannot  make  out." 

"'Well,  asthore,  hell  only  bring  on  his 
own  punishment.  Troth,  I'm  not  a  bit  sorry 
that  Granua  missed  him.  I  never  was  to 
say,yo?'  the  match,  but  you  should  haveyoiu- 
way,  and  force  the  girl  there  to  it,  over  and 
above.  Of  what  use  is  his  land  and  wealth 
to  him  now  ?  " 

"God's  will  be  done,"  replied  her  hus- 
band, sorrowfullj-.  "As  for  me,  I  can  do 
no  more  in  it,  nor  I  won't.  I  was  doing  the 
best  for  my  child.  He'U  be  guided  by  no 
one's  advice  but  his  own." 

"That's  true,"  replied  his  vrife,  "you  did. 
But  here's  Barney  Casey,  from  the  big  house, 
coiuin'  to  warn  the  tenanti-y  to  a  bonfire 
that's  to  be  made  to-night  in  Eatlifillan,  out 
of  rejoicin'  for  the  misthress's  son  that's  come 
home  to  them." 

Here  Barney  once  more  repeated  the  mes- 
sage, with  which  the  reader  is  already  ac- 
quainted. 

"  You  are  all  to  come,"  he  proceeded, 
"  ould  and  young  ;  and  to  bring  every  one  a 
backload  of  sticks  and  hrusna  to  help  to 
make  the  bonfire." 

"  Is  tliis  message  from  the  raisther  or 
misthress,  Barney  ?  "  asked  Davoren. 


"  O,  straight  from  himself,"  he  replied. 
"I  have  it  fi'om  his  o^vn  hps.  Troth  he'a 
ready  to  leap  out  of  his  skin  wid  delight." 

"  Bekaise,"  added  Davoren,  "  if  it  came 
from  the  misthress,  the  sorrow  foot  either  I 
or  any  one  of  mv  family  would  set  near  her  ; 
but  from  himself,  that's  a  horse  of  another 
color.  Tell  him,  Barney,  we'll  be  there, 
and  bring  what  we  can  to  help  the  bonfire." 

Until  this  moment  the  young  fellow  at  the 
fire  never  uttered  a  syllaljle,  nor  seemed  in 
the  slightest  degree  conscious  that  there  was 
any  person  in  the  house  but  himself.  He 
was  now  engaged  in  masticating  the  potatoes 
and  eggs,  the  latter  of  which  he  ate  with  a 
thin  splinter  of  bog  deal,  which  served  as  a 
substitute  for  an  egg-sjaoon,  and  which  is  to 
this  day  used  among  the  jjoor  for  the  same 
purpose  in  tlie  remoter  parts  of  Ii-elaud.  At 
length  he  spoke  : 

"  This  won't  be  a  good  night  for  a  bonfire 
anyhow." 

""'.Vhy,  Andy,  aboiwhalf"  (my  boy.) 

"  Bekaise,  mudher,  the  storm  was  in  the 
fuv*  last  night  when  I  was  rakin'  it." 

"  Then  we'll  have  rough  weather,"  said  his 
father  ;  "no  doubt  of  that." 

"  Don't  be  afeard,"  said  Barney,  laughing  ; 
"  take  my  word  for  it,  if  there's  to  be  rough 
weather,  and  that  some  vntch  or  wizard  has 
broken  bargain  with  the  devO,  the  misthress 
has  iutherest  to  get  it  put  off  till  the  bonfire's 
over." 

He  then  bade  them  good-by,  and  took  his 
departure  to  fulfil  his  agreeable  and  welcome 
mission.  Indeed,  he  spent  the  greater  por- 
tion of  the  day  not  only  in  going  among  the 
tenants  in  jjerson,  but  in  sending  the  pur- 
port of  the  said  mission  to  be  borne  upon 
the  four  vrinds  of  heaven  through  every 
quarter  of  the  barony  ;  after  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  little  market-town  of  Rathfil- 
lan,  where  he  seciu-ed  the  sendees  of  two 
fiddlers  aud  two  pipers.  This  being  accom- 
plished, he  returned  home  to  his  master's, 
ripe  and  ready  for  both  dinner  and  supper  ; 
for,  as  he  had  missed  the  former  meal,  he 
deemed  it  most  judicious  to  kill,  as  he  said, 
the  two  birds  with  one  stone,  by  demolish- 
ing them  both  together. 

*  This  is  a  sinirHlar  pi'.enomenon,  wliich,  so  fai 
as  I  am  aware,  has  never  yet.  been  noticed  by  any 
Irish  or  Scotch  writers  when  de=;cril)infj  the  hfibits 
and  usajres  of  tlie  people  in  either  country.  When 
stirring  the  r/refs/inuf/h,  or  red-hot  ashes,  at  night 
at  the  settling-,  or  mending,  or  raking  of  the  fire,  a 
blue,  phosphoric-looking  Hgl:T>  is  distinctly  visible 
in  the  embers,  and  the  more  visible  in  proportion 
to  the  feebleness  of  the  light  emitted  by  the  fire. 
Tt  is  only  during  certain  states  of  the  atmosphere 
that  this  is  seen.  It  is  always  considered  as  a 
prognostic  of  severe  weather,  and  its  apjiearance  it 
lenncd  as  above. 


\YJ.l^L,IxlM      V^LUi^ILlUiM   ,^      WUlllVii. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

The  Bvnfire~The  Prodigy. 

Andy  Davores's  prognostic,  so  far  as  the 
appearance  of  the  weather  went,  seemed,  at 
a  first  glance,  to  be  literally  built  on  ashes. 
A  calm,  mUd,  and  glorious  serenity  lay  upon 
the  earth ;  the  atmosphere  was  clear  .md 
golden  ;  the  light  of  the  sun  shot  in  broad, 
transparent  beams  across  the  wooded  valleys, 
and  j>oured  its  radiance  upon  the  forest  tops, 
which  seemed  empiu-jsled  with  its  rich  and 
glowing  tones.  All  the  usual  signs  of  change 
or  rough  weather  were  wanting.  Everjiihiug 
was  quiet ;  and  a  general  stillness  was 
abroad,  which,  when  a  sound  did  occur, 
caused  it  to  be  heard  at  an  unusual  distance. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  stu-red  the  trees,  which 
stood  as  motionless  as  if  they  had  been 
carved  of  marble.  Notwithstanding  all  these 
auspicious  appeai-ances,  there  were  visible  to 
a  clear  observer  of  nature  some  significant 
symjjtoms  of  a  change.  The  surfaces  of 
pools  and  rivers  were  covered  with  lai'ge 
white  bubbles,  which  are  always  considered 
as  indications  of  coming  rain.  The  dung 
hea^DS,  and  the  pools  generally  attached  to 
them,  emitted  a  fetid  and  offensive  smell ; 
and  the  pigs  were  seen  to  carry  straw  into 
their  sties,  or  such  rude  covers  as  had  been 
constructed  for  them. 

In  the  meantime  the  dinner  pai'ty  in  Lind- 
say's were  enjoying  themselves  in  a  spirit 
quite  as  genial  as  his  hospitality.  It  con- 
sisted of  two  or  three  country  squires,  a 
Captain  Dowd — seldom  sober — a  pair  of 
twin  brothers,  named  Gumming,  with  a 
couple  of  half  sirs — a  class  of  persons  who 
bore  the  same  relation  to  a  gentleman  that  a 
salmon-trout  does  to  a  salmon.  The  Protes- 
tant clergyman  of  the  i^arish  was  there — a 
jocund,  rattling  fellow,  who  loved  his  glass, 
his  dog,  his  gun,  and,  if  fame  dicl  not  belie 
him,  paid  more  devotion  to  his  own  enjoy- 
ments than  he  did  to  his  Bible.  He  dressed 
in  the  extreme  of  fasliion,  and  was  a  regular 
dandy  parson  of  ihat  day.  There  also  was 
Father  Magauran,  the  paiish  jjriest,  a  rosy- 
faced,  jo^dal  little  man,  with  a  humorous 
tvrinkle  in  his  blue  eye,  and  an  anterior  ro- 
tundity of  person  that  betokened  a  moderate 
rehsh  for  the  convivialities.  Altogether  it 
was  a  merry  meeting  ;  and  of  the  host  him- 
self it  might  be  said  that  he  held  as  con- 
spicuous a  j)lace  in  the  mii'th  as  he  did  in 
the  hospitality. 

"  Come,  gentleman,"  said  he,  after  the 
ladies  had  retired  to  the  withdrawing-room, 
"  come,  gentlemen,  fill  high;  fill  your  glasses." 

"Troth,"  said  the  priest,  "we'd  put  a  heap 
on  them,  if  we  could." 


"  Right,  Father  Magauran  ;  do  put  a  heap 
on  them,  if  j'ou  can  ;  but,  at  all  events,  let 
them  be  biimmers  ;  I'm  going  to  projjose  a 
toast." 

"  Let  it  be  a  lady,  Lindsay,  if  you  love 
me,"  said  the  parson,  filling  his  glass. 

"  SoiTa  hair  I  care  if  it  is,"  said  the 
priest,  "  provided  she's  dacent  and  attends 
her  duty  ;  go  on,  squii-e  ;  give  us  her  name 
at  once,  and  don't  keep  the  j)arson's  teeth 
watering." 

"  Be    quiet,    reverend    gentlemen,"   said 

Lindsay,  laughing;  "how  can  a  man  speak 

when  you  take  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  ?  " 

"  The    Lord   forlnd   we'd   swallow  them 

I  though,"  subjoined  the  parson  ;  "if  we  did 

I  we'd  not  be  long  in  a  state  of  decent  so 

I  briety." 

"  Talk  about  something  you  understand 
i  my  worthy  fi-iends,  and  allow  me  to  ■p:o 
[  ceed,"  rephed  the  host ;  "  don't  you  kuovp 
i  that  every  interruption  keeps  j-ou  from  your 
\  glass  ?     Gentlemen,  I  have  great  pleasiu'e  in 
I  251'oposing  the  health  of  my  excellent  and 
I  worthy  steji-son,  who  has,  after  a  long  ab- 
sence, made  me  and  all  my  family  happy  by 
his  return  amongst  us.     I  am  sure  you  will 
i  all  like  him  when  you  come  to  know  him,  and 
i  that  the  longer  you  know  him,  the  better 
I  you  will  hke  him.     Come  now,  let  me  see 
I  the  bottom  of  eveiy  man's  glass  iipjjeriiiosl. 
I  do  not  addi'ess  myself  directly  to  the  par- 
son  or   the   priest,    because   that,  I   know, 
would  be,  as  the  latter  must  admit,  a  waul 
of  confidence  in  their  kindness. 

"ParsQn,"  said  the  jJi'i^st,  in  a  whisper, 
"  that  last  observation  is  gratifying  from 
Lindsay." 

"  Lindsay  is  a  gentleman,"  replied  the 
other,  in  the  same  voice  ;  "  and  the  most 
j)opular  magistrate  in  the  baronj-.  Come, 
then." 

Here  the  worthy  gentleman's  health  was 
drank  with  great  enthusiasm,  after  which  he 
thanked  them  in  very  gi-ateful  and  courteous 
terms,  paying  at  the  same  time,  some  rather 
handsome  compliments  to  the  two  clergj'- 
men  with  respect  to  the  approjn-iate  gravity 
and  exquisite  jiolish  of  their  manners.  He 
saw  the  rapidity  mth  which  they  had  guljjed 
down  the  wine,  and  felt  their  rudeness  iu 
interrupting  ]Mr.  Lindsay,  when  about  to 
projjose  his  health,  as  offensive,  and  he  re- 
toi-ted  it  upon  them  vdih.  jDeculiar  irony, 
that  being  one  of  the  t;Uents,  which,  among 
others,  he  had  inherited  from  his  mother. 

"I  cannot  but  feel  myself  hap2\v,"  said  he, 
"  in  retumiag  to  the  roof  of  so  hospitable  a 
father  ;  but  sensible  to  the  influences  of  re- 
ligion, as  I  humbly  trust  I  am,  I  must  ex- 
press a  still  higher  gratification  in "  having 
the  dehghtful  opportunity  of  making  the  ac- 


proper  and  becomiug  examjole  will,  I  am 
sui'e,  guide  my  steps — if  I  have "  only  grace 
to  follow  it — into  those  serious  and  primi- 
tive habits  which  characterize  themselves, 
and  are  so  decent  and  exemjilary  in  the  min- 
isters of  religion.  They  may  talk  of  the 
light  of  the  gospel ;  but,  if  I  don't  mistake, 
the  light  of  the  gospel  itself  might  pale  its 
iueltectual  fires  before  that  which  shines  in 
their  apostolic  countenances." 

The  mirth  occasioned  by  this  covert,  but 
comical,  rebuke,  fell  rather  humorously  upon 
the  two  worthy  gentlemen,  who,  being  cer- 
tainly good-natured  and  excellent  men, 
laughed  heoi'tily. 

"That's  a  neat  si^eech,"  said  the  parson, 
"  but  not  exactly  apjjropriate.  Father  Tom 
and  I  are  quite  unworthy  of  the  comjiliment 
he  has  paid  us." 

"  Neat,"  said  Father  Tom  ;  "  I  don't  know 
whether  the  gentleman  has  a  profession  or 
not  ;  but  from  the  tone  and  sjsirit  in  which 
he  sijoke,  I  think  that  if  he  has  taken  up 
any  other  than  that  of  his  church,  he  has 
missed  his  vocation.  My  dear  parson,  he 
talks  of  the  light  of  our  countenances — a 
light  that  is  lit  by  hospitality  on  the  one 
hand,  and  moderate  social  enjoyment  on  the 
other.  It  is  a  light,  however,  that  neither 
of  us  would  exchange  for  a  pale  face  and  an 
eye  that  seems  to  have  something  mysterious 
at  the  back  of  it." 

"Come,  come,  Harry,"  said  Lindsay, 
"you  mustn't  be  bantei'ing  these  two  gentle- 
men ;  as  I  said  of  yourself,  the  longer  you 
know  them  the  better  yoa  wiU  rehsh  them. 
Tliey  have  both  too  much  sense  to  carry 
religion  alsout  with  them  hke  a  jiair  of 
hawkers,  crying  out '  who'll  buy,  who'll  buy  ;' 
neither  do  they  wear  long  faces,  nor  make 
themselves  disagreeable  bj-  dragging  religion 
into  even'  sul)ject  that  becomes  the  topic  of 
conversation.  On  the  contrary,  they  ai-e 
cheerful,  moderately  social,  and  to  my  owii 
knowledge,  with  all  their  jileasantry,  are 
active  exponents  of  much  practical  benevo- 
lence to  the  poor.  Come,  man,  take  your 
wine,  and  enjoy  good  companj-." 

"  Lindsay,"  said  one  of  the  guests,  a  ma- 
gistrate, "  how  are  we  to  get  the  couuti-y 
quiet  ?  Those  rapi^arees  and  outlaws  will 
play  the  devil  with  us  if  we  don't  put  them 
down.  That  j'oung  scomiib-el,  Shawn  va 
Mliddogitp,  is  at  the  head  of  them  it  is  said, 
and,  it  would  seem,  possesses  the  power  of 
making  himself  invisible  ;  for  we  cannot 
possibly  come  at  him,  although  he  has  been 
often  seen  by  others." 

"  Why,  what  has  been  Shawn's  last  ex- 
ploit?"" 

"  Nothing    that   I   have   heai'd   of    since 


1  safe.  Have  you  your  house  and  premises 
I  secured  V " 

"  Not  I,"  replied  Lindsay,  "  unless  by 
good  bolts  and  bars,  together  with  plenty 
of  arms  and  ammunition." 

"  How  is  it  that  these  fellows  are  not 
taken  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  Because  the  people  protect  them,"  said 
a  third  ;  "  and  because  they  have  strength 
and  activity  ;  and  thirdly,  because  we  have 
no  adequate  force  to  put  them  down." 

"All  very  sound  reasons,"  replied  the 
querist  ;  but  as  to  Shawn  na  Mi.ddogue,  the 
jjeojile  are  imjjressed  vrith  a  belief  that  he 
is  under  the  protection  of  the  fairies,  and 
can't  be  taken  on  this  account.  Even  if 
they  were  wilUng  to  give  him  up,  which 
they  are  not,  they  dare  not  make  the  attemj)t, 
lest  the  vengeance  of  the  fairies  might  come 
dovm  on  themselves  and  their  cattle,  in  a 
thousand  shapes." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  the  general  opinion 
upon  the  subject  is,"  rej)lied  the  othei-.  "  It 
seems  his  foster-mother  was  a  midwife,  and 
that  she  was  called  upon  once,  about  the 
hour  of  mitlnight,  to  discharge  the  duties 
of  her  profes.°ion  toward  a  fairyman's  wife, 
and  this  she  refused  to  do  imless  they  con- 
ferred some  gift  either  upon  herself  per- 
sonally, or  upon  some  one  whom  she  should 
name.  Young  Shawn,  it  appears,  was  her 
favorite,  and  she  got  a  solemn  promise  fi'om 
them  to  take  him  under  their  protection, 
and  to  jjreserve  him  from  danger.  This  is 
the  opinion  of  the  people  ;  but  whether  it 
is  true  or  not  I  won't  undertake  to  deter- 
mine." 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  said  theu' host,  "push 
the  bottle  ;  remember  we  must  attend  the 
bonfire." 

"So,"  said  the  magistrate,  "you  are  send- 
ing us  to  blazes,  Mr.  Lindsay." 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  my  friends,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Lindsay,  "  we  must  make  haste, 
for  there's  little  time  to  spare.  Take  yoirr 
liquor,  for  we  must  soon  be  off.  The  even- 
ing is  delightful-  If  you  are  for  cott'ee,  let 
us  adjourn  to  the  ladies  ;  and  after  the  bon- 
fire we  will  return  and  make  a  night  of 
it." 

"  Well  said,  Lindsay,"  rei^lied  the  parson  ; 
"  and  so  we  will." 

"Here,  3'ou  young  stranger,"  said  the 
priest,  addressing  'Woodward,  "  I'll  drink 
your  health  once  more  in  this  bumper.  You 
touched  us  oft'  decently  enough,  but  a  little 
too  much  on  the  sharji,  as  _you  would  admit 
if  you  knew  us.  Your  health  again,  su",  and 
you  are  welcome  among  us  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  sii',"  replied  Woodward  ;  "  1 
am  glad  to  see  that  you  can  bear  a  jest  from 


642 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


me  or  my  father,  even  when  it  is  at  your  own 
exjsense — your  health." 

"  Ai'e  you  a  sportsman  ?  "  asked  the  par- 
son ;  "because,  if  you  are  not,  just  put  yoiu"- 
self  under  my  patronage,  and  I  will  teach 
you  something  worth  knowing.  I  will 
let  you  see  what  shooting  and  hunting 
mean." 

"  I  am  a  l)it  of  one,"  replied  "Woodward, 
"  but  shall  be  vei^  happy  to  put  myself  into 
your  hand,  notwithstanding." 

"  If  I  don't  lengthen  your  face  I  shall  raise 
your  heart,"  jDroceeded  the  divine.  "  If  I 
don't  make  a  sportsman  of  you — " 

"  A3',"  added  the  priest,  "  you  wiU  find 
yourself  in  excellent  hands.  Mi'.  Woodward." 

"If  I  don't  make  a  sj)ort.sman  of  jou — 
confound  your  grinning.  Father  Tom,  what 
are  yovi  at  V — I'U  make  a  far  better  thing  of 
you,  that  is,  a  good  feUow,  always,  of  course, 
provided  that  you  have  the  materials  in  you." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  added  Father  Tom  ; 
"  you'U  polish  the  same  youth  untd  he  shines 
like  yourself  or  his  worthy  father  here. 
He'll  give  you  a  complexion,  my  boy — a  com- 
modity that  you  sadly  want  at  jsresent." 

The  evening  was  now  too  far  advanced  to 
think  of  having  coffee — a  beverage,  by  the 
way,  to  which  scarcely  a  single  soul  of  them 
was  addicted.  They  accordingly  got.  to 
their  legs,  and  as  darkness  was  setting  in 
they  set  out  for  the  village  to  vidtness  the  re- 
joicings. Young  Woodward,  however,  fol- 
lowed his  brother  to  the  drawing-room, 
whither  he  had  betaken  himself  at  an  eai-ly 
hour  after  dinner.  Under  theu-  escort,  their 
jnother  and  sister  accompanied  them  to  the 
bonfire.  The  whole  towu  was  literally  alive 
with  animation  and  delight.  The  news  of 
the  intended  bonfire  had  gone  rajjidly 
abroad,  and  the  country  people  crowded  into 
the  toisTi  in  hundreds.  Nothing  can  at  any 
time  exceed  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the 
Irish  enter  into  and  enjoy  scenes  like  that  to 
which  they  now  flocked  with  such  exuberant 
si^irits.  Bells  were  ringing,  drums  were 
beating,  fifes  were  playing  in  the  town,  and 
horns  sounding  in  every  direction,  both  in 
town  and  country.  The  peoi^le  were  appa- 
relled in  their  best  costume,  and  many  of 
them  in  that  equivocal  description  of  it  which 
could  scarcely  be  termed  costume  at  aU. 
Bareheaded  and  barefooted  midtitudes  of 
both  sexes  were  present,  regardless  of  ap- 
pearances, half  mad  with  dehght,  and  ex- 
hibiting many  a  froUc  and  gambol  consider- 
ably at  variance  with  the  etiquette  of  fashion- 
able life,  although  we  question  whether  the 
most  fashionable /ete  of  them  all  ever  pro- 
duced half  so  much  hajijiiness.  Farmers 
had  come  fi'om  a  distance  iu  the  country, 
mounted  upon  lank  horses  ornamented  with 


incmsted  hips,  and  caparisoned  vn.'Ca.  long 
straw  back-suggauns  that  reached  fi-om  the 
shoidders  to  the  tail,  under  wliich  ran  a 
crupper  of  the  same  material,  designed,  iu 
addition  to  a  hay  gu'th,  to  keep  this  primi- 
tive riding  gear  firm  upion  the  animal's  back. 
Beliind  the  farmer,  generally  sat  either  a 
wife  or  a  daughter,  remarkable  for  their 
scarlet  cloaks  and  blue  j)etticoats  ;  some- 
times with  shoes  and  stockings,  and  verj' 
often  without  them.  Among  those  assembled, 
we  cannot  omit  to  mention  a  23rett3'  numer- 
ous sprinkling  of  that  class  of  strollers, 
vagabonds,  and  impostors  wirli  which  the 
country,  at  the  period  of  oiu'  tale,  was  over- 
run. Fortune-tellers,  of  both  sexes,  quacks, 
cardcutters,  herbahsts,  cow-doctors,  whisper- 
ers, with  a  long  list  of  such  cheats,  were  at  the 
time  a  prevailing  nuisance  thi'oughout  the 
kingdom  ;  nor  was  there  a  fair  proijortion  of 
them  wanting  here.  That,  however,  which 
filled  the  iseoiale  with  the  most  especial  curi- 
ositj-,  awe,  and  interest,  was  the  general  i-e- 
jjort  that  nothmg  less  than  a  live  conjurer, 
who  had  come  to  town  on  that  very  evening, 
was  then  among  them.  The  town,  in  fact, 
was  crowded  as  if  it  had  been  for  an  illumi- 
nation ;  but  as  illuminations,  unless  they 
could  be  conducted  with  rushlights,  were 
jjageants  altogether  unknown  in  such  small 
remote  towns  as  Eatlifillan,  the  notion  of  one 
had  never  entered  theu'  heads.  All  around 
the  coimtry,  however,  even  for  many  mUes, 
the  bonfires  were  blazing,  and  shone  at  im- 
mense distances  fi'om  every  hiU-top.  We 
have  said  before  that  Lindsay  was  both  a 
popular  landlord  and  a  popular  magistrate  ; 
and  on  this  account  alone  the  disposition  to 
do  honor  to  any  member  of  his  family  was 
recognized  by  the  people  as  an  act  of  grati- 
tude and  duty. 

The  tovni  of  Eatlifillan  presented  a  scene 
of  which  we  who  hve  iu  the  present  day  can 
form  but  a  faint  conception.  Yet,  sooth  to 
say,  we  ourselves  have,  about  forty  years  ago, 
witnessed  in  remote  glens  and  mountain  fast- 
nesses httle  clumjjs  of  cabins,  whose  inhabi- 
tants stood  stLU  in  the  midst  even  of  the 
snail's  jjrogress  which  civilization  had  made 
in  the  rustic  jiarts  of  Ii-eland  ;  and  who,  uf)- 
on  examination,  jiresented  almost  the  same 
rude  personal  habits,  antiquated  social  usa- 
ges, agriculiural  ignorance,  and  ineradicable 
superstition  as  their  ancestors  did  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Lindsay,  know- 
ing how  unpopular  his  mfe  was,  not  only 
among  their  own  tenantiy,  but  throughout 
the  country  at  large,  and  feeling,  besides, 
how  well  that  unpojiularity  was  merited, 
very  projierly  left  her  and  Maria  to  his  son 
Charles,  knowing  that  as  the  two  last  named 
shared  in  the  good-^^'ill   which   the  jieople 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


645 


boi'e  liim,  their  mother  would  be  treated 
with  forbearance  and  respect  so  long  as  she 
was  in  theu"  company.  He  wished,  besides, 
that  Harry  should  seem  to  partake  of  the 
honor  and  gratitude  which  their  enthusiasm 
would  prompt  them  to  pay  to  himself. 

The  whole  town  was  one  scene  of  life, 
bustle,  and  enjoyment.  It  was  studded  with 
bonfires,  wldch  were  surrounded  by  wild 
groujis  of  both  sexes,  some  tolerably  dressed, 
some  ragged  as  Lazarus,  and  others  young 
urchins  with  nothing  but  a  slip  of  rag  tied 
about  their  loins  "to  make  them  look  jinteel 
and  daicent."  The  monster  bonfire,  however 
■ — that  which  was  piled  up  into  an  immense 
pyramid  in  honor  of  the  stranger — was  not 
ignited  until  the  arrival  of  the  quality.  The 
moment  the  latter  made  their  appearance  it 
was  set  in  a  tlame,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a 
blaze  issued  uj)  from  it  into  the  air  that  not 
only  dimmed  the  minor  exhibitions,  but  cast 
its  huge  glare  over  the  whole  town,  making 
every  house  and  hut  as  distinctly  visible  as 
if  it  were  broad  daylight.  Then  commenced 
the  huzzaing — the  bells  rang  out  with  double 
energj' — the  drums  were  beaten  more  furi- 
ously— the  large  bullocks'  horns  were  sound- 
ed uutQ  those  who  blew  them  were  black  ui 
the  face,  and  every  manifestation  of  joy  that 
could  be  made  was  resorted  to.  Fiddles 
and  pipes  were  in  busy  requisition,  and 
"the  Boys  of  Rathfillan,"  the  favorite  local 
air,  resounded  in  every  direction.  And  now 
that  the  master  and  the  quality  had  made 
theu'  ap2)ea)'anee,  of  course  the  drink  should 
soon  follow,  and  in  a  short  time  the  hints  to 
that  effect  began  to  thicken. 

"Thunder  and  tui'f.  Jemmy,  but  this  is 
dry  w(jrk  ;  my  throat's  like  a  lime-burner's 
wig  for  want  of  a  drop  o'  something  to  help 
me  for  the  cheeriu'." 

"Hould  your  tongue,  Paddy;  do  you 
think  the  masther's  honor  would  allow  us  to 
lose  our  voices  in  his  behalf.  It's  himself 
that  ha.sn't  his  heart  in  a  trifle,  God  bless 
him." 

"Ah,  thin,  your  honor,"  said  another  fel- 
low, in  tatters,  "isn't  this  dust  and  hate 
enough  to  choke  a  bishop  ?  O  Lord,  am  I 
able  to  si^ake  at  all  ?  Upon  my  sow],  sir,  I 
think  there's  a  bonfire  in  my  throath." 

Everj'thing,  however,  had  been  prepared 
to  meet  these  demands  ;  and  in  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  barrels  of  beer  and  kegs 
of  whiskey  were  placed  under  the  manage- 
ment of  j)ersons  appointed  to  deal  out  their 
contents  to  the  thirsty  crowds.  Theu  com- 
'menced  the  dancing,  whilst  the  huzzaing, 
shouting,  jingling  of  bells,  squeaking  of  fifes, 
blowhig  of  horns,  and  all  the  other  com- 
jionent  parts  of  this  wild  melody,  were  once 
more  resumed  \^-ith  still  greater  vigor.     The 


I  gi-eat  feat  of  the  night,  however,  so  far  a'5 
the  people  were  concerned,  was  now  to  take 
i  j)laee.  This  was  to  ascertain,  by  superior 
[  activity,  who  among  the  young  men  could 
I  leap  over  the  bonfire,  when  burnt  down  to 
I  what  was  considered  such  a  state  as  might 
I  make  the  attempt  a  safe  one.  The  circles 
about  the  different  fires  were  consequently 
widened  to  leave  room  for  the  run,  and  then 
commenced  those  hazardous  but  comic  per- 
formances. As  may  be  supposed,  they  pro- 
ceeded with  various  success,  and  occasioned 
the  most  uproarious  mirth  whenever  any 
unfortunate  devil  who  had  overtasked  his 
Ijowers  in  the  attempt,  happened  to  faU,  and 
was  forced  to  scamper  out  of  the  subsiding 
flames  with  scorched  limbs  that  set  him  a 
dancing  without  music.  In  fact,  those  pos- 
sessed of  activity  enough  to  clear  them  were 
loudlj'  cheered,  and  rewarded  with  a  glass  of 
whiskey,  a  temptation  which  had  induced  so 
many  to  try,  and  so  many  to  fail.  "When  these 
had  been  concluded  about  the  mmor  fires, 
the  victors  and  sjiectators  repaired  to  the 
great  one,  to  try  theu'  fortiuie  u^oon  a  larger 
and  more  hazai'dous  scale.  It  was  now 
nearly  half  burned  down,  but  was  still  a 
large,  glowing  mass,  at  least  five  feet  high, 
and  not  less  than  eighteen  in  diameter  at 
the  base.  On  arri\-ing  there  they  all  looked 
on  in  silence,  appalled  by  its  great  size,  and 
altogether  deterred  fi-om  so  fonnidable  an 
attempt. 

It  would  be  death  to  try  it,  they  exclaimed  ; 
no  hviug  man  could  do  it ;  an  opinion  which 
was  universally  acceded  to,  with  one  single 
exception.  A  thin  man,  rather  above  the 
middle  size,  dressed  in  a  long,  black  coat, 
black  breeches,  and  black  stockings,  consti- 
tuted that  excejDtion.  There  was  something 
23eculiar,  and  even  strikingly  mj'sterious,  in 
his  whole  appearance.  His  complexion  was 
pale  as  that  of  a  corjase,  his  eyes  dead  aud 
glassy,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  seemed  as 
if  they  were  paralyzed  and  could  not  move. 
His  right  hiind  was  thmst  in  his  bosom,  aud 
over  his  left  arm  he  bore  some  dark  gar- 
ment of  a  very  funereal  cast,  almost  remind- 
ing one  of  a  mortcloth. 

" There  is  one"  said  he,  in  a  hollow  aud 
sei^ulchral  voice,  "  that  could  do  it." 

Father  ]\Iagauran,  who  was  present,  looked 
at  him  with  sui-prise  ;  as  indeed  did  every 
one  who  had  got  an  opjjortmiity  of  seeing 
him. 

"I  know  there  is,"  he  replied,  "a  sartin 
individual  who  could  do  it ;  ay.  in  troth,  and 
maybe  if  he  fell  into  the  flames,  too,  he'd 
only  find  himself  in  his  o\\ti  element :  and  if 
it  went  to  that  could  dauce  a  hoirupiipe  in 
the  middle  of  it." 

This  rejDartee  of  the  i^riest's  ehcited  loud 


644 


WILLI, IK  CAULETON'S  WORKS. 


laughter  from  tlie  by-standers,  who,  on  turn- 
ing round  to  see  how  the  other  bore  it, 
found  that  he  had  disajjpeared.  This  occa- 
sioned considerable  amazement,  not  unmixed 
mth  a  still  more  extraordinary  feehug.  No- 
body there  knew  him,  nor  had  ever  even 
seen  him  before  ;  and  in  a  short  time  the 
impression  began  to  gain  ground  that  he 
mvist  have  been  no  other  than  the  conjurer 
who  vv'as  said  to  have  ai'rived  in  the  town 
that  day.  In  the  meantime,  while  this  point 
was  under  discussion,  a  clear,  loud,  but  very 
mellow  voice  was  heai'd  about  twenty  j'ards 
above  them,  saying,  "  Stand  aside,  and  make 
way — leave  me  room  for  a  mn." 

The  curiositj-  of  the  people  was  at  once 
excited  by  what  they  had  only  a  few  minutes 
before  prouoiinced  to  be  a  feat  that  was  im- 
possible to  be  accomplished.  They  accord- 
ingly ojiened  a  lane  for  the  daring  individual, 
who,  they  imagined,  was  about  to  submit 
himself  to  a  scorching  that  might  cost  him 
his  life.  No  sooner  was  the  lane  made,  and 
the  by-standers  removed  back,  than  a  per- 
son evidently  youthful,  tail,  elastic,  and 
muscular,  aj^proached  the  burning  mass 
W'ith  the  speed  and  lightness  of  a  deer,  and 
flew  over  it  as  if  he  had  wings.  A  tremen- 
dous shout  burst  forth,  which  lasted  for 
more  than  a  minute,  and  the  people  were 
about  to  bring  him  to  receive  his  reward  at 
the  whiskey  keg,  when  it  was  found  that  he 
also  had  disappeared.  This  piuzzled  them 
once  more,  and  they  began  to  think  that 
there  were  more  present  at  these  bonfires 
than  had  ever  received  baptism ;  for  they 
could  scarcely  shake  themselves  free  of  the 
belief  that  the  mysterious  stranger  either 
was  something  superuatui-ally  evil  himself, 
or  else  the  conjurer  as  aforesaid,  w^ho,  by  all 
accounts,  was  not  many  steps  removed  from 
such  a  personage.  Of  the  young  person  who 
performed  this  imprecedeuted  and  terrible 
exploit  they  had  little  time  to  take  any  no- 
tice. Torley  Davoren,  however,  who  was  one 
of  the  spectators,  turned  round  to  his  wife 
and  whispered, 

"Unfortunate  boy — madman  I  ought  to 
say — what  devil  tempted  him  to  come 
here?" 

"  Was  it  him  ?  "  asked  liis  wife. 

" \\Tiist,  whist,"  he  replied  ;  "let  us  say 
no  more  about  it." 

In  the  meantime,  although  the  youthful 
performer  of  this  daiiug  feat  may  be  said  to 
have  passed  among  them  lilce  an  arrow  fi'om 
a  bow,  yet  it  so  happened  that  the  secret  of 
his  identity  did  not  rest  solely  with  Torley 
Davoren.  In  a  few  minutes  whisperings  be- 
gan to  take  place,  which  spread  gradually 
through  the  crowd,  until  at  length  the  name 
of   Sliawn    na   Mid  Jog  ue   was    openly    pro- 


nounced, and  the  secret — now  one  no  longer 
— was  instantly  sent  abroad  through  the 
peoj)ie,  to  wlioni  his  fearful  leap  was  now  no 
miracle.  The  imj^ression  so  long  entertain- 
ed of  his  connection  with  the  fauies  was  thus 
confirmed,  and  the  black  stranger  was  no 
other,  perhaps,  than  the  king  of  the  fairies 
himself. 

At  this  j^eriod  of  the  proceedings  IVIrs. 
Lindsay,  in  consec[uence  of  some  significant 
whispers  which  were  directlj-  leveUed  at  her 
character,  suggested  to  Maria  that  having 
seen  enough  of  these  wild  proceedings,  it 
would  be  more  adAisable  to  retiu-n  home — a 
suggestion  to  which  Maria,  w-hose  presence 
there  at  all  was  in  deference  to  her  father's 
wishes,  very  gladly  consented.  They  ac- 
cordingly placed  themselves  under  the  escort 
of  the  redoubtable  and  gallant  t'nins,  and 
reached  home  in  safety. 

It  was  now  expected  that  the  cjuality  would 
go  down  to  the  inn,  where  the  largest  room 
had  been  fitted  up  for  refreshments  and 
dancing,  and  into  which  none  but  the  more 
decent  and  respectable  classes  were  admitted. 
There  most  of  the  beauties  of  the  town  and 
the  adjoining  neighborhood  were  assembled, 
together  i\ith  their  admirers,  all  of  whom 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  festivity  with 
great  reUsh.  When  Lindsay  and  his  com- 
pany were  about  to  retu-e  fi'om  the  great 
bonfire,  the  conductors  of  the  pageant,  who 
also  acted  as  sj^okesmen  on  the  occasion, 
thus  addressed  them  : 

"  It's  right,  yoiu"  honors,  that  you  should 
go  and  see  the  dancin'  in  the  iun,  and  no 
harm  if  you  shake  a  heel  yourselves,  besides 
taking  something  to  wash  the  dust  out  o' 
your  thi'oats  ;  but  when  you  come  out  again, 
if  you  don't  find  a  fi'esh  and  high  blaze  be- 
fore you  still,  the  devil's  a  mtch." 

As  they  proceeded  toward  the  inn,  the 
consequences  of  the  drink,  which  the  crowd 
had  so  abundantly  received,  began,  here  and 
there,  to  manifest  many  unequivocal  symiJ- 
toms.  In  some  places  high  words  were  go- 
ing on,  m  others  blows  ;  and  altogether  the 
att'air  seemed  Ukely  to  terminate  m  a  general 
conflict. 

"Father,"  said  his  son  Charles,  "  had  you 
not  better  try  and  settle  these  rising  dis- 
turbances ?  " 

"Not  I,"  replied  the  jovial  magistrate, 
"  let  them  thrash  one  another  tOl  moi-ning  ; 
they  like  it,  and  I  make  it  a  point  never  to 
go  between  the  poor  jsfeojile  ,and  their  enjoy- 
ments. Gadzooks,  Charley,  don't  jou  know 
it  wovdd  be  a  tame  and  discreditable  aft'air  . 
without  a  row  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  now  that  they've  got  drunk, 
they're  cheering  you,  ancl  groaning  my 
mother." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


Cio 


"  Devil's  cure  to  lier,"  replied  liis  father  ; 
'•  if  she  didn't  deserve  it  she'd  uot  get  it. 
\Miat  right  had  she  to  send  my  baililfs  to 
drive  their  cattle  without  my  knowledge,  and 
to  take  duty  fowl  and  duty  work  from  them 
whenever  my  back  is  turned,  and  contrary 
to  my  wishes  ?  Come  in  till  we  have  some 
punch ;  let  them  shout  and  fight  away ; 
it  wouldn't  he  the  thing,  Charley,  without 
it." 

They  found  an  exceedingly  hvely  scene 
in  the  large  parlor  of  the  inn  ;  but,  in  fact, 
everj-  available  room  in  the  house  was  crowd- 
e<l.  Then,  after  they  had  looked  on  for 
some  time,  every  eye  soon  singled  out  the 
l^ride  and  beauty  of  the  assembly  in  the 
person  of  Grace  Davoreu,  whose  features 
were  animated  into  greater  loveHness,  and 
her  ej'es  into  greater  brilliancy,  by  the  light- 
hearted  spirit  wliich  prevailed.  She  was 
dre.ssed  in  her  new  drugget  gown,  had  on 
her  new  shoes  and  blue  stockings,  a  short 
striped  blue  and  red  petticoat,  which  dis- 
played as  much  of  her  exquisite  limbs  as  the 
jjretty  liberal  fashion  of  the  day  allowed  ; 
her  bust  was  perfection  ;  and,  as  her  black, 
natural  ringlets  fluttered  about  her  milk- 
white  neck  and  glomng  countenance,  she 
not  only  appeared  inexpressibly  beautiful, 
but  seemed  to  feel  conscious  of  that  beauty, 
as  was  evident  bj'  a  dash  of  pride — very 
charming,  indeed — which  shot  from  her 
eye,  and  mantled  on  her  beautiful  cheek. 

"  AMiy,  Charles,"  exclaimed  'Woodward, 
addressing  his  brother  in  a  whisper,  "  who 
is  that  lovely  peasant  girl  ?  " 

"Her  father  is  one  of  our  tenants,"  replied 
Charles  ;  "  and  she  was  about  to  be  married 
some  time  ago,  but  it  was  discovered,  for- 
timately  in  time,  that  her  intended  husband 
was  head  and  leader  of  the  outlaws  that  in- 
fest the  country.  It  was  he,  I  believe,  that 
leaped  over  the  bonfire.  " 

"Was  she  fond  of  him  ?" 

"  WeU,  it  is  not  easy  to  say  that ;  some 
say  she  was,  and  others  that  she  was  not. 
Barney  Casey  says  she  was  very  glad  to 
escaj^e  him  when  he  became  an  outlaw." 

"  By  the  way,  where  is  Barney  ?  I  haven't 
seen  him  since  I  came  to  look  at  this  non- 
sense." 

"Just  turn  your  eye  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ner of  the  room,  and  you  may  see  him  in  his 
glory." 

On  looking  in  the  prescribed  direction, 
there,  sure  enough,  was  Barney  discovered 
making  love  hard  and  fast  to  a  pretty  girl, 
whom  Woodward  remembered  to  have  seen 
that  morning  in  Mr.  Goodwin's,  and  with 
wliom  he  (Barney)  had  become  acquainted 
when  the  families  were  on  terms  of  inti- 
macy.    The  girl   sat   smiUng  on  his  knee, 


whilst  Barney  who  had  a  glass  of  punch  iu 
his  hand,  kejjt  applying  it  to  her  lips  from 
time  to  time,  and  pressing  her  so  lovingly 
toward  him,  that  she  was  obliged  occasion- 
ally to  give  liim  a  pat  upon  the  cheek,  or  to 
pull  his  whiskers.  Woodward's  attention, 
however,  was  transferred  once  more  to 
Grace  Davoren,  from  whom  he  could  not 
keep  his  eyes — a  fact  which  she  soon  discov- 
ered, as  was  evident  by  a  slight  hauteur  and 
aft'ectation  of  manner  toward  many  of  those 
with  whom  she  had  been  previously  on  an 
equal  and  famiHar  footing. 

"  Charles,"  said  he,  "  I  must  have  a  dance 
with  this  beautiful  girl ;  do  you  think  she 
\\^  dance  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  teU,"  replied  his  brother,  "  but 
you  can  ask  her." 

"  By  the  way,  where  are  my  father  and  the 
rest?     They  have  left  the  room." 

"  The  landlord  has  got  them  a  small  apart- 
ment," rejolied  CharleS,  "  where  they  are  now 
enjoying  themselves.  If  you  dance  with 
Grace  Davoren,  however,  be  on  your  good 
behavior,  for  if  you  take  any  unbecoming 
liberties  with  her,  you  maj'  repent  it ;  don't 
imagine  because  you  see  these  humble  girls 
allowing  their  sweethearts  to  kiss  them  in 
corners,  that  either  they  or  theii-  fiiends  will 
permit  you  io  do  so." 

"That's  as  it  m.%j  be  managed,  perhaps," 
said  Woodwai-d,  who  immediately  approach- 
ed Grace  in  imitation  of  what  he  had  seen, 
and  making  her  a  low  bow,  said, 

"I  dance  to  you.  Miss  Davc^-en,  if  you  will 
favor  me." 

She  was  then  sitting,  but  immediately  rose 
\rp,  v\dth  a  blushing  but  gratified  face,  and 
rejjlied, 

"  I  will,  sir,  but  I'm  not  worthy  to  dance 
with  a  gentleman  like  you." 

"  You  are  worthy  to  dance  with  a  prince," 
he  replied,  as  he  led  her  to  their  station, 
fi'onting  the  music. 

"  WeU,  my  pretty  girl,"  said  he,  "  what  do 
you  wish  ?  " 

"  Your  will,  sir,  is  my  jjleasure." 

"  Very  weD.     Piper,"  said  he,  "  play  up 

'  Kiss   my   lady  ; '  "  which  was   accordingly 

done,  and  the  dance  commenced.  Woodward 

j  thought  the  most  popular  thing  he  could  do 

was  to  affect  no  sviijeriority  over  the  young 

j  fellows  present,    but,    on   the   contrary,    to 

I  imitate  their  style  and  manner  of  dancing  as 

I  well  as  he  could  ;  and  in  this  he  acted  witli 

gi-eat  judgment.      They   felt   flattered  and 

I  gratified  even  «t  his  awkward  and  clumsy 

imitations  of  their  steps,  and  received  his 

j  efforts   with  much  laughter  and  cheering  ; 

I  nor  was  Grace  herself  insensible  to  the  mirth 

he  occasioned.       On  he  went,  cutting  and 

1  capering,  iintil  he  had  them  in  convulsions; 


t)4G 


WJ£LIA3r  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


and  wLen  the  dimce  was  ended,  Le  seized 
bis  jjartner  ia  bis  arms,  swung  ber  three 
times  round,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  u2)on  ber 
li23s  with  such  good  humor  that  be  was  highly 
applauded.  He  then  ordered  in  drink  to 
treat  ber  and  her  friends,  which  be  dis- 
tributed to  them  with  bis  own  band  ;  and 
after  contriving  to  gain  a  few  minutes' 
private  chat  with  Grace,  he  amjjly  rewarded 
the  jjiper.  He  was  now  about  to  take  bis 
leave  and  proceed  with  bis  brother,  when 
two  women,  one  about  tbii'ty-five,  and  the 
other  far  advanced  in  years,  both  accosted 
him  almost  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Your  honor  won't  go,"  said  the  less  aged 
of  the  two,  "  until  you  get  your  fortune 
tould." 

"  To  be  sure  be  won't,  Caterine,"  they  all 
replied;  "we'll  engage  the  gentleman  vnll 
cross  your  baud  wid  silver  ;  like  his  father 
before  him,  bis  heart's  not  in  the  money." 

"  Never  mind  her,  si*-,"  said  the  aged  crone, 
'•she's  a  schemer,  aud  will  tell  you  nothing 
but  what  slie  knows  wiU  plaise  you.  Show 
me  your  hand,  sir,  and  I'U  tell  you  the 
truth." 

"Nevermind  the  calUagli,  sir,  (old  woman, 
by  way  of  reproach  ;)  she's  dotin',  aud  hasn't 
remembered  ber  own  name  these  ten  years." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Woodward,  ad- 
dressing Caterine,  "I  sbaU  bear  what  you 
both  have  to  say — but  you  first." 

He  accordingly  crossed  her  band  with  a 
piece  of  silver,  after  which  slie  looked  closely 
into  it — then  upon  his  countenance,  and 
said, 

"  You  have  two  things  in  your  mind,  aud 
they'll  both  succeed." 

"  But,  my  good  woman,  any  one  might  teU 
me  as  much." 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  confidence  ;  "  ex- 
amine your  own  heart  aud  you'll  find  the 
two  things  there  that  it  is  fixed  upon  ;  and 
whisper,"  she  added,  putting  her  Ujis  to  bis 
ear,  "I  know  what  they  are,  and  can  help 
you  in  both.  ^\lien  you  want  me,  inquire 
for  Cateriue  Collins.  My  uncle  is  Sol  Don- 
nell,  the  herb  doctor." 

He  smiled  aud  nodded,  but  made  no  re- 

piy- 

"  Now,"  said  be,  "  my  old  crone,  come  and 
let  me  bear  what  you  have  to  say  for  me  ; " 
and  as  be  spoke  another  coin  was  dropjjed 
duto  bei;  withered  and  skinnj'  hand. 

"  Bring  me  a  candle,"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
that  whistled  with  age,  and  if  one  could 
judge  by  ber  hag-like  and  repulsive  features, 
with  a  malignity  that  was  a  habit  of  her  Ufe. 
After  having  inspected  bis  palm  with  the 
candle,  she  uttered  three  eldrich  laughs,  or 
rather  screams,  that  sounded  through  the 
room   as   if  they   were   more  than  natural. 


"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  look  here, 
there's  the  line  of  Ufe  stopped  by  a  red  in- 
strument ;  that's  not  good  ;  I  see  it,  I  feel  it ; 
your  life  will  be  sboit  and  youi-  death 
violent ;  ay,  indeed,  the  purty  bonfire  of 
your  life,  for  aU  so  blight  as  it  burns,  wiU.  be 
put  out  wid  blood — and  that  soon." 

"  You're  a  d — d  old  croaker,''  said  Wood- 
ward, "  and  take  delight  in  predicting  evd. 
Here,  my  good  woman,"  he  added,  tm-ning 
to  the  other,  "  there's  an  additional  half- 
crown  for  you,  aud  I  won't  forget  your 
words." 

He  and  Charles  then  joined  their  friends 
in  the  other  room,  and  as  it  was  getting  late 
they  all  resolved  to  stroU  once  more  through 
the  town,  iu  order  to  take  a  parting  look  at  the 
bonfires,  to  wish  the  people  good-night,  aud 
to  thank  them  for  the  kindness  aud  alacrity 
with  which  they  got  them  u^j,  and  manifested 
their  good  feeling  upon  so  short  a  notice. 
The  large  tire  was  agam  blaziug,  bavuig  been 
recruited  with  a  fresh  supply'  of  materials. 
The  crowd  were  looking  on  ;  many  were 
staggermg  about,  uttering  a  feeble  huzza,  in 
a  state  of  complete  intoxication,  and  the  fool 
of  the  parish  was  attempting  to  dance  a 
hornpipe,  when  large,  blob-like  drojjs  began 
to  fall,  as  happens  at  the  commencement  of  a 
beavj'  shower.  Lindsay  put  his  band  to  bis 
face,  on  which  some  few  of  them  had  fallen, 
aud,  on  looking  at  bis  fingers,  perceived 
that  tbey  were  sp)otted  as  if  with  blood  ! 

"Good  God!"  be  exclaimed,  "what  is 
this  ?     Am  I  bleeding  ?  " 

Tbey  all  stared  at  him,  and  then  at  each 
other,  with  dismay  and  horror ;  for  there, 
unquestionably,  was  the  hideous  ami  terri- 
ble fact  before  tbem,  and  legible  on  ever}- 
face  around  tbem — it  was  raining  blood  ! 

An  awe,  which  we  cannot  describe,  and  a 
silence,  deep  as  that  of  the  grave,  followed 
tliis  tenible  prodigy.  The  silence  did  not  last 
long,  however,  for  iu  a  few  minutes,  during 
which  the  blood  fell  very  thickly,  making 
their  bands  aud  visages  aj^pear  as  if  they  bad 
been  steeped  in  gore — in  a  few  moments, 
we- say,  the  heavens,  which  had  become  one 
black  and  dismal  mass,  opened,  and  from 
the  chasm  issued  a  red  fiasb  of  liglitning, 
which  was  followed  almost  immediately  by  a 
roar  of  thunder,  so  loud  iind  terrific  that  the 
whole  people  became  fearfully  agitated  as 
they  stood  round  the  blaze.  It  was  ex- 
tremely difiieult,  indeed,  for  ignorant  persou?i 
to  account  for,  or  speculate  ujiou,  this 
strange  aud  frightful  phenomeuon.  As  tbey 
stood  in  fear  and  terror,  with  their  faces  ap- 
parently bathed  iu  blood,  the}'  seemed  rather 
to  resemble  a  gToup  of  hideous  nuirderers, 
standing  as  if  about  to  be  driven  iuto  the 
flames  of  perdition  itself.    To  compare  tbem 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    TEE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


Ci? 


to  a  tribe  of  red  Indians  siirroundinrf  their 
war  fires,  would  Le  but  a  fiiiut  and  feeble 
simile  when  contrasted  with  the  terror  which, 
not\v'ithstaudiug  the  gory  hue  with  which 
they  were  covered  from  top  to  toe,  might 
be  read  iu  their  terrified  eyes  and  visages. 
After  a  few  minutes,  however,  the  alarm 
became  more  intense,  and  put  itself  forth 
into  words.  The  fearful  intelligence  now 
spread.  "  It  is  raining  blood  !  it  is  raining 
blood !  "  was  shouted  from  every  mouth  ; 
those  who  were  in  the  houses  rushed  out, 
and  soon  found  that  it  was  true  ;  for  the  red 
Uquid  was  still  descending,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  soon  were  as  red  as  the  others. 
The  flight  home  now  became  one  of  jianic  ; 
every  house  was  crowded  with  strangers, 
who  took  refuge  wherever  they  could  find 
shelter  ;  and  in  the  meantime  the  hghtning 
was  fi  ishiug  and  the  thunder  peahug  with 
stuuuing  depth  throughout  the  heavens. 
The  bonfires  were  soon  deserted  ;  for  even 
those  who  were  drunk  and  tipsy  had  been 
aroused  by  the  alarm,  and  the  language  in 
which  it  was  uttered.  Nobody,  in  fact,  was 
left  at  the  great  fire  except  those  who  com- 
po.sed  the  dinner  party,  with  tlie  exception 
of  tlie  two  clergymen,  who  fied  and  dis- 
appeared along  with  the  mob,  urged,  too,  by 
tLie  same  motives. 

"  This  will  not  be  believed,"  said  Lindsay  ; 
"  it  is,  beyond  all  doubt  and  scepticism,  a 
prodigy  from  heaven,  and  must  portend  some 
fearfid  calamity.  May  God  iu  heaven  pro- 
tect us  !  But  who  is  this  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  a  hideous  old  hag,  bent  over 
her  staff,  aj)proached  them  ;  but  it  did  not 
appear  that  she  was  about  to  jiay  them  any 
particular  attention.  She  was  mumbUng 
and  cackling  to  herself  when  about  to  pass, 
but  was  addressed  by  Lindsay. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  you  old  hag  ?  They 
say  j'ou  ;u-e  acquainted  with  more  than  you 
ought  to  know.  Can  you  account  for  this 
blood  that's  falhng  ?  " 

"Who  are  you  that  axes  me?"  she 
squeaked. 

"  I'm  Mr.  Lindsiy,  the  magistrate." 

"Ay,"  she  screamed  again,  "it  was  for 
your  son,  H.arry,  iia  Sail  Gloir*  that  this 
bonfire  was  made  to-night.  Well  he  knows 
what  I  tould  him,  and  let  him  think  of  it ; 
but  there  wiU  be  more  blood  than  this,  and 
that  before  long,  I  can  tell  you  and  him." 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  on,  mumbling  and 
muttering  to  herself  like  a  witcli  rehearsing 
her  incantations  on  her  way  to  join  their 
sibbath.  They  now  turned  their  steps 
iiomewards,    but    had    not    proceeded   far. 


when  the  rain  came  down  as  it  might  be 
supposed  to  have  done  in  the  deluge  ;  the 
lightnings  flashed,  the  thunder  continued 
to  roar,  and  by  the  time  they  reached  liath- 
fiUan  House  they  were  absolutely  drenched 
to  the  skin.  The  .next  morning,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  people,  there  was  not 
visible  a  trace  or  fragment  of  the  bonfires ; 
every  vestige  of  them  had  disappeared  ;  and 
the  general  imjoression  now  was,  that  there 
must  have  been  something  evil  and  wn- 
hallowed  connected  with  the  individual  for 
whom  they  had  been  prepared. 


*  Siiil  Gloir  was  an  epithet  bestowed  on  persons 
whoso  eyes  were  of  uiliereut  colors. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Shawn-naMiddogue — Shun  Dhinne-Dhuv,    or    Tlit 
Black  Spectre. 

The  next  evening  was  calm  and  mild  ;  the 
sun  shone  with  a  serene  and  mellow  light 
from  the  evening  sky  ;  the  trees  were  green, 
and  still ;  but  the  music  of  the  blackbird 
and  the  thi'ush  came  sweetly  from  their  leafy 
branches.  Henry  Woodwai'd  had  been  list- 
ening to  a  rather  lengthy  discussion  upon 
the  subject  of  the  blood-shower,  which,  in- 
deed, was  the  topic  of  much  conversation 
and  great  wonder  throughout  the  whole 
parish.  His  father,  a  Protestant  gentleman, 
and  witii  some  portion  of  education,  al- 
though not  much,  was,  nevertheless,  deeply 
imbued  with  the  superstitions  which  pre- 
vailed around  him,  as,  in  fact,  were  most  ol 
those  who  existed  in  his.  day  ;  the  very  air 
which  he  breathed  was  rife  with  them  ;  but 
what  puzzled  him  and  his  family  most  was 
the  difficulty  which  they  found  in  shaping 
the  prodigy  into  significance.  Why  should 
it  take  place,  and  uisou  such  an  occasion, 
they  could  not  for  their  hves  imagine.  The 
only  persons  in  the  family  who  seemed  alto- 
gether indifferent  to  it  were  Woodward  and 
his  mother,  both  of  whom  treated  it  with 
ridicule  and  contemjjt. 

"  It  comes  before  some  calamity,"  ob- 
seiTed  Mr.  Lindsay. 

"  It  comes  before  a  fiddle-stick,  Lindsay," 
rephed  Ins  wife.  "  Calamity  !  yes  ;  perhaps 
you  may  have  a  headache  to-morrow,  for 
which  the  world  must  be  prepared  by  a 
storm  of  thunder  and  hghtning,  and  a 
shower  of  blood.  The  head  that  reels  over 
night  with  an  excess  of  wine  and  punch  will 
ache  in  the  morning  without  a  jjrodigy  to 
foretell  it." 

"  Say  what  you  will,"  he  rejilied,  "  I  be- 
lieve the  devO.  had  a  hand  iu  it ;  and  I  tell 
you,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  that  if  you  be 
advised  by  me,  you'll  begin  to  prepare  your- 


648 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


self — 'a  stitcli  in  time  saves  nine,' you  know 
— so  look  sharp,  I  say." 

"This,  Harry,"  she  said,  addressing  her 
son,  "  is  the  way  yoiir  mother  has  been 
treated  all  along ;  yes,  by  a  bmtal  find 
coarse-minded  hnsband,  who  pays  no  atten- 
tion to  anything  but  his  owoi  gross  and 
selfish  enjoyments  ;  but,  thank  God,  I  have 
now  some  jierson  to  protect  me." 

"  O,  ho  !  "  said  her  husband,  "  you  are  for 
a  battle  now.  Harry,  you  don't  know  her. 
If  she  lets  loose  that  scurrilous  tongue  of  hers 
I  have  no  chance  ;  upon  my  soul,  I'd  encoun- 
ter another  half  dozen  of  thunder-storms, 
and  as  many  showers  of  blood,  sooner  than 
come  rmder  it  for  ten  minutes  ;  a  West  India 
hurricane  is  a  zephyr  to  it." 

"Ah,  God  help  the  unhapj)y  woman  that's 
blistered  for  life  with  an  ignorant  sot ! — such 
a  woman  is  to  be  pitied — and  such  a  woman 
am  I ; — I,  you  good-for-nothing  drunken 
boob)',  who  made  you  what  you  are." 

"O,  tie!  mamma,"  said  Maria,  "tliis  is 
too  bad  to  papa,  who,  you  know,  seldom  re- 
pUes  to  you  at  aU." 

"  Miss  Lindsay,  I  shall  suffer  none  of  yoiu' 
impertinence,"  said  her  mother  ;  "  leave  the 
room,  madam,  this  moment — how  dare  you '? 
but  I  am  not  siu'prised  at  it ; — leave  the  room, 
I  say." 

The  poor,  amiable  gii'l,  who  was  all  fear- 
fulness  and  affection,  quietly  left  the  room 
as  she  was  desii'ed,  and  her  father,  who  saw 
that  his  worthy  wife  was  brimful  of  a  coming 
squaU,  put  on  his  hat,  and  after  having  given 
one  of  his  usual  sardonic  looks,  left  the 
apartment  also. 

"Mother,"  said  her  son  Charles,  "I  must 
protest  against  the  unjustifiable  violence  of 
temper  with  which  j'ou  treat  my  father.  You 
know  he  was  only  jesting  in  what  he  said  to 
you  this  moment." 

"Let  him  carry  his  jests  elsewere,  Mr. 
Charles,"  she  replied,  "  he  shan't  indulge  in 
them  at  my  expense  ;  nor  will  I  have  j'ou 
abet  him  in  them  as  you  always  do — yes,  sir, 
and  laugh  at  them  in  my  face.  AU  this, 
however,  is  very  natiu-al ;  as  the  old  cock 
crows  the  j'ovmg  one  learns.  As  for  Maria, 
if  she  makes  as  dutiful  a  \^ife  as  she  does  a 
daughter,  her  husband  may  thsink  God  for 
getting  his  full  share  of  evil  in  this  hfe." 

"I  protest  to  heaven,  Harry,"  said  Charles, 
addressing  his  brother,  "  if  ever  there  was  a 
meek,  sweet-tempered  girl  living,  Maria  is. 
You  do  not  yet  know  her,  but  you  will,  of 
course,  have  an  opportunity  of  judging  for 
yourself." 

"  You  perceive,  Harry,"  said  his  mother, 
addressing  him  in  turn,  "  you  perceive  how 
they  are  banded  against  me ;  in  fact,  they 
ai-e  joined  with  theu-  father  in  a  conspiracy 


to  destroy  my  peace  and  happiness.  This  is 
the  feeling  that  prevails  against  me  in  the 
house  at  large,  for  which  I  may  thank  my 
husband  and  children — I  don't  include  you, 
Harry.  There  is  not  a  servant  in  our  estab- 
hshment  but  could  poison  me,  and  pi'obably 
would,  too,  were  it  not  for  fear  of  the  gal- 
lows." 

"Woodward  Ustened  to  this  strange  scene 
with  amazement,  but  was  prudent  enough 
to  take  no  jjai't  in  it  whatsoever.  On  the 
contrary,  he  got  his  hat  and  proceeded  out 
to  take  a  stroll,  as  the  evening  was  so  fine, 
and  the  aspect  of  the  country  was  so  de- 
Ughtful. 

"Harry,"  said  his  brother,  "if  you're  for 
a  walk  I'U  go  with  you," 

"Not  at  present,  Charley,"  said  he,  "lam 
in  a  thoughtful  mood,  and  generally  j^refer 
a  lonely  stroU  on  such  a  beautifid  evening  as 
this." 

He  accordingly  went  out,  and  bent  his 
steps  by  a  long,  i-ude  green  lane,  which  ex- 
tended up)wards  of  half  a  mUe  across  a  rich 
country,  undulating  with  fields  and  mead- 
ows. This  was  terminated  by  a  clump  of 
hawthorn  trees,  then  white  and  fi-agi-ant  with 
then-  lovely  blossoms,  which  lay  in  rich  pro- 
fusion on  the  ground.  Contiguous  to  this 
was  a  small  but  deUghtful  green  glen,  fi-om 
the  side  of  which  issued  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful spring  weUs  for  which  the  country  is  so 
celebrated.  Over  a  verdant  little  hill,  which 
concealed  this  glen  and  the  well  we  mention, 
from  a  few  humble  houses,  or  rather  a  de- 
center  kind  of  cabins,  wais  ■v'isible  a  beaten 
pathway  by  which  the  inhabitants  of  this 
smaU  hamlet  came  for  their  water.  Upon 
this,  shaded  as  he  was  by  the  trees,  he  stead- 
ily kej)t  his  eye  for  a  considerable  time,  as  if 
in  the  exjjectation  of  some  person  who  had 
made  an  ajipointment  to  meet  him.  Half 
an  hour  had  nearh'  elapsed — the  shades  of 
evening  were  now  beginning  to  fall,  and  he 
had  just  come  to  the  resolution  of  retracing 
his  steps,  with  a  curse  of  disappointment 
on  his  hj)s,  when,  on  taking  another,  and 
what  he  intended  to  be  a  last  glance  at  the 
pathway  in  question,  he  espied  the  individual 
for  whom  he  waited.  This  was  no  other 
than  the  young  beauty  of  the  neighborhood 
— Grace  Davoren.  She  was  triiipiug  along 
with  a  light  and  meri-y  steji,  biting  an  Irish 
air  of  a  very  hvely  character,  to  which  she 
could  scarcely  prevent  herself  from  dimcing, 
so  elastic  and  buoyant  were  her  spirits.  On 
coming  to  the  brow  of  the  glen  she  paused 
a  moment  and  cast  her  eye  searchingly 
aroimd  her,  but  seemed  after  the  scrutiny  to 
hesitate  about  proceeding  farther. 

Woodward  immediately  sliowed  himself, 
and  after  beckoning  to  her,  proceeded  to- 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


649 


ward  the  well.  She  still  paused,  however, 
as  if  irresolute  ;  but  after  one  or  two  signi- 
ficant gestures  on  his  part,  she  descended 
with  a  slow  and  apparently  a  timid  stej),  and 
in  a  couple  of  minutes  stood  beside  the  well. 
The  immediate  ijurjjort  of  their  conversation 
is  not  essential  to  this  narrative  ;  but,  indeed, 
we  presume  that  our  readers  may  give  a 
very  good  guess  at  it  without  any  assistance 
from  us.  The  beautiful  girl  was  young,  and 
credulous,  and  innocent,  as  might  naturally 
be  inferred  from  the  confusion  of  her  manner, 
and  the  tremulous  tones  of  her  voice,  which, 
indeed,  were  seductive  and  full  of  natural 
melody.  Her  heart  palpitated  untU  its  beat- 
ings might  be  heard,  and  she  trembled  with 
that  kind  of  terror  which  is  composed  of 
ajiprehension  and  pleasure.  That  a  gentle- 
man— One  of  the  qiiuUltj — could  condescend 
to  feel  any  interest  in  a  humble  girl  like  her, 
was  what  she  could  scarcely  have  dreamed  ; 
but  when  he  told  her  of  her  beauty,  the 
natural  elegance  and  symmetry  of  her  figure, 
and  added  that  he  loved  her  better  than  any 
girl,  either  high  or  low,  he  had  ever  seen, 
she  believed  that  his  words  were  true,  and 
her  brain  became  almost  giddy  ^^'ith  wonder 
and  delight.  Then  she  considered  what  a 
triumph  it  was  over  aU  her  female  acquaint- 
ances, who,  if  they  knew  it,  would  certainly 
en\'y  her  even  far  more  than  they  did 
already.  After  about  half  an  houi-'s  conver- 
sation the  darkness  set  in,  and  she  exjjressed 
an  apprehension  lest  some  of  her  famUy 
should  come  in  quest  of  her — a  circumstance, 
she  said,  which  might  be  dtmgerous  to  them 
both.  He  then  prevailed  on  hsr  to  jjromise 
another  meeting,  which  at  length  she  did  ; 
but  on  his  taking  leave  of  her  she  asked 
him  by  which  way  he  intended  to  go  home. 

"I  came  by  the  old  green  path,"  said  he, 
"  but  intend  to  turn  down  the  glen  into  the 
common  road." 

"  O,  don't  go  that  way,"  said  she  ;  "  if  you 
do,  you'll  have  to  pass  the  haunted  house, 
ay,  and  maybe,  might  meet  the  Shan-dhinne- 
dhuc." 

"  What  is  that,"  said  he. 

"O,  Lord  save  us,  sir,"  said  she,  "did you 
never  hear  of  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv  ?  A 
spiiit,  sir,  that  ajjpears  about  the  haunted 
liouse  in  the  shape  of  a  black  ould  man,  and 
they  say  that  nobody  hves  long  afther  seein' 
him  three  times." 

"  Yes  ;  but  did  he  ever  take  any  person's 
fife  ?  " 

"  Tliey  say  so,  sir." 

"  ^Mieu  ?     How  long  ago  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  that,  sir  ;  but  sure 
every  one  says  it." 

"Wei,  what  every  one  says  must  be 
true,"  he  replied,  smiling.     "  I,  however,  am 


not  afraid  of  him,  as  I  never  go  unarmed  ; 
and  if  I  hajji^eu  to  meet  him,  trust  me  I  will 
know  what  mettle  he's  made  of  before  we 
part,  or  whether  he  belongs  to  this  world  or 
the  other." 

He  then  went  do\vn  the  glen,  by  the 
bottom  of  which  liie  road  went ;  and  at  a 
lonely  place  in  a  dark  angle  of  it  this  far- 
famed  spirit  was  said  to  apjiear. 

This  vain,  but  simple  girl,  the  pride  of  her 
honest  jsarents  and  all  her  simisle  relations 
and  friends,  took  up  her  pitcher  and  pro- 
ceeded with  an  elated  heart  by  the  pathway 
we  have  mentioned  as  leading  to  her  father's 
house.  We  say  her  heart  was  elated  at  the 
notion  of  having  engaged  the  affections  of  a 
handsome,  young,  and  elegant  gentleman, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  felt  a  secret  sense 
of  error,  if  not  of  guilt,  in  having  given  him 
a  clandestine  meeting,  and  kept  an  appoint- 
ment which  she  knew  her  parents  and 
brothers  would  have  heard  with  indignation 
and  shame.  She  was  confident,  however,  in 
her  own  strength,  and  resolved  in  her  mind 
that  Woodward's  attachment  for  her  never 
should  terminate  either  in  her  disgrace  or 
ruin.  There  were,  however,  many  foolish 
and  pernicious  ballads  sung  about  that 
period  at  the  hearths  of  the  iJeasantry,  ia 
which  some  lord  or  squire  of  high  degree 
was  represented  to  have  fallen  in  love  with 
some  beautiful  girl  of  humble  life,  whom  he 
married  in  sjsite  of  his  proud  relations,  and 
after  having  made  her  a  lady  of  rank,  and 
dressed  her  in  silks  and  satins,  gold  rings 
and  jewels,  brought  her  home  to  his  castle, 
where  they  hved  in  grandeur  and  happiness 
for  the  remainder  of  their  lives.  The  simple- 
minded  girl  began  to  imagine  that  some  such 
agreeable  destiny  might  be  reserved  for  her- 
self ;  and  thus  endeavored,  by  the  deceitful 
soijhistry  of  a  credulous  heart,  and  provid  of 
her  beauty,  to  palliate  her  conduct  amidst 
the  accusations  of  her  own  conscience,  which 
told  her  she  was  acting  \\Tong. 

She  had  now  got  about  half  way  home, 
when  she  saw  an  individual  ajiproach  her  at 
a  rapid  pace  ;  and  as  the  moon  had  jusS 
risen,  his  figure  was  distinctly  before  her, 
and  she  immediately  felt  a  strong  imjares- 
sion  of  terror  and  alarm.  The  individual  in 
question  was  young,  taU,  and  muscular  ;  his 
person  had  in  it  eveiy  symptom  of  extra- 
ordinary activity  and  vigor.  His  features, 
however,  were  not  at  all  such  as  could  be 
termed  handsome  ;  so  far  from  that,  they 
were  rude  and  stern,  but  not  without  a  wUd 
and  disagreeable  dignity.  His  eyes  were  at 
all  times  fierce  and  fiery,  and  gave  unecjui- 
vocal  indications  of  a  fierce  and  fiery  spirit. 
He  wore  a  pair  of  rude  pantaloons  that  fitted 
closely   to   his   finely   made  limbs,  a  short 


650 


WILLIAM  CAELETOIf'S  WOllKS. 


jacket  or  Wyliecoat  that  also  fitted  closely  to 
Lis  body,  over  which  he  wore  the  usual  cloak 
of  that  day,  wliich  was  bound  about  his 
middle  ^^■ith  a  belt  and  buckle,  in  which  was 
stuck  a  niiddofi^ie,  or,  as  it  ought  to  be 
wTitten,  vicadokie,  and  jironounced  maddogay. 
He  wore  a  kind  of  caj)  x>y  barrad,  which,  as 
well  as  his  cloak,  could,  by  being  turned  in- 
side out,  instantly  change  his  whole  apjiear- 
ance,  and  mislead  his  jjui'suers — for  he  was 
the  outlaw.  Such  was  (he  startling  indi- 
vidual who  now  approached  her,  and  at 
whose  fierce  aspect  she  trembled — not  less 
fi'om  her  knowledge  of  the  natural  violence 
of  his  character  than  fi'om  a  consciousness  of 
her  iuter^■iew  with  "Woodward. 

"  Well,  Granua  (Grace),"  said  he,  quickly 
and  with  some  vehemence,  "  where  have 
you  been  ?  " 

"At  the  well,"  she  replied;  "have  you 
eyes  in  vour  head  ?  Don't  you  see  my  pit- 
cher?"' 

"  I  do  ;  but  what  kept  you  there  so  long  ? 
and  why  is  your  voice  trembUn',  as  if  you 
wor  afeard,  or  did  something  wrong  ?  Why 
is  your  face  pale,  too  ? — it's  not  often  so." 

"  The  Lord  save  us,  Shawn,"  rephed 
Grace,  attemjjting  to  treat  those  pointed  in- 
terrogatories with  a  jocular  spirit,  "  how  can 
you  expect  me  to  answer  such  a  catechize  as 
you're  i:)uttiu'  to  me  at  waust." 

"Answer  me,  in  the  mane  time,"  he  re- 
phed ;  "I'U  have  no  doubling,  Grauua." 

"Has  anything  vexed  you,  Shawn?" 

"  Chorp  an  diaoul !  tell  me  why  you  staid 
so  long  at  the  weU  " — and'  as  he  spoke  his 
eyes  flashed  with  resentment  and  suspicion. 

"  I  didn't  stay  long  at  it." 

"  I  say  you  did.     What  kejjt  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  bekaise  I  didn't  hui'ry  myself,  but 
took  my  time.     I  was  often  longer. " 

"You  were  spakin'  to  some  one  at  "the 
well." 

"Ah,  thm,  Shawn,  who  would  I  be  spakin' 
to?" 

"Maybe  I  know — I  believe  I  do — but  I 
want  now  to  know  whether  you're  a  har,  as 
I  suspect  you  to  be,  or  whether  you  are 
honest  enough  to  teU  the  truth." 

"  Do  you  susjject  me,  then  ?  " 

"I  do  suspect  you;  or  rather  I  don't — 
bekaise  I  know  the  truth.  Answer  me — 
who  wei'e  you  spakin'  with  ?  " 

"  Troth,"  said  she,  "  I  was  lookin'  at  your 
sweetheart  in  the  well,"  meaning  her  own 
shadow,  "  and  was  only  asking  her  how  she 
did." 

"You  danced  with  ffurrij-na-Suil  Balor 
last  night  ?  " 

"  I  did  ;  because  the  gentleman  axed  me 
.•—and  why  would  I  refuse  him  ?  " 

"  You  whispered  in  a  corner  with  him  ?  " 


"  I  did  not,"  she  rejjhed  ;  "  how  could  I 
when  the  room  was  so  thi-ong  ?  " 

"  Ay,  betther  in  a  thi'oug  room  than  a 
thin  one  ;  ay,  and  you  promised  to  meet 
him  at  the  weU  to-night ;  and  you  kept  yom' 
word." 

A  woman's  courage  and  determination  to 
jjersist  in  falsehood  are  never  so  decided 
and  deUberate  as  when  she  feels  that  the 
suspicion  exjjressed  against  lier  is  true.  She 
then  gets  into  hei'oics  and  attempts  to  turn 
the  tables  upon  her  opponent,  especially 
wlieu  she  knows,  as  IVIiss  Davoren  did  on 
this  occasion,  that  he  has  nothing  hid.  sus- 
picion to  support  him.  She  knew  that  her 
lover  had  been  at  the  bonfii-e,  and  that  his 
friends  must  have  seen  her  dance  -with 
Woodward  ;  and  this  she  did  not  attempt  to 
deny,  because  she  could  not  ;  but  as  for  their 
tryst  at  the  well,  she  felt  satisfied,  from  her 
knowledge  of  his  jealous  and  ^•iolent  charac- 
ter, that  if  he  had  been  aware  of  it,  it  v^ould 
not  h;ive  been  by  seeking  the  fact  through 
the  medium  of  his  thi'eats  and  her  fears 
that  he  would  have  i^roceeded.  Had  he 
seen  Woodward,  for  instance,  and  herself 
holding  a  secret  meeting  in  such  a  place  and 
at  such  an  hour,  she  concluded  justly  that 
the  niiddogue  or  dagger,  for  the  use  of  wbieh 
he  had  been  already  so  celebrated,  would 
have  been  brought  into  reciuisition  against 
either  one  or  both. 

"I'll  talk  no  more  to  you,"  she  replied, 
with  a  flushed  face  ;  "for  even  if  I  tould  yor 
the  truth,  you  wouldn't  beheve  me.  I  did 
meet  him,  then  ;  ai-e  you  satisfied  now?" 

This  admission  was  an  able  stroke  of  pol- 
icy on  her  part,  as  the  reader  vnH  soon  jjer- 
ceive. 

"  O,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  bitter,  or, 
rather,  a  furious  exjjression  of  face,  "(A/r 
manim,  if  you  had,  you  wouldn't  dare  to 
confess  as  much.  But  listen  to  me ;  if  I 
ever  hear  or  know,  to  my  own  satisfaction, 
that  you  meet  him,  or  keep  his  company,  or 
put  j'ourself  in  liis  j^ower,  I'U  send  six  in- 
ches of  this  " — and  he  pulled  out  the  glitter- 
ing weapon — "  into  your  heart  and  his  ;  so 
now  be  wai-ned  and  avoid  him,  and  don't 
bring  down  my  vengeance  on  you  both." 

"  I  don't  see  what  right  you  have  to  bring 
me  over  the  co:ils  about  imy  one.  My  father 
was  forcin'  me  to  marry  you  ;  but  I  no^v  tell 
you  to  your  teeth,  that  I  never  had  the  slight- 
est intention  of  it.  No!  I  wouldn't  take  the 
wealth  of  the  biU'ony,  and  be  the  wife  of  sich 
a  savage  murdherer.  No  man  wid  blood 
upon  his  hands  and  upon  his  sowl,  as  you 
have — a  pubhc  robber,  a  murdherer,  an  out- 
law— will  ever  be  my  husband.  What  right 
have  you  to  tell  me  who  I'm  to  sjiake  to,  or 
who  I'm  not  to  spake  to  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


G51 


"  All,"  he  replied,  "  tLat  wasn't  your  lan- 
guage to  me  not  long  ago." 

"  But  you  were  a  difl'erept  boy  then  from 
what  you  are  now.  If  you  had  kejjt  your 
name  free  fi'om  disgrace  iind  blood,  I  might 
haye  loved  you ;  but  I  cannot  love  a  man 
with  such  crimes  to  answer  for  as  you 
have." 

"You  accuse  me  of  shedding  blood,"  he 
replied  ;  "  that  is  false.  I  have  never  shed 
blood  nor  taken  Hfe  ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
did  all  in  my  power  to  jsrevent  those  who 
have  placed  me  at  their  head  from  doin'  so. 
Yet,  when  they  did  it  in  my  absence,  and 
against  my  orders,  the  blame  and  giiUt  is 
charged  ujiou  me  because  I  am  their  leader. 
As  for  anything  else  I  have  done,  I  do  not 
look  upon  it  as  a  crime  ;  let  it  rest  upon  the 
opi^ressiou  that  drove  me  and  others  to  the 
wild  hves  we  lead.  We  are  forced  to  hve 
now  the  best  way  we  can,  and  that  you 
know  ;  but  as  to  this  gentleman,  you  mustn't 
spake  to  him  at  .any  rate,"  he  proceeded  ; 
"  why  should  you  ?  What  'ud  make  a  man 
so  high  in  hfe,  and  so  far  above  you  as  he 
is,  strive  to  become  acquainted  with  you, 
unless  to  bring  about  your  ruiu  to  gi'atify 
his  own  bad  passions'?  Thuik  of  it,  and 
bring  it  home  to  your  heart.  You  have  too 
many  esam23le8  before  your  eyes,  j'oung  as 
you  are,  of  siUy  girls  that  allow  themselves 
to  be  made  fools  of,  and  desaved  and  ruined 
by  such  scoundrels  as  this.  Look  at  that 
unfortunate  girl  iu  the  mountains  there — 
Nannie  ]\Iorrissey  ;  look  at  her  father  hanged 
only  for  takin'  God's  just  revenge,  as  he  had 
a  right  to  do,  on  the  villain  that  brought  de- 
struction ujiou  her  and  his  innocent  famUy, 
and  black  shame  upon  their  name  that  never 
had  a  sjJot  upon  it  before.  After  these 
words  you  may  now  act  as  you  hke  ;  but  re- 
member that  you  have  got  Shawn-na-3Iid- 
(liii/iie's  warning,  and  you  ought  to  know  what 
that  is." 

He  then  started  off  in  the  same  direction 
which  Woodward  had  taken,  and  Grace, 
having  looked  after  him  with  considerable 
indignation  on  her  own  part  and  consider- 
able ajipreheusion  on  behalf  of  Woodward, 
took  up  her  pitcher  and  j)roceeded  home. 

She  now  felt  herself  much  disturbed,  and 
experienced  that  state  of  mind  which  is  often 
occasioned  by  the  enunciation  of  that  which 
is  known  to  be  truth,  but  which,  at  the  same 
time,  is  productive  of  jjain  to  the  conscience, 
especially  when  that  conscience  begins  to 
abandon  the  field  and  fly  from  its  duty. 

A\'oodward,  as  he  had  intended,  preferred 
the  open  and  common  road  home,  although 
it  was  much  longer,  rather  than  return  by 
the  old  green  lane,  which  was  rugged  and 
uneven,  and  full  of  deep  ruts,  diuigerous  in- 


equalities, and  stumps  of  old  trees,  all  of 
which  rendered  it  not  only  a  disagreeable,  but 
a  dangerous,  path  by  night.  Having  got  out 
upon  the  highway,  which  here,  and  until  he 
reached  near  home,  was,  indeed,  solemn- 
looking  and  lonely,  not  a  habitation  except 
the  haunted  house  being  \'isible  for  upwards 
of  two  miles,  he  jsroceeded  on  his  way,  think- 
ing of  his  interview  'with  Grace  Davoreu. 
The  country  on  each  side  of  him  was  nearly 
a  desert ;  a  gray  ruin,  some  of  whose  stand- 
ing and  isolated  fi-agments  assumed,  to  the 
excited  imagination  of  the  terrified  peasants 
as  they  passed  it  by  night,  the  appearance  of 
suj)ernatural  beings,  stood  to  the  left,  in  the 
centre  of  an  antiquated  church-yard,  in  which 
there  had  not  been  a  corpse  biu-ied  for  near- 
ly half  a  centm-y — a  circumstance  which 
iilways  invests  a  graveyard  with  a  more 
fearful  character.  As  Woodward  gazed  at 
these  stni  and  lonelj'  relics  of  the  dead,  upon 
which  the  faint  rays  of  the  moon  gleamed 
with  a  sjseetral  and  melancholy  light,  he 
could  not  helj)  feeling  that  the  sight  itself, 
and  the  associations  connected  with  it,  were 
calculated  to  fill  weak  minds  with  strong 
feelings  of  supernatural  terror.  His,  how- 
ever, was  not  a  mind  accessible  to  any  such 
impressions  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  could 
make  allowance  for  them  among  those  who 
liad  seldom  any  other  notions  to  guide  them 
on  such  subjects  than  those  of  superstition 
and  ignorance. 

The  hainited  house,  which  was  not  yet  in 
sight,  he  did  not  remember,  nor  was  he  ac- 
quainted with  its  histoiy,  with  the  exception 
of  Grace's  slight  allusion  to  it.  At  length  he 
came  to  a  part  of  the  road  which  was  over- 
hung, or  rather  altogether  covered  with  long 
beech  trees,  whose  huge  ai'ms  met  and  in- 
tertwined with  each  other  across  it,  filling 
the  arch  they  made  with  a  solemn  darkness 
even  in  the  noon  of  day.  At  night,  how- 
ever, the  obscurity  was  black  and  jjalj^able  ; 
and  such  upon  this  occasion  was  its  awful 
solemnity  and  stillness,  and  the  sense  of  in- 
security occasioned  by  the  almost  sujjer- 
natund  gloom  about  him,  that  Woodward 
could  not  avoid  the  idea  that  it  aflbrded  no 
bad  concejition  of  the  entrance  to  the  world 
of  darkness  and  of  spirits.  He  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far,  however,  under  this  dismal 
canopy,  when  an  incident  occurred  which 
tested  his  courage  severely.  As  he  went 
along  he  imagined  that  he  heard  the  sound 
of  human  footsteps  near  him.  This,  to  be 
sure,  gave  him  at  first  no  trouble  on  the  score 
of  anj'thing  supernatural.  The  country, 
however,  was,  as  we  have  ah'ead^*  intimated, 
very  much  infested  with  outlaws  and  rob- 
bers, and  although  Woodward  was  well 
armed,   as  he  had  truly  said,   and  was  no 


652 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'8  WORKS. 


cowai'd  besides,  yet  it  was  upon  tliis  view  of 
the  matter  that  he  experienced  anything  Uke 
apprehension.  He  accordingly  paused,  in 
order  to  ascertain  whether  the  footstej^s  he 
heard  miglit  not  have  been  the  echo  of  his 
own.  When  his  steps  ceased,  so  also  did  the 
others  ;  and  when  he  advanced  again  so  did 
they.  He  coughed  aloud,  but  there  was  no 
echo  :  he  shouted  out  "  Is  there  any  one 
there  ?  "  but  still  there  was  a  dead  stillness. 
At  length  he  said  again,  "  Whoever  you  may 
be,  aud  especially  if  your  designs  be  e^dl  and 
unlawful,  j'ou  had  better  beware  ;  I  am  weU 
armed,  and  both  able  and  determined  to  de- 
fend myself ;  if  money  is  your  object,  pass 
on,  for  I  have  none  about  me." 

Again  there  was  the  silence,  as  there  was 
the  dai'kness  of  the  grave.  He  now  resumed 
his  former  jjace.  and  the  noise  of  footstejis, 
evidently  and  distinctly  diti'erent  fi-om  his 
owTi,  were  once  more  heai'd  near  him.  Those 
that  accompanied  him  tell  upon  his  ear  with 
a  hght,  but  strange  and  chilhng  sound,  that 
filled  him  with  surprise,  and  something  hke 
awe.  In  fact,  he  had  never  heard  anything 
similar  to  it  before.  It  was  veiy  strange,  he 
thought,  for  the  sounds,  though  light,  were 
yet  as  distinct  aud  well-defined  as  his  own. 
He  stUl  held  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  as  he 
had  no  means  of  unravelling  this  mystery  so 
long  as  he  was  inwrapped  in  such  Cimmerian 
gloom,  he  resolved  to  accelerate  his  pace  and 
get  into  the  light  of  the  moon  as  soon  as  he 
could.  He  accordingly  did  so  ;  but  the  foot- 
steps, although  they  feU  not  now  so  quicklj' 
as  his  own,  stiU  seemed  to  maiutain  the 
same  distance  fi-om  him  as  before.  This 
certainly  puzzled  him  ;  aud  he  was  attempt- 
ing, if  possible,  to  solve  this  new  difficulty, 
when  he  found  himself  emerging  fi-om  the 
darkness,  and  in  a  few  moments  standing  in 
the  hght  of  the  moon.  He  immediately 
looked  about  him,  but  except  the  usual  in- 
animate objects  of  nature,  he  could  see 
nothing.  Whatever  it  is,  thought  he,  or, 
rather,  v.hoever  it  is,  he  has  thought  jji'ojjer 
to  remain  undiscovered  in  the  darkness.  I 
sUaU  now  bid  him  good-night,  and  proceed 
on  my  way  home.  He  accordingly  moved 
on  once  more,  when,  to  his  utter  astonish- 
ment, he  heard  the  footste^js  again,  precisely 
within  the  same  distance  of  him  as  be- 
fore. 

"  Tut,"  said  he,  "I  now  perceive  what  the 
matter  with  me  is.  This  is  a  mere  hallucina- 
tion, occasioned  by  a  disordered  state  of  the 
nerves  ;  aud  as  he  sjioke  he  returned  his 
pistols  into  his  breast  pockets,  where  he 
usually  wore  them,  and  once  more  resumed 
his  journey.  There  was,  however,  some- 
thmg  in  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  —some- 
thing so  hoUow — so  cold,  as  it  were,  and  so 


unearthly,  that  he  could  not  throw  oS  the 
unaccountable  imjjression  which  it  made 
\ij)on  him,  infidel  aud  scejstic  as  he  was  up- 
on all  supernatiu'al  uitimatious  and  appear- 
ances. At  length,  he  proceeded,  or  rather 
they  proceeded,  onward  until  he  arrived 
withiu  sight  of  wliat  he  sujiposed  to  be  the 
haunted  house.  He  paused  a  few  moments, 
and  was  not  now  so  insensible  to  its  lonely 
and  dismal  aspect.  It  was  a  two-storied 
house,  and  nothing  could  siu'jDass  the  spec- 
tral appearance  of  the  moon's  hght  as  it  fell 
with  its  pale  aud  death-like  lustre  upon  the 
windows.  He  stood  contemplating  it  for 
some  time,  when,  aU  at  once,  he  perceived, 
walking  about  ten  yards  in  advance  of  him, 
the  shape  of  a  man  dressed  in  black  from 
tojD  to  toe.  It  was  not  witliin  the  scope  of 
human  fortitude  to  avoid  being  startled  by 
such  a  sudden  and  incomprehensible  api^ari- 
tion.  Woodward  urix  startled  ;  but  he  socn 
recovered  himself,  and  after  the  first  shock 
felt  rather  satisfied  that  he  had  some  visible 
object  with  which  he  could  make  the  experi- 
ment he  jarojected,  viz.,  to  ascertain  the 
natui'e,  whether  mortal  or  otherwise,  of  the 
being  before  him.  With  this  jjurpose  in 
view,  he  walked  vei-v'  quickly  after  him,  and 
as  the  other  did  not  seem  to  quicken  his 
pace  into  a  corresponding  sjjeed,  he  took  it 
for  granted  that  he  would  soon  overtake 
him.  1)1  this,  however,  he  was,  much  to  his 
astonishment,  mistaken.  His  own  walk  was 
quick  and  rapid,  whilst  that  of  this  incomi^re- 
hensible  figure  was  slow  and  solemn,  aud  yet 
he  could  not  lessen  the  distance  between 
them  a  single  inch. 

'■Stop,  sir,"  said  Woodwai-d,  "whoever 
or  whatever  you  are — stop,  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you  ;  be  you  mortal  or  spiritual,  I  fear 
30U  not — only  stop." 

The  being  before  him,  however,  walked  on 
at  the  same  slow  and  solemn  pace,  but  stiU 
jjersisted  in  maintaining  his  distance.  Wood- 
wai'd  was  resolute,  fearless — a  sceptic,  an 
infidel,  a  materialist — but  here  was  a  walking 
IDroposition  in  his  presence  which  he  could 
not  solve,  and  which,  up  to  that  jsoint,  at 
least,  had  set  all  his  theories  at  defiance. 
His  blood  rose — he  became  annoyed  at  the 
strange  silence  of  the  being  before  him, 
but  more  still  at  the  inystorious  and  tardy 
jiace  with  which  it  seemed  to  precede  and 
escape  him. 

"I  wiU  follow  it  uutd  moiiiing,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "or  else  I  shall  develop  this  stiu-t- 
ling  enigma." 

At  this  moment  his  mysterious  feUow- 
traveller,  after  having  advanced  as  if  there 
had  not  been  such  an  indiridual  as  Wood- 
wai'd  in  existence,  now  stood  ;  he  was  di- 
rectlj'    opposite    the    haunted    house,    and 


'1  WIJ.I.  FOUX>W  IT  DNTII,  MOBNINO,"  HE  SAID  To  HIJISEIF,    "oB  ELSE  I  1 


-Eiiil  Eye;  or  the  Black  Spectre,  Page  652 


LIBRARY  i; 

or  THE 
dNIVERSiVY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


653 


turning  round,  faced  the  tantalized  and  bewil- 
dered mort;d.  The  latter  looked  on  liim  ; 
his  countenance  was  the  countenance  of  the 
dead — of  the  sheeted  dead,  stretched  out  in 
the  bloodless  pallor  which  Ues  upon  the  face 
of  vanished  life — of  existence  that  is  no 
more,  at  least  in  llesh  and  blood.  Wood- 
ward api^roached  hiin — for  the  thing  had 
stood,  as  we  have  said,  and  permitted  him 
to  come  within  a  few  yards  from  him. 
His  eyes  were  cold  and  glassy,  and  appar- 
ently without  sj)eculation,  like  those  of  a 
dead  man  open ;  yet,  notwthstauding  this, 
"W^oodward  felt  that  they  Isoked  at  him,  if 
not  into  him. 

"Speak,"  said  he,  "speak;  who  or  what 
are  you  ?  " 

He  received  no  reply  ;  but  in  a  few  sec- 
onds the  ajiparition,  if  it  were  such,  put  his 
hand  into  his  bosom,  and,  pulling  out  a 
dagger,  which  gleamed  with  a  faint  and 
visionary'  light,  he  directed  it  as  if  to  his 
(Woodwards)  heart.  Three  times  he  did 
this,  in  an  attitude  more  of  wai'niug  than  of 
auger,  when,  at  length,  he  tui-ned  and  ap- 
proached the  haunted  house,  at  the  door  of 
which  he  disappeared. 

Woodward,  as  the  reader  must  have  per- 
ceived, was  a  strong-minded,  fearless  man, 
and  examined  the  awful  features  of  this 
inscrutable  being  closely. 

"  Tliis,  then,"  thought  he,  "is  the  Hhan- 
dhinne-dhuv,  or  the  Black  Spectre  ;  but,  be 
it  what  it  may,  I  arn  strongly  of  opinion 
that  it  was  present  at  the  bonfire  last  night, 
and  as  I  am  well  armed,  I  will  uncjuestion- 
ably  pursue  it  into  the  house.  Nay,  what  is 
more,  I  suspect  that  it  is  in  some  way  or 
other  connected  with  the  outlaw  Shawn-na- 
Middogiie,  who  it  was,  they  say,  made  that 
amazing  leajs  over  the  aforesaid  bonfire  in 
my  own  presence." 

On  that  ven'  account,  however,  he  reflect- 
ed that  such  an  intrusion  might  be  attended 
with  more  danger  than  that  to  be  apprehen- 
ded from  a  ghost.  He  consequently  paused 
for  some  time  before  he  could  decide  on 
following  up  such  a  jjerilous  resolution. 
While  he  thus  stood  deliberating  upon  the 
prudence  of  this  daring  exjjloit,  he  heard  a 
variety  of  noises,  and  knoekings,  and  roll- 
ings, as  if  of  empty  barrels,  and  rattling  of 
chains,  all  going  on  inside,  whilst  the  house 
itself  appeared  to  be  dark  and  still,  without 
smoke  fi'om  the  chimneys,  or  light  in  the 
wmdows,  or  any  other  symjitom  of  being 
inhabited,  unless  by  those  who  were  pro- 
ducing the  wild'aud  extraordinarj'  noises  he 
then  heard. 

"  If  I  do  not  see  this  out,"  said  he,  "  my 
account  of  it  will  go  to  add  another  page  to 
the   great   vohuue   of   superstition.      I   am 


armed,  not  a  whit  afraid,  and  /  ivill  see  it 
"out,  if  human  enterprise  can  effect  it." 

He  immediately  entered  the  door,  which 
he  found,  somewliat  to  his  surprise,  was  on- 
ly laid  to,  and,  after  listening  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, resolved  to  examine  the  premises 
closely.  In  deference  to  the  reader,  whose 
nei-ves  may  not  be  so  strong  as  those  of 
Henry  Woodward,  and  who  consequently 
may  entertain  a  very  decided  objection  to 
enter  a  haunted  house,  especially  one  in 
such  a  lonely  and  remote  situation,  we  vsill 
only  say  that  he  remained  in  it  for  at  least 
an  hour  and  a  half  ;  at  the  expii-ation  of 
which  time  he  left  it,  walked  home  in  a 
silent  iin  1  meditative  mood,  spoke  little  to 
his  family,  who  were  a  good  deal  surin-ised 
at  his  abstracted  manner,  and.  after  slipping 
a  tumbler  of  jJunch  with  his  step-father, 
went  rather  gloomily  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  he  looked 
a  good  deal  paler  than  they  had  yet  seen 
him,  and  for  some  time  his  contribution  to 
the  family  dialogue  was  rather  scanty. 

"Hariy,"  said  his  mother,  "what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  You  are  silent,  and  look 
pale.     Are  you  unwell  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  "  I  cannot  say 
that  I  am.  But,  by  the  way,  have  j'ou  not  a 
haunted  house  in  the  neighborhood,  and  is 
there  not  an  apparition  called  the  Black 
Man,  or  the  Black  Spectre,  seen  occasionally 
about  the  premises  ?  " 

"  So  it  is  said,"  replied  Lindsay,  "  but 
none  of  this  family  has  ever  seen  it,  although 
I  believe  it  has  imdoubtedly  been  seen  by 
many  persons  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  What  is  su2oposed  to  liave  been  the 
cause  of  its  appearance  ?  "  asked  Harry. 

"Faith,  Harry,"  rejslied  his  brother,  "I 
fear  there  is  nobody  here  can  give  you  that 
information.  To  sjjeak  for  myself,  I  never 
heard  its  ajipearance  accounted  for  at  all. 
Perhaps  Barney  Casey  knows.  Do  you, 
father  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  replied  his  father  ;  "  but  as  you 
say,  Charley,  we  had  better  try  Barney. 
Call  him  up." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Lindsay,  sharply 
and  disdainfuU}%  "  it  was  the  Black  Spectre 
who  produced  tlie  shower  of  blood  last 
night  ?  " 

"  Faith,  it's  not  unlikety,"  replied  her  hus- 
band, "  if  he  be,  as  the  peojjle  think,  con- 
nected with  the  devil." 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  Barnej'  entered  to 
know  what  was  wanted. 

"  Barney,"  said  his  master,  "  can  you  in- 
form us  who  or  what  the  Shan-dhinne-dhiiv 
is,  or  why  he  appears  in  this  neighborhood  ? 
Damn  the  fellow  ;  he  has  that  house  of  mine 
on    my   hands   this  many  a  long  year,    foi 


Goi 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Tet  it  set.     I've  liad  jiriests  and  j 
lav  him,  and  for  some  time  we  '' 


I  cannot  j 
parsons  to 

thought  the  oouutiy  was  free  of  him  ;  but  it 
was  all  to  no  purpose  ;  he  was  still  sure  to 
retui'n,  and  no  earthly  habitation  should 
serve  him  but  that  unlucky  house  of  mine. 
It  is  very  odd  that  he  never  began  to  ajspear 
until  after  my  second  marriage." 

"Sir,"  rejilied  Barney,  "I  hard  something 
about  it ;  but  I'm  not  clear  on  it.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  there's  two  or  three  accounts 
of  him  ;  but  anyhow,  sir,  you're  in  luck  for 
the  right  one  ;  for  if  livin'  man  can  give  it  to 
you,  Bandy  Brack,  the  pedler,  is  the  man. 
He's  now  at  his  breakfast  in  the  kitchen  ; 
but  I'U  have  him  up." 

"Not  in  the  jsarlor,"  said  his  mistress;  "  a 
strolling  knave  like  him.  Who  ordered  him 
his  breakfast  in  the  kitchen  ■without  my 
knowledge  ?  "  she  asked.  "  The  moment  I 
can  find  out  the  person  that  dared  to  do  so, 
that  moment  they  shall  leave  my  family. 
Must  I  keep  an  open  house  for  every  stroll- 
ing vagabond  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  If  you  choose  to  turn  me  out,"  replied 
her  husband,  "  you  may  tiy  your  hand  at  it. 
It  was  I  ordered  the  jioor  man  his  breakfast; 
and,  what  is  more,  I  desire  you  instantly  to 
hold  your  peace." 

As  he  spoke,  she  saw  that  one  of  his  de- 
termined looks  settled  upon  his  countenance 
— a  jaretty  certain  symijtom  that  she  had 
bettor  be  guided  by  his  advice. 

"  Come,  Barney,"  said  he,  "throw  up  that 
■window  and  send  the  jioor  man  here,  until 
he  tells  us  what  he  knows  about  this  affau\" 

The  window  was  accordingly  thrown  ojien, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Bandy  Brack  made  his 
appearance  outside,  and,  on  being  interro- 
gated on  the  subject  in  cjuestion,  took  off  his 
hat,  and  was  about  to  commence  his  narra- 
tive, when  Lindsay  said, 

"  Put  on  your  hat.  Bandy  ;  the  sun's  too 
hot  to  be  imcovered." 

"  That's  more  of  it,"  said  his  wife  ;  "  a  fine 
way  to  malve  yourself  respected,  Lindsay." 

"  I  love  to  be  respected,"  he  replied 
sternly,  "  and  to  deserve  resj^ect :  but  I  have 
no  desire  to  incur  the  hatred  of  the  poor  by 
oppression  and  want  of  ehaiity,  like  some  of 
lay  frmale  acquaintances." 

"  Plase  your  honor,"  .said  Bandy,  "  all  that 
I  know  about  the  Shan-dhiniir-i/huv,  ov  the 
Black  Spectre,  as  the  larned  call  him,  won't 
require  many  words  to  teU  you.  It's  not 
generally  known  what  I'm  goin'  to  say  now. 
The  haunted  house,  as  your  honor,  maybe, 
remiml)ers,  was  an  inn — a  carman's  inn 
chiefly — and  one  night,  it  seems,  there  came 
a  stranger  to  stop  in  it.  He  was  dressed  in 
black,  and  when  he  thought  it  time  to  go  to 
bed  he  cjilled  the  landlord,  Antony  McMurt, 


and  i^laeed  in  his  hands  a  big  purse  o'  goold 
to  keep  for  him  tUl  he  should  start  at  day- 
break, as  he  intended,  the  next  morning. 
Antony — " 

"  Ay,"  said  Lindsay,  intemipting  him, 
"  that  accounts  for  the  nature  of  the  villain's 
death.  I  remember  him  well,  Bandy,  al- 
though I  was  only  a  lioy  at  the  time  ;  go  on 
— he  was  always  a  dishonest  scoundrel  it 
was  said — proteed." 

"  Well  it  seems,  Antony,  sir,  mistook  him 
for  a  Protestant  parson  ;  and  as  he  had  a 
hankerin'  afther  the  goold,  he  opened  a  gus- 
set in  the  man's  throat  that  same  night, 
when  the  imsuspectin'  traveller  was  sound 
in  that  slee])  that  he  never  woke  fi-om  in 
this  world,  ^^^len  the  deed  was  done  An- 
tony stripped  him  of  his  clothes,  and  in  do- 
ing so  discovered  a  silver  crucifix  ujion  his 
breast,  and  a  bravery  (breviary)  imder  his 
head,  by  which  he  found  that  he  had  mur- 
dhered  a  priest  of  his  o'n'n  religion  in  mis- 
take. They  say  he  stabbed  him  in  the  jigler 
vein  wid  a  midduge.  At  all  events,  the  body 
disappeared,  and  there  never  was  any  in- 
quii-y  made  about  it — a  good  proof  that  the 
unfortunate  man  was  a  stranger.  WeU  and 
good,  your  honor — in  the  coorse  of  a  short 
time,  it  seems,  the  murdhered  j)i'iest  began 
to  aj)pear  to  him,  and  haunted  him  almost 
every  night,  imtil  the  unfortunate  Antony 
began  to  get  out  of  his  rason,  and,  it  is  said, 
that  when  he  ajspeared  to  him  he  always 
Ijointed  the  middogc  at  him,  just  as  if  he 
wshed  to  put  it  into  his  heart.  Antony 
then,  widout  tellui'  his  own  s.aicret,  began 
to  tell  everybody  that  he  was  doomed  to  die 
a  hhiody  death  ;  in  short,  he  liecame  unset- 
tled— got  fairly  beside  himself,  and  afther 
mopin'  about  for  some  months  in  ordher  to 
avoid  the  bloody  death  the  priest  threatened 
him  wid,  he  went  and  hanged  himself  in  the 
very  room  where  he  killed  the  unfortimate 
priest  before." 

"  I  remember  when  he  hanged  himself, 
veiy  well,"  observed  Lindsay,  "  but  d — n 
the  syllable  of  the  robbery  and  nuu-der  of 
the  j^riest  or  any  body  else  ever  I  heard  of 
tm  the  jjresent  moment,  although  there  was 
an  inquest  held  ovei-  himself.  The  man  got 
low-spirited  and  depressed,  because  his  busi- 
ness failed  him,  or,  rather,  because  he  didn't 
attend  to  it  ;  and  in  one  of  these  moods 
hanged  himself  ;  but  by  all  accounts.  Bandy, 
if  he  hadn't  done  the  deed  for  himself  the 
hangman  would  have  done  it  for  him.  He 
was  said,  I  think,  to  have  been  connected 
with  some  of  the  outlaws,  and  to  liave  been 
a  bad  boy  altogether.  I  think  it  is  now, 
near-  fifty  yeai-s  ago  since  he  hanged  him- 
self." 

"  'Tis  said,  sir,  that  this  accoimt  comes 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


G55 


from  one  of  his  own  relations  ;  but  there's 
another  account,  sir,  oiihe  Shan-dhinne-(lhuv 
that  I  don't  heheve  a  word  of." 

"  Another — what  is  that.  Bandy  ?  " 

"  O,  bedad,  sir,"re23hed  Bandy,  "  it's  more 
than  I  could  ventui-e  to  tell  you  here." 

"  Come,  come — out  with  it." 

IMi's.  Lindsay  went  over  with  an  inflamed 
face,  and  having  ordered  him  to  go  about 
his  business,  slapped  down  the  window  with 
great  violence,  giving  j)Oor  Bandy  a  look  of 
wrath  and  intimidation  that  sealed  his  liim 
upon  the  subject  of  the  other  tradition  he 
alluded  to.  He  was,  consequently,  glad  to 
escape  fi'om  the  threatening  storm  which  he 
saw  brewing  in  her  countenance,  and,  con- 
sequenth',  made  a  very  hasty  retreat.  Bar- 
ney, who  met  him  in  the  yard  retimiing  to 
fetch  his  pack  fi'om  the  kitchen,  noticed  his 
perturbation,  and  asked  him  what  was  the 
matter. 

"May  the  Lord  protect  me  from  that 
woman's  ej'e  !  "  rejilied  the  pedler,  "  if  you'd 
'a'  seen  the  look  she  gave  me  when  she 
thought  I  was  goin'  to  teU  them  the  true 
story  of  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv." 

"  And  why  should  she  put  a  sword  in  her 
eye  against  you  for  that,  Bandy  ?  "  asked  the 
other. 

Bandy  looked  cautiously  about  him,  and 
said  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Because  its  connected  with  her  family, 
and  follows  it." 

He  then  proceeded  to  the  kitchen,  and 
bavins  secured  his  jiack,  he  made  as  rapid  a 
disappearance  as  possible  from  about  the 
premises. 


CHLYPTER  Vn. 

A  Council  of  Tteo.  —  Visit  to  Beech  Orove. — The 
Herbalist. 

Woodward  now  amused  himself  by  walk- 
ing and  riding  about  the  country  and  view- 
ing its  scenery,  most  of  which  he  had 
forgotten  during  his  long  absence  from 
ho»ue.  It  was  not  at  aU  singular  in  that  dark 
state  of  popular  superstition  and  ignorance, 
that  the  shower  of  blood  shou.ld,  somehow 
or  another,  be  associated  with  him  and  his 
detested  mother.  Of  course,  the  associa- 
tion was  vague,  and  the  peoj^le  knew  not 
how  to  apply  it  to  their  circumstances.  As 
they  believed,  however,  that  Mi's.  Lindsay 
possessed  the  power  of  overlooking  cattle, 
which  was  considered  an  evil  gift,  and  in 
some  mysterious  manner  connected  with  the 
evil  spirit,  and  as  they  rememliered — for 
superstition,  like  guilt,  always  2:>ossesses  a 
good  memory — that  even  in  his  young  days, 


when  little  more  than  a  child,  her  son  Harry 
was  remarkable  for  ha\'ing  eyes  of  a  differ- 
ent color,  fi'om  which  circumstance  he  wag 
even  then  called  Harry  na  Snil  Gloir,  they 
naturally  inferred  that  his  appearance  in  th« 
couutrj'  boded  nothing  good  ;  that,  of  course, 
he  had  the  Evil  Eye,  as  every  one  whose 
eyes  differed,  as  his  did,  had  ;  and  that  the 
tlmnder  and  Hghtning,  the  rain  which 
di'owned  the  bonfires,  but,  above  aU,  the 
blood-shower,  were  indications  that  the  mo- 
ther and  son  were  to  be  feared  and  avoided 
as  much  as  possible,  especially  the  latter. 
Others  denied  that  the  devil  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  shower  of  blood,  or  the  storm 
which  extinguished  the  fires,  and  stoutly 
maintained  that  it  was  God  himself  who  had 
sent  them  to  warn  the  countrj'  against  hav- 
ing any  intercoiu-se  that  could  jsossibly  be 
avoided,  vath  them.  Then  there  was  the 
Black  Spectre  that  was  said  to  follow  her 
family  ;  and  did  not  every  one  know  that 
when  it  appeared  three  times  to  any  jjerson, 
it  was  a  certain  proof  that  that  person's  coffin 
might  be  purchased  ?  We  aU  know  how 
rapidly  such  opinions  and  colloquies  spread, 
and  we  need  scarcely  say  that  in  the  course 
of  a  fortnight  after  the  night  of  the  bonfires 
all  these  matters  had  been  discussed  over 
half  the  b;u'ony.  Some,  in  fact,  were  for 
loading  him  with  the  heavy  biu'den  of  his 
mother's  unpopularity ;  but  others,  more 
generous,  were  for  waiting  until  the  jseople 
had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  how  lie  might 
turn  out — whether  he  would  foUow  in  his 
mother's  footsteps,  or  be  gaiided  by  the  be- 
nevolent jirinciples  of  his  step-father  and  the 
rest  of  the  family.  Owing  to  these  circum- 
stances, need  we  saj',  that  there  was  an  un- 
usual interest,  almost  an  excitement,  felt 
about  him,  which  nothing  could  repress. 
His  brother  Charles  was  as  weU-beloved  and 
as  poxjular  as  his  father,  but,  then,  he  excited 
no  particular  interest,  because  he  was  not 
suspected  to  possess  the  Evil  Eye,  nor  to 
have  any  particular  connection  with  the 
devil. 

In  this  case  matters  stood,  when  one  day 
Woodward,  haring  dressed  himsoK  Tsith  par- 
ticular care,  ordered  his  horse,  saying  that 
he  would  ride  over  to  Beech  Grove  and  j)ay  a 
visit  to  the  Goodwins.  There  were  none  in 
the  room  at  the  time  but  Charles  and  his 
mother.  The  former  started,  and  seemed 
uneasy  at  this  intelligence  ;  and  his  mother, 
having  considered  for  a  time,  said  : 

"  Charles,  I  wish  to  speak  to  Harry." 

Charles  took  the  hint,  and  left  the  mother 
and  son  to  the  following  dialogue  : — 

"Harry,"  said  she,  "you  spoke  very 
warmly  of  that  cunning  ser|3ent  who  defraud- 
ed you  of  your  inheritance,  and  aU  of  us 


650 


WILLIAM  CARLKTON'S  WORKS. 


out  of  our  ripbt.  May  I  ask  for  what  pur- 
pose you  -wish  to  cviltivate  an  intimacy  witli 
such  a  scheming  and  dishonest  crew  as 
that?" 

"  Faith,  mother,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you 
don't  detest  them,  nor  feel  the  loss  of  the 
prof)erty  more  than  I  do  ;  but  the  truth  is, 
that  the  game  I  wish  to  j^lay  with  them  will 
be  a  winning  one,  if  I  can  induce  them  to 
hold  the  cards.  I  wish  to  get  the  j)roperty, 
and  as  I  feel  that  that  can't  be  done  without 
mariyiug  their  mLLk-aud-curd  of  a  daughter, 
why,  it  is  my  intention  to  marry  her  accord- 
ingly." 

"  Tlien  you  don't  many  a  wife  to  be  happy 
with  her?  " 

"  In  one  sense  not  I — in  another  I  do  ;  I 
shall  make  myself  happy  with  her  j)rop- 
erty." 

"Indeed,  Harry,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
there  is  very  little  hapjiiuess  in  mari-ied  life, 
and  they  are  only  fools  that  expect  it.  You 
see  how  I  am  treated  by  Lindsay  and  my 
own  children." 

"  Well,  but  you  provoke  them — why  dis- 
tiu'b  yourself  with  them  ?  Why  not  j)ass 
through  life  as  quietly  as  you  can  ?  Imitate 
Lindsay." 

"  What !  make  a  sot  of  myself —become  a 
fool,  as  he  is  ?  " 

"  Then,  why  did  you  marry  him?  " 

"  Because  /  was  the  fool  then,  but  I  have 
suffered  for  it.  Why,  he  manages  this 
property  as  if  it  wasn't  mine — as  if  I  didn't 
bring-  it  to  him.  Think  of  a  man  who  is  siUy 
enough  ^o  forgive  a  tenant  his  gale  of  rent, 
jjrovided  he  makes  a  poor  mouth,  and  says 
he  is  not  able  to  pay  it." 

'■  iJut  I  see  no  harm  in  that  either ;  if  the 
min  is  not  able  to  j)ay,  how  can  he  ?  What 
does  Lindsay  do  but  make  a  virtue  of  neces- 
sity.    He  cannot  skin  a  flint,  can  he  ?  " 

"  That's  an  ugly  comparison,"  she  replied, 
"  and  I  can't  conceive  why  you  make  it  to  me. 
I  am  afraid,  Harry,  you  have  suffered  your- 
self to  be  i^rejudiced  against  the  only  friend 
— the  only  tnie  fi'iend,  you  have  in  the 
house.  I  can  tell  you,  that  although  they 
keep  fair  faces  to  j-ou,  you  ai-e  not  liked 
here." 

"  Very  well ;  if  I  find  that  to  be  true,  they 
will  lose  more  than  they'll  gain  by  it." 

"  The}'  have  been  striving  to  secure  your 
influence  against  me.  I  know  it  by  your 
language." 

"In  the  devil's  name,  how  can  you  know 
it  by  my  language,  mother  ?  " 

"  You  talked  about  skinning  a  flmt ;  now, 
you  had  that  from  them  with  I'eference  to 
me.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  an  ill- 
tongued  house-maid  of  mine,  after  I  had 
paid  her  her  wages,  and  '  stopped '  for  the 


articles  she  injured  on  me,  turned  round,  and 
called  me  a  skinflint ;  they  have  made  it  a 
common  nickname  on  me.  I'd  have  torn  her 
eyes  out  only  for  Lindsay,  who  had  the 
assui-anee  to  tell  me  that  if  he  had  not 
interfered  I'd  have  had  the  worst  of  it — 
that  I'd  come  oft'  second  best,  and  such  slang  ; 
yes,  and  then  added  afterwards,  that  he  was 
soiTy  he  interfered.  That's  the  kind  of  a 
husband  he  is,  and  that's  the  life  I  lead. 
Now,  this  property  is  mine,  and  I  can  leave 
it  to  any  one  I  please ;  he  hasn't  even  a  life 
interest  in  it." 

"  O,"  exclaimed  the  son,  in  siirprise,  "  is 
that  the  case  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  she  replied,  "  and  yet  joii  see  how 
I  am  treated." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  that,  my  dear  mother," 
responded  worthy  Harry.  "  That  alters  the 
case  entirely.  Why,  Lindsay,  in  these  cir- 
cumstances, ought  to  put  his  hands  under 
your  feet  ;  so  ought  thej-  all  I  think.  Well, 
my  dear  mother,  of  one  thing  I  can  assure 
you,  no  matter  how  they  may  treat  you, 
calculate  firmly  ujion  my  sujjport  and  pro- 
tection ;  make  yourself  sui'e  of  that.  But, 
now,  about  Miss  MUk-and-curds — what  do 
you  think  of  my  project?  " 

"I  have  been  frequently  turning  it  overin 
my  mind,  Hariy,  since  the  morning  you 
praised  her  so  violently,  and  I  think,  as  you 
cannot  get  the  proj^erty  without  the  girl, 
you  must  only  take  her  vrith  it.  The  notion 
of  its  going  into  the  hands  of  strangers 
would  drive  me  mad." 

"  Well,  then,  we  understand  each  other  ;  I 
have  your  sanction  for  the  courtship." 

"You  have  ;  but  I  tell  you  again,  I  loathe 
her  as  I  do  poison.  I  never  can  forgi/e  aer 
the  art  with  which  she  wheedled  that  jo^ter- 
i  headed  old  sinner,  your  uncle,  out  of  twelve 
I  hundi-ed  a  year.  Unless  it  retmiis  to  the 
familj-,  may  my  bitter  malediction  fall  ujion 
her  and  it." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  my  dear  mother,  leave 
her  to  me — I  shall  have  the  gm  and  the 
property — but  by  hook  or  crook,  the  prop- 
erty. I  shall  ride  over  there,  now,  and  it 
mil  not  be  my  fault,  if  I  don't  tip  both  her 
and  them  the  saccharine." 

"  By  the  way,  though,  Hany,  now  that  I 
think  of  it,  I'm  afi'aid  you'll  have  ojijjosi- 
tion." 

"  Opposition  !     How  is  that?  " 

"  It  is  said  there  is  a  distant  relation  of 
theirs,  a  gentleman  named  O'Connor,  a 
Ferdora  O'Connor,  I  tliink,  who,  it  is  sup- 
posed, is  likely  to  be  successful  there  ;  but, 
by  the  way,  are  you  aware  that  they  are 
Catholics?" 

"  As  to  that,  my  dear  mother,  I  don't  care 
a  fig  for    her  religion  ;  my  religion    is  her 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


667 


property,  or  rather  will  be  so  when  I  get  it. 
The  other  matter,  howevei',  is  a  thing  I  must 
look  to — I  mean  the  rivalry  ;  but  on  that, 
too,  we  shall  put  our  heads  together,  and  try 
what  can  be  done.  I  am  not  very  timid  ; 
and  the  proverb  says,  you  know,  a  fiiiut  heart 
never  won  a  fair  lady." 

Our  readers  may  perceive,  from  the  spirit 
of  the  above  conversation,  that  the  sou  was 
worthy  of  the  mother,  and  the  mother  of  the 
son.  The  latter,  however,  had,  at  least, 
some  command  over  his  temper,  and  a  great 
deal  of  dexterity  and  penetration  besides  ; 
whilst  the  mother,  though  violent,  was 
clumsy  in  her  resentments,  and  transparent 
in  her  motives.  Short  as  Woodwaril's  resi- 
dence in  the  family  was,  he  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  abuse  she  heaped  uj^on  her  husband 
and  children  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
deliberate  falsehood.  This,  however,  to  him 
was  a  matter  of  jjerfect  indifference.  He 
was  no  great  advocate  of  truth  himself,  when- 
ever he  found  that  his  interests  or  his  pas- 
sions could  be  more  effectually  promoted  by 
falsehood  ;  although  he  did  not  disdain  even 
truth  whenever  it  equally  served  his  purpose. 
In  such  a  case  it  gave  him  a  rei^utation  for 
candor  under  which  he  could,  with  more 
safety,  avail  himself  of  his  disingenuitj' 
and  prevarication.  He  knew,  as  we  said, 
that  his  mother's  description  of  the  family 
contained  not  one  atom  of  truth  ;  and  yet 
he  was  too  dastardly  and  cunning  to  defend 
them  against  her  calumny.  The  great  ba.sis 
of  his  character,  in  fact,  was  a  selfishness, 
which  kept  him  iDcrioetually  iudifferent  to 
anything  that  was  good  or  generous  in  itself, 
or  outside  the  circle  of  his  own  interests, 
Iseyond  which  he  never  passed.  Now,  noth- 
ing, on  the  other  hand,  could  be  more  ad- 
versative to  this,  than  the  conduct,  temper, 
and  principles  of  his  brother  and  sister. 
Charles  was  an  amiable,  manly,  and  generous 
young  fellow,  who,  with  lioth  spirit  and  in- 
dei^endeuce,  was,  as  a  natural  consequence, 
loved  and  respected  by  all  who  knew  him  ; 
and  as  for  his  sweet  and  affectionate  sister, 
Maria,  there  was  not  living  a  girl  more 
capable  of  winning  attachment,  nor  more 
worthy  of  it  when  attained  ;  and  severely, 
indeed,  was  the  patience  of  this  admirable 
lirother  and  sister  tried,  by  the  diabohcal 
temper  of  their  violent  and  savage  mother. 
As  for  Harry,  he  had  come  to  the  resolution, 
now  that  he  understood  the  jiosition  of  the 
property,  to  cultivate  his  mother's  disposition 
upon  such  a  jiriuciple  of  conduct  as  would 
not  compromise  him  with  either  party.  As 
to  their  feuds  he  was  perfectly  iudifferent  to 
them ;  but  now  his  great  object  was,  to 
study  how  to  j)romote  his  own  interests  in 
his  own  way. 


Ha^-ing  reached  Beech  Grove,  he  found  that 
unassuming  family  at  home,  as  they  usually 
were  ;  for,  indeed,  all  their  j)rincipal  enjoy- 
ments lay  within  the  quiet  range  of  domestic 
life.  Old  Goodwin  himself  saw  lum  through 
the  j)ai'lor  window  as  he  approached,  and, 
with  readv  aud  sincere  kindness,  met  him  iL 
thehaU.  ' 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," said  he.  "  Allow  me  to  conduct  you 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  you  wiU  meet 
Mrs.  Goodwin,  Alice,  and  a  particular  fi'iend 
of  oui's.  I  cannot  myself  stop)  long  with 
j'ou,  because  I  am  engaged  on  particular 
business  ;  but  you  wiU  not  miss  an  old  fellow 
like  me  when  you  have  better  comjiany.  I 
hope  -my  old  fi-iends  are  all  well.  Stej)  in, 
sir.  Here  is  Mr.  Woodward,  ladies  ;  ilr. 
Woodward,  this  gentleman  is  a  friend  of 
ours,  Mr.  Ferdora  O'Connor ;  Ferdora,  this 
is  Mr.  Woodward  ;  and  now  I  must  leave 
you  to  entertain  each  other  ;  but  I  shall  re- 
turn, Mr.  Woodward,  before  you  go,  unless 
you  are  in  a  great  hurry.  Bridget,  see  that 
luncheon  is  I'eady  ;  but  you  must  lay  it  in 
the  fi-ont  parlor,  because  I  have  these  tenants 
about  me  in  the  dining-room,  as  it  is  so 
much  larger." 

"  I  have  already  given  orders  for  that,"  re- 
pUed  his  wife.  He  then  hurried  out  and 
left  them,  evidcmtly  much  gratified  by  Wood- 
ward's visit.  O'Connor  and  the  latter  having 
scanned  each  other  by  a  glance  or  two, 
bowed  with  that  extreme  air  of  politeness 
which  is  only  another  name  for  a  want  of 
cordiahtj'.  O'Connor  was  rather  a  plain- 
looking  young  feUow,  as  to  his  person  and 
general  ajjpearance  ;  but  his  Milesian  face 
was  handsome,  and  his  eye  clear  aud  candid, 
with  a  dash  of  determination  and  fire  in  it. 
Very  different,  indeed,  was  it  from  the  eye 
that  was  scrutinizing  him  at  that  moment, 
■n-ith  such  keenness  and  penetration.  There 
are  such  things  as  antipathies  ;  othei'wise 
why  should  those  two  individuals  entertain, 
alujost  in  a  moment's  time,  such  a  secret 
and  viuaccountable  disrelish  towards  each 
other?  Woodward  did  not  love  Alice,  so 
that  the  feeling  could  not  proceed  from  jeal- 
ousy ;  and  we  will  so  far  throw  aside  mystery 
as  to  say  here,  that  neither  did  O'Connor  ; 
and,  we  may  add  still  fm-ther,  that  poor,  in- 
nocent, unassuming  Alice  was  attached  to 
neither  of  them. 

"  I  hojje  your  brother  is  well,  sir,"  said 
O'Connor,  anxious  to  break  the  ice,  and  try 
the  stuff"  Woodward  was  made  of.  "I  have 
not  seen  him  for  some  time." 

"O!  then,  J'OU  are  acquaintances?"  said 
Woodward. 

"  We  are  more,  sir,"  repUed  O'Connor, 
"we  are  friends." 


058 


WILLI  Ail    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"I  hope  YOU  are  all  well,"  iuteiTujjted 
kind-hearted  ]Mrs.  Goodwin. 

"  Quite  well,  my  dear  madam,"  he  replied. 
l.Tieu  turning  to  O'Connor  :  "  To  be  a  friend 
to  m_v  brother,  sir,"  he  said,  "  next  to  tiuding 
you  a  fi'iend  and  favorite  in  this  famQy,  is 
the  warmest  recommendation  to  me.  Mj' 
long  absence  from  home  prevented  me  fi-om 
knowing  his  value  until  now  ;  but  now  that 
I  do  know  him,  I  say  it,  perhaps,  with  too 
much  of  the  j^artiality  of  a  brother,  I  think 
that  any  man  may  feel  proud  of  his  fi'iend- 
Bhip  ;  and  I  say  so  with  the  less  hesitation, 
because  I  am  siire  he  would  select  no  man 
for  his  fi'iend  who  was  not  worthy  of  it ; " 
and  he  bowed  courteously  as  he  spoke. 

"Faith,  sir," replied  O'Connor,  "you  have 
hit  it ;  I  for  one  am  .proud  of  it ;  but,  up- 
on my  conscience,  he  wouldn't  be  his  father's 
son  if  he  wasn't  what  he  is." 

Alice  was  se\\iug  some  embroidery,  and 
seemed  to  take  no  notice,  if  one  coiild  judge 
by  her  downcast  looks,  of  what  they  said. 
At  length  she  said,  with  a  smile  : 

•'  As  you,  Ferdora,  have  inquired  for  your 
favorite,  I  don't  see  why  I  sho\ild  not  inquire 
after  mine  ;  how  is  your  sister,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward V  " 

"Indeed,  she's  the  picture  of  health.  Miss 
Goodwin  ;  but  I  wUl  not " — he  added,  with 
a  smile  to  balance  her  o"mi — "  I  will  not  be 
answerable  for  the  health  of  her  heart." 

Alice  gave  a  low  laugh,  that  had  the 
slightest  tincture  of  maUce  in  it,  and  glanced 
at  O'Connor,  who  began  to  tap  his  boot  with 
his  riding  whip. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl  as  ever  lived,"  said 
Mrs.  Goodwin,  "  and  I  hope  will  never  have 
a  heartache  that  may  harm  her." 

"  Heaven  knows,  madam,"  replied  Wood- 
ward, "it  is  time  only  that  will  tell  that. 
Love  is  a  strange  and  sometimes  rather  a 
painful  malady." 

"  Of  course  you  speak  from  your  ov\ai  ex- 
perience, iVIr.  Woodward,"  rejilied  Alice. 

"Then  you  have  had  the  complaint,  sir," 
said  O'Connor,  laughing.  "  I  wonder  is  it 
lilce  small-pox  or  measles  ?  " 

"  How  is  that,  su"?  "  said  Woodward,  smil- 
ing. 

"Why,  that  if  you've  had  it  once  you'll 
never  have  it  a  second  time." 

"  Yes,  but  if  I  shovild  be  ill  of  it  now  ?  "  , 
■  and  he  glanced  at  Alice,  who  blushed. 

"  Why,  in   that  case,"  rejjlied  O'Coiuior, 
"  it's  in  bed  you  ought  to  be  ;  no  man  with 
an  epidemic  on  him  should  be  permitted  to 
go  abroad   among  his  majesty's  liege  sub-  ; 
jects."  j 

"  Yes,  Ferdora,"  said  Alice,  "  but  I  don't  i 
think  Mi\  W^oodwai'd's  compliiint  is  catch-  | 
ing."  I 


"  God  forbid  that  the  gentleman  should 
die  of  it,  though,"  rephed  Ferdora,  "for 
that  would  be  a  serious  loss  to  the  ladies." 

"  You  exaggerate  that  calamity,  sir,"  re- 
plied Woodward,  wth  the  slightest  imagin- 
able sneer,  "  and  forget  that  if  /  die  ijwi. 
sumve  me." 

"  Well,  certaiuly,  there  is  consolation  in 
that,"  said  O'Connor,  "  especially  for  the 
ladies,  as  I  said  ;  isn't  there.  Alley  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  Alice;  "in  making 
love,  Ferdora,  you  have  the  j)rowess  of  ten 
men." 

"  Do  you  speak  from  experience,  now. 
Miss  Good^sin  '? "  asked  Woodward,  rather 
dryly. 

"  O  !  no,"  replied  Alice,  "  I  have  only  his 
own  word  for  it." 

"  Onbj  his  o^xti  word.  Miss  Goodwin  !  Do 
you  imply  by  that,  that  his  own  word  re- 
quires corroboration  ?  " 

Alice  blushed  again,  and  felt  confused. 

"  I  assure  you,  ]Mr.  Woodwai'd,"  said 
O'Connor,  "that  when  ?«»/  word  requires  cor- 
roboration, I  always  corroborate  it  myself." 

"  But,  according  to  Miss  Goodwin's  ac- 
count of  it,  sir,  that's  not  likely  to  add  much 
to  its  authenticity." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Woodward,"  said  O'Connor, 
with  the  gi'eatest  suavity  of  manner,  "I'll 
tell  you  my  method  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  whenever  I  meet  a  gentlemau  that 
doubts  my  word,  I  always  make  him  eal  lii.-f 
own. 

■  "There's  nothing  new  or  wonderful  in 
that,"  replied  the  other;  "it  has  been  my 
own  practice  during  life." 

"What?  to  eat  your  own  words!"  ex- 
claimed O'Connor,  purposely  mistaking  him  ; 
"  very  windy  feeding,  faith.  Ujjon  my  honor 
and  conscience,  in  that  case,  your  complaint 
must  be  nothing  else  but  the  colic,  tmd  not 
love  at  all.  Try  peiij'ermint  wather,  Mr. 
Woodward." 

Alice  saw  at  once,  but  could  not  account 
for  the  fact,  that  the  worthy  gentlemen  were 
cutting  at  each  other,  and  the  timid  girl  be- 
came insensibly  alarmed  at  the  unaccount- 
able sharpness  of  theii-  brief  encounter.  She 
looked  with  an  auxious  countenance,  first  at 
one,  and  then  at  the  other,  but  scarcely 
knew  what  to  say.  Woodwiu'd,  however, 
who  was  better  acquainted  with  the  usages 
of  society,  and  the  deference  due  to  the 
presence  of  women,  than  the  bra-^ique,  but 
somewhat  fiery  Milesian,  now  said,  with  a 
smile  and  a  bow  to  that  gentleman  : 

"  Sii',  I  submit ;  I  am  vanquished.  If  you 
are  as  successful  in  love  as  you  ai'c  in  banter, 
I  should  not  wish  to  enter  the  Ust  against 
you." 

"Faith,    sir,"   rephed   O'Connor,  with   a 


THE  EVIL  EYE ;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


659 


p;00cl-liumt)red  laugh,  "  if  your  sword  is  as 
sharp  as  youi"  -nit,  you'd  be  an  ugly  customer 
to  meet  in  a  quarrel." 

O'Couuor,  who  had  been  there  for  some 
time,  now  rose  to  take  his  leave,  at  which 
Alice  felt  rather  satisfied.  Indeed,  she  could 
not  avoid  observing  that,  whatever  the  cause 
of  it  might  be,  there  seemed  to  exist  some 
secret  feeling  of  dislike  between  them,  which 
occasioned  her  no  inconsiderable  ajsprehen- 
sion.  O'Connor  .she  knew  was  kind-hearted 
and  generous,  but,  at  the  same  time,  as  quick 
as  gunpowder  in  taking  and  resenting  an  in- 
sult. On  the  other  hand,  she  certainly  felt 
much  regret  at  being  sul)jected  to  the  jsres- 
ence  of  Woodward,  against  whom  she  enter- 
tained, as  the  reader  kuows,  a  strong  feeUng 
that  amounted  absolutely  to  aversion.  She 
could  not,  however,  think  of  treating  him 
with  anything  bordering  on  disrespect,  es- 
iiecially  in  her  own  house,  and  she,  conse- 
quently, was  about  to  say  something  merelj' 
calculated  to  pass  the  time.  In  this,  how- 
ever, she  was  auticiijated  by  Woodward, 
who,  as  he  had  his  suspicions  of  O'Connor, 
resolved  ta  sound  her  on  the  subject. 

"  That  seems  an  agreeable  young  fellow," 
said  he  ;  "  somewhat  free  and  easy  in  his 
deportment." 

"Take  care,  Mr.  Woodward,"  said  her 
mother,  "  say  nothing  harsh  against  Fer- 
dora,  if  j'ou  wish  to  keep  on  good  terms 
^^•ith  Alley.  He's  the  white-headed  boj'with 
her." 

"  I  am  not  sui-prised  at  that,  madam," 
he  rephed,  "possessed  as  he  is  of  such  a  rare 
and  fortunate  quahty." 

"Pray,  what  is  that,  JMr.  Woodward?" 
asked  Alice,  timidly. 

"  ^^^ly,  the  faculty  of  making  love  VN-ith 
the  power  of  ten  men,"  he  rej)lied. 

"You  must  be  a  very  serious  man,"  she 
rejilied. 

"  Serious,  Miss  Goodwin !  Why  do  you 
think  so  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  in  the  habit  of  re- 
ceiving a  jest  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

"Not,"  he  rephed,  "if  I  could  satisfy. my- 
self that  there  was  no  fact  in  the  jest  ;  but, 
indeed,  in  this  world,  Miss  Goodwin,  it  is 
very  difficult  to  distinguish  jest  from  ear- 
nest." 

"  I  am  a  bad  reasouer.  Mi-.  Woodward," 
slie  replied. 

"  But,  perhaps,  Miss  Goodwin,  IVIi-.  O'Con- 
nor would  say  that  you  make  up  in  feeUng 
what  you  want  in  logic." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  rephed  Ahce,  with  some 
sjiirit — for  she  felt  hurt  at  his  last  observa- 
ti(.)u — "  that  I  will  never  feel  on  any  subject 
uutd  I  have  reason  as  well  as  inclination  to 
supj)ort  me." 


"Ah,"  said  he,  "I  fear  that  if  you  once 
j)ossess  the  inclination  you  will  soon  sujsply 
the  reason.  But,  by  the  way,  talking  of 
your  fi'ieud  and  favorite,  Sir.  O'Connor,  I 
must  say  I  like  him  veiy  much,  and  I  am 
not  surprised  that  you  do." 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  know  of 
nobody  I  like  better  than  honest,  frank,  and 
generftus  Ferdora." 

"  Well,  Miss  Goodvsin,  I  assure  you  he 
shall  be  a  favorite  of  mine  for  yoiu'  sake." 

"Indeed,  Mi-.  Woodward,  if  you  knew 
him,  he  would  become  one  for  Ids  o\s-n." 

"  Have  you  knoTMi  him  lonj;,  may  I  ask, 
Miss  Goodwin  ?  " 

"  O  dear,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin,  who 
now,  finding  this  a  fair  opening  in  the  con- 
versation, resolved  to  have  her  share  of  it — 
"  O  dear !  yes  ;  Alley  and  he  know  each 
other  ever  since  her  childhood  ;  he's  some 
three  or  foiu:  years  older  than  she  is,  to  be 
sui-e,  but  that  makes  little  difference." 

"And,  I  suj^jjose,  Mrs.  Goodwin,  their 
intimacy — perhaj)s  I  may  say  attachment — 
has  the  sanction  of  their  respective  fami- 
hes  ?  " 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,  to  be  sure  it  has — 
are  they  not  distantly  related '?  " 

"  That,  indeed,  is  a  very  usual  proceeding 
among  famdies,"  observed  Woodward  ;  "the 
boy  and  girl  are  thrown  together,  and  de- 
sired to  look  ujjon  each  other  as  destined  to 
become  husband  and  wife  ;  they  accordingly 
do  so,  fall  in  love,  are  married,  and  soon 
find  themselves — miserable  ;  in  fact,  these 
matches  seldom  turn  out  well." 

"  But  there  is  no  risk  of  that  here,"  re- 
plied Alice. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  not,  Miss  Goodwin.  In 
your  case,  unless  the  husband  was  a  fool,  or 
a  madman,  or  a  villain,  there  mud  be  happi- 
ness. Of  course  you  will  be  happy  with 
him  ;  need  I  say,"  and  here  he  sighed,  "  that 
he  at  least  ought  to  be  so  with  you  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Woodward,"  replied 
Alice,  smiling,  "you  are  a  much  cleverer 
man  than  I  presume  your  own  modesty  ever 
permitted  you  to  suspect." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  replied, 
\ni\x  a  look  of  embarrassment. 

"  Why,"  she  proceeded,  "here  have  you, 
in  a  few  minutes,  made  up  a  match  between 
two  persons  who  never  were  intended  to  be 
married  at  all ;  you  have  got  the  sanction  of 
two  famihes  to  a  union  which  neither  of 
them  even  for  a  moment  contemplated. 
Dear  me,  sir,  may  not  a  lady  and  gentleman 
become  acquainted  without  necessarily  fall- 
ing in  love  ?  " 

"Ah,  but,  in  your  case,  my  dear  Miss 
Goodwin,  it  would  be  difficult — impossible  I 
should   say — to   remain    indifferent,   if  the 


ceo 


WILLIAM  CJlRLETON'S    WORKS. 


gentleman  had  either  taste  or  sentiment ; 
however,  I  assure  you  I  am  sincerely  glad  to 
find  that  I  have  been  mistaken." 

"  God  bless  me,  Mr.  "Woodwai'd,"  said 
Mrs.  Good^^^n,  "  did  you  think  they  were 
sweethearts  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  madam,  I  did — and  I 
was  very  sorry  for  it." 

"  Mr.  Woodward,"  replied  Alice,  *  don't 
mistake  me  ;  I  am  inaccessible  to  flattery." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  he,  "be- 
cause I  know  that  for  that  reason  you  are  not 
and  wiU  not  be  insensible  to  truth." 

"  Unless  when  it  borrows  the  garb  of 
flattery,  and  thus  causes  itself  to  be  suspected." 

"  Li  that  case,"  said  Woodward,  "  nothing 
but  good  sense,  Mii;s  Goodwin,  can  di\aw 
the  distinction  between  them — and  now  I 
know  that  you  are  jjossessed  of  that." 

"  I  hope  so,  sir,"  she  rephed,  "  and  that  I 
wiU  ever  continue  to  observe  that  distinction. 
Mamma,  I  want  more  thread,"  she  said: 
"  where  can  I  get  it  ?  " 

"  Up  stairs,  dear,  in  my  work-bos." 

She  then  bowed  slightly  to  Woodward 
and  went  up  to  find  her  thread,  but  in  fact 
fi'om  a  wish  to  put  an  end  to  a  conversation 
that  she  felt  to  be  exceediugh'  disagreeable. 
At  this  moment  old  Goodwin  came  in. 

"  You  ^\'ill  excuse  me,  I  trust,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," said  he,  "  I  was  do\Mi  in  the  dining- 
room  receiving  rents  for ."     Hejiaused, 

for,  on  reflection,  he  felt  that  this  was  a  dis- 
agreeable topic  to  allude  to  ;  the  fact  being 
that  he  acted  as  his  daughter's  agent,  and 
had  been  on  that  and  the  preceding  day  re- 
ceiving her  rents.  "  Maitha,"  sxid  he,  "  what 
about  luncheon  ?  You'll  take  luncheon  with 
us,  !Mi-.  Woodward  ?  " 

Woodward  bowed,  and  IVIrs.  Goodwin  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when  he  said  : 

"  Perhaps,  Mrs.  Goodwin,  you'd  be  good 
enough  to  remain  for  a  few  minutes."  Mrs. 
Good\\iu  sat  down,  and  he  proceeded  :  "I 
trust  that  my  arrival  home  will,  under  Provi- 
dence, be  the  means  of  reconciling  and  re- 
imiting  two  famihes  who  never  should  have 
been  at  variance.  Not  but  that  I  admit,  my 
dear  friends, — if  you  will  allow  me  to  ciill 
you  so, — that  the  melimcholy  event  of  my 
l^oor  uncle's  death,  and  the  unexjiected  dis- 
l^osition  of  so  large  a  property,  were  calcu- 
lated to  try  the  jiatieuce  of  worldly-minded 
jjeople — and  who  is  not  so  in  a  more  or  less 
degree  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  any  of  yoiu-  family  is," 
rephed  Goodwin,  bluntly,  "  with  one  excep- 
tion." 

"  O  !  yes,  my  mother,"  replied  AVoodward, 
"  and  I  grant  it ;  at  least  she  was  so,  and 
acted  upon  worldly  principles  ;  but  I  think 
you  will  admit,  at  least  as  Christians  you 


must,  that  the  horn-  of  change  and  regret 
may  come  to  every  human  heart  when  its 
errors,  and  its  selfishness,  if  j-ou  will,  have 
been  clearly  and  mildly  pointed  out.  I  do 
not  attribute  the  change  that  has  happily 
taken  place  in  my  dear  mother  to  myself, 
but  to  a  higher  f)ower  ;  although  I  must  ad- 
mit, as  I  do  with  all  humihty,  that  I  ^vrought 
earnestly,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  since 
my  retm-n,  to  bring  it  about ;  and,  thank 
heaven,  I  have  succeeded.  I  come  this  day 
as  a  messenger  of  jjeace,  to  state  that  she  is 
willing  that  the  families  should  be  reconciled, 
and  a  haj)pier  and  more  lasting  union  effect- 
ed between  them." 

"lam  delighted  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," said  Goodwin,  much  moved;  "God 
knows  I  am.  Blessed  be  the  peace-maker, 
and  you  are  he  ;  an  easy  conscience  and  a 
light  heart  must  be  your  rewai'd." 

"  They  must,"  added  his  wife,  wij)ing  her 
eyes  ;  "they  must  and  they  will." 

"  Alas !  "  jwoceeded  Woodward,  "  how  far 
from  Gospel  jJurity  is  every  human  motive 
when  it  comes  to  be  tried  by  the  Word !  I 
i  wiU  not  conceal  from  you  the  .state  of  my 
heart,  nor  deny  that  in  accomphshing  this 
thing  it  was  influenced  by  a  certain  seMsh 
feeling  on  my  part ;  in  one  sense  a  disinter- 
ested selfishness  I  admit,  but  in  another  a 
selfishness  that  involves  my  own  happiness. 
However,  I  wiU.  say  no  more  on  that  subject 
at  present.  It  would  scarcely  be  delicate 
until  the  reconciliation  is  fiiUv  accom2>lished  ; 
then,  indeed,  perhaps  I  may  endea\or,  with 
fear  and  trembling,  to  make  myself  imder- 
stood.  Only  until  then,  I  beg  of  you  to 
think  well  of  me,  and  permit  me  to  consider 
mj'self  as  not  unworthy  of  a  humble  place  in 
your  affections." 

Old  Goodwin  shook  him  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  his  wife  once  more  had  recourse  to 
her  pocket-handkerchief.  "  God  bless  you, 
Mr.  Woodward  !  "  he  exclaimed  ; "  God  bless 
you.  I  now  see  your  worth,  and  know  it ; 
you  already  have  our  good-will  and  afleetions, 
and,  what  is  more,  we  feel  that  you  deserve 
them." 

"  I  wish,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  other, 
"that  Miss  Goodwin  imderstood  me  as  well 
as  you  and  her  respected  mother." 

"  She  does,  Mi-.  Woodward,"  replied  her 
father  ;  "she  does,  and  she  will,  too." 

"  I  tremble,  however,"  said  Woodwju'd, 
with  a  deep  sigh  ;  "  but  I  wiU  leave  my  fate 
in  your  hands,  or,  I  should  rather  saj-  in  the 
hands  of  Heaven." 

Lunch  was  then  aunoimeed,  and  they  went 
down  to  the  front  parlor,  where  it  was  laid 
out.  On  entering  the  room  Woodward  was 
a  good  de;il  ilisappointed  to  find  that  Miss 
Goodwin  was  not  there. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    Oli,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE 


66j 


"  Will  uot  Miss  Goodwin  join  us  '? "  he 
asked. 

"Certainly,"  said  her  father;  "Martha, 
where  is  she  ?  " 

"  You  know,  my  dear,  she  seldom  lun- 
ches," replied  her  mother. 

"Well,  but  she  will  now,"  said  Goodwin  ; 
'•'  it  is  uot  every  daj-  we  have  Mr.  Woodward  ; 
let  her  be  seut  for.  John,  find  out  Miss 
Goodwin,  and  say  we  wish  her  to  join  us  at 
luncheon." 

John  in  a  few  moments  retiuiied  to  say 
that  she  had  a  slight  headache,  and  could 
uot  have  the  pleasiu-e  of  coming  down. 

"  O,  I  am  very  soiTy  to  hear-  she  is  un- 
well," said  Woodward,  with  an  appearance 
of  disappointment  and  chagrin,  which  he 
did  not  wish  to  conceal ;  or,  to  spe-ik  the 
truth,  which,  in  a  great  measure,  he  as- 
sumed. 

After  lunch  his  horse  was  ordered,  and  he 
set  out  on  his  way  to  Eathtillau,  meditating 
upon  his  \-isit,  and  the  rather  indifferent  re- 
ception he  had  got  fi-om  Alice. 

Jliss  Goodwin,  though  timid  and  nervous, 
was,  nevertheless,  in  many  things,  a  girl  of 
sjiirit,  and  possessed  a  great  deal  of  natural 
wit  and  penetration.  On  that  day  Wood- 
ward exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  with  a 
hojje  of  making  a  favorable  impression  upon 
her.  He  calculated  a  good  deal  ujion  her 
isolated  position  and  necessary  ignorance  of 
life  and  the  world,  and  in  doing  so,  he  calcu- 
lated, as  thousands  of  seK-suflicient  liber- 
tines, in  theii'  estimate  of  women,  have  done 
both  before  and  since.  He  did  not  know 
that  there  is  an  intuitive  spirit  in  the  female 
heart  which  often  enables  it  to  discover  the 
true  chai-acter  of  the  opposite  sex  ;  and  to 
discriminate  between  the  re:d  and  the  as- 
sumed with  almost  infallible  accuracy.  But, 
indejiendently  of  this,  there  was  in  Wood- 
ward's manner  a  hardness  of  outhne,  and  in 
his  conversation  an  unconscious  absence  of 
all  reality  and  truth,  together  with  a  cold, 
studied  formaUty,  di-y,  shai-j),  and  presump- 
tuous, that  requu'ed  no  extrnordiuai-y  pene- 
tration to  discover  ;  for  the  worst  of  it  was, 
that  he  made  himself  disagi'eeably  felt,  and 
excited  those  jJowers  of  scnitiny  and  analy- 
sis that  are  so  peculiar  to  the  generality  of 
tlie  other  sex.  In  fact,  he  sought  liis  way 
home  in  anything  but  an  agreeable  mood. 
He  thought  to  have  met  Alice  an  ignorant 
country  girl,  whom  he  might  play  ujion  ; 
but  he  found  himself  comjaletely  mistaken, 
because,  fortunately  for  herself,  he  had 
taken  her  upon  one  of  her  strong  points. 
As  it  was,  however,  whilst  he  could  not  helj^ 
admiring  the  jjertinence  of  her  reislies, 
neither  could  he  help  exj)eriencing  some- 
thing  of  a  bitter  feeUng   against  her,  be- 


cause she  indulged  in  them  at  his  o^vn  ex- 
pense ;  whilst  against  O'Connoi',  who  ban- 
tered him  with  such  spirit  and  success,  and 
absolutely  turned  him  into  ridicule  in  her 
jjresence,  he  almost  entertamed  a  j^ei'sona] 
resentment.  His  only  hope  now  was  in  her 
jsarents,  who  seemed  as  anxious  to  entertain 
his  25roposals  with  favor  as  Alice  was  to  re- 
ject them  with  disdain.  As  for  Alice  her- 
self, her  opinion  of  him  is  a  matter  -with 
which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted. 

Our  hero  was  about  half  way  home  when  he 
overtook  a  thin,  lank  old  man,  who  was  a  rath- 
er important  character  in  the  eyes  of  the  igno- 
rant people  at  the  period  of  which  we  write. 
He  was  tall,  and  so  bai-e  of  flesh,  that  when 
asleejj  he  might  pass  for  the  skeleton  of  a 
coiijse.     His  eyes  were  red,  cunning,   and 
sinister-looking  ;  his  lips  thin,  and  fi'om  un- 
der the  ujjper  one  iDrojected  a  single  tooth, 
long  and  yellow  as  saffron.     His  face  was  of 
imusual  length,  and  his  parchment  cheeks 
formed  two  inwai'd  curves,   occasioned   by 
the  want  of  his  back  testh.     His  breeches 
were  open  at  the  knees  ;  his  polar  legs  were 
without  stockings  ;  but  his  old  brogues  were 
fodili'ivil,  as  it  is  called,  with  a  wisp  of  straw, 
to  keep  his  feet  warm.     His  arms  were  long, 
even  in  j)roportion  to  his  body,  and  his  bony 
fingers  resembled  claws  rather  than  anything 
else  we  can  now  remember.    They  ( the  claws) 
were  black  as  ebony,  and  resembled  in  length 
and  sharpness  those  of  a  cat  when  she  is 
stretcliing    herself    after    rising    from    the 
I  hearth.     He  wore  an  old  barrad  of  the  day, 
the  greasy  top  of  which  fell  down  upon  the 
j  collar  of  his  old  cloak,  and  over  his  shoulder 
was  a  bag  which,  fi'om  its  appearance,  must 
i  have  contained  something  not  very  weighty, 
i  as  he  walked  on  without  seeming  to  travel 
'  as  a  man  who  cai'ried  a  biu'deu.     He  had  a 
,  huge  staff  in  his  right  hand,  the  left  haring 
'  a  hold  of  his  bag.     Woodwai-d  at  first  mis- 
j  took  him  for  a  mendicant,  but  upon  looking 
at  him  more  closely,  he  perceived  nothing  of 
I  that  watchful   and  whining   cant  for  alms 
i  which  mai'ks  the  character  of  the  professional 
beggar.     The  old  skeleton  walked  on,  appa- 
{  reutly  indifferent  and  independent,  and  never 
once  jnit  himself  into  the  usual  postiu'e  ot 
entreaty.     This,   and  the  originality  of  hig 
ajjjjearance,  excited    Woodward's  curiosity, 
i  and  he  resolved  to  speak  to  him. 
I       "  Well,  my  good  old  man,  what  may  you 
be  carr\ing  in  the  bag  ?  ' 
I      The  man  looked  at  him  respectfully,  and 
raising  his  hand  and  staff',  touched  his  bar- 
rod,  and  repUed : 

"  A  few  yai'ribs,  your  honor." 
"  Yarribs  ?     What  the  deuce  is  that  ?  " 
"  Why,  the  v'arribs  that  gTow,  su' — to  cure 
the  peoj^le  when  they  ai'e  .sick." 


062 


WILLIAM   CARLETON"'S   WORKS. 


"  O,  you  mean  herbs." 

"  I  do,  sir,  aud  I  gather  them  too  for  the 
potecars." 

"  O,  then  you  are  what  they  call  a  herb- 
aUst." 

"  I  believe  I  am,  sir,  if  j'ou  put  that  word 
against  (to)  a  man  that  gethers  yarribs." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  You  sell  them 
to  the  apothecaries,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"ido  a  Uttle,  sir,  but  I  use  the  most  of 
them  myself.  Sorra  much  the  potecars 
knows  about  the  use  o'  them  ;  they  kill  more 
than  they  cure  wid  'em,  aud  calls  them  that 
understands  what  they're  good  for  rog-ues 
and  quacks.  May  the  Lord  forgive  them 
this  day !  Ainin,  acheernah !  (Amen,  O 
Lord  !) " 

"And  do  you  administer  these  herbs  to 
the  sick  ?  " 

"I  do,  gir,  to  the  sick  of  all  kinds — man 
and  baste.  There's  nothing  like  them,  sir, 
bekaise  it  was  to  cure  diseases  of  all  kmds 
that  the  Lord,  blessed  be  His  name  !  amiii, 
acheernah  !  planted  them  in  the  earth  for  the 
use  of  his  cratures.  Why,  sir,  wiU  you  lis- 
ten to  me  now,  and  mark  my  words '?  There 
never  was  a  complaint  that  follied  either  man 
or  baste,  brute  or  bird,  but  a  yarrib  grows 
that  'ud  cure  it  if  it  was  known.  When 
the  head's  hot  wid  faver,  and  the  heart  low 
wid  care,  the  yarrib  is  to  be  found  that  will 
cool  the  head  and  rise  the  heart." 

"  Don't  you  think,  now,"  said  Yv'oodward, 
imagining  that  he  would  catch  him,  "  that  a 
glass  of  wine,  or,  what  is  better  stOl,  a  good 
glass  of  punch,  would  raise  the  heart  better 
than  all  the  herbs  in  the  univer.se  ?  " 

"Lord  bless  me!"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  in 
soliloqviy  ;  "  the  ignorance  of  the  rich  and 
wealthy,  and  of  great  people  altogether,  is 
unknown  !  Wine  and  iiuuch  !  Aud  what, 
will  you  tell  me,  does  wine  and  punch  come 
fi'om?  Doesn't  the  wine  come  from  the 
grapes  that  grow  in  forrin  parts — sich  as  we 
have  in  our  hot-houses — and  doesn't  the 
whiskey  that  you  make  your  punch  of  grow 
from  tlie  honest  barley  in  our  own  fields  ? 
So  much  for  your  knowledge  of  yarribs." 

"  Wiy,  there  you  are  right,  my  old  friend. 
I  forgot  that." 

"  You  forgot  it  ?  Tell  the  truth  at  once, 
and  say  you  didn't  know  it.  But  may  be 
you  did  forget  it,  for  troth  he'd  be  a  jaoor 
crature  that  didn't  know  whiskey  was  made 
fi'om  barley." 

He  here  tui'ned  his  red  satmcal  eye  upon 
Woodward,  with  a  glance  that  was  strongly 
indicative  of  contempt  for  his  general  infor- 
mation. 

"Well,"  he  proceeded,  "  the  power  of  yar- 
ribs is  wondherful, — if  it  was  known  to  many 
us  it  is  to  me." 


"  Why,  fi-om  long  practice,  I  suppose, 
YOU  must  be  skilful  in  the  properties  ol 
herbs  ?  " 

"  Well,  indeed,  you  needn't  only  suppose 
it,  but  you  may  be  sartin  of  it.  Have  you  a 
good  appetite  ?  " 

"A  particularly  good  one,  I  assure  you." 

"  Now,  wouldn't  you  think  it  strange  that 
I  could  give  you  a  dose  that  'ud  keeji  you 
on  half  a  male  a  day  for  the  next  three 
months." 

"God  forbid,"  replied  AVoodward,  who, 
among  his  other  good  quahties,  was  an 
enormous  trenehermau,  —  "  God  forbid 
that  ever  such  a  dose  should  go  down  my 
throat." 

"  Would  you  think,  now,"  he  jDroceeded, 
with  a  sinister  gi-in  that  sent  his  yellow  tusk 
half  an  inch  out  of  his  mouth,  "  that  if  a  man 
was  jealous  of  his  wife,  or  a  wife  of  her  hus- 
band, I  couldn't  give  either  o'  them  a  dose 
that  'ud  cure  them  ?  " 

"  Faith,  I  dare  say  you  could,"  rephed 
Woodward  ;  "  a  dose  that  woiikl  fi-ee  them 
fi'om  care  of  aU  sorts,  as  weU  as  jealousy." 

"I  don't  mane  that,"  said  the  skeleton  ; 
"ha,  ha!  you're  a  funny  gentleman,  and 
maybe  I — but  no — I  don't  mane  that ;  but 
widout  injuria'  a  hair  in  either  o'  their 
heads." 

"  I  am  not  married,"  said  the  other,  "  but 
I  esjDect  to  be  soon,  and  when  I  am  I  will 
l^ay  you  well  for  the  knowledge  of  that 
herb — for  my  wife,  I  mean.  Where  do  you 
live  ?  " 

"  In  RathfiUau,  sir.  I'm  a  well-known 
man  there,  aud  for  many  a  long  mile  about 
it." 

"  You  must  be  very  useful  to  the  countiy 
j)eople  hereabouts  ?  " 

"Ay,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  mane  to  the 
jjoor,  I  suppose,  and  you're  right  ;  but  may- 
be I'm  of  sarvice  to  the  rich,  too.  M;uiy  a 
face  I  save  from — I  could  save  fi'om  shame, 
I  mane — if  I  liked,  and  could  get  well  ped  for 
it,  too.  Some  young,  extravagant  people  that 
have  rich  ould  fathers  do  be  spakiu'  to  me, 
too  ;  but  tliin,  you  know,  I  have  a  sowl  to 
be  saved,  and  am  a  religious  man,  I  hope, 
aud  do  my  duty  as  sich,  and  that  every  one 
that  has  a  sowl  to  be  saved,  may  I  Amii), 
acheernah  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  sense  of  duty 
preserves  you  against  such  strong  tempta- 
tions." 

"  Then,  there's  another  set  of  men — these 
outlaws  that  do  be  robbin'  rich  peojile's 
houses,  and  they,  too,  try  to  tempt  me." 

"  Wliy  should  they  tempt  you  ? '' 

"  Bekaise  the  peojile,  now  knowin'  that 
they're  abroad,  keep  watch-dogs,  blood- 
hounds, and  sich  useful  animals,  that  givo 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


6G3 


the  alai-m  at  night,  aud  the  robbers  wishin', 
Yoti  see,  to  p-et  them  out  of  the  way,  do 
be  temptiii"  me  about  mshiu'  me  to  f)isou 
tliem." 

"  Of  course  you  resist  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  hojje  I  do  ;  but  sometimes  it's 
hard  to  get  over  them,  especially  wheu  they 
plant  a  »kean  or  a  middogue  to  one's  navel, 
and  swear  great  oaths  that  they'll  make 
a  scabbard  for  it  of  my  i^oor  ould  buhi  (belly) 
— I  say,  when  the  thieves  do  the  business 
that  way,  it  requires  a  grate  dale  of  the  grace 
o'  God  to  deny  them.  But  what's  any 
Chr'sthen  'idout  the  grace  o'  God?  May  we 
all  have  it !  A  m  in,  arhccrnah  !  " 

"  Well,  wheu  I  moi-ry,  as  I  mil  soon,  I'll 
call  ujjou  you  ;  I  dare  say  my  wife  will  get 
jealous,  for  I  love  the  ladies,  if  that's  a 
fault." 

Another  gi-in  was  his  first  replj-  to  this, 
after  which  he  said  : 

".Well,  sir,  if  she  does,  come  to  me." 

"  Where  in  llathfillan  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  O,  anyliody  will  tell  you  ;  inquire  for 
ould  Sol  Donnel,  the  yarrib  man,  and  you'll 
soon  find  me  out." 

"  But  suppose  I  shouldn't  wish  it  to  be 
known  that  I  called  on  you '?  " 

"Eh?"  said  the  old  villain,  giving  him 
another  significant  grin  that  once  more  piro- 
jected  the  fang  ;  "  well,  maybe  you  wouldn't. 
If  you  want  my  sarvices,  then,  come  to  the 
cottage  that's  built  agin  the  church-yard 
wall,  on  the  north  side  ;  and  if  j'ou  don't 
wish  to  be  seen,  why  you  can  come  about 
midnight,  when  every  one's  asleep." 

"What's  this  you  say  your  name  is?" 

"  Sol  Doimel." 

"  AVliat  do  you  mean  by  Sol?" 

He  turned  up  his  red  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment, and  exclaimed  : 

"  Well,  now,  to  think  that  a  lai'ued  man  as 
you  must  he  shouldn't  know  what  Sol 
means  !  Well,  the  ignorance  of  you  great 
people  is  unknown.  Don't  you  know — but 
you  don't — oughn't  you  know,  then,  that 
Sol  means  Solomon,  who  was  the  wisest  man 
and  the  biggest  blaggard  that  ever  Uved  ! 
Faith,  if  /  had  lived  in  his  day  he'd  be  a 
poor  customer  to  me,  bekaise  he  had  no 
shame  in  him  ;  but  indeed,  the  doin's  that 
goes  on  now  in  holes  and  corners  among 
oiu-selves  was  no  sliame  in  his  time.  That's 
a  fine  bay  horse  you  ride  ;  would  you  like  to 
have  him  dappled?  A  dappled  baj',  you 
know,  is  always  a  great  beauty." 

"  And  (■()(//(/  you  dapple  him  ?  " 

"Ay,  as  sure  as  you  ride  him. " 

"  Well,  I'll  think  about  it  and  let  you 
know  ;  there's  some  silver  for  you,  and 
good-by,  honest  Solomon." 

Woodward  then  rode  on,  reflecting  on  the 


novel  and  extraordinary  character  of  this 
hypocritical  old  villain,  in  whose  \\'ithered 
and  ref)ulsive  visage  he  could  not  discover  a 
single  trace  of  anything  that  intimated  tha 
existence  of  sympathy  with  liis  kind.  As  to 
that,  it  was  a  tabula  ram,  blank  of  all  feel- 
ings excej^t  those  which  characterize  the 
hyena  and  the  fox.  After  he  had  left  him, 
the  old  fellow  gave  a  bitter  and  derisive  iook 
after  him. 

"There  j'ou  go,"  said  he,  "and  well  I 
knew  you,  although  jou  didn't  think  so. 
Weren't  you  pointed  out  to  me  the  night  o' 
the  divil's  bonfire,  that  your  mother,  they 
say,  got  up  for  you  ;  and  didn't  I  see  yoi* 
since  sjjakin'  to  that  skamin'  blaggard,  Cat- 
eriae  CoUins,  my  niece,  that  takes  many  u 
penny  out  o'  my  hands  ;  and  didn't  I  know 
that  v'ou  couldn't  be  talkin'  to  her  about  i'.ny-. 
thing  that  was  good.  Troth,  you're  not 
youi"  mother's  son  or  you'U  be  comin'  t  j  me 
as  well  as  her.  Bad  luck  to  her !  she  was 
near  gettin'  me  into  the  stocks  when  1  sowld 
her  the  dose  of  oak  bark  for  the  sarvauts,  to 
draw  in  their  stomachs  and  shorten  their 
feedin'.  My  faith,  ould  Lindsay  'ud  have 
put  me  in  them  only  for  fraid  o'  bringin' 
shame  upon  his  wife."  * 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

A  HeaUnr/ of  tfiA  Brcacli. — ,4  Prnpoaa!  for  Marringi 
Accepted. 

On  that  evening,  when  the  family  were 
assembled  at  suj^per,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  who  had 
had  a  previous  consultation  with  her  sou 
Harry,  thought  proper  to  introduce  the  sub- 
ject of  the  projected  marriage  between  him 
and  Alice  Goodwm. 

"  Harry  has  paid  a  visit  to  these  neigh- 
bors of  ours,' said  she,  "these  Goodwins, 
and  I  think,  nov/  that  he  has  come  home,  it 
would  be  only  prudent  on  oiu'  part  to  renew 
the  intimacy  that  was  between  us.  Not  that 
I  like,  or  ever  will  like^  a  bone  in  one  of  their 
bodies  ;  but  it's  only  right  that  we  should 
foil  them  at  their  own  weapons,  and  try  to 


*  Scrap  of  our  readers  may  iraapfine  that  in  the 
enumpr.ttioa  of  the  cures  which  old  Sol  professed 
to  effect  we  have  drawn  too  largely  upon  their 
credulity,  whereas  there  is  scarcely  one  of  them 
that  is  not  practised,  or  attempted,  in  reuuite  and 
uneducated  parts  of  Ireland,  alraos^t  down  to  the 
present  day.  We  ourselves  in  early  youth  saw  a 
man  who  professed,  and  was  helieved  to  be  able,  to 
cure  jealousy  in  either  man  or  woman  by  a  potion  ; 
wliilst  charms  for  coiics,  toothaches,  taking  motes 
out  of  the  eve,  .nnd  for  producing  love,  weve  com- 
mon among  the  ignorant  people  withitt  oiu  own 
recol  lection. 


664 


WILLrA3£  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


get  back  the  property  into  the  hands  of  one. 
of  the  family  at  least,  if  we  can,  and  so  j)re- 
vent  it  fi-om  going  to  strangers.  I  am 
determined  to  pay  them  a  fi-iendly  visit  to- 
morrow. ' 

"  A  fi-iendly  visit !  "  exclaimed  her  hus- 
band, with  an  expression  of  surprise  and 
indignation  on  his  countenance  which  he 
could  not  conceal  ;  "  how  can  you  siy  a 
friendly  visit,  after  having  just  told  us  that 
you  neither  hke  them,  nor  ever  will  like 
them  ?  not  that  it  was  at  all  necessary  for 
you  to  assure  us  of  thai.  It  is,  however,  the 
ini^ocrisy  of  the  thing  on  your  part  that 
startle 5  and  disgusts  me." 

"  Call  it  prudence,  if  you  please,  Lindsay, 
or  worldly  wisdom,  if  you  like,  after  all  the 
best  kind  of  wisdom  ;  and  I  only  msh  you 
had  more  of  it." 

"  That  makes  no  difference  in  life,"  replied 
her  husband,  calmly,  but  severely  ;  "  as  it  is, 
you  have  enough,  and  more  than  enough  for 
the  whole  family." 

"  But  has  Harry  any  hopes  of  success  with 
Alice  Goodwin,"  asked  Charles,  "because 
everj-thing  depends  on  thai  ?  " 

"  If  he  had  not,  you  foolish  boy,  do  you 
thmk  I  would  be  the  first  to  break  the  ice  by 
going  to  jiay  them  a  visit  ?  The  gu'l,  I  dare 
say,  wiU  make  a  very  good  mfe,  or  if  she 
does  not,  the  property  will  not  be  a  pound 
less  in  value  on  that  account ;  that's  one 
comfort." 

"  And  is  it  upon  this  hollow  and  treacher- 
ous jiriuciple  that  you  are  about  to  pay  them 
a  fi-ieudly  visit  ?  "  asked  her  husbiuid,  with 
ill-repressed  indignation. 

"Lindsay,"  she  replied,  sharply,  "I  per- 
ceive j'ou  are  rife  for  a  qunrrel  now  ;  but  I 
beg  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  will  neither  seek 
your  ajjprobation  nor  regard  your  authority. 
I  must  manage  these  people  after  my  own 
fashion." 

"Harry,"  said  his  step-father,  turning 
abruj^tly,  and  with  incredulous  surprise  to 
him,  "  surely  it  is  not  possible  that  you  are 
a  party  to  such  a  shameful  imposture  upon 
this  excellent  family  ?  " 

His  brother  Charles  fastened  his  eyes  up- 
on him  as  if  he  would  read  his  heart. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  replied  that  gentleman, 
"  that  you  should  think  it  necessary  to  apply 
the  word  imposture  to  any  proceeding  of 
mine.  You  ought  to  know  luy  mother's  out- 
spoken w.'iy,  and  that  her  heart  is  kinder 
than  her  language.  The  fact  is,  from  the 
first  moment  I  saw  that  beautiful  girl  I  felt 
a  warm  interest  in  her,  and  I  feel  that  in- 
terest increasing  every  day.  I  certainly  am 
very  anxious  to  secure  her  for  her  own  sake, 
whilst  I  candidly  admit  that  I  am  not  wholly 
indifferent  to  the  property.     I  am   only  a 


common  man  like  others,  and  not  above  th« 
world  and  its  influences — who  can  be  that 
hves  in  it  ?  My  mother,  besides,  will  come 
to  think  better  of  Alice,  and  all  of  them, 
when  she  shall  be  enabled  to  call  Alice 
daughter  ;  won't  you,  mother  ?  " 

The  mother,  who  knew  by  the  sentiments 
which  he  had  expressed  to  her  before  on 
this  subject,  that  he  was  now  playing  a  game 
with  the  family,  did  not  consider  it  jirudent 
to  contradict  him  ;  she  consequently  re- 
plied,— 

"  I  don't  know,  Harry;  I  cannot  get  their 
trick  about  the  property  out  of  my  heart  ; 
but,  jierhaps,  if  I  saw  it  once  more  where  it 
ought  to  be,  I  m  ight  change.  That's  aU  I  can 
say  at  present." 

"Well,  come,  Harry,"  said  Lindsay — ad- 
verting to  what  he  had  just  said — "  I  think 
you  have  sj)okeu  fairly  enough  ;  I  do — it's 
candid  ;  you  are  not  above  this  world  ;  why 
should  you  be? — come,  it  u  candid." 

"I  trust,  sir,  you  mil  never  find  me  un- 
candid,  either  on  this  or  any  other  subject." 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  I  shiU,  Kany.  Well, 
be  it  so — setting  your  mother  out  of  the 
question, —  j)roceed  vdth  equal  candor  in 
your  courtship.  I  trust  you  deserve  her, 
and,  if  so,  I  hope  you  may  get  her." 

"If  he  does  not,"  said  Maria,  "he  will 
never  get  such  a  wife." 

"  By  the  way,  Hari-y,"  asked  Charles,  "  has 
she  given  you  an  intimation  of  auj'thing  like 
encouragement  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  rather  think  I  am  not  exactly  a 
fool,  Charles,  nor  likely  to  undertake  an 
enteriJrise  without  some  prosjiect  of  success. 
I  hope  you  deem  me,  at  least,  a  candid 
man." 

"Yes  ;  but  there  is  a  class  of  persons  who 
frequently  form  too  high  an  estimate  of  them- 
selves, especially  in  their  intercourse  with 
women  ;  and  who  very  often  mistake  civiUty 
for  encouragement." 

"Very  true,  Charles — exceedingly  just 
and  true  ;  but  I  hope  I  am  not  one  of  those 
either  ;  my  knowledge  of  life  and  the  world 
wiU  p)reveut  me  from  that,  I  trust." 

"I  hope,"  continued  Charles,  "  that  if  the 
girl  is  adverse  to  such  a  connection  she  will 
not  be  harassed  or  annoyed  about  it." 

"I  hope,  Charles,  I  have  too  much  pride 
to  press  any  proposal  that  may  be  disagree- 
able to  her  ;  I  rather  think  I  have.  But  have 
you,  Charles,  any  i-easou  to  suppose  that  she 
should  not  like  me  '? " 

"  Why,  from  what  you  have  ah-eady 
hinted,  Harry,  you  ought  to  be  the  best 
judge  of  that  yourself." 

"Well,  I  think  so.  too.  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  walking  blindfold  into  any  adven- 
ture,  esj)ecially  one  so  imjiortant  as  this. 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OE,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


665 


Tnist  to  my  address,  my  dear  fellow,"  he 
added,  with  a  confident  smile,  "  and,  believe 
me,  you  shall  soon  see  her  your  sister-in-law." 

"  And  I  shall  be  dehghted  at  it,  Harry," 
said  his  sister;  "so  go  on  and  prosper.  If  you 
get  her  you  will  get  a  treasm-e,  setting  her 
property  out  of  the  question." 

"  //f/- property  !  "  ejaculated  Mi-s.  Lindsay ; 
'  but  no  matter  ;  we  shall  see.*  I  can  sjieali 
sweetly  enough  when  I  wish." 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  would  try  it  oftener, 
then,"  said  her  husband  ;  "  but  I  tnist  that 
during  this  visit  of  yoiu's  you  will  not  give 
way  to  your  precious  temjier  and  insult  them 
at  the  outset.  Don't  tie  a  knot  with  your 
tongue  that  you  can't  unravel  with  j'oiu- 
teeth.  Be  quiet,  now  ;  I  didn't  speak  to 
raise  the  devil  and  draw  on  a  temiaest — only 
let  us  have  a  glass  of  punch,  till  Chai'ley  and 
I  drink  success  to  HsuTy." 

The  next  daj'  ili-s.  Lindsay  ordered  the 
car,  and  proceeded  to  pay  her  intended 
visit  to  the  Goodwins.  She  had  arrived 
pretty  neai-  the  house,  when  two  of  Good- 
■svin's  men,  who  were  dri\dug  his  cows  to  a 
grazmg  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
bj-  which  she  was  approaching,  ha\iug 
noticed  and  recognized  her,  immediately 
turned  them  back  and  drove  them  into  a 
paddock  enclosed  by  trees,  where  they  were 
completely  out  of  her  sight. 

"Devil  blow  her,  east  and  west!"  said 
one  of  them.  "  "WTiat  brings  her  across  us 
now  that  we  have  tlie  cattle  wid  us  ?  and 
doesn't  all  the  world  know  that  she'd  lave 
them  sick  and  sore  wid  one  glance  of  her 
unlucky  eye.  I  hope  in  God  she  didn't  see 
them,  the  thief  o'  the  devD.  that  she  is." 

"  She  can't  see  them  now,  the  cratures," 
rejilied  the  other  ;  "  and  may  the  devil 
knock  the  light  out  of  her  eyes  at  any  rate," 
he  added,  "  for  sure,  they  say  it's  the  hght 
of  hell  that's  in  them." 

"  Well,  when  she  goes  there  she'll  be  able 
to  see  her  way,  and  sure  that'll  be  one  com- 
fort," rejjlied  his  companion  ;  "  but  in  the 
mane  time,  if  anything  hapjjens  the  cows — 
poor  bastes — we'll  know  the  rason  of  it." 

"  She  must  dale  wid  the  de^il,"  said  the 
other,  '■  and  I  hojie  she'll  be  burned  for  a 
witch  yet  ;  but  whisht,  here  she  comes,  and 
may  the  devil  roast  her  ou  his  toastui'  iron 
the  first  time  he  wants  a  male  !  " 

"  Troth,  an'  he'd  find  her  tough  feedin'," 
said  his  comi-ade  ;  "  and  barrin'  he  has  strong 
tusks,  as  I  suppose  he  has,  he'd  find  it  no 
every-day  m:de  «-id  him." 

As  they  spoke,  the  object  of  their  animad- 
version appeared,  and  turned  ujaon  them,  so 
naturally,  a  sinister  and  sharp  look,  th  it  it 
seemed  to  the  men  as  if  she  had  susjsected 
the  subject  of  their  conversation. 


"You  are  3Ii\  Goodwin's  laborers,  are  you 
not?" 

"We  ai'e,  ma'am,''  rejalied  one  of  them, 
^\"ithout,  as  usuiU,  touching  his  hat  how- 
ever. 

"  You  iU-manuered  boor,"  she  said,  "  w^iy 
do  you  not  touch  your  hat  to  a  lady,  when 
she  condescends  to  speak  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  always  touch  my  hat  to  a  lady,  ma'am," 
replied  the  mau  sharijly. 

"  Come  here,  you  other  man,"  said  she  ; 
"  perhaps  you  are  not  such  an  insolent 
ruffian  as  this  ?  Can  you  tell  me  if  Mr.  and 
Ill's.  Goodwin  are  at  home '?  " 

"Ai'e  you  goin'  there?"  asked  the  man, 
making  a  low  bow. 

"  Yes,  I  am,  my  good  mau,"  she  re- 
phed. 

"  Well,  then,  ma'am,"  he  added,  bowing 
again,  "you'U  find  that  out  when  you  go  to 
the  house  ; "  and  he  made  her  another  bow 
to  wind  up  the  information  with  all  due 
pohteness. 

"  Barney,"  said  she  to  the  servant,  her 
face  inflamed  ■n"ith  rage,  "drive  on.  I  only 
wish  I  had  those  ruffianly  scoundrels  to  deal 
with  ;  I  would  teach  them  manners  to  their 
betters  at  all  events  ;  and  you,  sirra,  why 
did  you  not  use  your  whip  and  chastise 
them  ?  " 

"  Faith,  ma'am,"  replied  our  fiiend  Barney 
Casey,  "it's  aisier  said  than  done  ^id  some 
of  us.  Tniy,  ma'am,  they're  the  two  hardi- 
est and  hi'gl  men  in  the  j)arish  ;  however, 
here's  Pugshy  Ruah  turnin'  out  o'  the  gate, 
and  slie'U  be  able  to  teU  you  whether  they 
are  at  home  or  not." 

"O,  that's  the  woman  they  say  is  un- 
lucky," observed  his  mistress — "  unlucky  to 
meet,  I  mean  ;  I  have  often  heard  of  her  ; 
indeed,  it  may  be  so,  for  I  believe  there 
are  such  persons  ;  we  shall  sjjeak  to  her, 
however.  My  good  woman,"  she  said,  ad- 
dressing Pugshy,  "allow  me  to  ask,  have 
you  been  at  Mr.  Goodwin's  ?  " 

Now  Pugshj-  had  all  the  legitimate  charac- 
teristics of  an  "  unlucky "  woman  ;  red- 
haired,  had  a  game  eye — that  is  to  say,  she 
squinted  with  one  of  them  ;  Pugshy  wore  a 
caubeen  hat,  like  a  man  ;  had  ou  neither 
shoe  nor  stocking  ;  her  huge,  brawny  arm.s, 
uncovered  almost  to  the  shoulders,  were 
brown  ^vith  fi'eckles,  as  was  her  face  ;  so 
that,  altogether,  she  would  have  made  a  bad 
substitute  either  for  the  Medicean  Venus  or 
the  Apollo  Behidere. 

"  My  good  woman,  allow  me  to  ask  if  you 
have  been  at  Mr.  Goodwin's." 

Pugshj',  who  knew  her  well,  stood  for  a 
moment,  and  closing  the  eye  with  which  she 
did  not  squint,  kept  the  r/cinie  one  fixed  upon 
her  very  steadily  for  haK  a  minute,  and  as 


666 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


she  wore  the  caubeen  ratlier  rakislilj'  on 
one  side  of  her  head,  her  whole  figure  and 
expression  were  something  between  the 
frightful  and  the  ludicrous. 

"  Was  I  at  Misther  Goodwin's,  is  it?  Lord 
love  j-ou,  ma'am,  (and  ye  need  it,  .soWo  wee), 
an'  maj'be  you'd  give  us  a  thritie  for  the 
male's  mate  ;  it's  hard  times  wid  us  this 
weader." 

"  I  have  no  change  ;  I  never  bring  change 
out  with  me." 

"  You're  goin'  to  Mr.  Goodwin's,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  are  he  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  at  home, 
can  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  They  are,  ma'am,  but  you  may  as  well 
go  back  again ;  you'll  have  no  luck  this 
day." 

"■^Tiy  so?" 

"  Why,  bekaise  you  won't ;  didn't  you 
meet  me.  f  Who  ever  has  luck  that  meets 
me  ?  Nobody  ought  to  know  that  betther 
than  yourself,  for,  by  all  accounts,  you're 
tarred  wid  the  same  stick." 

"  Foolish  woman,"  replied  Mrs.  Lindsay, 
"  how  is  it  in  your  power  to  prevent  me  ?  " 

"No  matther,"  replied  the  woman  ;  "go 
an  ;  but  mark  my  words,  you'll  have  your 
joiu'ney  for  uuttiu',  whatever  it  is.  Indeed, 
if  I  turned  back  three  steps  wid  you  it 
might  be  otherwise,  but  you  refused  to  cross 
my  hand,  so  you  must  take  yoiu-  luck,"  and 
with  a  frightful  glance  fi'om  the  eye  afore- 
said, she  passed  on. 

As  she  drove  up  to  Mr.  Goodwin's  resi- 
dence she  was  met  on  the  step)S  of  the  hall- 
door  by  that  kind-hearted  gentleman  and  his 
wife,  and  received  with  a  feeling  of  gratifi- 
cation which  the  good  pieople  could  not  dis- 
guise. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Lindsay,  after 
they  had  got  seated  in  the  drawing-room, 
"  that  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  here  ?  " 

"  We  are  delighted,  say,  IMi-s.  Lindsay," 
repUed  Mi-.  Goodwin — "  delighted.  Why 
should  ill-will  come  between  ueiglibors  and 
friends  without  any  just  cause  on  either  side  ? 
That  projierty " 

"  O,  don't  talk  about  that,"  replied  Mrs. 
Lindsay  ;  "  I  didn't  come  to  s^ebk  about  it  ; 
let  everything  connected  with  it  be  forgot- 
ten ;  and  as  proof  that  I  wish  it  shoidd  be 
so,  I  came  here  to-day  to  renew  the  intimacy 
that  should  subsist  between  us." 

"  And,  indeed,"  replied  Mrs.  Goodmn, 
"the  interruption  of  that  intimacy  distress- 
ed us  very  much — more,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Lind- 
say, than  you  might  feel  disposed  to  give  us 
credit  for." 

"  Well,  my  dear  madam,"  replied  the 
other,  "  I  am  sui-e  you  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  I  have  not  only  my  ovm.  inclination,  but 
the  sanction  and  wish  of  my  whole  family,  in 


making  this  fiiendly  visit,  -n-ith  the  hope  o\ 
placing  us  all  upon  our  former  footing.  But, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  this  might  not  have 
been  so,  were  it  not  for  the  anxiety  of  my 
son  Henry,  who  has  returned  to  us,  and 
whom,  I  beheve,  you  know." 

"  We  have  that  pileasm-e,"  rei^lied  Good- 
win ;  "  and  from  what  we  have  seen  of  him, 
we  think  yoil  have  a  right  to  feel  proud  of 
such  a  son." 

"So  I  do,  indeed,"  rej^lied  his  mother; 
"  he  is  a  good  and  most  amiable  young  man, 
without  either  ai-t  or  cunning,  but  truthful 
and  honorable  in  the  highest  degree.  It  is 
to  him  we  shall  all  be  indebted  for  this  re- 
conciliation ;  or,  j)erhaps,  I  might  saj',"  she 
added,  with  a  smUe,  "  to  your  own  daughter 
Alice." 

"  Ah  !  poor  Alice,"  exclaimed  her  father  ; 
"  none  of  us  felt  the  estrangement  of  the 
families  with  so  much  regret  as  she  did." 

"  Indeed,  IMi-s.  Lindsay,"  added  his  wife, 
"  I  can  bear  witness  to  that ;  many  a  bitter 
tear  it  occasioned  the  poor  girl." 

"  I  believe  she  is  a  most  amiable  creature," 
replied  ]Mi-s.  Lindsay  ;  "  and  I  beheve,"  she 
added  mtli  a  smUe,  "  that  there  is  one  jiarti- 
cular  young  gentleman  of  that  ojjinion  as 
well  as  mj'self." 

We  believe  in  our  souls  that  the  simplest 
woman  in  existence,  or  that  ever  lived,  be- 
comes a  deep  and  thorough  diplomatist  when 
engaged  in  a  conversation  that  involves  in 
the  remotest  degree  any  matrimonial  sjiecu- 
lation  for  a  daughter.  Now,  jMi-s.  Goodwin 
knew  as  well  as  the  reader  does,  that  Mi's. 
Lindsay  made  allusion  to  her  sou  Hari-y,  the 
new-comer  ;  but  she  felt  that  it  was  contrary 
to  the  spirit  of  such  negotiations  to  make  a 
direct  admission  of  that  feeling ;  she,  accord- 
ingly, was  of  ojiinion  that  in  order  to  bring 
IMi's.  Lindsaj'  directly  to  the  point,  and  to 
exonerate  herself  and  her  husband  from  ever 
havhig  entertained  the  question  at  all,  her 
best  plan  was  to  misunderstand  her,  and 
seem  to  j)i'oceed  upon  a  false  scent. 

"  O,  indeed,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  she  rejilied, 
"  I  am  not  sm-prised  at  that  ;  Charles  and 
Alice  were  always  great  favorites  wth  each 
other." 

"  Charles  !  "  exclaimed  ]\Irs.  Lindsay  ; 
"  Charles !  What  could  induce  you  to  think 
of  associating  Charles  and  Alice  ?  He  is  un- 
worthy of  such  an  association." 

"  Bless  me,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goodwin  in 
her  tui'u ;  "  why,  I  thought  you  alluded  to 
Charles." 

"  No,"  said  her  neighbor,  "  I  alluded  to 
my  eldest  son,  Harry,  to  whose  good  offices 
in  this  matter  both  families  are  so  much  in- 
debted. He  is  worthy  of  any  girl,  and  in- 
deed few  girls  are  worthy  of  liim  ;  but  as  foi 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


667 


Alice,  you  knowwliat  a  favorite  she  was  with 
me,  and  I  trust  now  I  slicill  like  her  even 
better  than  ever." 

"  You  are  right,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  said  Good- 
win, "  in  saying  that  few  women  are  worthy 
of  your  eldest  son  ;  he  is  a  most  gentleman- 
ly, and  evidently  a  most  accomplished  young 
man  ;  his  conversation  at  breakfast  here  the 
morning  after  the  storm  was  so  remarkable, 
both  for  good  sense  and  good  feeling,  that  I 
am  not  surprised  at  your  friendly  visit  to- 
day, Mrs.  Lindsaj'.  He  was  sent,  I  hope,  to 
introduce  a  sphit  of  peace  and  concord  be- 
tween us,  and  God  forbid  that  we  should 
rejiel  it  ;  on  the  contrary,  we  hail  his  medi- 
ation with  delight,  and  feel  deeply  indebted 
to  liim  for  placing  both  families  in  their 
original  position. " 

"  I  trust  in  a  better  position,"  replied  his 
adroit  mother  ;  "  I  trust  in  a  better  position, 
Mr.  Goodwin,  and  a  still  nearer  and  dearer 
connection.  It  is  better,  however,  to  sj^eak 
out ;  you  know  me  of  old,  my  dear  fi-iends, 
and  that  I  am  blunt  and  straightforward — as 
the  proverb  has  it,  '  I  think  what  I  say,  and  I 
say  what  I  think.'  This  ■\isit,  then,  is  made, 
as  I  said,-  not  only  by  my  own  wish,  but 
at  the  express  entreatj'  of  my  son  Harry,  and 
the  great  delight  of  the  whole  family  ;  there 
is  therefore  no  use  in  concealing  the  fact — he 
is  deeply  attached  to  your  daughter,  Alice, 
and  was  from  the  th'st  moment  he  saw  her  ; 
— of  course  you  now  understand  my  mission 
— which  is,  in  fact,  to  make  a  2)r6j)osal  of 
marriage  in  his  name,  and  to  entreat  your 
favoraljle  consideration  of  it,  as  well  as  your 
influence  in  his  behalf  \vith  Alice  herself." 

'■  A\'ell,  I  declare,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  replied 
Mrs.  Goodwin,  (God  forgive  her  !)  "  you  have 
taken  us  quite  by  surprise — you  have  in- 
deed ; — dear  me — I'm  quite  agitated  ;  but 
he  is,  indeed,  a  fine  young  man — a  jierfect 
gentleman  in  his  manners,  and  if  he  be  as 
good  as  he  looks — for  marriage,  God  help 
us,  tries  us  all " 

"  I  hope  it  never  tried  you  much,  Martha," 
replied  her  husband,  smiling. 

"No,  my  dear,  I  don't  say  so.  StUl,  when 
the  hapjjiuess  of  one's  child  is  concerned — 
and  such  a  child  as  Alice " 

"  But  consider,  Mrs.  Goodwin,"  replied 
the  ambassadress,  who,  in  fact,  was  not  far 
from  an  explosion  at  what  she  considered  a 
piece  of  contemptible  vacillation  on  the  jjart 
of  her  neighbor — "  consider,  Mrs.  Goodwin," 
said  .she,  "  that  the  hapipiness  of  my  son  is 
concerned." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  she  repUed  ;  "but  speak 
to  her  father,  Mrs.  Lindsay — he,  as  such,  is 
the  proper  person — O,  dear  me." 

"  Well,  Mr.  f roodwiu — you  have  heard 
what  I  have  said  ?  " 


"I  have,  madam,"  said  he;  "but  thank 
God  I  am  not  so  nervous  as  my  good  vrifa 
here.  I  like  your  son,  Harry,  very  much, 
from  what  I  have  seen  of  him — and,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  I  really  see  no  objection  to 
such  a  match.  On  the  contrary,  it  will  i^ro- 
mote  peace  and  good-will  between  us  ;  and, 
I  have  no  doubt,  will  prove  a  hapjjy  event  'to 
the  parties  most  concerned." 

"  O,  tliere  is  not  a  doubt  of  it,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Goodwdn,  now  chiming  in  with  her 
husband  ;  "  no,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it. 
O,  they  will  be  very  happy  together,  and 
that  will  be  so  dehghtful.  My  darling 
Alice  ! " — and  here  she  became  pathetic,  and 
shed  tears  copiously — "yes,"  she  added, 
"  we  will  lose  you,  my  darling,  and  a  lonely 
house  we  will  have  after  you,  for  I  suppose 
they  wiU  live  in  the  late  Mr.  Hamilton's  resi« 
dence,  on  their  own  projserty." 

This  allusion  to  the  arrangements  contem- 
plated in  the  event  of  the  marriage,  redeemed, 
to  a  certain  degree,  the  simple-hearted  IMrs. 
Goodwin  from  the  strongest  possible  con- 
tempt on  the  part  of  a  woman  who  was 
never  known  to  shed  a  tear  upon  any  earthly 
subject. 

"  Well,  then,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Lindsay,  "I 
am  to  understand  that  this  proposal  on  the 
behalf  of  mj'  son  is  accepted  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  arc  con- 
cerned," replied  Goodwin,  "  you  are,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Lindsay,  and  so  far  all  is  smooth  and 
easy  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  Alice 
— she,  you  know,  is  to  be  consulted." 

"  O  !  as  for  poor  Alice,"  said  her  mother, 
"  there  ^^ill  be  no  difficulty  with  her  ;  what- 
ever I  and  her  father  wish  her  to  do,  if  it  be 
to  please  us,  that  she  will  do." 

"I  trast,"  said  Mrs.  Lindsay,  "she  has  no 
pre%'ioiis  attachment ;  for  that  would  be  un- 
fortunate for  herself,  poor  girl." 

"  She  an  attachment !  "  exclaimed  her  mo- 
ther ;  "  no,  the  poor,  timid  creature  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"It  is  difficult  for  jDarents  to  know  that," 
rejilied  Mrs.  Lindsay  ;  "but  where  is  she?" 

"  She's  gone  out,"  replied  her  mother,  "to 
take  a  pleasant  jaunt  somewhere  with  a 
young  fi'iend  of  ours,  a  Mr.  O'Connor ;  but, 
indeed,  I'm  glad  she  is  not  here,  for  if  she 
was,  we  coidd  not,  you  know,  discuss  this 
matter  in  her  presence." 

"That  is  very  true,"  observed' Mrs.  Lind- 
say, drylj' ;  "  but  perhaps  siie  doesn't  regret 
her  absence.  As  it  is,  I  think  yon  ought  to 
impress  upon  her  that,  in  the  article  of  mar- 
riage, a  j'oung  and  inexperienced  girl  like 
her  ought  to  have  no  ynO.  but  that  of  her 
jDarents,  who  are  best  qualified,  from  their 
experience  and  knowledge  of  life,  to  form 
and  direct  her  j)riueij)les." 


668 


WILLIAM   CAIiLETOyS   WORKS. 


"I  do  not  think,"  said  her  father,  "  that 
there  is  an;\i:hiii!,'  to  be  ajsprehended  on  her 
part.  She  is  the  most  unselfish  and  disin- 
terested girl  that  ever  existed,  and  sooner 
than  give  her  mother  or  me  a  pang,  I  am 
sure  she  would  make  any  sacrifice  ;  but  at 
the  same  time,"  he  added,  "  if  her  own  hap- 
piness were  involved  in  the  matter,  I  should 
certainly  accept  no  such  sacrifice  at  her 
hands." 

"  As  to  that,  ilr.  Goodwin,"  she  rejjUed, 
"I  hope  we  need  calculate  upon  nothing  on 
her  part  but  a  wilhng  consent  and  obedi- 
ence. At  all  events,  it  is  but  natural  that 
they  should  be  pretty  fi'equently  in  each 
other's  society,  and  that  my  son  should  have 
an  opportunitj'  of  insijiriug  her  with  good 
will  towards  liim,  if  not  a  still  wai'mer  feel- 
ing. The  matter  being  now  understood,  of 
course,  that  is  and  will  be  his  exclusive  pr-"- 
ilege." 

"Your  obsei"vations,  my  dear  madam,  are 
but  reasonable  and  natural,"  rephed  Good- 
win. "Why.  indeed,  should  it  be  other- 
wise, considering  their  contemplated  relation 
to  each  other  ?  Of  course,  we  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  see  him  here  as  often  as  he 
chooses  to  come,  ajid  so,  I  am  sure,  will 
.Alice." 

They  then  sejDarated  ujion  the  most  cor- 
dial terms  ;  and  JMj.-s.  Liudspy,  having  moun- 
ted her  vehicle,  proceeded  on  her  way  home. 
She  was,  however,  far  from  satisfied  at  the 
success  of  her  interview  with  the  Goodwms. 
So  fiU'  as  the  consent  of  her  father  and  mo- 
ther went,  all  was,  to  be  sure,  quite  as  she 
could  have  wished  it ;  but  then,  as  to  Alice 
herself,  there  might  exist  an  insiu'mountable 
ditficulty.  She  did  not  at  all  relish  the  fact 
of  that  young  lady's  taking  her  amusement 
with  Mr.  O'Connor,  who  she  knew  was  of  a 
hands'-  xne  jierson  and  independent  circum- 
stances, and  very  likely  to  become  a  formi- 
dable rival  to  her  sou.  As  matters  stood, 
however,  she  resolved  to  conceal  her  apjire- 
hensions  on  this  point,  and  to  urge  Harry 
to  secure,  if  possiljle,  the  property,  which 
both  she  herself  and  he  had  solely  in  view. 
As  for  the  girl,  each  of  them  looked  on  her 
as  a  cipher  in  the  transaction,  whose  only 
value  was  rated  by  the  broad  acres  which 
they  could  not  secure  without  taking  her 
along  with  them. 

The  family  were  dispersed  when  she 
returned  home,  and  she,  consequently,  re- 
served the  account  of  her  mission  imtil  she 
should  meet  them  in  the  evening.  At 
length  the  hour  came,  and  she  lost  no 
time  in  opening  the  matter  at  full  length, 
suppressing,  at  the  same  time,  her  own 
apprehensions  of  Alice's  consent,  and  her 
di-ead  of  the  rivah-y  on  the  part  of  O'Connor. 


"  "Well,"  said  she,  "  I  have  seen  thesis 
people  ;  I  have  called  upon  them,  as  you 
aU  know ;  and,  as  I  said,  I  have  seen 
them." 

"  To  very  Uttle  piurjiose,  I  am  afi-aid,"  said 
her  husband  ;  "I  don't  like  your  commence- 
ment of  the  report." 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  replied  ;  "but,  thank 
God,  it  is  neither  yoiu-  liking  nor  disliking 
that  we  regai-d,  Liudsl^y.  I  have  seen  them, 
Hariy  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  they  are 
ci\il  people." 

"Is  it  only  now  you  found  that  out?" 
asked  her  huaband  ;  "  why,  they  never  were 
anything  else,  Jemiy." 

"  Well,  really,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  be  forced 
to  ask  you  to  leave  the  room  if  you  proceed 
at  this  rate.  Children,  wll  you  protect  me 
fi'om  the  iuteriaiption  and  the  studied  insults 
of  this  man  ?  " 

"Father,"  said  Charles,  "for  Heaven's 
sake  win  you  allow  her  to  state  the  result  of 
her  \dsit  ?  Y\'e  are  aU  veiy  anxious  to  hear 
it ;  none  more  so  than  I." 

"  Please  except  your  elder  brother,"  said 
Harry,  laughing,  "  whose  interest  you  know, 
Charley,  is  most  concerned." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,"  said  Charles ;  "  of 
course,  Harry — but  proceed,  mother,  we 
shan't  interrupt  you." 

"  O,  go  on,"  said  his  mother,  "  go  on  ;  dis- 
cuss the  matter  among  you,  I  can  wait  :  don't 
hesitate  to  interrupt  me  ;  your  father  there 
has  set  you  that  gentlemanly  example." 

"  It  must  surely  be  good  when  it  comes," 
said HariT, with  a  smile;  "but  do  iiroceed,  my 
dear  mother,  and  never  miml  these  queer 
folk  ;  go  on  at  once,  and  let  us  know  ail : 
we — that  is,  myself — are  pre23ared  for  the 
worst ;  do  proceed,  mother." 

"  Am  I  at  liberty  to  speak  ?  "  said  she,  and 
she  looked  at  them  with  a  glance  that 
exijressed  a  very  fierce  interrogatory.  They 
all  nodded,  and  she  resumed  : 

"  Well,  I  have  seen  these  jDeojjle,  I  say  ;  I 
have  made  a  projiosal  of  marriage  between 
Hariy  and  Alice,  and  that  j^roposal  is " 

She  paused,  and  looked  around  her  with 
an  air  of  triumph  ;  but  whether  that  look 
communicated  the  triumph  of  success,  or 
that  of  her  inveterate  enmity  and  contempt 
for  them  ever  since  the  death  of  old  Haniil- 
tou,  was  as  great  a  secret  to  them  as  the 
Bononian  enigma.  There  was  a  dead  silence, 
much  to  her  mortification,  for  she  would 
have  given  a  great  deal  that  her  husl)aud 
had  interrupted  her  just  then,  and  taken  her 
upon  the  ^\Torig  tack. 

"Well,"  she  proceeded,  "do  you  all  wish 
to  hear  it  ?  " 

Lindsay  put  his  forefinger  on  his  hjis,  and 
nodded  tp  iiU  the  rest  to  do  the  same. 


f 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    Oli,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


GG9 


"All,  Lindsay,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are 
an  ill-ininded  mnn  ;  but  it  matters  not  so 
far  as  you  are  concerned — in  three  words, 
Ha-fiy,  the  proposal  ix  acrqitfd  ;  yes,  accepted, 
and  with  gratitu.le  and  thanksgiving." 

"  And  you  had  no  quari'el  ?  "  said  Lindsay, 
with  astonishment ;  "  nor  you  didn't  let  out 
on  them '?      Well,  well !  " 

"  Children,  lam  addressing  myself  to  you, 
and  especially  to  Hari-y  here,  who  is  most 
interested  ;  no,  I  see  nothing  to  jirevent  us 
from  having  back  the  projjertj^  and  the  curds- 
aud-whey  along  with  it." 

"  Faith,  and  the  eurds-and-whey  are  the 
best  part  of  it  after  all,"  said  Lindsay  ;  "  but, 
in  the  meantime,  you  might  be  a  little  more 
particular,  and  give  us  a  touch  of  your  own 
eloquence  and  ability  in  bi'inging  it  about." 

"What  did  Alice  herself  say,  mother?" 
asked  Charles  ;  "  was  she  a  jsarty  to  the 
consent '?  because,  if  she  was,  your  triumph, 
or  rather  Harry's  here,  is  complete." 

"It  is  complete,"  replied  his  mother, 
having  recourse  to  a  dishonest  evasion  ;  "  the 
girl  and  her  parents  have  but  one  oininion. 
Indeed,  I  always  did  the  poor  thing  the 
credit  to  beheve  that  she  never  was  caj^able 
of  entertaining  an  opinion  of  her  own,  and 
it  now  turns  out  a  very  fortunate  thing  for 
Harry  that  it  is  so  ;  but  of  course  he  has 
made  an  imjiression  upon  her." 

"As  to  that,  mamma,"  said  Maria,  "I 
don't  know — he  may,  or  he  may  not ;  but  of 
this  I  am  satisfied,  that  Alice  Goodwin  is  a 
girl  who  can  form  an  opinion  for  herself,  and 
that,  whatever  that  opinion  be,  she  will 
neither  change  or  abandon  it  upon  slight 
grounds.  I  know  her  well,  but  if  she  has 
consented  to  marry  Harry  she  will  marry 
him,  and  that  is  all  that  is  to  be  said  about 
it." 

"I  thought  she  would,"  said  Harry;  "I 
told  you,  Charley,  that  I  didn't  think  I  was 
a  fool — ditln't  I V  " 

"  I  know  you  did,  Harry,"  replied  his 
brother  ;  "  but  I  don't  know  how — it  strikes 
me  that  I  would  rather  have  anj'  other  man's 
ojiinion  on  that  subject  than  your  own  ; 
however,  time  wiU  teU." 

"  It  wdU  teU,  of  course  ;  and  if  it  proves 
me  a  fool,  I  will  give  you  leave  to  clap  the 
fool's  cap  on  me  for  life.  And  now  that  we 
have  advanced  so  far  and  so  well,  I  will  go 
and  take  one  of  my  evening  strolls,  in  order 
to  meditate  on  my  approaching  hajJi^iness." 
And  he  did  so. 

The  family  were  not  at  all  surprised  at 
this,  even  although  the  period  of  his  walks 
frequently  extended  into  a  protracted  hour 
of  the  night.  Not  so  the  servants,  who  won- 
dered why  Master  Han-y  should  walk  so 
much  abroad  and  remain  out  so  late  at  night. 


especially  considering  the  unsettled  and 
alarming  state  of  the  country,  in  consequence 
of  the  outrages  and  robberies  which  were  of 
such  frequent  occun-ence.  This,  it  is  true, 
was  startling  enough  to  these  simple  people  ; 
but  that  which  tilled  them  not  only  with  aS' 
tonishment,  but  with  something  like  awe, 
was  the  indift'erence  with  which  he  was 
known  to  traverse  haunted  places  alone  and 
unaccompanied,  when  the  whole  country 
around,  except  thieves  and  robbers,  witches, 
and  evil  spirits,  were  sound  asleeji.  "  A\Tiat," 
they  asked  each  other,  "  could  he  mean  by 
it?" 

"  Barney  Casey,  you  that  knows  a  grsat 
deal  for  an  unlarned  man,  tell  us  what  you 
think  of  it,"  said  the  cook;  'isn't  it  the 
world's  wondher,  that  a  man  that's  out  at 
such  hours  doesn't  see  somethin'  f  There's 
Lanty  Ba\vn,  and  sure  they  say  he  par  the 
ivhile  woman  beyant  the  end  of  the  long  bo- 
reen  on  Thursday  night  last,  the  Lord  save 
us  ;  eh,  Barney  ?  " 

Barney  immediately  assumed  the  oracle. 

"  He  did,"  said  he  ;  "  and  what  is  still  more 
fearful,  it's  said  there  was  a  black  man  along 
wid  her.  They  say  that  Lanty  seen  them 
both,  and  that  the  black  man  had  his  arm 
about  the  white  woman's  waist,  and  was 
kissin'  her  at  full  trot." 

The  cook  crossed  herself,  and  the  whole 
kitchen  turned  up  its  eyes  at  this  diabolical 
l^iece  of  courtship. 

"  Muslia,  the  Lord  be  about  us  in  the 
manetime  ;  but  bad  luck  to  the  ould  boy,  (a 
black  man  is  always  considered  the  devil,  or 
the  ould  boj/,  as  they  caU  him,)  wasn't  it  a 
daisant  taste  he  had,  to  go  to  kiss  a  ghost?'' 

"  Why,"  rejilied  Barney  with  a  grin,  "  I 
suppose  the  ould  chap  is  hard  set  on  that 
j)oint ;  who  the  de\dl  else  would  kiss  him, 
b.arrin'  some  she  ghost  or  other?  Some 
luckless  ould  maid,  I'll  go  bail,  that  gather  a 
beard  while  she  was  here,  and  the  devil  now 
is  kissin'  it  oft"  to  get  seein'  what  kind  of  a 
face  she  has.  Well,  all  I  can  say,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  is,  that  I  wish  him  luck  of  his  em- 
ployment, for  in  troth  it's  an  honorable  one 
and  he  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  it." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  housemaid,  "it's  a 
wondher  how  anj'  one  can  walk  hj  them- 
selves at  night ;  wasn't  it  near  the  well  at 
the  foot  of  the  long  hill  that  goes  up  (o 
where  the  Davorens  live  that  they  were 
seen  ?  " 

"It  was,"  replied  Barney  ;  "  at  laste  they 
say  so." 

"And  didn't  yourself  tell  me,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, "  that  that  same  lonesome  borecn  is 
a  common  walk  at  night  wid  IMaster  Harry  ?  *" 

"And  so  it  is,  Nanse,"  rejilied  Barney; 
"  but  as  for  Misther  Haiiy,  I  believe  it'a 


670 


WIZLIA3I:  CARLETON'S   WOUKS. 


purty  well  known,  tliat  by  night  or  by  day 
te  may  walk  where  li^  likes." 

"  Father  of  heaven  !  "  they  exclaimed  in  a 
low,  earnest  voice  ;  "  but  xd\y,  Barney  ? " 
■ihey  asked  in  a  condensed  whisper. 

"  Why !  Why  is  he  called  Harnj  na  Suil 
Balor  for  ?  Can  you  teU  me  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  bekaise  his  tv.'o  eyes  isn't  one 
color." 

"And  why  am't  they  one  color?  Can  you 
tell  nie  that  ?  " 

"  O,  the  sorra  step  farther  I  can  go  in  that 
question." 

"  No,"  said  Barney,  full  of  importance,  "I 
thought  not,  and  what  is  more,  I  didn't  ex- 
pect it  fi'om  you.  His  mother  could  tell, 
though.  It's  in  her  family,  and  there's  worse 
than  that  in  her  family." 

"Troth,  by  all  accounts,"  observed  the 
girl,  "  there  never  was  anything  good  in  her 
family.  But,  Barney,  achora,  wiU  you  tell 
us,  if  you  know,  what's  the  rason  of  it  ?  " 

"If  I  know?"  said  Barney,  rather  offend- 
ed ;  "  maybe  I  don't  know,  and  maybe  I  do, 
if  it  came  to  that.  Any  body,  then,  that  has 
two  eyes  of  dift'erent  colors  always  has  the  Evil 
Eye,  or  the  Suil  Balor,  and  has  the  power  of 
overlookin'  ;  and,  between  ourselves,  Masther 
Harry  has  it.  The  misthress  herself  can 
only  overlook  cattle,  bekaise  both  her  eyes  is 
of  the  one  color  ;  but  Masther  Hariy  could 
overlook  either  man  or  woman  if  he  wished. 
And  how  do  you  think  that  comes  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows,"  replied  the  cook, 
crossing  herself ;  "  fi'om  no  good,  at  any 
rate.  Troth,  I'U  get  a  gosjiel  and  a  scaj)ular, 
for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  observed  that 
Masther  Harry  gave  me  a  look  the  other  day 
that  made  my  flesh  creep,  by  rason  that  he 
thought  the  mutton  was  overdone." 

"  O,  you  needn't  be  afeard,"  reiilied  Bar- 
ney ;  "he  can  overlook  or  not,  as  he  jilaises  ; 
if  he  does  not  wish  to  do  so,  you're  safe 
enough  ;  but  when  anj'  one  like  him  that 
has  the  power  wishes  to  do  it,  they  could 
wither  you  by  degrees  off  o'  the  airth." 

"  God  be  about  us  !  Bijt,  Barney,  you 
didn't  teU  us  how  it  comes,  for  all  that." 

"  It  comes  fi'om  the  faii'ies.  Doesn't 
every  one  know  that  the  fairies  themselves 
has  the  power  of  overlookin'  both  cattle  and 
Christians  ?  " 

"  That's  ti-ue  enough,"  she  replied ; 
"  every  one,  indeed,  knows  that.  Siu'e,  my 
aunt  had  a  child  that  died  o'  the  fairies." 

"  Yes,  but  Masther  Hariy  can  see  them." 

"  What !  is  it  the  fairies  ?  " 

"Ay,  the  fairies,  but  only  wid  one  eye, 
that  i^iei-cin'  black  one  of  his.  No,  no  ;  as  I 
said  before,  he  may  walk  where  he  hkes, 
both  by  night  and  by  day  ;  he's  safe  from 
everything  of  the  kind  ;  even  a  ghost  daren't 


lay  a  finger  on  him  ;  and  as  the  devil  and 
the  fairies  are  connected,  he's  safe  from  him, 
too,  in  this  world  at  laste  ;  but  the  Lord  pity 
him  when  he  goes  to  the  next  ;  for  there 
he'll  suffer  kilty." 

The  truth  is,  that  in  those  days  of  witch> 
craft  and  apparitions  of  all  kinds,  and  even 
in  the  present,  among  the  ignorant  and  un- 
educated of  the  lower  classes,  any  female 
seen  at  night  in  a  lonely  place,  ;md  sujjposed 
to  be  a  sjjirit,  was  termed  a  vltite  woman,  no 
matter  what  the  color  of  her  dress  may  have 
been,  provided  it  was  not  black.  The  same 
superstition  held  good  when  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  man  hajiisened  to  appear  under 
similar  circumstances.  Terror,  and  the  force 
of  an  excited  imagination,  instantly  trans- 
formed it  into  a  black  man,  and  that  black 
man,  of  course,  was  the  devil  himself.  Li 
the  case  before  us,  however,,  our  readers,  we 
have  no  doubt,  can  give  a  better  guess  at  the 
nature  of  the  black  man  and  white  woman 
in  question  than  either  the  cook,  the  house- 
maid, or  even  Bai'uey  himseK. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Harrj'  came 
in.  The  servants,  with  whose  terrors  and 
superstitions  Casey  had  taken  such  liberties, 
now  looked  upon  him  as  something  awful, 
and,  as  might  be  naturally  expected,  felt  a 
dreadful  curiosity  with  resjject  to  hina  and 
his  movements.  They  lay  awake  on  the 
night  in  question,  with  the  express  purpose 
of  satisfying  themselves  as  to  the  hour  of  his 
return,  and  as  that  was  between  twelve  and 
one,  they  laid  it  down  as  a  certain  fact  that 
there  was  something  "  not  right,"  and  be- 
yond the  common  in  his  remaining  out  so 
iate. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CJoase  of  the  WIdte  Hare. 

"  Hark,  forward,  forward  ;  bolla  }io  !  " 

The  next  morning  our  fi'iend  Harry  ap- 
peared at  the  breakfast  table  rather  jialer 
than  usual,  and  in  one  of  his  most  abstracted 
moods  ;  for  it  may  be  said  here  that  the  fre- 
quent occurrence  of  such  moods  had  not 
escaped  the  observation  of  his  family,  espe- 
cially of  his  step-father,  in  whose  good  grace, 
it  so  happened,  that  he  was  not  inqsroring. 
One  cause  of  this  was  his  supercilious,  or, 
rather,  his  contemiJtuous  manner  towards 
his  admirable  and  affectionate  brother.  He 
refused  to  associate  with  him  in  his  sports 
or  diversions  ;  refused  him  his  c#nfideuce, 
and  seldom  addressed  him,  except  in  that 
tone  of  banter  which  always  implies  an  offen- 
sive impression  of  inferiority  and  want  of  re 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


cri 


spect  towards  the  object  of  it.  After  break- 
fast the  next  morning,  his  father  said  to 
Charles,  when  the  other  members  of  the 
famity  had  all  left  the  room, — 

"Charley,  there  is  something  behind  that 
gloom  of  Harry's  which  I  don't  Kke.  In- 
deed, altogether,  he  has  not  improved  upon 
me  since  his  retui-n,  and  jou  are  aware  that 
I  knew  nothing  of  him  before.  I  cannot 
conceive  his  object  in  returning  home  jiist 
now,  and,  it  seems,  with  no  intention  of  go- 
ing back.  His  uncle  was  the  kindest  of  men 
to  him,  and  intended  to  provide  for  him 
handsomely.  It  is  not  for  nothing  he  would 
leave  such  an  uncle,  and  it  is  not  for  nothing 
that  such  an  uncle  would  j)art  with  him,  im- 
less  there  was  a  screw  loose  somewhere.  I 
don't  wish  to  press  him.  into  an  explanation  ; 
but  he  has  not  offered  any,  and  refuses,  of 
coui'se,  to  place  any  confideuce  in  me." 

"  My  dear  father,"  rephed  the  generous 
brother,  "  I  fear  you  judge  him  too  harshly. 
As  for  these  fits  of  gloom,  they  may  be  con- 
stitutional ;  j-ou  know  m_y  mother  has  them, 
and  won't  sjseak  to  one  of  us  sometimes  for 
■whole  days  togethei-.  It  is  possible  that 
some  quaiTel  or  misunderstanding  may  have 
taken  place  between  him  and  his  uncle  ;  but 
how  do  you  know  that  his  sUence  on  the 
subject  does  not  procepd  from  deUcacy 
towards  that  relative '?  " 

"  Well,  it  may  be  so  ;  and  it  is  a  very  kind 
and  generous  iuterpi-etation  which  you  give 
of  it,  Charley.  Let  that  j)art  of  the  subject 
pass,  then  ;  but,  again,  regarding  this  mar- 
riage. The  j)rinciple  upon  which  he  and  his 
mother  are  proceeding  is  selSsh,  heartless, 
and  jserfidious  in  the  highest  degree  ;  and 

d me  if  I  tliink  it  would  be  honorable 

in  me  to  stand  by  and  see  such  a  viUaiuous 
game  jjlayed  against  so  exceUeut  a  family — 
against  so  lovely  and  so  admirable  a  girl  as 
Alice  Goodwin.  It  is  a  union  between  the 
kite  and  the  dove,  Chai'ley,  and  it  would  be 
base  and  cowardly  in  me  to  see  such  a  union 
accomphshed." 

"Father,"  said  Charles,  "in  this  matter 
will  you  be  guided  by  me  ?  If  Alice  herself 
is  a  consenting  party  to  the  match,  j'ou 
have,  in  my  ojiinion,  no  right  to  interfere,  at 
least  with  her  affections.  If  she  man-ies  him 
without  stress  or  compulsion,  she  does  it 
deliberately,  and  she  shapes  her  own  coui-se 
and  her  own  fate.  In  the  meantime  I  ad- 
vise you  to  hold  back  for  the  present,  and 
wait  imtil  her  o^vn  sentiments  are  distmctly 
understood.  That  can  be  effected  by  a 
private  interview  with  yourself,  which  you 
can  easily  obtain.  Let  us  not  lie  severe  on 
Harry.  I  rather  think  he  is  pressed  for- 
ward in  the  matter  by  my  mother,  for  the 
sake  of  the  property      If  his  uncle  has  dis- 


carded him,  it  is  not,  surely,  unreasonable 
that  a  young  man  like  him,  without  a  pro- 
fession or  any  fixed  purpose  in  life,  shoidd 
wish  to  seciu'e  a  wife — and  such  a  wife — who 
will  bring  back  to  him  the  very  projaerty 
which  w.is  originally  destined  for  himself  in 
the  first  instance.  Wait,  then,  at  all  events, 
until  Alice's  conduct  in  the  matter  is  knov\Ti. 
If  there  be  unjustifiable  force  and  pressure 
ui3on  her,  act ;  if  not,  I  tliink,  sir,  that,  with 
eveiy  respect,  your  interference  would  be  an 
rmjustifiable  intrusion." 

"  Very  weU,  Charley  ;  I  believe  you  are 
right ;  I  will  be  guided  by  you  for  the  pres- 
ent ;  I  won't  interfere  ;  but  in  the  meantime 
I  shall  have  an  eye  to  their  proceedings.  I 
don't  think  the  Goodwins  at  all  mercenary 
or  selfish,  but  it  is  quite  possible  that  they 
may  look  upon  Harry  as  the  heir  of  his 
uncle's  wealth ;  and,  after  all,  Charley,  na- 
ture is  nature  ;  that  may  influence  them  even 
unconsciously,  and  yet  I  am  not  in  a  condi- 
tion to  undeceive  them." 

"Father,''  said  Charles,  "  all  I  would  sug- 
gest is,  as  I  said  before,  a  little  j)atience  f&v 
the  present ;  wait  a  while  until  we  leam  ho'S' 
j  Alice  herself  will  act.      I  am  sony  to  say 
that  I  perceived  what  I  believe  to  be  an 
equivocation  on  the  part  of  my  mother  in 
I  her   allusion   to   Alice.     I  think  it  will  be 
I  found  by  and  by  that  her  jiersonal  consent 
I  has  not  been  given  ;  and,  what  is  more,  that 
she  was  not  present  at  aU  diu'ing  their  con- 
versation on  the  subject.     If  she  was,  how- 
ever, and  became  a  consenting  ^larty  to  the 
projjosal,  then  I  say  now,  as  I  said  before, 
you  have  no  right  to  interfere  in  the  busi- 
ness." 

"  What  keeps  him  out  so  late  at  night  ? 
I  mean  occasionally.  He  is  out  two  or  three 
nights  every  week  until  twelve  or  one  o'clock. 
Now,  you  know,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
country,  that  it  is  not  safe.  Shmvn-na-3Ed- 
dogue  and  such  scoundrels  are  abroad,  and 
thev  might  put  a  Ijullet  through  him  some 
night  or  other. 

"  He  is  not  at  all  afraid  on  that  score,"  re- 
plied Charles;  "he  never  goes  out  in  the 
evening  without  a  case  of  pistols  fi-eshly 
loaded." 

"  WeU,  but  it  is  wrong  to  subject  himseU 
to  danger.     Where  is  he  gone  now  ?  " 

"  He  and  Barney  Casey  have  gone  out  to 
course  ;  I  think  they  went  up  towards  the 
moun  tarns." 

Such  was  the  fact.  Hany  was  quite  ena- 
moured of  sport,  and,  finding  dogs,  guns, 
and  fishing-rods  ready  to  his  hand,  he  be- 
came a  regidar  sportsman — a  j^wi'^'uit  in 
which  he  found  Baniey  a  very  able  and  in- 
telligent assistant,  inasmuch  as  he  knew  the 
couutiy,  and  every  spot  where  game  of  every 


372 


WILLIAM  CARLETOH'S  JVORKS. 


description  was  to  be  had.  Tliey  had  traver- 
sed a  cousiderable  portiou  of  rough  mouutain 
land,  and  killed  two  or  three  hares,  when 
the  heat  of  the  day  became  so  excessive  that 
they  considered  it  time  to  rest  and  take  re- 
freshments. 

"The  sun,  Masther  Hany,  is  d hot," 

said  Barney;  "  and  now  that  ould  Bet  Har- 
ramouut  hasn't  been  in  it  for  many  a  long 
year,  we  may  as  weU  go  to  that  dissolate 
cabin  there  above,  and  shelter  oui'selves  fi-om 
the  hate — not  that  I'd  undhertake  to  go  there 
by  myself  ;  but  now  that  you  are  wid  me  I 
don't  care  if  I  take  a  peej)  into  the  inside  of 
it,  out  of  cui'iosity." 

"Why,"  said  Woodward,  "what  about 
that  cabin '? " 

"  I'll  tell  you  that,  sir,  when  we  get  into  it. 
It's  consarnin'  coorsiu'  too  ;  but  nobody  ever 
lived  in  it  since  shu  left  it. " 

"  Since  who  left  it  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  sir  ;  I'U  tell  you  all  about 
it  by  and  b}-." 

It  was  certainly  a  most  desolate  and  mis- 
erable hut,  and  had  such  an  air  of  loneliness 
and  desertion  about  it  as  was  calculated  to 
awakeu  reflections  every  whit  as  deeji  and 
melancholy  as  the  contemplation  of  a  very 
palace  in  ruins,  especially  to  those  who,  hke 
Barney,  knew  the  history  of  its  last  inhabi- 
tant. It  was  far  up  in  the  mountains,  and 
not  within  miles  of  another  human  habitation. 
Its  loneUuess  and  desolation  alone  would  not 
have  made  it  so  peculiarly  striking  and  im- 
pressive had  it  been  inhabited  ;  but  its  want 
of  smoke — its  stiU  and  lifeless  ai^j^earance — 
the  silence  and  the  solitude  aroimd  it — the 
absence  of  aU  symptoms  of  human  hfe — its 
siguiiicant  aspect  of  destitution  and  poverty, 
even  at  the  best — aU  contributed  to  awaken 
in  the  mind  that .  dreamy  reflection  that 
woidd  induce  the  spectator  to  thmk  that, 
apart  from  the  strife  and  bustle  of  life,  it 
might  have  existed  there  for  a  thousand 
years.  Humble  and  contemptible  in  appear- 
ance as  it  was,  _yet  there,  as  it  stood — smoke- 
less, alone,  and  desolate,  as  we  have  said, 
with  no  exponent  of  existence  about  it — no 
bird  singing,  no  animal  moving,  as  a  token  of 
contiguous  life,  no  tree  waving  in  the  breeze, 
no  shrub,  even,  stirring,  but  all  still  as  the 
grave — there,  we  saj',  as  it  stood,  afar  and 
ajiai't  from  the  general  ujjroar  of  the  world, 
and  apparently  gray  with  long  antiquity,  it 
was  a  solemn  and  a  melancholy  homily  upon 
human  life  in  all  its  aspects,  fi'om  the  cabin 
to  the  jaalace,  and  from  the  palace  to  the 
grave.  Now,  its  position  and  ap23eai'ance 
might  suggest  to  a  thinking  and  romantic 
mind  all  tlie  rellections  to  which  we  have  al- 
luded, without  any  ad<litional  accessories  ; 
but  when  the  reader  is  informed  that  it  was 


supposed  to  be  the  abode  of  crime,  the  ren- 
dezvous of  evil  spirits,  the  theatre  of  unholy 
incantations,  and  the  temjjorary  abode  of 
the  Great  Temi^ter — and  wlien  all  these  facts 
are  taken  in  connection  with  its  desolate 
character,  he  wiU  surely  admit  that  it  was 
calculated  to  impress  the  mind  of  all  those 
who  knew  the  history  of  its  antecedents 
with  awe  and  dread. 

"  I  have  never  been  in  it,"  said  Bamey, 
"  and  I  don't  think  there's  a  man  or  woman 
in  the  next  three  parishes  that  would  enter 
it  alone,  even  by  dajhght ;  but  now  that  you 
are  wid  me,  I  have  a  terrible  cui-iosity  to  see 
it  inside." 

A  curse  was  thought  to  hang  over  it,  but  that 
curse,  as  it  happened,  was  its  preservation 
in  the  undilapiidated  state  in  which  it  .stood. 

On  entering  it,  which  Bai-ney  did  not  do 
without  previously  crossiug  himself,  they 
were  surjirised  to  find  it  ijrecisely  in  the 
same  situation  in  which  it  had  been  aban- 
doned. There  were  one  small  pot,  two  stools, 
an  earthen  jjitcher,  a  few  wooden  trenchers 
lying  ujaon  a  shelf,  an  old  dusty  salt-bag,  an 
ash  stick,  broken  in  the  middle,  and  doubled 
down  so  as  to  form  a  tongs  ;  and  gathered 
up  in  a  corner  was  a  truss  of  straw,  covered 
with  a  rug  and  a  thin  old  blanket,  which  had 
constituted  a  wretched  substitute  for  a  bed. 
That,  however,  which  alarmed  Barney  most, 
was  an  old  broomstick  with  a  stumj)  of  worn 
broom  attached  to  the  end  of  it,  as  it  stood 
in  an  opposite  corner.  This  constituted  the 
whole  furniture  of  the  hut. 

"Now,  Barney,"  said  Hany,  after  they 
had  examined  it,  "out  with  the  brandy  and 
water  and  the  slices  of  ham,  till  we  refresh 
ourselves  in  the  first  jilace,  and  after  that  I 
wiU  hear  your  history  of  this  magnificent 
mansion." 

"  O,  it  isn't  the  mansion,  sir, "he  rephed, 
"but  the  woman  that  lived  in  it  that  I  have  to 
spake  about.  God  guard  us  !  There  in  tliat 
corner  is  the  very  broomstick  she  used  to  ride 
through  the  air  upon  !  " 

"  Never  mind  that  now,  but  ransack  that 
immense  shooting-pocket,  and  prodtice  its 
contents." 

They  accordingly  sat  down,  each  ujjon  one 
of  the  stools,  and  helped  themselves  to  bread 
and  ham,  together  with  some  tolerablv  co- 
jjious  draughts  of  brandy  and  water  .vhich 
thej-  had  mixed  before  leaving  home.  Wood- 
waril,  perceiving  Barney's  anxiety  to  deliver 
hin)s(lf  (if  his  narrative,  made  him  take  an 
adilitional  draught  by  way  of  encouragement 
to  jJroceed,  which,  ha^dng  veiy  willingly  fin- 
ished the  bumper  offered  him,  he  did  as 
follows  : 

"  Well,  Masther  Hany,  in  the  first  place, 
do  you  beUeve  in  the  Bible  ? " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE   BLACK  SPECTRE. 


673 


"  In  the  Bible  ! — aliem — wLy — yes — cer- 
tainly, Baiiie}' ;  do  you  suppose  I'm  not  a 
Cbiistian  ? "' 

"  God  forliid,"  rej)lied  Barney  ;  "  well,  the 
Bible  itself  isn't  thruer  than  what  I'm  goin' 
to  tell  you — sure  all  the  world  for  ten  miles 
round  knows  it." 

''  Well,  but,  Barney,  I  would  rather  you 
would  let  »)('  know  it  in  the  first  place." 

"So  I  will,  su'.  Well,  then,  there  was  a 
witch-woman,  by  name  one  Bet  H:lrramount, 
and  on  the  surface  of  God's  earth,  blessed 
be  his  name  !  there  was  nothin'  undher  a 
bonnet  and  petticoats  so  ugly.  She  was 
jjitted  wid  the  small-pox  to  that  degree  that 
you  might  hide  half  a  peck  of  mirrowfat 
paise  (peas)  in  her  face  widout  their  being 
noticed  ;  then  the  sames  (seams)  that  ran 
across  it  were  five-foot  raspers,  every  one  of 
them.  She  had  one  of  the  purtiest  goose- 
berry eyes  in  Europe ;  and  only  for  the 
squint  in  the  other,  it  would  have  been  the 
ornament  of  her  comely  face  entirely  ;  but  as 
it  was,  no  human  beiu'  was  ever  able  to  de- 
cide between  them.  She  had  two  buck 
teeth  in  the  front  of  her  mouth  that  nobody 
could  help  admirin' ;  and,  indeed,  altogether 
I  don't  woudher  that  the  devil  fell  in  consate 
wid  her,  for,  by  all  accounts,  they  say  he 
carries  a  sweet  tooth  himself  for  comely  ovdd 
women  like  Bet  Harramount.  Give  the 
tasty  ould  chap  a  wrinkle  any  day  before  a 
dimple,  when  he  promotes  them  to  be 
witches,  as  he  did  her.  Sure  he  was  seen 
kissin'  a  ghost  the  other  night  near  Crukan- 
esker  well,  where  the  Davorens  get  their 
watlier  from.  O,  thin,  bedad,  but  Grace 
Davoren  is  a  beauty  all  out ;  and  maybe  'tis 
herself  doesn't  know  it." 

"  Go  on  with  your-  story,"  said  Woodward, 
rather  drjly  ;  "proceed." 

"  W^eU,  sir,  there  is  Bet  Han-amount's  face 
for  you,  and  the  rest  of  her  figure  wasn't 
sieh  as  to  disgrace  it.  She  was  half  bent 
wid  age,  wore  an  ould  black  bonnet,  an  ould 
red  cloak,  and  walked  wid  a  stall"  that  was 
bent  at  the  top,  as  it  seems  every  witch  must 
do.  Where  she  came  fi-om  nobody  could 
ever  tell,  for  she  was  a  black  stranger  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  At  all  events,  she  lived 
in  the  town  below,  but  hon''  she  lived  nobody 
could  tell  either.  Everything  about  her  was 
a  riddle  ;  no  wondher,  considherin'  she  hard- 
ly was  ever  known  to  spake  to  any  one,  from 
the  lark  to  the  lamb.  At  length  she  began 
to  be  suspected  by  many  sensible  people  to 
be  sometliing  woi  righl ;  which  you  know, 
sir,  was  only  natural.  Peter  O'Figgins,  that 
was  cracked  —  but  then  it  was  only  wid 
dhrink  and  lamin' — said  it ;  and  Katty  Mc- 
Trollop,  Lord  BilbeiTy's  henwife,  was  of  the 
same  opinion,  and  fi'om  them  and  others  the 


[  thing  grew  and  spread  until  it  became  right 
well  known  that  she  was  nothin'  else  tnan  a 
witch,  and  that  the  big  wart  on  her  neck 
was  nothin'  more  nor  less  than  the  mark  the 
devil  had  set  upon  her,  to  suckle  his  babies 
by.  From  this  out,  them  that  had  Christian 
{  hearts  and  loved  their  rehgion  trated  the 
thief  as  she  desarved  to  be  trated.  She  was 
hissed  and  hooted,  thank  God,  wherever  she 
showed  her  face  ;  but  stiU  nobody  had  cour- 
age to  lay  a  hand  upon  her  by  rason  of  her 
blasphaimin'  and  cursin',  which,  they  say, 
used  to  make  the  hair  stand  like  wattles 
ujoon  the  heads  of  them  that  heard  her." 

"  Had  slie  not  a  black  cat"?"  asked  Wood- 
ward ;  "  surely,  she  ought  to  have  had  a 
familiar." 

"No,"  replied  Barney  ;  "the  cat  she  had 
was  a  white  cat,  and  the  mainin'  of  its  color 
will  apjjear  to  you  by  and  by  ;  at  any  rate, 
out  came  the  truth.  You  have  heard  of  the 
Black  Spectre — the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv?" 

"  I  have,"  rephed  the  other  ;  "  proceed." 

"Well,  sir,  as  I  said,  the  trath  came  out 
at  last  ;  in  the  coorse  of  a  short  time  she 
was  watched  at  night,  and  seen  goin'  to  the 
haimted  house,  where  the  Spectre  hves." 

"Did  she  walk  there,  or  fly  upon  her 
broomstick?"  asked  Woodward,  gravely. 

"  I  believe  she  walked,  sir,"  replied  Bar- 
ney ;  "  but  afther  that  every  eye  was  uj)on 
her,  and  many  a-  time  she  was  seen  goin'  to 
the  haunted  house  when  she  thought  no  eye 
was  upon  her.  Afther  this,  of  coorse,  she 
disappeared,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the 
to■\^^l  became  too  hot  for  her  ;  and,  indeed, 
this  is  not  suiprisin'.  Two  or  three  of  the 
neighborin'  women  miscarried,  and  several 
people  lost  their  cattle  after  she  came  to  the 
town  ;  and  to  make  a  long  story  short,  just 
as  it  was  made  up  to  throw  her  into  the 
parson's  pond,  she  disapijeared,  as  I  said,  ex- 
actly as  if  .she  had  knovm  their  intention  : 
and  becoorse  she  did." 

"  And  did  they  ever  find  out  where  she 
went  to  ?  " 

"  Have  patience,  sir,  for  patience,  they  say, 
is  a  virtue.  About  a  month  afterwards  some 
of  the  townspeople  came  up  to  the  moun- 
tains here,  to  hunt  hares,  just  as  we  did. 
Several  of  them  before  this  had  seen  a  white 
hare  near  the  very  spot  we're  sittin'  in,  but 
sorra  dog  of  any  description,  either  hound, 
greyhound,  or  lurcher  could  blow  wind  in 
her  tail  ;  even  a  paii-  of  the  Irish  blood- 
hounds were  brought,  and  when  they  cam© 
on  her,  she  flew  from  them  like  the  wind, 
and  laughed  at  them,  becoorse.  Well,  sir, 
the  whole  country  was  in  a  terrible  state  of 
alaiTn  about  the  white  hare,  for  every  one 
knew,  of  coorse,  that  she  was  a  witch  ;  and  as 
the  cows  began,  here  and  there,   to  fad  in' 


674 


WILLIAM   CARLETOIi-s  WOEKS. 


their  milk,  TN'hy,  it  was  a  clear  case  that  slie 
sucked  them  in  ordher  to  supply  some  imp 
of  the  devil  that  siicked  herself.  At  that 
time  there  was  a  jjriest  iu  this  pfiiish,  a  very 
pious  man,  by  name  Father  McFeeu  ;  and  as 
he  Uked,  now  and  then,  to  have  a  dish  of 
hare  soup,  he  kept  a  famous  gi-eyhound, 
called  Koola^vn,  that  was  never  said  to  miss 
a  hare  by  any  chance.  As  I  said,  some  of 
the  townspeople  came  up  here  to  have  a 
hunt,  and  as  they  vvTished,  above  aU  thintjs, 
to  brinfi;  the  ppest's  {i^'eyhound  and  the 
white  hare  together,  they  asked  the  loan  of 
liim  fi'om  his  reverence,  telling  him,  at  the 
same  time,  what  they  wanted  him  for.  Fath- 
er McFeen  was  very  proud  of  his  dog,  and 
good  right  he  had,  and  tould  them  they 
should  have  him  witii  pleasure. 

"  '  But,  as  he's  goin'  to  try  his  sj^eed  against 
a  witch,'  said  he,  'I'll  venture  to  say  that 
you'll  have  as  pretty  a  run  as  ever  was  seen 
on  the  hills.' 

"Well,  sir,  at  all  events,  off  they  set  to  the 
mountains  ;  and  sure  enough,  they  weren't 
long  there  when  they  had  the  best  of  sport, 
but  no  white  hare  came  iu  their  way.  Koo- 
lawn.  however,  was  kept  in  the  slip  the  whole 
day,  in  the  hojie  of  their  startin'  her,  for  they 
didn't  wish  to  have  him  tired  if  they  should 
come  across  her.  At  last,  it  was  gettin'  late, 
and  when  they  were  just  on  the  point  of  giv- 
in'  her  up,  and  goin"  home,  begad  she  started, 
and  before  you'd  say  Jack  Robinson,  Kool- 
awn  and  she  were  at  it.  Sich  a  chase,  they 
say,  was  never  seen.  They  flew  at  sich  a  rate 
that  the  people  could  hardly  keep  their  eyes 
upon  them.  The  hare  went  like  the  wind  ; 
but,  begad,  it  was  not  every  evening  she  had 
sich  a  dog  as  famous  Koolawn  at  her  scut. 
He  turned  her,  and  turned  her,  and  every 
one  thought  he  had  her  above  a  dozen  of 
times,  but  still  she  turned,  and  was  off  from 
him  again.  At  this  rate  they  went  on  for 
long  enough,  until  both  began  to  fail,  and  to 
appear  nearly  run  down.  At  length  the  gal- 
lant Koolawn  had  her  ;  she  gave  a  squeal 
that  was  heard,  they  say,  for  miles.  He  had 
her,  I  say,  hard  and  fast  by  the  hip,  bufe  it 
was  only  for  a  moment ;  how  she  escaped 
from  him  nobody  knows  ;  but  it  was  thought 
that  he  wasn't  able,  from  want  of  breath,  to 
keep  his  hoult.  To  make  a  long  stoiy  short, 
she  got  off  from  him,  turned  up  towards  the 
cabin  we're  sittiu'  in,  Koolawn,  game  as 
ever,  still  close  to  her ;  at  last  she  got  in,  and 
as  the  dog  was  about  to  spring  in  afther  her, 
he  found  the  door  shut  in  his  face.  There 
now  was  the  proof  of  it ;  but  wait  till  you 
hear  what's  comin'.  The  men  all  ran  up 
here  and  opened  the  door,  for  there  was  only 
a  latch  ujion  it,  and  if  the  hare  was  in  exist- 
ence, surely  they'd  find  her  now.    WeU,  they 


closed  the  door  at  wanst  for  fraid  she'd  e» 
cape  them  ;  but  afther  sarchin'  to  no  pur- 
pose, what  do  you  think  they  found?  No 
hare,  at  any  rate,  but  ould  Bet  H:trramount 
pantin'  in  the  straw  there,  and  covered  vrid  a 
rug,  for  she  hadn't  time  to  get  on  the  blank- 
et— just  as  if  the  life  was  lavin'  her.  The 
;  sweat,  savin'  your  presence,  was  pourin'  from 
her  ;  and  upon  examinin'  her  more  closely, 
which  they  did,  they  found  the  marks  of  the 
dog's  teeth'  in  one  of  her  ould  hips,  which 
was  freshly  bleediu'.  They  were  now  satis- 
fied, I  think,  and " 

I       "But  why  did  they  not  seize  and  can-y 

!  her  before  a  magistrate  ?  " 

I       "  Aisy,  Masther  H;irrj- ;  the  white  cat,  aU 

I  this  time,  was  sittin'  at  the  fireside  there, 

\  lookin'  on  vei-y  quietly,  when  the  thought 

j  struck   the  men    that   they'd   set   the  dogs 

j  upon  it,  and  so  thoj-  did,  or  rather,  so  they 

j  tried   to   do,    but   the   minute  the  cat  was 

pointed   out   to   them,    they  dropped  their 

ears  and  tails,  and  made  out  o'  the  house, 

and  all  the  art  o'  man  couldn't  get  them  to 

I  come  in  again.     When  the  men  looked  at  it 

!  agin  it  was  four  times  the  size  it  had  been  at 

the    begiimin',    and,    what   was   still   more 

fi-ightful,  it  was  gettin'  bigger  and  bigger, 

i  and   fiercer  and  fiercer  lookin',  every  min- 

!  ute.     Begad,   the  men   seein'   this  took   to 

I  their  heels  for  the  present,  wid  an   inten- 

I  tion   of  comin'  the    next  mornin',  wid  the 

priest  and    the   magisthrate.    and  a  strong 

:  force  to  seize  upon  her,  and  hnve  her  tried 

and  convicted,  in  ordher  that  she  might  be 

burned." 

I       "  And  did  they  come  ?  " 

"  They  did  ;  but  of   all  the  storms  that 

j  ever  fell  from   the   heavens,  none  o'  them 

could  aquil  the  one  that  come  on  that  night. 

Thundher,  and  wind,  and  lightuin',  and  hail, 

and  rain,  were  all  at  work  together,  and  every 

one  knew  at  wanst  that  the  de\il  was  riz  for 

i  somethin'.     Well,    I'm  near  the  end  of  it. 

j  The  next  mornin'  the  priest  and  the  magis- 

!  thrate,  and  a  large  body  of  people  fi'om  all 

'  quarthers,  came  to  make  a  prisoner  of  her  ; 

but,  indeed,  wherever  she  might  be  herself, 

,  they  didn't  expect  to  find  this  light,  flimsy 

hut  standin',  nor  stick  nor  stone  of  it  together 

afther  such  a  storm.      What  was  their  sur- 

jirise,  then,  to  see  wid  their  own  eyes  that 

not  a  straw  on  the  roof  of  it  was  distiu-bed 

any  more  than  if  it  had  been  the  Cidmest 

night  that  ever  came  on  the  earth  ! " 

"  But  about  the  vdich  herself  ?  " 

"  She  was  gone  ;  neither  hilt  nor  hair  of 

her  was  there  ;  nor  fi-om  that  day  to  this 

was  she  ever  seen  by  mortal.     It's  not  h:u'd 

to   guess,    however,    what   became   of    her. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  devil  carried  her 

and  her  imp  off  in  the  tempest,  either  to 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


some  safer  place,  or  else  to  give  her  a  warm 
corner  below  stairs." 

"  Why,  Bamej',  it  must  be  an  awful  little 
house,  this." 

•'  You  may  say  that,  sir  ;  there's  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  the  barony  would 
come  into  it  by  themselves.  Every  one  keeps 
fi-om  it  ;  the  very  rapparees,  and  robbers  of 
every  description,  would  take  the  shelter  of 
ii  cleft  or  cave  rather  than  come  into  it. 
Here  it  is,  then,  as  you  see,  just  as  she  and 
the  devil  and  his  imp  left  it ;  no  one  has  laid 
a  hand  on  it  since,  nor  ever  will." 

"  But  why  was  it  not  pulled  down  and 
levelled  at  the  time  ?  " 

"  Why,  Masther  Harry  ?  Dear  me,  I 
wondher  you  ask  tliat.  Do  you  think  the 
people  would  be  mad  enough  to  bringdown 
her  vengeance  upon  themselves  or  their 
property,  or  maybe  uj^on  both '?  and  for  that 
matther  she  may  be  alive  yet." 

"  Well,  then,  if  she  is,"  replied  Woodward, 
"  here  goes  to  set  her  at  defiance  ;  "  and  as 
he  spoke  he  tossed  bed,  straw,  rug,  blanket, 
and  every  miserable  article  of  furniture  that 
the  house  contained,  out  at  the  door. 

Barney's  hair  stood  erect  upon  his  head, 
and  he  looked  aghast. 

"  Well,  Masther  Harry,"  said  he,  "  I'm  but 
a  poor  man,  and  I  wouldn't  take  the  wealth 
of  the  parish  and  do  that.  Come  away,  sir  ; 
let  us  lave  it  ;  as  I  tould  you,  they  say  there's 
a  curse  ujjon  it,  and  upon  every  one  that 
makes  or  meddles  wid  it.  Some  people  say 
it's  to  stand  there  till  the  day  of  judgment." 

Having  now  refreshed  themselves,  they 
left  Bet  Harramount's  cabin,  with  all  its 
awful  associations,  behind  them,  and  resumed 
their  sport,  which  they  continued  until  even- 
ing, when,  having  killed  as  many  hares  as 
they  could  readily  carry,  they  took  a  short 
cut  home  through  the  lower  fields.  By  this 
way  they  came  ujjon  a  long,  green  hill, 
covered  in  some  places  with  short  furze,  and 
commanding  a  full  view  of  the  haunted 
house,  which  lay  some  four  or  five  hundred 
yards  below  them,  with  its  back  door  ly- 
ing, as  usual,  open. 

"  Let  us  beat  these  furze,"  said  Woodward, 
"  and  have  one  run  more,  if  we  can,  before 
getting  home  ;  it  is  just  the  place  for  a  hare." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  Barney ; 
"another  will  complete  the  half  dozen." 

They  accordingly  commenced  searching 
the  cover,  which  they  did  to  no  purpose,  and 
were  uison  the  point  of  giving  up  all  hope  of 
success,  when,  from  the  centre  of  a  low, 
broad  clump  of  furze,  out  starts  a  hare, 
as  white  almost  as  snow.  Barney  for  a 
moment  was  struck  dumb  ;  but  at  length 
exerting  his  voice,  for  he  was  some  distance 
from  Woodward,  he  shouted  out — 


"  O,  for  goodness'  sake,  hould  in  the  dog^ 
Masther  Harry  !  " 

It  was  too  late,  however ;  the  gallant 
animals,  tliough  fatigued  by  their  previous 
exertions,  immediately  gave  noble  chase,  and 
by  fai"  the  most  beautiful  and  interest- 
ing com-se  they  had  had  that  day  took 
place  upon  the  broad,  clear  plain  that 
stretched  before  them.  It  was,  indeed,  to 
the  eye  of  a  sjjortsman,  one  of  intense  and 
surpassing  interest — an  interest  which,  even 
to  Woodward,  who  only  laughed  at  Barney's 
story  of  the  witch,  was,  nevertheless,  deep- 
ened tenfold  by  the  coincidence  between  the 
two  circumstances.  The  swift  and  mettle- 
some dogs  pushed  her  hard,  and  succeeded 
in  turning  her  several  times,  when  it  was 
observed  that  she  made  a  j)oint  to  manage 
her  ruimiug  so  as  to  approximate  to  the 
haunted  house — a  fact  which  was  not  un- 
observed by  Barney,  who  now,  ha\ing  joined 
Woodward,  exclaimed — 

"  Mark  it,  Masther  Han-y,  mai-k  my  words, 
she's  alive  still,  and  will  be  wid  the  Shan- 
dhinnr-dhuv  in  spite  o'  them  !  Bravo,  Sambo  ! 
WeU  done.  Snail  ;  ay.  Snail,  indeed — hillo ! 
by  the  sweets  o'  rosin  they  have  her — no,  no 
— but  it  was  a  beautiful  turn,  though  ;  and 
poor  Snail,  so  tired  afther  his  day's  work. 
Now,  Masther  Harry,  thunder  and  turf! 
how  beautiful  Sambo  takes  her  up.  Bravo, 
Sambo  !  stretch  out,  my  darlin'  that  you  are  ! 
— O,  blood,  Masther  Harry,  isn't  that  beauti- 
ful ?  See  how  they  go  neck  and  neck  wid 
their  two  noses  not  six  inches  fioni  her  scut ; 
and  dang  my  buttons  but,  witch  or  no  witch, 
she's  a  thorough  bit  o'  game,  too.  Come, 
Bet,  don't  be  asleeji,  my  ould  lady ;  move 
along,  my  darlin' — do  you  feel  the  breath  of 
your  sweetheiirt  at  your  bottom  ?  Take  to 
your  broomstick  ;  you  want  it." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  the  hare  turned, 
— indeed  it  was  time  for  her — and  both 
dogs  shot  forward,  by  the  impetus  of  their 
flight,  so  far  beyond  the  point  of  her  turn, 
that  she  started  off  towards  the  haunted 
house.  She  had  little  time  to  spare,  how- 
ever, for  they  were  once  more  gaining  on 
her  ;  but  still  she  approached  the  house,  the 
dogs  nearing  her  fast.  She  apjsroached  the 
house,  we  say  ;  she  entered  the  open  door, 
the  dogs  within  a  few  yards  of  her,  when, 
almost  in  an  instant,  they  came  to  a  stand- 
still, looked  into  it,  bvit  did  not  enter ;  and 
when  whistled  back  to  where  Woodward  and 
Barney  stood,  they  looked  in  Barney's  eye, 
not  only  panting  and  exhausted,  as  indeed 
they  were,  but  terrified  also. 

"  WeU,  Masther  Harry,"  said  he,  assuming 
the  air  of  a  laan  who  spoke  with  authority, 
"what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  think  you  are   right,"  re^ed  Wood" 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


ward  ;  assuming  on  bis  part,  for  reasons 
which  will  be  subsequently  luiderstood,  an 
impression  of  sudden  conviction.  "  I  think 
you  are  right,  Barney,  and  that  the  Black 
Spectre  and  the  witch  are  acquaintances." 

"  Try  her  wid  a  silver  bullet,"  said  Barney ; 
"  there  is  nothing  else  for  it.  No  dog  can 
IdU  her — that's  a  clear  ease  ;  but  souple  as  she 
is,  a  silver  bullet  is  the  only  messenger  that 
can  overtake  her.  Bad  luck  to  her,  the 
thief  !  sure,  if  she'd  turn  to  God  and  repiut, 
it  isn't  codgerin'  wid  sich  comjjany  she'd  be, 
and  often  in  danger,  besides,  of  havin'  a 
gi-eyhound's  nose  at  her  flank.  I  hope 
you're  satisfied,  Masther  Harry  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  Barney  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  it  now.  As  for  my  part,  I  know  not 
what  temptation  could  induce  me  to  enter 
that  haunted  house.  I  see  that  I  was  on 
dangerous  ground  when  I  defied  the  witch 
in  the  hut ;  but  I  shall  take  care  to  be  more 
cautious  in  future." 

They  then  bent  their  steps  homewai-ds, 
each  sufficiently  fatigued  and  exhausted  af- 
ter the  si^orts  of  the  day  to  requii-e  both 
food  and  rest.  Woodward  went  early  to 
bed,  but  Barney,  who  was  better  accustomed 
to  exercise,  haviug  dined  lieartUy  in  the 
kitchen,  could  not,  for  the  soul  of  him,  con- 
tain within  his  own  bosom  the  awful  and 
supernatural  adventure  which  had  just  oc- 
curred. He  assumed,  as  before,  a  very 
solemn  and  oracular  air  ;  spoke  little,  how- 
ever, but  that  httle  was  deeply  abstracted 
and  mysterious.  It  was  evident  to  the  whole 
kitchen  that  he  was  brimful  of  something, 
and  that  that  something  was  of  more  than 
ordinary  importance. 

"  Well,  Barney,  had  you  and  Masther 
Hari-y  a  pleasant  day's  sport  ?  I  see  you 
have  brought  home  five  hares,"  said  the 
cook. 

"  Hum  !  "  groaned  Bai'ney  ;  "  but  no  mat- 
ther ;  it's  a  quare  world,  Mrs.  Malony,  and 
there's  strange  things  in  it.  Heaven  bless 
me !  Heaven  bless  me,  and  Heaven  bless  us 
all,  if  it  comes  to  that !  Masther  Harry 
said  he'd  send  me  down  a  couple  o'  glasses 

of  O,  here    comes   Biddy  wid   them  ; 

that's  a  girl.  Bid — divil  sich  a  kitchen-maid 
in  Europe !  " 

Biddy  handed  him  a  decanter  with  about 
halt  a  pint  of  stout  whiskey  in  it,  a  portion 
of  which  jiassed  into  a  goblet,  was  diluted 
with  water,  and  diiink  off,  after  which  he 
smacked  his  lips,  but  with  a  melancholy  air, 
and  then,  looking  solemnly  and  meditatively 
into  the  fire,  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Did  yovi  meet  any  faii-ies  on  your  way?  " 
asked  Nanse,  the  housemaid.  For  about 
half  a  minute  Barney  did  not  reply  ;  but  at 
f',iigth,  looking  about  him,  he  started — 


"Eh?  What's  that?  Who  spoke  t« 
me?" 

"WTio  spoke  to  you?"  replied  Nanse. 
"  Yfhj-,  I  think  you're  beside  yoursel — I 
did." 

"  "\^Tiat  did  you  say,  Nanse  ?  /  am  beside 
myself." 

■  There  was  now  a  sudden  cessation  in  all 
the  culinary  operations,  a  general  pause,  and 
a  rajjid  congregating  around  Barney,  who 
still  sat  looking  solemnly  into  the  fire. 

"  Why,  Barney,  there's  something  strange 
over  you,"  said  the  cook.  "  Heaven  help 
the  poor  boy  ;  sure,  it's  a  shame  to  be  tor- 
mentin'  him  this  way  ;  but  in  the  name  of 
goodness,  Barnej',  and  as  you  have  a  sowl  to 
be  saved,  will  you  tell  us  all  ?  Stand  back, 
Nanse,  and  don't  be  torturiu'  the  poor  lad 
this  way,  as  I  said." 

"  Biddy,"  said  Barney,  his  mind  still  wan- 
dering, and  his  ejes  stUl  fixed  on  the  fire — 
"  Biddy,  darlin',  will  jou  hand  me  that  de- 
canther  agin  ;  I  find  I'm  not  aquil  to  it. 
Heaven  j)i"esarve  us  !  Heaven  presan'e  us  ! 
that's  it  ;  now  hand  me  the  wather,  like  an 
angel  oal  of  heaven,  as  jou  ai-e.  Bid.  Ah, 
glorj'  be  to  goodness,  but  that's  refreshin', 
esjsecially  afther  sich  a  daj- — m-li  a  day  !  O 
saints  above,  look  down  upon  us  poor  sin- 
ners, one  and  aU,  men  and  women,  wid  pity 
and  comjDassion  this  night !  Here  ;  I'm  very 
wake  ;  let  me  get  to  bed  ;  is  there  any  j)ump 
wather  in  the  kitchen  ?  " 

To  describe  the  pitch  to  which  he  had 
them  wound  up  would  be  utterly  impossible. 
He  sat  in  the  cook's  arm-chair,  leaning  a  ht- 
tle back,  his  feet  placed  ujjou  the  fender, 
and  his  eyes,  as  before,  immovably,  jiauiful- 
ly,  and  abstractedly  fixed  iipon  the  embers. 
He  was  now  the  centre  of  a  circle,  for  they 
were  all  crowded  about  him,  ^^Tapped  up  to 
the  highest  possible  pitch  of  curiosit}'. 

"  We  were  talkin'  about  Masther  HaiTj'," 
said  he,  "  the  other  night,  and  I  think  I  tould 
you  something  about  him  ;  it's  like  a  dhrame 
to  me  tliat  I  did." 

"You  did,- indeed,  Barney,"  said  the  cook, 
coaxingly,  "  and  I  hope  that  what  you  tould 
us  wasn't  true." 

"  Aye,  but  about  to-day,  Barney  ;  some- 
thin'  has  happened  to-day  that's  troubhn' 
you." 

"  Who  is  it  said  that  ?  "  said  he,  his  eyea 
now  closed,  as  if  he  were  vvrapped  up  in 
some  distressing  mysteiy.  "Was  it  you, 
Nanse  ?     It's  like  yovu-  voice,  achora." 

Now,  the  reader  must  know  that  a  deadly 
jealousy  lay  between  Nanse  and  the  cook, 
quoad  honest  Barney,  who,  being  awai-e  of 
the  fact,  kept  the  hopes  and  fears  of  each  in 
such  an  exact  state  of  equihbrium,  that  nei- 
ther of  them  could,  for  the  life  of  her,  claim 


THE   EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


%11 


the  sliglitest  advantage  over  the  other.  The 
droll  varlet  had  au  appetite  like  a  shark,  and 
a  strong  relish  for  drink  besides,  and  what 
between  precious  tidbits  from  the  cook  and 
borrowing  small  sums  for  hquor  from  Nanse, 
he  contrived  to  jshw  them  oil'  one  against 
the  otiier  with  great  tact. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  his  eyes  still  closed, 
"  that  that  is  Nanse's  voice  ;  is  it,  acushla  ?  " 

"It  is,  Barney,  achora,"  replied  Nanse  ; 
"but  there's  something  wrong  wid  .you." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness,  Nanse,  you'd  let  the 
boy  alone,"  said  the  cook  ;  "  when  he  chooses 
to  spake,  he'll  spake  to  them  that  can  undher- 
stand  him.'' 

"  O,  jamLuy  stars  !  that's  you,  I  suppose  ; 
ha,  ha,  ha." 

"  Keep  silence,"  said  Bamej',  "  and  listen. 
Nanse,  j'ou  are  right  in  one  siuse,  and  the 
cook's  right  in  another  ;  you're  both  right, 
but  at  the  present  spakin' you're  both  wrohg. 
listen — you  all  know  the  ■Shan-dinne-dlinv  ?" 

"  Know  him  !  The  Lord  stand  between 
us  and  him,"  replied  Nanse  ;  "  I  hope  iu  God 
we'll  never  either  know  or  see  him." 

"You  know,"  proceeded  Barney,  "  that  he 
keeps  the  haunted  house,  and  appears  in  the 
neighborhood  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  know  that,  achora,"  repHed  the 
cook,  sweetlj-. 

"  WeU,  you  can't  forget  Bet  Harramount, 
the  witch,  that  lived  for  some  time  in  Rath- 
fillan  ?  She  that  was  hunted  in  the  shape 
of  a  white  hare  by  pious  Father  McFeeu's 
famous  greyhound,  Koolawn." 

"  Doesn't  all  the  world  know  it,  Barney, 
avillish  ?  "  said  Nanse. 

"  Divil  the  word  shell  let  out  o'  the  poor 
boy's  lips,"  said  the  cook,  with  a  fair  jjortion 
of  venom.  Nanse  made  no  reply,  but  laughed 
with  a  certain  description  of  confidence,  as 
she  glanced  sneeringly  at  the  cook,  who,  to 
say  the  truth,  turned  her  eyes  with  a  fiery  and 
impulsive  look  towards  the  ladle. 

"Well,"  i^roceeded  B.iruey,  "you  all  know 
that  the  divil  took  her  and  her  iraiJ,  the  white 
cat,  away  on  the  night  of  the  great  storm 
that  took  place  then  ?  " 

"We  do!  Sure  we  have  heard  it  a  thou- 
sand times. " 

"  Very  well — I  want  to  show  you  that  Bet 
Harramount,  the  white  \vitch,  and  the  /lla<4' 
Specthre  ai'e  sweethearts,  and  are  leadin'  a 
bad  life  together." 

"  Heavenly  father  !  Saints  above  !  Blessed 
Mother ! "  were  ejaculated  by  the  whole 
kitchen.  Bai'uej^  in  fact,  was  progressing 
with  gi-eat  effect. 

"  O,  yez  needn't  be  sui-prised,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  for  it  was  well  known  that  they  had 
maay  private  meetin's  while  Bet  was  livin' 
in  Rathfillan.     But  it  was  thought  the  divil 


had  taken  her  away  from  the  priest  and 
magisthrate  on  the  night  o'  the  storm,  and 
so  he  did  ;  and  he  best  knew  why.  Listen, 
I  say — Masther  Harry  and  I  went  out  this 
day  to  coorse  hares  ;  we  went  far  ujj  into 
the  mountains,  and  never  pulled  bridle  till 
we  came  to  the  cabin  where  the  witch  lived, 
the  same  that  Koolawn  chased  her  into  in  the 
shape  of  a  white  hare,  after  taking  a  bite 
out  of  her — out  of  the  part  next  her  scut. 
Well,  we  sat  down  in  the  cursed  cabin,  much 
against  my  wishes,  but  he  would  rest  no- 
where else — mark  that — so  while  we  were 
helpin'  ourselves  to  the  ham  and  brandy,  I 
up  and  tould  him  the  history  of  Bet  Harra^ 
mount  from  a  to  izzard.  '  WeU,'  said  he, 
'  to  show  you  how  Httle  /  care  about  her, 
and  that  /  set  her  at  defiance,  I'll  toss  every 
atom  of  her  beggarly  furuitui'e  out  of  the 
door  ; '  and  so  he  did — but  by  dad  I  thought 
he  done  it  iu  a  jokin'  way,  as  much  as  to 
say,  /  can  take  the  liberty  where  another 
can't.  I  knew,  becoorse,  he  was  wrong  ;  but 
that  makes  no  maxim — I'll  go  on  wid  my 
story.  On  our  way  home  we  came  to  the 
green  fields  that  he  on  this  side  of  the 
haunted  house  ;  a  portion  of  it,  on  a  lisin' 
ground,  is  covered  with  furz.  Now  listen — 
when  we  came  to  it  he  stood  ;  '  Barney,'  says 
he,  '  there's  a  hare  here  ;  give  me  the  dogs. 
Sambo  and  Snail ;  they'll  have  sich  a  hunt 
as  they  never  had  yet,  and  never  will  have 
agin.' 

"  He  then  closed  his  eyes,  raised  his  left 
foot,  and  dhi-ew  it  back  three  times  in  the 
divil's  name,  pronounced  some  words  that  I 
couldn't  understand,  and  then  said  to  me, 
'  Now,  Barney,  go  down  to  that  withered 
furze,  and  as  you  go,  always  keep  your  left 
foot  foremost ;  cough  three  times,  then  kick 
the  furze  with  your  left  foot,  and  maybe 
you'll  see  an  old  fi'iend  o'  yoiu's.' 

"Well,  I  did  so,  and  troth  I  thought 
there  was  somethin'  over  me  when  I  did  it ; 
but — what  'ud  you  think  ? — out  starts  a  whife 
hare,  and  off  went  Sambo  and  Snail  after  her, 
full  butt.  I  have  seen  many  a  hard  run, 
but  the  hkes  o'  that  I  never  seen.  If  they 
tui-ned  her  wanst  they  turned  her  more  than 
a  dozen  times  ;  but  where  do  you  think  she 
escaped  to  at  last  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows,  Barney  ;  where  ?  " 

"  As  heaven's  above  us,  into  the  haunted 
house  ;  and  if  the  dogs  were  to  get  a  thou- 
sand guineas  apiece,  one  of  thein  couldn't 
be  forced  into  it  afther  her.  They  ran  with 
their  noses  on  her  very  scut,  •widin  five  or 
six  yards  of  it,  and  when  she  went  into  it 
they  stood  stock  still,  and  neither  man  nor 
sword  could  get  them  to  go  farther.  But 
what  do  you  think  Masther  Harry  saitl  afther 
he  had  seen  all  this  ?     '  Barney,'  said   he, 


078 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


'I'm  detarmiiled  to  spend  a  niglit  in  the 
haunted  bouse  before  I'm  much  ouldher  ; 
only  keep  that  to  yourself,  and  don't  make  a 
blowing  horn  of  it  through  the  parish.'  And 
what  he  said  to  me,  I  say  to  you — never 
breatlie  a  syllable  of  it  to  man  or  mortal. 
It'll  be  worse  for  you  if  you  do.  And  now, 
do  you  remember  what  Lanty  Malouy  saw 
the  other  night  ?  The  black  man  kissin'  the 
white  woman.  Is  it  clear  to  yez  now '?  The 
Hhan-dhuuie-dhui) — the  Black  Spedhre — kis- 
sin' Bet  Harramount,  the  white  woman. 
There  it  is  ;  and  now  you  have  it  as  clear  as 
a,  b,  c." 

Barney  then  retired  to  his  bed,  leaving 
the  denizens  of  the  kitchen  in  a  state  which 
the  reader  may  very  well  understand. 


CHAFTEE  X. 

True  Love  Defeated. 

Mb.  and  IVIi's.  Goodwin,  in  the  absence  of 
their  daughter,  held  a  very  agreeable  con- 
versation on  the  subject  of  Mi-s.  Lindsay's 
visit.  Neither  Goodwin  nor  his  wife  was  in 
the  slightest  degree  selfish,  yet,  somehow, 
there  crept  into  their  hearts  a  certain  por- 
tion of  selfishness,  which  could  be  traced 
only  to  the  affection  which  they  felt  for 
Alice.  They  calculated  that  Henry  Wood- 
ward, having  been  I'eared  and  educated  by 
his  uncle,  would  be  amply  provided  for  by 
that  wealthy  gentleman  —  who,  besides, 
was  childless.  This  consideration  became  a 
strong  element  in  their  deliberations  and 
discussions  vipon  the  projected  match,  and 
they  accordingly  resolved  to  win  over  Alice's 
consent  to  it  as  soon  as  f)ossible.  From  the 
obedience  of  her  disposition,  and  the  nat- 
ural pliancy  of  her  character  with  the  opin- 
ions of  others,  they  concluded  the  matter  as 
arranged  and  cei'taiu.  They  forgot,  how- 
ever, that  Alice,  though  a  feeble  thinker  on 
matters  of  superstition  and  others  of  a  minor 
-importance,  could  sometimes  exercise  a  mil 
of  her  own,  but  very  seldom,  if  ever,  when 
opposed  to  theirs.  They  knew  her  love  and 
affection  for  them,  and  that  she  was  capable 
of  making  any  sacrifice  that  might  contrib- 
ute to  their  happiness.  They  liad,  how- 
ever, observed  of  late — indeed  for  a  consid- 
erable time  past — that  she  appeared  to  be 
in  low  spirits,  and  moved  about  as  if  thei'e 
was  a  pressure  of  some  description  in  her 
mind  ;  and  when  they  asked  her  if  she  were 
at  ease — which  they  often  did — she  only  re- 
plied by  a  smile,  and  asked  them  in  return 
why  she  should  be  otherwise.  With  this  re- 
ply they  were  satisfied,  for  they  knew  that 


upon  the  general  occurrences  of  life  she  was 
almost  a  mere  child,  and  that,  although  her 
health  was  good,  her  constitution  was  natur- 
ally delicate,  and  hable  to  be  affected  by 
many  things  indifferent  in  themselves,  which 
girls  of  a  stronger  mind  and  constitution 
would  neither  jserceive  nor  feel.  The  sum- 
ming up  of  all  was  that  they  a^sprehended 
no  obstruction  to  the  proposed  union  fi-om 
any  objection  on  her  part,  as  soon  as  she 
should  be  made  acquainted  with  theii' 
wishes. 

In  the  course  of  that  very  evening  they 
introduced  the  subject  to  her,  with  that  nat- 
ural confidence  which  resulted  from  their 
foregone  conclusions  upon  it. 

"Alley,"  said  her  mother,  "I  hope  you're 
in  good  spirits  this  evening." 

"  Indiff'erent  enough,  mamma  ;  my  spirits, 
you  know,  are  not  naturally  good." 

''And  why  should  they  not?"  said  her 
mother  ;  "  what  on  earth  have  you  to  trouble 
3'ou '? " 

"  O,  mamma,"  she  exclaimed,  "  jou  don't 
know  how  often  I  miss  mj-  sister  ; — at  night 
I  think  I  see  her,  and  she  looks  pale  and 
melancholy,  and  full  of  sorrow — just  as  she 
did  when  she  felt  that  her  hope  of  life  was 
gone  forever.  O,  how  willingly — how  joy- 
fully— would  I  return  her  fortune,  and  if  I 
had  ten  times  as  much  of  my  own,  along 
with  it,  if  it  could  only  bring  her  back  to  mti 
again  ! " 

•"  Well,  you  know,  my  darling,  that  can't 
be  d(me  ;  but  cheer  up  ;  I  have  good  new;; 
for  you — news  that  I  am  sui'e  wiU  delight 
you." 

"  But  I  don't  stand  in  need  of  any  good 
news,  mamma." 

This  simple  reply  proved  an  uneypected 
capsize  to  her  mother,  who  knew  not  how  to 
proceed  ;  but,  in  the  moment  of  her  em- 
laarrassment,  looked  to  her  husband  for  as- 
sistance. 

"  My  dear  Ahce,"  said  her  father,  "  the 
fact  is  this — you  have  achieved  a  conquest, 
and  there  has  been  a  jsrojxjsal  of  marriage 
made  for  you." 

Alice  instantly  suspected  the  individual 
from  whom  the  jjroposal  came,  and  turned 
pale  as  death. 

"That  does  not  cheer  my  spirits,  then, 
papa. " 

"That  may  be,  my  dear  Alice,"  replied 
her  father  ;  "  but,  in  the  opinion  of  your 
mother  and  me,  it  ought." 

"  From  what  quarter  has  it  come,  papa, 
may  I  ask  ?  I  am  living  very  lonely  and  re- 
tired here,  you  know." 

"  The  proposal,  then,  my  clear  cliild,  has 
come  from  Henry  Woodward,  this  day  ;  and 
what  will  snrpriso   you  more,  through  his 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


679 


tnotlier,  too — who  lias  been  of  late  such  au 
inveterate  enemy  to  our  family.  So  far  as  I 
have  seen  of  Henry  himself,  he  is  everything 
I  could  wish  for  a  son-iu-law." 

"  But  you  have  seen  very  httle  of  him, 
papa." 

"  What  I  have  seen  of  him  has  pleased  me 
very  much,  Alice." 

"How  strange,"  said  she  musingly,  "that 
father  and  daughter  should  draw  such  differ- 
ent conclusions  from  the  same  premises. 
The  very  thought  of  that  young  man  sinks 
the  heart  within  me.  I  beg,  once  for  all,  that 
you  will  never  mention  his  name  to  me  on 
this  subject,  and  in  this  light,  again.  It  is 
not  that  I  hate  him — I  trust  I  hate  nobody — 
but  I  feel  an  antipathy  against  him  ;  and 
what  is  more,  I  feel  a  kmd  of  terror  when  I 
even  think  of  him  ;  and  an  oppres.sion,  for 
which  I  cannot  account,  wliilst  I  am  in  his 
society." 

"This  is  very  strange,  Alice,"  repHed  her 
father ;  "  and,  I  am  afraid,  rather  foolish, 
too.  There  is  hothiug  in  his  face,  j)ersou, 
manner,  or  conversation  that,  in  mj-  opinion, 
is  not  calculated  to  attract  any  young  woman 
in  his  own  rank  of  life — at  least,  I  think  so." 

"  WeU,  but  the  poor  child,"  said  her 
mother,  "  knows  nothing  about  love — how 
could  she  ?  Sure,  my  deal'  Alley,  true  love 
never  begins  until  after  marriage.  You 
don't  know  what  a  dislike  I  had  to  your 
father,  there,  whilst  our  friends  on  both 
sides  were  making  up  the  courtship.  They 
hterally  ili-agged  me  into  it." 

"Yes,  Alley,"  added  her  father,  smiling, 
"  and  they  literally  dragged  me.  into  it ;  and 
yet,  when  we  came  together,  Ahce,  there 
never  was  a  happier  coujjle  in  existence." 

Alice  could  not  help  smihng,  but  the 
smile  soon  passed  away.  "  That  may  be  all 
very  true,"  she  replied,  "  but  in  the  mean- 
time, you  must  not  press  me  on  this  subject. 
Don't  entertain  it  for  a  moment.  I  shall 
never  marry  this  man.  Put  an  end  to  it — 
see  his  mother,  and  inform  her,  without  loss 
of  time,  of  the  unalterable  determination  I 
have  made.  Do  not  jjalter  with  them,  father 
. — do  not,  mother  ;  and  above  all  things, 
don't  attempt  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of 
your  orJy  daughter.  /  could  make  any 
sacrifice  for  your  happiness  but  this  ;  and  if, 
in  obedience  to  your  wishes,  I  made  it,  I  can 
tell  you  that  I  would  soon  be  xoith  my  sinter. 
You  both  know  that  I  am  not  strong,  and 
that  I  am  incapable  of  severe  struggles. 
Don't,  then,  harass  me  uf)on  this  matter." 

She  here  burst  into  tears,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  wept  bitterly. 

"  We  must  give  it  up,"  said  her  father, 
looking  at  Mrs.  Goodwin. 

"  No  such  thing,"  rephed  his  wife  ;  "  think 


of  our  own  case,   and  how  happy  we  have 
been  in  spite  of  ourselves." 

"  Ay,  but  we  were  neither  of  us  fools, 
Martha  ;  at  least  you  were  not,  or  you  woidd 
never  have  suffered  yourself  to  be  jiersuaded 
into  matrimony,  as  you  did  at  last.  Ther« 
was,  it  is  true,  an  affected  frovwi  upon  your 
brow  ;  but  then,  again,  there  was  a  very  sly 
smile  under  it.  As  for  me,  I  woulil  havp 
escaped  the  match  if  I  could  ;  but  no  mat- 
ter, it  was  all  for  the  best,  although  neither 
of  us  anticipated  as  much.  Alice,  my  child, 
think  of  what  we  have  said  to  you  ;  retiect 
upon  it.  Our  object  is  to  make  you  happy  ; 
our  experience  of  Ufe  is  much  greater  tlian 
yours.  Don't  reply  to  us  now  ;  we  \n\\  give 
you  a  reasonable  time  to  think  of  it.  Con- 
sider that  you  will  add  to  your  mother's 
haijjjiuess  and  mine  by  consenting  to  such 
an  unobjectionable  match.  This  young  man 
will,  of  course,  inherit  his  uncle's  jjrojserty  ; 
he  will  elevate  you  in  life  ;  he  is  handsome, 
accomijlished,  and  evidently  knows  the 
world,  and  you  can  look  np  to  him  as  a 
husband  of  whom  you  will  have  a  just  right 
to  feel  proud.  Allow  the  young  man  to  visit 
you  ;  study  him  as  closely  as  you  may  ;  but 
above  all  things  do  not  cherish  an  unfound- 
ed antipathy  against  him  or  any  one." 

Several  interviews  took  place  afterwards 
between  Alice  and  Henry  Woodward  ;  and 
after  each  interview  her  parents  sought  her 
opinion  of  him,  and  desired  to  know  whether 
she  was  beginning  to  think  more  favorably- 
of  him  than  she  had  hitherto  done.  Still, 
however,  came  the  same  reply.  Every  inter- 
view only  increased  her  rejiugnauce  to  the 
match,  and  her  antip.athy  to  the  man.  At 
length  she  consented  to  allow  him  one  last 
interview — the  last,  she  asserted,  which  she 
would  ever  afford  him  on  the  subject,  and 
he  accordingly  presented  himself  to  know 
her  final  determination.  Not  that  fi'oni  what 
came  out  from  their  former  conversations  he 
had  any  grounds,  as  a  reasonable  man,  to 
esjiect  a  change  of  opinion  on  lier  jjart ;  but 
as  the  property  was  his  object,  he  resolved 
to  leave  nothing  undone  to  overcome  her 
prejudice  against  him  if  he  could.  They 
were,  accordingly,  left  in  the  drawing-room 
to  discuss  the  matter  as  best  they  might, 
but  with  a  hope  on  the  jiart  of  her  parents 
that,  knowing,  as  she  did,  how  earnestly 
their  hearts  were  fixed  upon  her  marriage 
with  him,  she  might,  if  only  for  their  sakes, 
renounce  her  foolish  antipathy,  ar  d  be  pre- 
vailed upon,  by  his  ardor  and  his  eloquence 
to  consent  at  last. 

"  WeU,  Miss  Goodwin,"  said  he,  when  they 
were  left  together,  "  this  I  understand,  and 
what  is  more,  I  fear,  is  to  be  my  day  of 
doom.     Heaven  gi-aut  that  it  may  be  a  favop 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


able  one,  for  I  am  badly  prepared  to  see  my 
hopes  blastedj  and  my  aflection  for  you 
spurned !  My  happiness,  my  dear  Miss 
Goodwin — my  happiness  for  life  depends  up- 
.  on  the  result  of  this  interview.  I  know — but 
I  should  not  say  so — for  in  this  instance  I 
must  be  guided  by  hearsay — weU,  I  know 
from  hearsay  that  your  heart  is  kind  and  af- 
fectionate. Now  I  believe  this  ;  for  who  can 
look  upon  your  face  and  doubt  it  V  Believing 
this,  then,  how  can  you,  when  you  know  that 
the  happiness  of  a  man  who  loves  you  be- 
yond the  power  of  language  to  express,  is  at 
stake,  depends  upon  your  wiU — how  can  you, 
i  say,  refuse  to  make  that  individual — who 
appreciates  all  your  virtues,  as  I  do — who 
feels  the  influence  of  your  extraordinary 
beauty,  as  I  do — who  contemplates  your 
future  happiness  as  the  great  object  of  his 
life,  as  I  do — how  can  you,  I  say,  refuse  to 
make  that  man  happy  ?  " 

"Mr.  Woodward,"  she  said,  "I  wUl  not 
reply  to  your  arguments  ;  I  simply  wish  to 
ask  you,  Ai-e  you  a  gentleman? — in  other 
words,  a  man  of  integrity  and  i3rineij)le  ?  " 

"Do  you  doubt  me,  Miss  Goodwin '?"  he 
inquired,  as  if  he  felt  somewhat  hurt. 

"  It  is  very  difficult,  Mi-.  Woodward,"  she 
repUed,  "  to  know  the  heart ;  I  request,  how- 
ever, a  direct  and  a  serious  answer,  for  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  am  about  to  place  the 
deepest  possible  confidence  in  your  faith  and 
honor." 

"  O,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  is  sufficient ;  in 
such  a  case  I  feel  bound  to  respect  j'our  con- 
fidence as  sacred  ;  do  not  hesitate  to  confide 
in  me.  Let  me  perish  a  thousand  times 
sooner  than  abuse  such  a  trust.  Speak  out. 
Miss  Goodwin." 

"It  is  necessary  that  I  should,"  she  re- 
plied, "both  for  yoirr  sake  and  my  own. 
Know,  then,  that  my  heart  is  not  at  my  own 
disposal ;  it  is  engaged  to  another." 

"  I  can  only  listen.  Miss  Goodwin — I  can 
only  Usten  —  but  —  but  —  excuse  me — pro- 
ceed." 

"My  heart,  as  I  said,  is  engaged  to 
another — and  that  other  is  yom-  brother 
Charles." 

Woodward  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  face — 
already  scarlet  with  blushes,  and  when  she 
ventured  to  raise  hers  uxson  him,  she  beheld 
a  countenance  sunk  apparently  in  the  deep- 
est sorrow. 

"Alas  !  Miss  Goodwin,"  he  replied,  "you 
have  filled  my  heart  with  a  double  grief.  I 
could  resign  you — of  course  it  would  and 
must  be  with  the  most  inexpressible  anguish 

— but  to  resign  you  to  such  a .     O  !  "  he 

proceeded,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully, 
"you  know  not  in  what  a  position  of  torture 
you  place  me.     You  said  you  beUeved  me  to 


be  a  gentleman  ;  so  I  trust — I  feel — I  am, 
and  what  is  more,  a  brother,  and  an  affec- 
tionate brother,  if  I — O,  my  God,  what  am  1 
to  do  ?  How,  knowing  what  I  know  of  that 
imfortunate  young  man,  could  I  ever  have 
expected  Ihin'?   In  the  meantime  I  thank  you 
for  your  confidence.  Miss  Goodwin  ;  I  hope 
it  was  God  himself  who  inspired  you  to  place 
it  in  me,  and  that  it  may  be  the  means  of 
yom'  salvation  from — but  perhaps  I  am  saj"- 
ing  too  much  ;  he   is   my  brother ;  excuse 
me,  I  am  not  just  now  cool  and  calm  enough 
to  say  what  I  would  \vish,   and  what  you, 
poor  child,  neither  know  nor  suspect,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  never  mention  it ;  but  you 
must  give  me  time.     Of  course,  under  the 
circumstances  you  have  mentioned,  I  resign 
all  hopes  of  ;?!(/   own  hapjjiness   ^rith  you  ; 
but,  so  help  me  Heaven,  if  I  shah  resign  all 
hojaes  of  yours.     I  cannot  now  speak  at  fur- 
ther length ;  I  am  too  much  suiiirised,  too 
much  agitated,  too  much  shocked  at  what  I 
I  have  heard  ;  but  I  shall  see  you,  if  you  will 
I  allow  me,  to-morrow  ;  and  'as  I  cannot  be- 
1  come  your  husband,  jjerhajjs  I  may  become 
[  j'our  guardian  angel.  Allow  me  to  see  j'ou 
I  to-morrow.  You  have  taken  me  so  complete- 
1  Ij'  by  sui-jsrise  that  I  am  quite  incapable  of 
j  speaking  on  this  subject,  as  perhajis — but  I 
know  not  yet — I  must  become  more  cool,  and 
reflect  deeply  upon  what  my  conduct  ought 
to  be.     Alas  !    my  dear  Bliss  Goodwin,  little 
I  you  susi^eet  how  completely  your  hajipiuess 
I  and  misery  are  in  my  powei'.    WiU  you  per- 
i  mit  me  to  see  you  to-moiTow  ?  " 
I      "Certainly,   sir,"  replied  Alice,  "since  it 
!  seems  that  you  have  something  of  moi-e  than 
'  ordinary  importance  to  eommuiiit'ate  to  me 
I  — somethmg,  which,  I  supj^ose,   I  ought  to 
j  know.     I  shall  see  j'ou." 
!      He  then  took  his  leave  with  an  air  of  deep 
1  melancholy  and  sorrow,  and  left  poor  Alice 
in  a  state  of  anxiety  very  difficult  to  be  de- 
I  scribed.    Her  mind  became  tilled  with  a  sud- 
i  den  and  unusual  alarm  ;  she  trembled  like 
!  an  aspen  leaf  ;  and  when  her  mother  came  to 
1  ask  her  the  result  of  the  interview,  she  found 
her  pale  as  death  and  in  tears. 
1       "  Wh_y,  AUey,  my  child,'   said  she,  "what 
is  the  matter  ?     Why  do  you  look  so  much 
•  alarmed,  and  why  are  you  in  teai-s  ?     Has 
the  man  been  rucle  or  offensive  to  you  ?  " 
!       "  No,  mamma,   he  has  not ;  but — but — I 
j  am  to  see  him  again  to  morrow,  and  until 
;  then,  mamma,  do  not  ask  me  anj-thing  ujjon 
I  the  subject  of  our  interview  to-day." 
j      Her  mother  felt  rather  gratified  at  this. 
1  There  was,  then,  to  be  a//r.//(rr  interview,  and 
that  was  a  proof  that  Woodward  had  not 
been  finally  discarded.     So  far,  matters  did 
not  seem  so  disheartening  as  she  had  antici- 
!  pated.     She  looked  upon    Alice's  agitation, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


6S1 


and  the  tears  she  had  been  shedding;,  as  the 
result  of  the  constraint  which  she  had  jjut 
upon-  her  iuchnation  in  givini^'  him,  she 
hoped,  a  favorable  reception  ;  and  with  this 
impression  she  went  to  communicate  what 
she  conceived  to  be  the  good  iutelhgence  to 
.  her  husband. 

AHce,  until  the  next  interview  took  place, 
passed  a  wretched  time  of  it.  As  the  reader 
knows,  she  was  constitutionally  timid  and 
easily  alai-med,  and  she  consequently  antici- 
pated something  very  distressing  in  the  dis- 
closures which  Woodward  was  about  to 
make.  That  there  was  something  uncom- 
mou  and  painful  in  connection  with  Chai-les 
Lindsay  to  be  mentioned,  was  quite  evident 
from  Woodward's  language  and  his  unac- 
countable agitation.  He  was  evidently  in 
earnest ;  and,  from  the  suddenness  with 
wliich  the  confession  of  her  attachment  to 
his  brother  came  upon  him,  it  was  impossi- 
ble, she  concluded,  that  he  could  have  had 
time  to  concoct  the  hints  which  he  threw 
out.  Could  she  have  been  mistaken  in 
Charles  ?  And  yet,  why  not  ?  Had  he  not, 
as  it  were,  abandoned  her  ever  since  the  oc- 
currence of  the  family  feud '?  and  why  should 
he  have  done  so  unless  there  had  been  some 
reason  for  it  ?  It  was  quite  clear,  she  thought, 
that,  whatever  revelation  Woodward  was 
about  to  make  concerning  him,  it  was  one 
which  would  occasion  himself  great  pain  as 
his  brother,  and  that  nothing  but  the  neces- 
sity of  saving  her  from  unhajjpiness  could 
force  him  to  speak  out.  In  fact,  her  mind 
was  in  a  tumult ;  she  felt  quite  nervous — 
tremulous — afraid  of  some  disclosure  that 
might  destroy  her  hopes  and  her  happiness, 
and  make  her  wretched  for  life. 

On  the  next  day  Woodward  made  his  ap- 
pearance and  found  Ahce  by  herself  in  tlie 
drawing-room,  as  when  he  left  her  the  day 
before.  His  countenance  seemed  the  very 
exponent  of  suffering  and  misery. 

"  Miss  Goodwin,"  said  he,  "  I  have  passed 
a  period  of  the  deepest  anxiety  since  I  saw 
you  last.  You  may,  indeed,  read  what  I  have 
suffered,  and  am  suffering,  in  mj'  face,  for 
unfortunately  it  is  a  tell-tale  upon  my  heart  ; 
but  I  cannot  lielji  that,  nor  should  I  wish  it 
to  be  otherwise.  Believe  me,  however,  that 
it  is  not  for  myself  that  I  suffer,  but  for  you, 
and  the  jjrospects  of  your  future  happiness. 
You  must  look  upon  my  conduct  now  as 
perfectly  disinterested,  for  I  have  no  hope. 
What,  then,  should  that  conduct  be  in  me 
as  a  generous  man,  which  I  trust  I  am,  but 
to  promote  your  happiness  as  far  as  I  can  ? 
and  on  that  I  am  determined.  You  say  you 
love  my  brother  ;  are  you  certain  that  j'our 
affection  is  reciprocated  ?  " 

"I  believe   your    brother    certainly    did 


love  me,"  she  repUed,  wth  a  tremor  in  her 
voice,  which  she  could  not  prevent, 

'■Just  so,  my  dear  Miss  Goodwin  ;  that  is 
well  expressed — did  love  you  ;  jserhaps  it 
may  have  been  so  ;  possessing  anything  like  a 
heart,  I  don't  see  how  it  could  have  been 
otherwise." 

"  I  will  thank  you,  Mr.  Woodward,  to  state 
what  you  have  to  say  with  as  little  circum- 
locution and  ambiguity  as  jsossible.  Take 
me  out  of  suspense,  and  let  me  know  the 
worst.  Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  keep  me  in  a 
state  of  uncertainty.  Although  I  have  ac- 
kno\vledged  my  love  for  your  brother,  in 
order  to  relieve  myself  from  your  addresses, 
wliich  I  could  not  encourage,  still  I  am  not 
mthout  the  p)ride  of  a  woman  who  respects 
herself." 

"I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  before  I  pro- 
ceed, allow  me  to  ask,  in  order  that  I  may 
see  my  way  the  clearer,  to  what  length 
did  the  expression  of  my  brother's  aff'ection 

go?" 

"It  went  so  far,'  she  replied,  blushing, 

"  as  an  avowal  of  mutual  attachment  ;  in- 
deed, it  might  be  called  an  engagement ; 
but  ever  since  the  death  of  his  cousin,  and 
the  estrangement  of  our  families,  he  seems 
to  have  forgotten  me.  It  is  very  strange ; 
when  I  was  a  jjortiouless  girl  he  was  ardent 
and  tender,  but,  ever  since  this  unfortunate 
property  came  into  my  hands,  he  seems  to 
have  joined  in  the  hard  and  unjust  feeling 
of  his  familj'  against  me.  I  have  certainly 
met  him  since  at  parties,  and  on  other  oc- 
casions, but  we  met  almost  as  strangers  ;  he 
was  not  the  Charles  Lindsay  whom  I  had 
known  when  I  was  comparatively  a  poor 
girl ;  he  appeared  to  shrink  from  me.  In 
the  meantime,  as  I  have  ah'eady  confessed  to 
you.  he  has  my  heart ;  and,  so  long  as  he 
has,  I  cannot  encourage  the  addresses  of  any 
other  man." 

Woodward  paused,  and  looked  upon  her 
with  well-feigned  admu-ation  and  sorrow. 

"  The  man  is  bhnd,"  he  at  length  said, 
"  not  oidy  to  the  fascinations  of  your  person 
and  character,  but  to  his  own  interests. 
What  is  he  in  point  of  property  ?  Nothing. 
He  has  no  rich  uncle  at  his  back  to  establish 
him  in  life  uiDon  a  scale,  almost,  of  magnifi- 
cence. Why,  it  is  since  you  came  into  this 
property  that  he  ought  to  have  urged  liis 
suit  with  gi-eater  earnestness.  I  am  speak- 
ing now  like  a  man  of  the  world.  Miss  Good- 
win ;  and  I  am  certain  that  he  would  have 
done  so  but  for  one  fact,  of  whicli  I  am 
aware  :  he  has  got  into  a  low  intrigue  with  a 
peasant's  daughter,  who  possesses  an  influ- 
ence over  him  such  as  I  have  never  witnessed. 
She  certainly  is  very  beautiful,  it  is  said  ■, 
but  of  that  I  cannot  speak,  as  I  have  not  yet 


6S2 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiKS. 


Been  her ;  but  I  am  afraid,  Miss  Goodwin, 
from  all  I  hear,  that  a  very  little  time  will 
disclose  her  Ciilamity  and  his  guilt.  You 
will  now  understand  what  I  felt  yesterday 
when  you  made  me  acquainted  with  your 
pure  and  virtuous  attachment  to  such  a 
man  ;  what  shalll  say," he  added,  rising,  and 
walking  indignantly  through  the  room,  "  to 
such  a  proHigate  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Woodward,"  replied  Alice,  "  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  ;  you  must  have  been 
imposed  on  by  some  enemy  of  liis.  Dejiend 
upon  it  you  ai-e.  I  think  I  know  Charles  well 
— too  well  to  deem  him  cajDable  of  such  prof- 
ligacy ;  I  will  not  believe  it." 

"  I  don't  wish  you,  my  dear  Miss  Good- 
win, to  believe  it  ;  I  only  wish  you  to  sus- 
pend your  ojjiuion  until  time  shall  convince 
you.  I  considered  it  my  duty  to  mention 
the  fact,  and  after  that  to  leave  you  to  the 
exercise  of  youi*  own  judgment." 

"  I  will  not  believe  it,"  replied  Alice,  "be- 
cause I  place  his  estrangement  to  a  higher 
and  nobler  motive,  and  one  more  in  accord- 
ance with  his  honorable  and  generous  char- 
acter. I  do  believe,  Mr.  Woodward,  that 
his  apparent  coldness  to  me,  of  late,  pro- 
ceeds from  delicacy,  and  a  disinterestedness 
that  is  honorable  to  him  ;  at  least  I  will  in- 
terpret his  conduct  in  this  ligM  until  I  am 
perfectly  convinced  that  he  is  the  profligate 
you  describe  him.  I  do  not  impute,  in  the 
disclosure  you  have  made,  ungenerous  mo- 
tives to  you  ;  because,  if  you  attempted  to 
displace  my  affections  from  your  brother  by 
gi'oundless  slander  or  deliberate  falsehood, 
you  would  be  a  monster,  and  as  such  I 
would  look  upon  you,  and  will,  if  it  ajspears 
that  you  are  maligning  him  for  selfish  pur- 
poses of  your  own.  I  will  now  tell  you  to 
what  I  imi^ute  his  apparent  esti'angement ;  I 
impute  it  to  honor,  sir — to  an  honorable 
pride.  He  knows  now  that  I  am  rich  ;  at 
least  comi^aratively  so,  and  that  he  is  com- 
paratively poor  ;  he  hesitates  to  renew  our 
relations  with  each  other  lest  I  might  susjject 
him  of  mingling  a  selfish  j^rinciple  with  his 
affection.  That  is  the  conduct  of  a  man  of 
honor  ;  and  until  the  facts  j'ou  hint  at  come 
out  broadly,  and  to  public  proof,  as  such  I 
shall  continue  to  consider  him.  But,  Mr. 
Woodward,  I  shall  not  rest  here ;  I  shall  see 
him,  and  give  him  that  to  which  his  previous 
affection  and  honorable  conduct  liave  entitled 
him  at  my  hands — that  is,  an  opi^ortunity  of 
making  an  explanation  to  myself.  But,  at 
all  events,  I  assure  you  of  this  fact,  that,  if  I 
do  not  marry  him,  I  shall  never  mai'ry  an- 
other." 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Woodward, 
"  what  a  jewel  he  has  lost.  Well,  Miss 
Goodwin,  I  have  nothing  further  to  say  ;  if  I 


am  wrong,  time  will  convict  me.  I  have 
mentioned  these  matters  to  you,  not  on  my 
own  account  but  yours.  I  have  no  hppe  oi 
your  affection  ;  and  if  there  were  any  living 
man,  except  myself,  to  whom  I  should  wish 
to  see  you  united,  it  would  be  lay  brother 
Charles — that  is,  if  I  thought  he  was  worthy 
of  you.  All  I  ask  of  you,  however,  is  to  wait 
a  little  ;  remain  calm  and  quiet,  and  time 
will  tell  you  which  of  us  feels  the  deepest  in- 
terest in  your  happiness.  In  the  meantime, 
aware  of  your  attachment  to  him,  as  I  am,  I 
beg  you  will  no  longer  consider  me  in  any 
other  light  than  that  of  a  sincere  friend.  To 
seduce  innocence,  indeed — but 'I  will  not 
dwell  upon  it ;  the  love  of  woman,  they  say, 
is  generous  and  forgiving  ;  I  hojje  yom-swiU 
be  so.  But,  Miss  Goodwin,  as  I  can  aj)- 
proach  jou  no  longer  in  the  character  of  a 
lover,  I  tmst  I  may  be  permitted  the  jn-ivi- 
j  lege  of  visiting  the  family  as  a  friend  and  ac- 
quaintance. Now  that  your  decision  against 
me  is  known,  it  will  be  contrarj-  to  the  wish- 
es of  our  folks  at  home  ;  esjaecially  of  my 
mother,  whose  temper,  as  I  suppose  you  are 
awai-e,  is  none  of  the  coolest ;  you  wiU  allow 
me,  then,  to  visit  you,  but  no  longer  as  claim- 
ant for  3'our  hand." 

"  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Woodward,  but  upon  that  condition." 

After  he  had  taken  his  leave,  her  jjarents, 
anxious  to  hear  the  result,  came  up  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  they  found  her  in  a 
kind  of  a  reverie,  fi'om  which  theu'  appear- 
ance startled  her. 

"  Well,  Alley,"  said  her  mother,  smiling, 
"  is  everything  concluded  between  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  rejilied  Alice,  "  everything 
is  concluded,  and  finally,  too." 

"  Did  he  name  the  day  ?  "  said  her  father, 
smiling  gravely. 

Alice  stared  at  him  ;  then  recollecting  her- 
self, she  reijlied — 

"  I  thought  I  told  you  both  that  this  was 
a  man  I  coidd  never  think  of  mai'rying.  I 
don't  understand  him  ;  he  is  either  very 
candid  or  verj'  hyjiocritical ;  and  I  feel  it 
jjainful,  and,  besides,  unnecessary'  in  me  to 
take  the  trouble  of  balancing  the  character 
of  a  person  who  loses  ground  in  my  opinion 
on  every  occasion  I  see  him.  Of  course,  I 
have  discarded  him,  and  I  know  very  well 
that  his  mother  will  cast  fire  and  sword 
between  us  as  she  did  before  ;  but  to  do  31l-. 
Woodward  justice,  he  j^roijoses  to  stand 
aloof  from  her  resentments,  and  \rishes  to 
visit  us  as  usual." 

"  Then  it's  all  over  between  you  and  him  ?  ' 
said  her  mother. 

"  It  is  ;  and  I  never  gave  you  reason  to 
anticipate  any  other  result,  mamma." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  her  father,  "  you  never 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


C83 


did,  Alice  ;  but  still  I  think  it  is  generous  in 
him  to  separate  himself  from  the  resentments 
of  that  woman,  and  as  a  fr-iend  we  will  be 
alwajs  glad  to  see  him." 

"  I  know  not  how  it  is,"  replied  AUce  ; 
"  but  I  felt  that  the  expression  of  his  eye, 
during  our  last  inter\dew,  ojopressed  me 
excessively  ;  it  was  never  off  me.  There 
was  a  killing — a  mahguaut  influence  in  it, 
that  thrilled  through  me  vdth  pain  ;  but, 
perhaps,  I  can  account  for  that.  As  it  is,  he 
has  asked  leave  to  visit  us  as  usual,  and  to 
stand,  Avith  respect  to  me,  in  the  light  of  a 
friend  only.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  23apa, 
I  could  not  refuse  him  a  common  jjrivilege 
of  civility ;  but,  to  tell  you  both  the  truth,  I 
shall  always  meet  him  not  only  with  reluc- 
tance, but  with  something  almost  amounting 
to  fear." 

Woodward,  now  that  he  had  learned  his 
fate,  and  was  aware  that  his  brother  stood 
between  him  and  his  exjjectations,  experi- 
enced a  feeling  of  vengeance  against  him 
and  Alice,  which  he  neither  could,  nor  at- 
tempted to,  restrain.  The  rage  of  his  mo- 
ther, too,  when  she  heard  that  the  latter  had 
rejected  him,  and  avowed  her  attachment  to 
Charles,  went  beyond  all  bounds.  Her  son, 
however,  who  possessed  a  gi-eater  restraint 
upon  his  feelings,  and  was  master  of  more 
profound  hypocrisy  and  cunning,  requested 
her  to  conceal  the  attachment  of  Ahee  to  his 
brother,  as  a  matter  not  to  be  disclosed  on 
any  account. 

"  Leave  me  to  my  resources,"  said  he, 
"  and  it  will  go  hard  or  I  will  so  manage 
Charles  as  to  disentangle  him  from  the  con- 
sequences of  her  influence  over  him.  But 
the  families,  mother,  must  not  be  for  the 
present  permitted  to  visit  again.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  better  for  our  pui-jjoses  that 
they  should  not  see  each  other  as  formerly, 
nor  resume  their  intimacy.  If  you  suffer 
your  passions  to  overcome  you,  even  in  our 
own  family,  the  conseqvience  is  that  you  pre- 
vent us  both  from  j^lajiug  oui'  game  as  we 
ought,  and  as  we  shall  do.  Leave  Charles 
to  me  ;  I  shall  make  O'Connor  of  use,  too  ; 
but  above  all  things  do  not  breathe  a  sylla- 
ble to  any  one  of  them  of  my  having  been 
thrown  otf.  I  think,  as  it  is,  I  have  damped 
her  ardor  for  him  a  little,  and  if  she  had 
not  been  obstinate  and  fooli.shly  romantic,  I 
would  have  extinguished  it  completely.  As 
it  is,  I  told  her  to  leave  the  truth  of  what  I 
mentioned  to  her  respecting  him,  to  time, 
and  if  she  does  I  shall  rest  satisfied.  Will  you 
now  be  guided  by  me,  my  dear  mother  ?  " 

"I  will  endeavor  to  do  so,"  she  replied; 
"  but  it  will  be  a  terrible  restraint  upon  me, 
and  I  scai'cely  know  how  I  sliall  be  able  to 
keep  myself  calm.     I  will  try,  however  ;  the 


object  is  worth  it.  You  know  if  she  dieg 
without  issue  the  property  reverts  to  you." 

"  Yes,  mother,  the  object  w  worth  much 
more  than  the  paltry  sacrifice  I  ask  of  you. 
Keep  yourself  quiet,  then,  and  we  will  ac- 
complish our  jjuq^oses  yet.  I  shall  set  in- 
struments to  work  who  will  ripen  our  pro- 
jects, and,  I  trust,  ultimately  accomplish 
them." 

"  WTiy,  what  instruments  do  you  intend  to 
use  ?  " 

"  I  know  the  girl's  disposition  and  chai-ac- 
ter  well.  I  have  learned  much  concerning 
her  fr-om  Casey,  who  is  often  there  as  a  suitor 
for  the  fair  hand  of  her  favorite  maid. 
Casej%  however,  is  a  man  in  whom  I  can 
place  no  confidence  ;  he  is  too  much  attached 
to  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  does  not  at  all 
relish  me.  I  will  make  him  an  unconscious 
agent  of  mine,  notwithstanding.  In  the 
meantime,  let  nothing  appear  in  your  man- 
!  ner  that  might  induce  them  to  suspect  the 
present  position  of  aflairs  between  us.  They 
I  may  come  to  know  it  soon  enough,  t^d  then 
it  will  be  our  business  to  act  with  greater 
energy  and  decision." 

And  so  it  was  arranged  between  this 
precious  mother  and  sou. 

Woodward  who  was  quick  in  the  concep- 
tion of  his  projects,  had  them  aU  laid  even 
then  ;  and  in  order  to  work  them  out  with 
due  effect,  he  resolved  to  pay  a  visit  to  our 
friend,  Sol  Donnel,  the  herb  doctor.  This 
hyj)ocritical  old  villain  was  uncle  to  Caterine 
CoUins,  the  fortune-teller,  who  had  prognos- 
ticated to  him  such  agreeable  tiilings  on  the 
night  of  the  bonfire.  She,  too,  was  to  be 
made  useful,  and,  so  far  as  money  could  do 
it,  faithfril  to  his  designs — diabolical  as  they 
were.  He  accordingly  went  one  night,  about 
the  hour  mentioned  by  Donnel,  to  the  cabin 
of  that  worthy  man  ;  and  knocking  gently 
at  the  door,  was  replied  to  in  a  peevish  voice, 
like  that  of  an  individual  who  had  been  in- 
terrupted in  the  performance  of  some  act  of 
piety  and  devotion. 

"  Wlio  is  there "?  "  said  the  voice  inside. 

"A  friend,"  replied  Woodward,  in  a  low, 
cautious  tone ;  "  a  friend,  who  wishes  to 
sjjeak  to  j'ou." 

"I  can't  spake  to  you  to-night,"  repUed 
Sol ;  "  j-ou're  disturbin'  me  at  my  prayers." 

"But  I  wish  to  speak  to  j-ou  on  particular 
business." 

"What  business?  Let  me  finish  my  j)a- 
dereens  and  go  to  bed  Hke  a  vile  sinner,  as  I 
am — God  help  me.     Who  are  you  '?  " 

"  I  don't  intend  to  tell  you  tliat  just  now, 
Solomon  ;  do  you  wish  me  to  shout  it  out 
to  you,  in  order  that  the  wliole  neighbor- 
hood nyiy  bear  it?  I  have pn'mte  business 
with  you." 


684 


WILLI A3f  CARLETON'S  WOEKS. 


"Well,"  replied  the  other,  "I  think,  bj' 
your  voice  and  language,  you're  not  a  com- 
mon man,  and,  aldough  it's  against  my  rule 
to  open  at  this  time  o'  night  to  any  one,  still 
I'U  let  you  in — and  sui'e  I  must  only  say  my 
prayers  aftherwards.  In  the  manetime  it's 
a  sin  for  you  or  any  one  to  disturb  me  at 
them  ;  if  you  knew  what  the  value  of  one 
sinful  sowl  is  in  the  sight  of  God,  you 
wouldn't  do  it — no,  indeed.  Wait  till  I 
light  a  caudle." 

He  aeeordmgly  Ughted  a  candle,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  minutes  admitted  Wood- 
ward to  his  herbarium.  When  the  latter 
entered,  he  looked  about  him  with  a  curi- 
osity not  imnatural  under  the  circumstances. 
His  first  sensation,  however,  was  one  that 
affected  his  olfactorj'  nerves  very  strongly. 
A  combination  of  smells,  strugghng  with 
each  other,  as  it  were,  for  predominance, 
almost  overpowered  him.  The  good  and  the 
bad,  the  jjleasant  and  the  opj)ressive,  were 
here  mingled  up  in  one  sickening  exlialation 
— for  tke  disagreeable  prevailed.  The  whole 
cabin  was  hung  about  with  bunches  of  herbs, 
Rome  dry  and  withered,  others  fresh  and 
gi'een,  giving  evidence  that  they  had  been 
only  newl}'  gathered.  A  number  of  bottles 
of  all  descriptions  stood  on  wooden  shelves, 
but  without  labels,  for  the  old  sinner's  long 
jjractice  and  great  jiractieal  memory  enabled 
him  to  know  the  contents  of  every  bottle 
with  as  much  accuracy  as  if  they  had  been 
labelled  in  capitals. 

"  How  the  devil  can  you  live  and  sleep  in 
such  a  suffocating  compound  of  vile  smells 
as  this  ?  "  asked  Woodwai'd. 

The  old  man  glanced  at  him  keenly,  and 
replied, — 

"Practice  makes  masther,  sir — I'm  used 
to  them  ;  I  feel  no  smell  but  a  good  smell ; 
and  I  sleep  sound  enough,  barrin'  when  I 
wake  o'  one  purpose,  to  think  of  and  rejient  o' 
my  sins,  and  of  the  ungrateful  world  that  is 
about  me  ;  jieople  that  don't  thnuk  me  for 
doin'  them  good — God  forgive  them  !  amin 
wheermih  !  " 

"  Why,  now,"  replied  Woodward,  "  if  I 
had  a  friend  of  mine  that  was  iinwell — ob- 
serve me,  a  Jriend  of  mine — that  stood  be- 
tween me  and  my  own  interests,  and  that  I 
was'  kind  and  charitable  enough  to  foi'get 
any  iU-will  against  him,  and  wislied  to  re- 
cover him  from  his  Ulness  tln-otigh  the  means 
of  your  skill  and  h^rbs,  could  you  not  assist 
me  in  such  a  good  and  Christian  work '? " 

The  old  fellow  gave  him  a  shrewd  look 
and  piercing  glance,  but  immediately  re- 
filled— • 

"  Wliy,  to  be  sure,  I  could  ;  what  else  is 
the  business  of  my  whole  life  but.  to  cure 
my  fellow-cratures  of  theii-  complaints '? " 


"  Yes  ;  I  beheve  you  are  very  fortunate 
in  that  way  ;  however,  for  the  present,  1 
don't  require  your  aid,  but  it  is  very  likely  1 
shall  soon.  There  w  a  fi-iend  of  mine  in 
f)oor  health,  and  if  he  doesn't  otherwise  re- 
cover, I  shall  probably  apply  to  you  ;  but, 
then,  the  partj'  I  speak  of  has  such  a  preju- 
dice against  quacks  of  all  sorts,  that  I  feaf 
we  nmst  substitute  one  of  your  draughts,  in 
a  private  wcuj,  for  that  of  the  regular  doctor. 
That,  however,  is  not  what  I  came  to  sj^eak 
to  you  about.  Is  not  Caterine  CoUius,  the 
fortune-teUer  a  niece  of  yours  ?  " 

"  She  is,  sir." 

"Where  and  when  could  I  see  her? — but 
mark  me,  I  don't  wish  to  be  seen  speaking 
to  her  in  public." 

"  Why  not  ? — what's  to  prevent  you  from 
chattin'  wid  her  in  an  aisy  pleasant  way  in 
the  streets  ;  nobody  will  obsai"\e  any  thing 
then,  or  think  it  strange  that  a  gentleman 
should  have  a  fiumy  j^iece  o'  discoorse  wid  a 
fortune-teller." 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  observations  might 
be  made  afterwards." 

"  But  what  can  she  do  for  you  that  /can't  ? 
She's  a  bad  graft  to  have  anything  to  do  wid, 
and  I  wouldn't  recommend  you  to  put  much 
tiiist  in  her." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"Why,  she's  nothin'  else  than  a  schemer." 

Little  did  old  Solomon  suspect  that  he  was 
raismg  her  very  highly  in  the  estimation  of 
his  visitor  by  falhng  foul  of  her  in  this  man- 
ner. 

"At  all  events,"  said  Woodward,  "I  wish 
to  see  her  ;  and,  as  I  said,  I  came  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  asking  you  where  and  when 
I  could  see  her — privately,  I  mean." 

"That's  what  I  cant  tell  you  at  the  pres- 
ent spakin',''  replied  Solomon.  "She  has 
no  fixed  i^lace  of  livin',  but  is  here  to-day 
and  away  to-morrow.  God  help  you,  she 
has  travelled  over  the  whole  kingdom  teUin' 
fortunes.  Sometimes  she's  a  dummy,  and 
spalces  to  them  by  signs — sometimes  a  gj'psy 
— sometimes  she's  this  and  sometimes  she's 
that,  but  not  often  the  same  thing  long ; 
she's  of  as  many  colors  as  the  rainbow.  But 
if  you  do  wish  to  see  her,  there's  a  chance 
that  you  may  to-moiTow.  A  conjurer  has 
come  to  town,  and  he's  to  open  to-morrow, 
for  both  town  and  country,  and  she'll  surely 
be  here,  for  that's  taking  the  bit  out  of  her 
mouth." 

"  A  conjurer  !  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  here  before  some  time  ago, 
about  the  night  of  that  bonfire  that  was  jjut 
out  by  the  shower  o"  blood,  but  somehow  he 
disap23eared  fi-om  the  jjlace,  and  he's  now 
come  back." 

"A  conjiu"er — -well,  I  shall  see  the  con- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


^%i 


jurer  myself  to-morrow  ;  but  can  you  give 
me  no  more  accurate  mformation  with  re- 
spect to  your  niece  ?  " 

"  Sarra  syllable — as  I  tould  you,  she's 
never  two  nights  in  the  same  place  ;  bvit,  if 
I  should  see  her,  I'll  let  her  know  your 
•wishes  ;  and  what  might  I  say,  sir,  that  you 
wanted  her  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  That's  none  of  your  aflair,  most  sagacious 
Solomon — I  wish  to  sjjeak  with  her  myself, 
and  privately,  too  ;  and  if  you  see  her,  tell 
her  to  meet  me  here  to-morrow  night  about 
this  hour." 

"  I'll  do  so  ;  but  God  forgive  you  for  dis- 
turbiu'  me  in  my  devotions,  as  you  did.  It's 
not  often  I'd  give  them  up  for  any  one  ;  but 
sure  out  of  regai-d  for  the  proprietor  o'  the 
town  I'd  do  that,  and  more  for  you." 

"  Here,"  replied  Woodward,  putting  some 
silver  into  his  hand,  "  let  that  console  you  ; 
and  tell  your  niece  when  you  see  her  that  I 
am  a  good  paymaster  ;  and,  if  I  should  stand 
in  need  of  your  skill,  you  shall  find  me  so, 
too.  Good-night,  and  may  your  prayers  be 
powerful,  as  I  know  they  come  fi'om  a  Chris- 
tian heart,  honest  Solomon." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  Coiijurefs  Levee. 

We  cannot  form  at  this  distance  of  time 
any  adequate  notion  of  the  influence  which 
a  conjurer  of  those  days  exercised  over  the 
minds  and  feelings  of  the  ignorant.  It  was 
necessarj-  that  he  should  be,  or  be  supposed 
at  least  to  be,  well  versed  in  judicial  astrol- 
ogy, the  use  of  medicine,  and  consequently 
able  to  cast  a  nativity,  or  cure  any  earthly 
comi^laint.  There  is  scarcely  an,y  gi-ade "  or 
species  of  superstition  that  is  no^  associated 
with  or  founded  upon  fear.  The  conjurer, 
consequently,  was  both  feared  and  respect- 
ed ;  and  his  character  appeared  in  different 
phases  to  the  people — each  phase  adapted 
to  the  corresponding  character  of  those  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal.  The  educated  of 
those  days,  with  but  few  exceptions,  believed 
in  astrology,  and  the  possibility  of  develojjing 
the  future  fate  and  fortunes  of  an  individual, 
whenever  the  hour  of  his  birth  and  the 
name  of  the  star  or  planet  under  which  he 
was  born  could  be  ascertained.  The  more 
ignoi'ant  class,  however,  generally  associated 
the  character  of  the  conjurer  with  that  of  the 
necromancer  or  magician,  and  consequently 
attributed  his  predictions  to  demoniacal  in- 
fluence. Neither  were  they  much  mistaken, 
for  they  only  judged  of  these  impostors  as 
they  found  them.     In  nineteen  cases  out  of 


twenty,  the  character  of  the  low  astrologer, 
the  necromancer,  and  the  quack  was  associ- 
ated,  and  the  influence  of  the  stars  and  the 
aid  of  the  devil  were  both  considered  as 
giving  assurance  of  supernatural  knowledge 
to  the  same  individual.  This  unaccountable 
anxiety  to  see,  as  it  were,  the  volume  p? 
futurity  unrolled,  so  far  as  it  discloses  indi- 
vidual fate,  has  characterized  mankind  ever 
since  the  world  began  ;  and  hence,  even  in 
the  present  day,  the  same  anxiety  among  the 
ignorant  to  run  after  spae-women,  fortune- 
tellers, and  gyjjsies,  in  order  to  have  their 
fortunes  told  through  the  means  of  their 
adroit  predictions. 

On  the  following  morning  the  whole  town 
of  KathfiUan  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  by 
the  rumor  that  a  conjurer  had  arrived,  for 
the  I'urjjose  not  only  of  telling  all  their 
future  fates  and  fortune^  but  of  discovering 
aU  those  who  had  been  gudty  of  theft,  and 
the  places  where  the  stolen  property  was  to 
be  found.  This  may  seem  a  bold  stroke  ;  but 
when  we  consider  the  materials  upcyi  which 
the  sagacious  conjurer  had  to  work,  we  need 
not  feel  surprised  at  his  frequent  success. 

The  conjurer  in  question  had  taken  up  hia 
residence  in  the  best  inn  which  the  little 
town  of  Rathfillan  afforded.  Immediately 
after  his  arrival  he  engaged  the  beadle,  with 
beU  in  hand,  to  proclaim  his  presence  in  the 
town,  and  the  purport  of  his  visit  to  that 
part  of  the  country.  This  was  done  through 
the  medium  of  printed  handbills,  which  that 
officer  read  and  distributed  tlu-ough  the 
crowds  who  attended  him.  The  bill  in 
question  was  as  follows  : 

"  To  the  inhabitants  of  Rathfillan  and  the 
adjacent  neighborhood,  the  following  im- 
jjortant  communications  are  made  : — 

"  Her  Zander  Vanderpluckem,  the  cele- 
brated German  conjurer,  astrologist,  and 
doctor,  who  has  had  the  honor  of  predicting 
the  deaths  of  three  kings,  five  queens,  twenty- 
one  princesses,  and  seven  jjrinces,  all  of  royal 
blood,  and  in  the  best  possible  state  of  health 
at  the  time  the  jjredictions  were  made,  and 
to  all  of  whom  he  had  himself  the  honor  of 
being  medical  attendant  and  state  physician, 
begs  to  announce  his  aiTival  in  this  town. 
He  is  the  seventh  son  of  the  great  and  re- 
nowned conjurer,  Her  ZanderVanderhoaxem, 
who  made  the  stars  tremlsle,  and  the  devil 
sweat  himself  to  powder  in  a  tit  of  repentance. 
His  influence  over  the  stars  and  heavenly 
bodies  is  tremendous,  and  it  is  a  well-known 
fact  throughout  the  universe  that  he  has 
them  in  such  a  complete  state  of  terror  and 
subjection,  that  a  single  comet  dare  not  wag 
his  tail  unless  by  his  permission.  He  travels 
up  and  down  the  milky  way  one  night  ia> 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


every  month,  to  see  that  the  dairies  of  the 
sky  are  all  right,  and  that  that  celebrated 
path  be  proiierly  lighted  ;  brings  down  a 
pail  of  the  milk  with  him,  which  he  churns 
into  butyriis,  an  ungnient  so  efficacious  that 
it  cures  all  maladies  under  the  sun,  and 
many  that  never  existed.  It  can  be  had  at 
live  shillings  a  spoonful.  He  can  make  Ursa 
Major,  or  the  Great  Bear,  dance  without  a 
leader,  and  has  taught  Pisces,  or  the  Fishes, 
to  hve  out  of  water — a  prodigy  never  known 
or  heard  of  before  since  the  creation  of  terrff 
tirma.  Such  is  the  power  of  the  great  and 
celebrated  Her  Vanderpluckem  over  the 
stars  and  planets.  But  now  to  come  nearer 
home  :  he  cures  all  patients  of  all  complaints. 
No  person  asking  his  assistance  need  ever  be 
sick,  unless  when  they  happen  to  be  unwell. 
His  insight  into  futurity  is  such  that,  when- 
ever he  looks  far  into  it,  he  is  obliged  to 
shut  his  eyes.  He  can  tell  fortunes,  discover 
hidden  wealth  to  any  amount,  and  create 
such  love  between  sweethearts  as  will  be  sure 
to  end  in  matrimony.  He  is  complete  master 
of  the  fairies,  and  has  the  whole  generatioji 
of  them  under  his  thumb  ;  and  he  generally 
travels  with  the  king  of  the  fairies  in  his 
left  pocket  closed  up  in  a  suuft'box.  He 
iuteri^rets  dreams  and  visions,  and  is  never 
mistaken  ;  can  foretell  whether  a  child  un- 
born will  be  a  boy  or  a  girl,  and  can  also 
inform  the  jjarents  whether  it  will  be  brought 
to  the  bench  or  the  gallows.  He  can  also 
foretell  backwards,  and  disclose  to  the  indi- 
vidual anything  that  shall  happen  to  him  or 
her  for  the  last  seven  years.  His  philters, 
concocted  upon  the  jjrofound  science  of  al- 
chemistie  philosophy,  have  been  sought  for 
by  jJersous  of  the  highest  distinction,  who 
have  always  found  them  to  produce  the  very 
effects  for  which  they  were  intended,  to  wit, 
mutual  affection  between  the  parties,  uni- 
formly ending  in  matrimony  and  happiness. 
Devils  expelled,  ghosts  and  spmts  laid  on 
the  shortest  notice,  and  at  the  most  moderate 
terms.  Also,  recip)es  to  farmers  for  good 
weather  or  rain,  according  as  they  may  be 
wanted. 

"(Signed,)  Heb  Zander  Vantiekpluokem," 
"  The    Greatest    Conjurer,     Astrologer,    and 
Doctor  in  the  world." 

To  describe  the  effect  that  this  bill,  which, 
by  the  way,  was  posted  against  every  dead 
wall  in  the  town,  had  upon  the  peojDle,  would 
be  impossible.  The  inn  in  which  he  stop)- 
pcd  was,  in  a  short  time,  crowded  with  ap- 
23]icants,  either  for  rehef  or  information,  ac- 
cording as  their  ills  or  wishes  came  under 
the  resp)ective  heads  of  his  advertisement. 
The  room  he  occup)ied  was  upstairs,  and  he 
had  a  door  that  led  into  a  smaller  one,  or 


kind  of  closet,  at  the  end  of  it ;  here  sat  an 
old-looking  man,  dressed  in  a  black  coat, 
black  breeches,  and  black  stockings  ;  the 
very  picture  of  the  mysterious  individual 
who  had  appeared  and  disappeared  so  sud- 
denly at  the  bonfire.  He  had  on  a  fuU-bot- 
tomed  vrig,  and  a  long  white  beard,  depend- 
ing fi'om  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  swept 
his  reverend  breast.  A  large  book  lay  open 
before  him,  on  the  pages  of  which  were  in- 
scribed cabaUstic  characters  and  strange 
figures.  He  only  admitted  those  who  wished 
to  consult  him,  singly  ;  for  on  no  occasion 
did  he  ever  permit  two  persons  at  a  time  to 
approach  him.  All  the  paraphernalia  of  as- 
trology were  exposed  ujjon  the  same  table, 
at  one  end  of  which  he  sat  in  an  arm-chair, 
awaiting  the  commencement  of  operations. 
At  length  a  good-looking  eountry--\voman,  of 
about  forty-five  years,  made  her  apjiearanee, 
and,  after  a  low  courtes}-,  was  solemnly  mo- 
tioned to  take  a  seat. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Houlaghan,"  said  he,  "how 
do  you  do  ?  " 

The  poor  woman  got  as  pale  as  death. 
"Heavenly  Father,"  thought  she,  "how  does 
it  happen  that  he  comes  to  know  my  name  ! " 

"  ili-s.  Houlaghan,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 
not  that  I  need  ask,  for  I  could  give  a  very 
good  guess  at  it ; "  and  this  he  added  with  a 
very  sage  and  solemn  visage,  precisely  as  if 
he  knew  the  whole  circumstances. 

"Why,  your  honor,"  she  rejilied — "but, 
blessed  Father,  how  did  j'ou  come  to  know 
my  name  ?  " 

"That's  a  question,"  he  replied,  solemnly, 
"  which  you  ought  not  to  ask  mi'.  It  is 
enough  that  you  see  I  know  it.  How  is 
your  husband,  Frank,  and  how  is  your 
daughter,  Mary  ?  She's  complaining  of  late 
— is  she  not  ?  " 

This  jjrivate  kiiowledge  of  the  family 
comiiletelj'  overwhelmed  her,  and  she  felt 
unable  to  sp)eak  for  some  time. 

"  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry,  ]\Irs.  Houlaghan," 
said  he,  mildly  ;  "  reflect  upon  what  you  are 
about  to  say,  and  take  your  time." 

"  It's  a  ghost,  yoiu-  reverence,"  she  rejjhed 
— "  a  ghost«that  haunts  the  house." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Houlaghan  ;  the  fee  for 
laying  a  ghost  is  five  shillings  ;  I  will  trouble 
you  for  that  sum  ;  we  conjurers  have  no 
p)ower  until  we  get  money  from  the  party 
concerned,  and  then  we  can  work  with  elfect." 

The  simple  woman,  in  the  agitation  of 
the  moment,  handed  him  the  amount  of  his 
demand,  and  then  collected  herself  to  hear 
the  response,  and  the  means  of  laying  the 
ghost. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  "  tell  me  all  about 
this  ghost,  ili-s.  Houlaghan.  How  long  has 
it  been  troubling  'ihe.  family  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;   OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


687 


"Why,  then,  ever  since  Frank  lost  the 
use  of  his  sight,  now  goin'  upon  five 
mouths." 

"  When  does  it  appear  ?  " 

"  Why,  generally  afther  twelve  at  night ; 
and  what  makes  it  more  strange  is,  that 
poor  Marj's  more  afeard  o'  me  than  she  is 
of  the  ghost.  She  says  it  appears  to  her  in 
her  bedroom  every  night ;  but  she  knows 
I'm  so  timersome  that  she  keeps  her  door 
always  locked  for  fi'aid  I'd  see  it,  poor 
child." 

"  Does  it  terrify  her  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit ;  she  says  it  does  her  no  harm 
on  earth,  and  that  it's  gi'eat  comj)auy  for  her 
when  she  can't  sleep." 

"  Has  Mary  many  sweethearts  ?  " 

"  She  has  two  :  one  o'  them  rather  ould, 
but  wealthy  and  well  to  do  ;  her  father  and 
myself,  wishiu'  to  see  her  well  settled,  are 
doin'  all  we  can  to  get  her  consent  to  marry 
him." 

"  Wno's  the  other  ?  " 

"  One  Brine  Ogq  M'Gaveran,  a  good- 
lookin'  vagabone,  no  doubt,  but  not  worth  a 
copper. " 

"  Is  she  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Troth,  to  tell  you  the  trntli,  I'm  afeard 
slie  is  ;  he  lias  been  often  seen  about  the 
house  in  the  evenin's." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Houlaghan,  I  vriU  teU  you 
how  to  lay  this  ghost." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir  ;  poor  Mary,  although 
she  purtends  that  tlie  gliost  is  good  comjia- 
iiy  for  her,  is  lookin'  pale  and  very  quai'e 
somehow." 

"  Well,  then,  here  is  the  receijjt  for  laying 
tlie  ghost :  Marry  her  as  soon  as  you  possi- 
bly can  to  Brine  Oge  M'Gaveran — do  that 
and  the  gliost  wiU  never  apjoear  again  ;  but 
if  ycu  refuse  to  do  it — I  may  lay  ilial  ghost 
of  course — but  another  ghosr,  as  like  it  as 
an  egg  is  to  an  egg,  vsdll  haunt  your  house 
until  she  is  married  to  Brine  Oge.  You 
have  wealth  yourselves,  and  you  can  make 
Brine  and  her  comfortable  if  you  wish. 
She  is  your  only  child" — ("Blessed  Father, 
think  of  him  kuowin'  this  !  ") — "  and  as  you 
are  well  to  do  in  the  world,  it's  both  a  sin 
and  a  scandal  for  you  to  urge  a  pretty  young 
girl  of  nineteen  to  marry  an  old  miserly  nint 
of  fifty.  You  know  now  how  to  lay  the 
ghost,  Mrs.  Houlaghan — and  that  is  what  I 
can  do  for  you  ;  but  if  you  do  not  marry 
her  to  Brine  Oge,  as  I  said,  another  ghost 
wiU  certainly  contrive  to  haunt  you.  You 
miy  now  withdraw." 

A  farmer,  with  a  very  shrewd  and  comic 
expression  of  countenance,  next  made  his 
appearance,  and  taking  his  hat  off  and  laying 
it  on  the  floor  with  his  staff  across  it,  took 
his  seat,  as  he  had  been  motioned  to  do, 


upon  the  chair  which  Mrs.  Houlaghan  had 
just  vacated. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  the  conjurer, 
"what's  troubling  you  ?  " 

"  A  crock  o'  butther,  your  honor." 

"  How  is  that  ?  explain  yourself." 

"  Why,  sir,  a  crock  o'  butther  that  was 
stolen  from  me  ;  and  I'm  tould  for  a,,  sartinty 
that  you  can  discover  the  thief  o'  the  world 
that  stole  it." 

•'  And  so  I  can.  Do  you  suspect  any- 
body ?  " 

"Troth,  sir,  I  can't  say — for  I  live  in  a 
very  honest  neighborhood.  Tlie  only  two 
thieves  that  were  in  it — Charley  Folliott  and 
George  Austin — were  hanged  not  long  ago, 
and  I  don't  know  anybody  else  in  the  coun- 
try side  that  would  stale  it." 

"  What  family  have  you '? " 

"Three  son.s,  sir." 

"How  many  daughters?" 

"  One,  sir — but  she's  only  a  girsha "  (a 
little  girl). 

"  I  suppose  your  sons  are  very  good  chil- 
di'en  to  you  ?  " 

"  Betther  never  broke  bread,  sir — all  but 
the  youngest." 

"  What  age  is  he?" 

"  About  nineteen,  sir,  or  goin'  an  twenty  ; 
but  he's  a,  heart-scald  to  me  and  the  family 
— althougli  he's  his  mother's  pet  ;  the  divil 
can't  stand  him  for  dress — and,  moreover, 
he's  given  to  liquor  and  cai-d-pla;"in',  and  is 
altogether  goin'  to  the  bad.  AVidm  the  last 
two  or  three  days  he  has  bought  himself  a 
new  hat,  a  new  pair  o'  brogues,  and  a  pair  o' 
span-new  breeches — and,  upon  my  con- 
science, it  wasn't  fi'om  me  or  mine  he  got 
the  money  to  buy  them." 

The  conjurer  looked  solemnly  into  his 
book  for  some  minutes,  and  then  raising  his 
head,  fastened  his  cold,  glassy,  glittering 
eyes  on  the  farmer  with  a  glance  that  filled 
him  with  awe. 

"I  have  found  it  out,"  said  he;  "there 
ai"e  two  parties  to  the  theft — your  wife  and 
your  youngest  son.  Go  to  the  hucksters  of 
the  town,  and  ask  them  if  they  will  buy  any 
more  butter  like  the  last  of  yours  that  they 
bought,  and,  depend  on  it,  you  wiU  find  out 
the  truth." 

"  Then  you  think,  sir,  it  was  my  wife  and 
son  between  them  that  stole  the  butter  ?  " 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  and  if  you  tell  them 
that  /  said  so,  they  will  confess  it.  You  owe 
me  five  shillings." 

The  farmer  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
and  placing  the  money  before  him,  left  the 
room,  satisfied  that  there  was  no  earthly 
subject,  past,  present,  or  to  come,  with 
which  the  learned  conjurer  was  not  ac- 
quainted. 


688 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


The  next  individual  that  came  before  Lim 
was  a  veiy  pretty  Ijuxom  widow,  who,  having 
made  the  venerable  conjurer  a  courtesy,  sat 
■kovra  and  immediately  burst  into  tears. 

"  Wliat  is  the  matter  with  you,  madam  ?  " 
asked  the  astrologer,  rather  surj)rised  at 
this  unaccountable  exhibition  of  the  j)athetic. 

"O,  sir,  I  lost,  about  fifteen  months  ago, 
one  of  the  best  husbands  that  ever  broke  the 
world's  bread." 

Here  came  another  effusion,  accompanied 
with  a  very  distracted  blow  of  the  nose. 

"  That  must  have  been  vor'y  disti-essing  to 
you,  madam  ;  he  must  have  been  extremely 
fond  of  such  a  very  pretty  wife." 

"  O  sir,  he  doted  alive  upon  me,  as  I  did 
upon  him — poor,  darUng  old  Paul." 

"  Ah,  he  was  old,  was  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  left  me  very  rich." 

"  But  what  do  you  wish  mi>  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  he  was  very  fond  of  money  ; 
was,  in  fact,  a — a — kiud  of  miser  in  his  way. 
My  father  and  mother  forced  me  to  marry 
the  dear  old  man,  and  I  did  so  to  jjlease 
them  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  very  kiud 
in  his  manner  to  me — indeed,  so  kind  that 
he  allowed  me  a  shilling  a  month  for  pocket 
money." 

"  Well,  but  what  is  your  object  in  coming 
to  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  to  ask  your  opinion  on  a  case 
of  great  difficulty." 

"Very  well,  madam;  you  shall  have  the 
best  opinion  in  the  known  world  upon  the 
subject — that  is,  as  soon  as  I  hear  it.  Speak 
out  without  hesitation,  and  conceal  nothing." 

"  Why,  sir,  the  poor  dear  man  before  his 
death — ah,  that  ever  my  darling  old  Paul 
should  have  been  taken  away  firom  me  ! — the 
poor  dear  man,  before  his  death — ahem — be- 
fore his  death — O,  ah," — here  came  another 
effusion — "  began  to — to — to — get  jealous  of 
me  with  a  young  man  in  the  neighborhood 
that — that — I  was  fond  of  before  I  married 
my  dear  old  Paul." 

"  Was  the  young  man  in  question  hand- 
some ?  " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  he  was,  and  is,  very  hand- 
some— and  the  impudent  minxes  of  the  jjarish 
are  throwing  their  saps  at  him  in  dozens." 

"  But  still  you  are  keeping  me  in  the 
dark." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  will  tell  you  my  difficulty. 
When  poor  dear  old  Paul  was  dying,  he 
called  me  to  the  bed-side  one  day,  and  says 
to  me  :  '  Biddy,'  says  he,  'I'm  going  to  die 
— and  you  know  I  am  wealthy  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  I  won't  leave  you  sixpence.'  'It's 
not  the  loss  of  your  money  I  am  thinking  of, 
my  darling  Paul,'  says  I,  'but  the  loss  of 
yourseK' — and  I  kissed  him,  and  cried. 
'You  didn't  often  kiss  me  that  way  before/ 


said  he — '  and  I  know  what  you're  kissing 
me  for  now.'  'No,' I  said,  'I  did  not;  be- 
cause I  had  no  notion  then  of  losing  you,  my 
own  darling  Paul — you  don't  know  how  I 
loved  you  all  along,  Paul,'  said  I;  'kiss  me 
again,  jewel.'  '  Now,'  said  he,  '  I'm  not  going 
to  leave  you  sixpence,  and  I'll  tell  you  why— 
I  saw  young  Charley  Mulvauy,  that  you  were 
coui-ting  before  I  married  you — I  saw  him,  I 
say,  thi'ough  the  windy  there,  kiss  you,  with 
my  own  eyes,  when  you  thought  I  was  asleep 
— and  you  jjut  your  arms  about  his  neck  and 
hugged  him,'  said  lie.  I  must  be  particular, 
sir,  in  order  that  you  may  understand  the 
difficulty  I'm  in." 

"  Proceed,  madam,"  said  the  conjurer.  "  If 
I  were  young  I  certainly  would  envy  Charley 
Mulvany — but  jJi'oceed." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  replied  to  him  :  '  Paul,  dear,' 
said  I,  '  that  was  a  kiss  of  fi'iendship — and 
the  reason  of  it  was,  that  poor  Charley  was 
near  crying  when  he  heard  that  you  were 
going  to  die  and  to  leave  me  so  lonely.' 
'  Well,'  said  he,  '  that  may  be — many  a  thing 
may  be  that's  not  likely — and  that  may  be 
one  of  them.  Go  and  get  a  prayer-book,  and 
come  back  here.'  Well,  sir,  I  got  a  book  and 
went  back.  'Now,'  said  he,  'if  you  swear 
by  the  contents  of  that  book  that  you  will 
never  put  a  ring  on  man  after  my  death,  I'll 
leave  you  my  property.'  'Ah,  God  pardon 
you,  Paul,  darling,'  said  I,  '  for  supposing 
that  I'd  ever  dream  of  marrying  again  ' — and 
I  couldn't  help  kissing  him  once  more  and 
crying  over  him  when  I  heard  what  he  said. 
'  Now,' said  he,  'kiss  the  book,  and  swear 
that  you'll  never  put  a  ring  on  man  after  my 
death,  and  I'll  leave  you  every  shilling  I'm 
worth.'  God  knows  it  was  a  trying  scene  to 
a  loving  heart  like  mine — so  I  swore  that  I'd 
never  jjut  a  ring  on  man  after  liis  death — and 
then  he  altered  his  will  and  left  me  the  j^rop 
erty  on  those  conditions." 

"  Proceed,  madam,"  said  the  conjurer  ;  "I 
am  still  in  the  dark  as  to  the  object  of  your 
visit." 

"  Why,  sir,  it  is  to  know — ahem — O,  poor 
old  Paul.  God  forgive  me  !  it  was  to  know, 
sir,  O " 

"  Don't  ciy,  madam,  don't  ciy." 

"  It  was  to  know,  sir,  if  I  could  ever  think  of 
— of — you  must  know,  sir,  we  had  no  familj-, 
and  I  would  not  wish  that  the  proiierty  should 
die  with  me  ;  to  know  if—  if  you  think  I 
could  venture  to  marry  again  ?  " 

"  This,"  replied  the  conjurer,  "  is  a  matter 
of  unusual  importance  and  difficulty.  In 
the  first  jjlace  you  must  hand  me  a  guinea — 
that  is  my  tee  for  cases  of  this  kind. " 

The  money  was  immediately  jsaid,  and  the 
conjurer  proceeded  :  "  I  said  it  was  a  case  oi 
great  difficulty,  and  so  it  is,  but " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   TUE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


'•  I  forgot  to  mention,  sii',  tliat  when  I  went 
out  to  Ret  the  prayer-book,  I  found  Charley 
Mulvany  in  the  next  room,  and  he  said  he 
had  one  in  his  pocket ;  so  that  the  truth,  sir, 
is,  I — I  took  the  oath  upon  a  boot  of  ballads. 
Now,"  slie  proceeded,  "  I  have  strong  reasons 
for  marrying  Charley  Mulvany  ;  and  I  wish 
to  know  if  I  can  do  so  without  losing  the 
property." 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point,"  re- 
phed  the  conjurer  ;  "you  swore  never  to  put 
a  ring  on  man,  but  you  did  not  swear  that  a 
man  would  never  jjut  a  ring  on  you.  Go  home," 
he  continued,  "  and  if  you  be  advised  by 
me,  you  will  marry  Chai'ley  Mulvany  with- 
out loss  of  time." 

A  man  rather  advanced  in  years  next  came 
in,  and  taking  his  seat,  wiped  liis  face  and 
gave  a  deep  groan. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  the  conjurer,  "  in 
what  way  can  I  serve  you  ?  " 

"  God  knows  it's  hard  to  tell  that,"  he  re- 
plied— "  but  I'm  troubled." 

"  Wliat  troubles  you  ?  " 

"  It's  a  quare  world,  sir,  altogether." 

"  There  are  many  strange  things  in  it  cer- 
tainly." 

"  I'hat's  truth,  sir  ;  but  the  saison's  favor- 
able, thank  God,  and  there's  every  pros- 
pect of  a  fine  sj)ring  for  puttin'  down  the 
croi3S." 

"  You  are  a  farmer,  then  :  but  why  should 
you  feel  troubled  about  what  you  call  a  fine 
season  for  putting  do-s\-n  the  crops  ?  " 

The  man  moved  uneasily  upon  his  chair,  and 
seemed  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed  ;  the  con- 
jiu-er  looked  at  him,  and  waited  for  a  Uttle 
that  he  might  allow  him  sufficient  time  to 
disclose  his  difficulties. 

"  Thei'e  are  a  great  many  troubles  in  this 
life,  su",  especially  in  married  families." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  my  friend," 
replied  the  conjurer. 

"  No,  sir,  there  is  not.  I  am  not  aisy  in 
my  mind,  somehow." 

"Hundreds  of  thousands  are  so,  as  well 
as  you,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  would  be 
glad  to  see  the  man  who  has  not  Komething 
to  trou1)le  him  ;  but  will  you  allow  me  to  ask 
you  wh  it  it  is  that  troubles  you"?  " 

"  I  took  her,  sir,  widout  a  shift  to  her 
back,  and  a  betther  husband  never  bi-eathed 
the  breath  of  life  than  I  have  been  to  her  ; " 
and  then  he  paused,  and  j)ulling  out  his 
handkerchief,  shed  bitter  tears.  "  I  would 
love  her  stiU,  if  I  could,  sir  ;  but,  then,  the 
thing's  impossible." 

"  O,  yes,"  said  the  conjurer  ;  "I  see  you 
are  jealous  of  her  ;  but  will  you  state  upon 
what  grounds?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  I  have  good  gi-ounds 
for  it." 


"What  description  of  a  woman  is  your 
wife,  and  what  age  is  she  ?  " 

"  WTiy,  sir,  she's  about  my  own  age.  She 
was  once  handsome  enough — indeed  van' 
handsome  when  I  married  her." 

"  Was  the  marriage  a  cordial  one  betweea 
you  and  her  ?  " 

"  WHiy,  sir,  she  was  dotiu'  upon  me,  as  1 
was  upon  her  ?  " 

"  Have  you  had  a  familj'  ?  " 

"A  fine  family,  sir,  of  sons  and  daugh- 
ters." 

"  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  began  to 
suspect  her  ?  " 

"^Vhy,  sir,  I — I — well,  no  matther  about 
that ;  she  was  always  a  good  wife  and  a 
good  mother,  until — "  Here  he  jDaused,  and 
again  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  Untn  what  ?  " 

"  "SAHiy,  sir,  until  Billy  Fulton,  the  fiddler, 
came  across  her." 

"  Well,  and  what  did  Billy  Fulton  do  ?  " 

"He  ran  away  wid  my  ould  woman,  sir.'' 

'•  What  age  is  BiUy  Fulton  ?  '' 

"  About  mj'  own  age,  sir ;  but  by  no 
means  so  stout  a  man  ;  he's  a  dancin'  mas- 
ther,  too,  sir ;  and  barrin'  his  pumps  and 
white  cotton  stoekin's,  I  dont  know  what 
she  could  see  in  him  ;  he's  a  poor  light 
crature,  and  walks  as  if  he  had  a  hump  on  In? 
hij),  for  he  always  can-ies  his  fiddle  undher 
his  skirt.  Ay,  and  what's  more,  sir,  our 
daughter,  Nancy,  is  gone  off  wid  him." 

"  The  devil  she  is.  'Wliy,  did  the  old 
dancing-master  run  off  ^^•ith  both  of  them  ? 
How  long  is  it  since  this  elopement  took 
place  ?  " 

"  Only  three  days,  sir." 

"  And  you  wish  me  to  assist  j'ou?  " 

"If  you  can,  su- ;  and  I  ought  to  tell  yoU' 
that  the  vagabone's  son  is  gone  off  wid  them 
too." 

"  O,  O,"  said  the  conjurer,  "that  makes 
the  matter  worse." 

"No,  it  doesn't,  su',  for  what  makes  the- 
matter  worse  is,  that  they  took  away  a  Inm- 
dred  and  thirty  pounds  of  my  money  along 
wid  'em." 

"  Then  you  wish  to  know  what  I  can  do 
for  you  in  this  business  ?  " 

"  I  do,  su\  i'  you  plaise." 

"  Were  you  ever  jealous  of  your  wife  be- 
fore ?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly  jealous,  sir,  but  a  little 
suspicious  or  so  ;  I  didn't  think  it  safe  to  let' 
her  out  much  ;  I  thought  it  no  harm  to  keep 
my  eye  on  her." 

"Now,"  said  the  conjurer,  "is  it  not  no- 
torious that  you  ai-e  the  most  jealous — by 
the  way,  give  me  five  shillings  ;  I  can  make 
no  further  communications  till  I  am  jjaid  ; 
there — thank  you — now,  is  it  not  notorious 


590 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


that  you  are  one  of  the  most  jealous  old 
scouudi'els  in  the  whole  country  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  bariiu'  a  httle  wholesome  sus- 
picion." 

"  Well,  sir,  go  home  about  your  business. 
Your  daughter  and  the  dancing  master's  son 
have  made  a  runaway  match  of  it,  and  _vour 
wife,  to  protect  the  character  of  her  daughter, 
has  gone  wth  them.  You  are  a  miser,  too. 
Go  home,  now  ;  I  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  you,  except  that  you  have  been  yourself 
a  profligate.  Look  at  that  book,  su' ;  there 
it  is  ;  the  stars  have  told  me  so." 

"You  have  got  my  five  shillings,  sir  ;  but 
say  what  you  like,  all  the  wather  in  the  ocean 
wouldn't  wash  her  clear  of  the  ould  daucin'- 
masther." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  a  beautiful 
peasant  girl  entered  the  room,  her  face 
mantled  with  blushes,  and  took  her  seat  on 
the  chair  as  the  others  had  done,  and  re- 
mained for  some  time  silent,  and  apparently 
panting  with  agitation. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  pretty  girl?" 
asked  the  conjui-er. 

"  Grace  Davoren,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  And  what  do  you  wish  to  know  fi-om  me, 
Miss  Davoren  ?  " 

"  O,  don't  call  me  miss,  sir ;  I'm  but  a 
poor  gii'l." 

The  conjurer  looked  into  his  book  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then,  raising  his  head,  and 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her,  replied — 

"  Yes,  1  will  call  you  miss,  because  I  have 
looked  into  yoiir  fate,  and  I  see  that  there  is 
great  good  fortune  before  you." 

The  young  cieature  blushed  again  and 
smiled  with  something  hke  confidence,  but 
seemed  rather  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  or  how 
to  proceed. 

"From  your  extraordinaiy  beauty  you 
must  have  a  great  many  admirers,  Miss 
Davoren." 

"  But  only  two,  sir,  that  gives  me  any 
trouble — one  of  them  is  a " 

The  conjurer  raised  his  hand  as  an  inti- 
mation to  her  to  stoj),  and  after  poring  once 
more  over  the  book  for  some  time,  pro- 
ceeded : — 

"  Yes — one  of  them  is  Shaim-na-Middogne  ; 
but  he's  an  outlaw — and  that  courtsliip  is  at 
an  end  now." 

"  Wid  me,  it  is,  sir ;  but  not  wid  him. 
The  sogers  and  autorities  is  out  for  him  and 
others  ;  but  stiU  he  keejjs  watchin'  me  as 
close  as  he  can." 

"  Well,  wait  till  I  look  into  the  book  of 
fate  again — yes — j'es — here  is — a  genUeman 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you." 

Poor  Grace  blushed,  then  became  quite 
oale.  "  But,  sir,"  said  she,  "  will  the  gentle- 
uan  marry  me  ?  " 


"To  be  sure  he  will  marry  you ;  but  he 
cannot  for  some  time." 

"But  will  he  save  me  from  disgrace  and 
shame,  sir?"  she  asked,  with  a  death-like 
face. 

"  Don't  make  your  mind  uneasy  on  that 
point : — but  wait  a  moment  till  I  find  out  his 
name  in  the  great  book  of  fatality  ; — yes,  I 
see— his  name  is  Woodward.  Don't,  how- 
ever, make  your  mind  uneasy  ;  he  will  take 
care  of  you." 

"  My  mind  is  very  uneasy,  sir,  and  I  wish 
I  had  never  seen  him.  But  I  don't  know 
what  coiUd  make  him  fall  in  love  wid  a  j)Oor 
simple  girl  like  me." 

This  was  said  in  the  coquettish  con- 
sciousness of  the  beautj'  which  she  knew 
she  possessed,  and  it  was  accomi>anied,  too, 
by  a  slight  smile  of  self-complacency. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  become  a  lady, 
sir?" 

"  A  lady  !  why,  what  is  to  prevent  you  ? 
Yovi  are  a  lady  already.  You  want  nothing 
but  silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  gold  rings, 
to  make  you  a  perfect  lady." 

"  And  he  has  promised  all  these  to  me," 
she  replied. 

"  Yes  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  you  ought 
to  do  for  yoiu-  own  sake  and  his — and  that 
is  to  betray  Shawn-na-Middogue,  if  you  can  ; 
because  if  you  do  not,  neither  your  own  life, 
nor  that  of  your  lover.  Mr.  Woodward,  ■«dll 
be  safe." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,  sir,"  replied  the  giil  ; 
"  it  would  be  treacherous  ;  and  sooner  than 
do  so,  I'd  just  as  soon  he  would  kill  me  at 
wanst — still  I  would  do  a  great  deal  to  save 
Mr.  Woodward.  But  will  Mr.  Woodward 
marry  me,  sir  ?  because  he  said  he  would — • 
in  the  coorse  of  some  time." 

"  And  if  he  said  so  don't  be  imeasy  ;  he  is 
a  gentleman,  and  a  gentleman,  you  know, 
always  keejjs  his  word.  Do:i't  be  alarmed, 
my  pretty  girl — your  lover  will  i^rovide  for 

"  Am  I  to  pay  you  anything,  sir  ?  "  she 
asked,  rising. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  ^^'iU  take  no  money  fi'om 
you  ;  but  if  you  wnish  to  save  IMr.  Woodward 
from  danger,  you  will  enable  the  soldiers  to 
arrest  S'nawn-na-Middogue.  Even  you,  your- 
self, ai-e  not  safe  so  long  as  he  is  at  large." 

She  then  took  lier  leave  in  silence. 

It  is  not  to  be  supjiosed  that  among  the 
crowd  that  was  assembled  arovmd  the  inn 
door  there  were  not  a  number  of  waggish 
characters,  who  felt  strongly  incluicd  to 
have,  if  jiossible,  a  hearty  laugh  at  the 
groat  conjurer.  No  matter  what  state  of  so- 
ciety may  exist,  or  what  state  of  foehng 
may  prevail,  there  will  always  be  found  a 
class  of  jsersons  who   are  excc^jtions  to  the 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


69S 


general  rule.  Wliilst  the  people  were  chat- 
ting in  wonder  and  admiration,  not  without 
awe  and  fear',  concerning  the  extraordinary 
knowledge  and  power  of  the  conjurer,  a 
character  peculiar  to  all  times  and  all  ages 
made  his  appearance,  and  soon  joined  them. 
This  was  one  of  those  circulating,  unsettled 
vagabonds,  whom,  hke  scum,  society,  whether 
agitated  or  not,  is  always  sure  to  throw  on 
the  surface.  The  comical  miscreant  no 
Booner  made  his  appearance  than,  like  Lis- 
ton,  when  coming  on  the  stage,  he  was 
greeted  with  a  general  roar  of  laughter. 

"  So,"  said  he,  "  you  have  a  conjurer  above. 
But  wait  a  while  ;  by  the  jjowdhers  o'  delf 
Eantin'  Body's  the  boy  will  try  his  mettle. 
If  he  can  look  farther  than  his  nose,  I'm  the 
lad  will  find  it  out.  If  he  doesn't  say  I'll  be 
hanged,  he  knows  nothing  about  his  busi- 
ness. I  have  myself  half-a-dozen  hangmen 
engaged  to  let  me  dovm  aisy  ;  it's  a  de.ath 
I've  a  great  fancy  for,  and,  plaise  God,  I'm 
workin'  honestly  to  desarve  it.  Which  of 
you  has  a  cow  to  steal  ?  for,  by  the  sweets  o' 
rosin,  I'm  low  in  cash,  and  want  a  thrifle  to 
support  nather  ;  for  nather,  my  boys,  must 
be  supported,  and  it  was  never  my  intintiou 
to  die  for  want  o'  my  vittles  ;  aitiu'  and 
drinkin'  is  not  very  pleasant  to  most  peoj)le, 
I  know,  but  I  was  born  -wid  a  fancy  for 
both." 

"  Rantin'  Rody,  in  aimest,  will  you  go  up 
and  have  your  fortune  tould  ?  " 

"  But  wait,"  he  j)roceeded  ;  "  wait,  I  say, 
— wait, — I  have  it."  And  as  he  said  so  he 
went  at  the  top  of  his  speed  down  the  street, 
and  disappeared  in  Sol  Donnel's  cabin. 

"  By  this  and  by  that,"  said  one  of  them, 
"Rmtin'  Roily  wiU  take  spunk  out  of  him, 
if  it's  in  him." 

"I  think  he  had  better  have  notin'  to  do 
wid  him,"  said  an  old  woman,  "  for  fraid  he'd 
rise  the  devil — Lord  guard  us  !  Sure  it's  the 
same  man  that  was  in  this  very  town  the 
night  he  was  riz  before,  and  that  the  bonfire 
for  Suil  Balor  (the  eye  of  Balor,  or  the  Eril 
Ei/r)  Woodward  was  drowned  by  a  shower 
of  blood.  Ti'oth  I  wouldn't  be  in  the  same 
Woodward's  coat  for  the  wealth  o'  the  world. 
As  for  Rantin'  Rody,  let  him  take  care  of 
himself.  It's  never  safe  to  sport  wid  edged 
tools,  and  he'll  be  apt  to  find  it  so,  if  he 
attempts  to  put  his  tricks  upon  the  con- 
jiu-er." 

In  the  meantime,  while  that  gentleman 
was  seated  above  stairs,  a  female,  tail,  slim, 
and  consideraljly  advanced  in  years,  entered 
the  room  and  took  her  seat.  Her  face  was 
thin,  and  red  in  complexion,  especially  about 
the  point  of  a  rather  long  nose,  where  the 
color  appeared  to  be  considerably  deeper  in 
tkue. 


"Sir,"  said  she,  in  a  sharp  tone  of  voice, 
"I'm  told  you  can  tell  fortunes." 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  you 
have  been  correctly  informed." 

"  You  won't  be  offended,  then,  if  I  wish  to 
ask  you  a  question  or  two.  It's  not  about 
myself,  but  a  sister  of  mine,  who  is — ahem — 
what  the  censorious  world  is  pleased  to  call 
an  old  maid." 

"  Why  did  your  sister  not  come  herself?  " 
he  asked  ;  "  I  cannot  predict  anything  unless 
the  individual  is  before  me  ;  I  must  hava 
him  or  her,  as  the  case  may  be,  under  mj 
eye." 

"  Bless  me,  sir !  I  didn't  know  that ;  but 
as  I  am  now  here — could  you  teU  me  any- 
thing about  myself  ?  " 

"  I  could  tell  you  many  things,"  rejjlied 
the  conjurer,  who  read  old  maid  in  every 
line  of  her  face — "  many  things  not  very 
pleasant  for  you  to  reflect  upon." 

"  O,  but  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything  un- 
pleasant," said  she  ;  "  tell  me  something 
that's  agi'eeable." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  cannot  do  so,"  he 
rejilied  ;  "I  must  be  guided  bj'  truth.  You 
have,  for  instance,  been  guilty  of  great  cru- 
elty ;  and  although  you  are  but  a  young  wo- 
man, in  the  very  bloom  of  life " 

Here  the  lady  bowed  to  him,  and  simi^ered 
— her  thin,  red  nose  twisted  into  a  gracious 
curl,  as  thanking  him  for  his  pohteness. 

"In  the  very  j'rime  of  hfe,  madam — yet 
you  have  much  to  be  accountable  for,  in  con- 
sequence of  your  very  heartless  cruelty  to 
the  male  sex — you  see,  madam,  and  you  feel, 
too,  that  I  speak  truth." 

The  lady  put  the  spectre  of  an  old  fan  up 
to  her  withered  visage,  and  pretended  to 
enact  a  blush  of  admission. 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  rei^lied,  "  I — I — I  cannot 
say  but  that — indeed  I  have  been  charged 
with — not  that  it — ci-uelty — I  mean — was 
ever  in  my  heart  ;  but  you  must  admit,  sir. 
that — that — in  fact — where  too  many  jjresa 
upon  a  person,  it  is  the  more  difficult  to 
choose." 

"  Unquestionably  ;  but  you  should  have 
made  a  judicious  selection — and  that  was 
because  you  were  in  no  hurry — and  indeed 
you  need  not  be  ;  you  have  plenty  of  time 
before  you.  Still,  there  is  much  blame  at- 
tached to  you — you  have  defrauded  society 
of  its  rights.  Why,  now,  you  might  have 
been  the  proud  mother  of  a  son  or  daughter 
at  least  five  yeai-s  old  by  this  time,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  your  own  obduracy — excuse 
me." 

Up  went  the  skeleton  fan  again  with  a 
wonderfull}'  modest  if  not  an  ofi'euded  sim- 
per at  the  notion  of  such  an  insinuation;  but, 
said  she  in  her  heart,  this  is  the  most  gen' 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


llemanly  conjui'er  that  ever  told  a  fortune  ; 
(juife  a  delightful  old  gentleman ;  he  is 
really  charming  ;  I  wish  I  had  met  him 
twenty  years  ago." 

"Well,  sir,"  she  replied,  "I  see  there  is  no 
use  in  denj-ing — esiaecially  to  y()a,viho  seem  to 
know  everything — the  truth  of  the  facts  you 
have  stated.  There  was  one  gentleman  in 
particular  whom  I  rejected — that  is,  con- 
ditionally— rather  harshly;  and  do  you  know, 
iie  took  the  scarlet- fever  soon  aftenvards  and 
died  of  a  broken-heart." 

"  Go  on,  madam,"  said  he  ;  "  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it — so  shall  you  enable  me  to  com- 
pare the  future  with  the  past,  and  state 
your  coming  fortunes  more  distuictly." 

"Another  gentlercin,  sir  —  a  country 
squire — owes,  I  fear,  his  death  to  my  severity; 
he  was  a  hard  drinker,  but  I  gave  him  a 
month  to  reform — which  sentence  he  took  so 
much  to  heart  that  he  broke  his  neck  in  a  fox- 
chase  from  mere  despair.  A  third  individual 
— a  very  handsome  young  man — of  whom  I 
must  confess  I  was  a  httle  jealous  about  his 
ilirtiug  with  another  young  lady — felt  such 
remorse  that  he  absolutely  ran  away  with 
and  married  her.  I  know,  of  course,  I  am 
accountable  for  all  these  calamities  ;  but  it 
cannot  be  helped  now — my  conscience  must 
bear  it." 

"  You  should  not  look  back  upon  these 
things  vnth  too  much  remorse,"  rephed  the 
conjurer  ;  "  forget  them — bear  a  more  relent- 
ing heart ;  make  some  man  hajipy,  and 
marry.  Have  you  no  person  at  present  in 
youi'  eye  with  whom  you  could  shai'e  your 
charms  and  your  fortime  ?  " 

"  O,  sir,  you  are  complimentary." 

"  Not  at  all,  madam  ;  speak  to  me  can- 
didly, as  you  perceive  I  do  to  you." 

"Well,  then,"  she  rejihed,  "there  is  a 
young  gentleman  with  whom  I  should  wish  to 
enter  into  a — a  domestic — that  is — a  m.atri- 
monial  connection." 

"  Pray  what  age  is  he  ?  " 

"  Lideed,  he  is  but  young,  scarce  nineteen  ; 
but  then  he  is  very  wild,  and  I — ^I — have — 
indeed  I  am  of  too  kind  a  heart,  sir.  I  have 
sujijaUed  his  extravagance — for  so  I  must  caU 
it — poor  boy — but  cannot  exactly  get  him  to 
accept  a  legitimate  right  over  me — I  fear  he 
is  attached  elsewhere — but  you  know  he  is 
3'oung,  sir,  and  not  come  to  his  ripe  judg- 
ment yet.  I  read  your  handbill,  sir  ;  and  if 
you  could  fmiiish  me  with  a — something — 
ahem — that  might  enable  me  to  gain,  or 
rather  to  restore  his  affections — for  I  think 
he  was  fond  of  me  some  few  mouths  ago — I 
would  not  grudge  whatever  the  payment 
might  be." 

"You  mean  a  philter?  " 

**!  beheve  that  is  what  it  is  called,  sir." 


"  Well,  madam,  you  shall  be  supplied  with 
a  philter  that  never  fails,  on  the  payment  ol 
twenty-cne  shiUmgs.  This,  j)hilter,  madam, 
will  not  only  make  him  foud  of  you  before- 
mai'riage,  but  wiU  seciu-e  his  affections 
during  life,  iucreasLug  them  day  by  day,  so 
that  every  month  of  your  Uves  wiU  be  a  deli- 
cious honeymoon.  There  is  another  bottle 
at  the  same  jjrice  ;  it  may  not,  indeed,  be 
necessary  for  you,  but  I  can  assure  you  that 
it  has  made  many  famdies  hajsi^y  where 
there  had  been  previously  but  little  jjrospect 
of  hapjjiness  ;  the  price  is  the  same — twenty- 
one  shillings." 

Up  went  the  spectral  fan  again,  and  out 
came  the  forty-two  shillings,  and,  with  a 
formal  courtesy,  the  venerable  old  maid 
walked  away  with  the  two  bottles  of  aqua 
imra  in  her  jJocket. 

Now  came  the  test  for  the  conjurer's 
knowledge — the  sharp  and  unexpected  trial 
of  his  skill  and  sagacity.  After  the  old  maid 
had  taken  her  leave,  possessed  of  the  two 
bottles,  a  middle-aged,  large-sized  woman 
walked  in,  and,  after  making  a  low  courtesy, 
sat  down  as  she  had  been  desired.  The 
conjurer  glanced  keenlj'  at  her,  and  some- 
thing like  a  smile  might  be  seen  to  settle 
upon  his  features  ;  it  was  so  slight,  however, 
that  the  good  woman  did  not  notice  it. 

"Pray,  what's  the  object  of  your  visit  to 
me,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  My  husband,  sir — he  ruun'd  away  fi-om 
me,  sure." 

"  Small  blame  to  him,"  rej^lied  the  con- 
jurer. "If  I  had  such  a  wife  I  would  not  re- 
main a  single  hour  in  her  company." 
i  "And  is  that  the  tratement  you  give  a 
I  lieai-t-broken  and  desari:ed  cratiu-e  like  me  V  " 
I  "  Come,  what  made  him  run  awav  fi'om 
I  you?" 

"In  regard,  sir,  of  a  dishke  he  took  to 
!  me." 

'.'  That  was  a  proof  that  the  man  had  some 
taste." 

"Ay,  but  why  hadn't  he  that  taste  afore  he 
married  me  ?  " 

"It  was  very  well  that  he  had  it  after- 
wards— better  late  than  never." 

"  I  want  you  to  teU  me  where  he  is." 

"  Wliat  family  have  you  ?  " 

"  Seven  small  childre  that's  now  fatherless, 
I  may  say." 

"What  kind  of  a  man  was  your  hus- 
band?" 

"  Why,  indeed,  as  handsome  a  vagabone 
as  you'd  see  in  a  day's  travelliu'." 

"  Mention  his  name  ;  I  can  tell  you  noth- 
ing tiU  I  hear  it." 

"  He's  called  Eantin'  Rody,  the  thief,  anc^ 
a  great  sehamer  he  is  among  the  girls." 

"  Ranting  Rody — let  me  see,"  and  here  he 


THE  EVJL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


693 


iooked  very  solemnly  into  bis  book — "yes  ; 
I  see — a  baiter.  My  good  woman,  you  bad 
better  not  inquire  after  liim  ;  be  was  born 
to  be  banged." 

"  But  wben  will  tbat  bappen,  sir?  " 

"  Your  fate  and  bis  are  so  closely  united, 
tbat,  wbenever  be  swings,  you  will  swing. 
You  will  botli  bang  togetber  fi'om  tbe  same 
gallows  ;  so  tbat,  in  point  of  fact,  you  need 
not  give  yourself  mucb  trouble  about  tbe 
time  of  bis  suspension,  because  I  see  it  writ- 
ten bere  in  tbe  book  of  fate,  tbat  tbe  same 
bangman  wbo  swings  you  off,  will  swing 
him  off  at  tbe  same  moment.  You'll  die 
lovingly  togetber  ;  and  wben  lie  puts  bis 
tongue  out  at  those  wbo  will  attend  bis  exe- 
cution, so  will  you  ;  and  when  he  dances  bis 
last  jig  in  their  presence,'  so  will  you.  Are 
you  now  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Troth,  and  I'm  verj'  fond  o'  tbe  vaga^ 
bone,  although  he's  tbe  worst  friend  I  ever 
bad.  But  you  won't  tell  me  where  he  is  ?  and 
I  know  why,  because,  mtb  all  your  pretended 
knowledge,  the  devil  a  know  j'ou  know." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  tbat  ?  " 

"  Ay,  cocksure." 

"  Then  I  can  tell  you  tbat  be  is  sitting  on 
the  chair  there,  opposite  me.  Go  about 
your  business.  Body,  and  rant  elsewhere  ; 
you  may  impose  upon  others,  but  not  upon 
a  man  that  can  penetrate  tbe  secrets  of  hu- 
man Ufe  as  I  can.  Go  now ;  there  is  a 
white  wand  in  the  comer, — my  conjuring 
rod,— ^and  if  I  only  touched  you  with  it,  I 
could  leave  you  a  cripple  and  beggar  for  life. 
Go,  I  say,  and  tell  Caterine  Collins  how 
mucb  she  and  you  gained  by  this  attempt  at 
disgracing  me." 

Body,  for  it  was  he,  was  thunderstruck  at 
this  discovery,  and,  springing  to  "his  feet, 
disappeared. 

"  Well,  Body,"  said  the  crowd.  "  how  did 
you  manage  ?     Did  he  know  you  ?  " 

Body  was  as  white  in  tbe  face  as  a  sheet. 
"  Let  me  alone,"  be  replied  ;  "  tbe  conjurer 
above  is  tbe  devd,  and  nothin'  else.  I  must 
get  a  glass  o'  whiskey  ;  I'm  near  faintin'  ; 
I'm  as  wake  as  a  child  ;  my  strength's  gone 
The  man,  or  the  devil,  or  whatsomever  be  is, 
knows  everj-tbing,  and,  what  is  worse,  he 
tould  me  I  am  to  be  banged  in  earnest." 

"  Faith,  Body,  that  required  no  great 
knowledge  on  bis  part  ;  tbei'e's  not  a  man 
liere  but  could  have  tould  you  tbe  same 
thing,  and  there's  none  of  us  a  conjurer." 

Body,  liowever,  immediately  left  them  to 
discuss  the  matter  among  themselves,  and 
went,  thoroughly  crestfallen,  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  his  mission  to  Caterine  Collins,  who 
had  employed  him,  and  to  reassume  his  own 
clothes,  which,  indeed,  were  by  no  means 
.fresh  from  the  tailor. 


The  last  individual  whose  inten'iew  with 
tbe  conjurer  we  shall  notice  was  no  other 
than  Harry  Woodward,  our  hero.  On  en- 
tering he  took  bis  seat,  and  looked  famiharly 
at  the  conjui-er. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  there  was  no  recogni- 
tion ?  " 

"  How  could  there  ?  "  repUed  the  other  ■ 
"  j'ou  know  tbe  thing's  impossible ;  even 
without  my  beard,  nobody  in  the  town  on 
about  it  knows  my  face,  and  to  those  who 
see  me  in  character,  they  have  other  things 
to  think  of  than  the  perusal  of  my  features." 

"  The  girl  was  with  you  ?  " 

"  She  was,  and  I  feel  tbat,  unless  we  can  get 
Shawn-iia-Muhiogue  taken  oft"  by  some  means 
or  other,  yoiu*  life  wiU  not,  cannot,  be  safe." 

"  She  won't  betray  him,  then  ?  But  I  need 
not  ask,  for  I  have  pressed  her  upon  thai 
matter  before." 

"  She  is  very  light  in  not  doing  so,"  re- 
plied the  conjurer  ;  "  because,  if  she  did,  the 
consequence  would  be  destruction  to  herseli 
and  her  family.  In  addition  to  this,  however, 
I  don't  think  it's  in  her  jjower  to  betray  him. 
He  never  sleeps  more  than  one  night  in  the 
same  place  ;  and  since  her  recent  conduct  to 
him — 1  mean  since  her  intimacy  with  you— 
he  would  place  no  confidence  in  her." 

"  He  certainly  is  not  aware  of  our  inti- 
macy. " 

"  Of  course  he  is  not ;  you  would  soon 
know  it  to  your  cost  if  he  wtre.  Tbe  place 
of  your  rendezvous  is  somewhat  too  near 
civilization  for  him  ;  you  should,  however, 
change  it  ;  never  meet  twice  in  the  same 
place,  if  you  can." 

"  You  are  reaping  a  tolerably  good  harvest 
here,  I  suppose.  Do  they  ever  place  you  in 
a  difficulty  ?  " 

"  Difficulty !  God  help  you  ;  there  is  not 
an  individual  among  them,  or  tlu'oughout 
the  whole  parish,  with  whose  persons,  circum- 
stances, and  characters  I  am  not  acquainted  ; 
but  even  if  it  were  not  so,  I  could  make 
them  give  me  unconsciously  the  very  infor- 
mation they  want — returned  to  them,  of 
course,  in  a  new  shape.  I  make  them  state 
the  facts,  and  I  draw  the  inferences  ;  noth- 
ing is  easier  ;  it  is  a  trick  that  every  impos- 
tor is  master  of.  How  do  you  proceed  with 
Miss  Goodwin "? " 

"  Tbat  matter  is  hopeless  by  fair  means — 

she's  in  love  with  tbat  d d  brother  of 

mine." 

"No  chance  of  the  property,  then?" 

"  Not  as  affairs  stand  at  present ;  we  must, 
however,  maintain  oui"  intimacy ;  if  so,  1 
won't  despair  yet." 

"  But  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  If  she 
marries  your  brother  the  property  goea  in 
him — and  you  may  go  whistle." 


504 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


"1  don't  give  it  up,  though — I  bear  a 
brain  still,  I  think  ;  but  the  truth  is,  I  have 
not  completed  my  jjlan  of  operations.  What 
I  am  to  do,  I  know  not  yet  exactly.  If  I 
could  break  off  the  match  between  her  and 
my  brother,  she  might  probably,  through 
the  influence  of  her  jiarents  and  other  causes, 
be  persuaded  into  a  reluctant  marriage  with 
Harry  Woodward  ;  time,  however,  will  tell, 
and  I  must  only  work  my  way  through  the 
difficulty  as  well  as  I  can.  I  will  now  leave 
you,  and  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able  to  see 
you  again  for  a  week  to  come." 

"  Before  you  go  let  me  ask  if  you  know  a 
vagabond  called  Ranting  Rody,  who  goes 
about  through  the  country  Uving  no  one 
knows  how  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  know  him  ;  what  is  he  ?  " 

"  He's  nothing  except  a  paramour  of  Cat- 
erine  Collins's,  who,  you  know,  is  a  rival  of 
ours  ;  nobody  here  knows  anything  about 
him,  whilst  he,  it  aj)pears,  knows  every  one 
and  everything." 

"  He  would  make  a  good  conjurer,"  re- 
pHed  Woodward,  smiling. 

"  If  tbe  fellow  could  be  depended  on,"  re- 
phed  the  other,  "  he  might  be  useful  ;  in 
fact,  I  am  of  opinion  that  if  he  wished  he 
could  trace  Shawn-na-3Iiddogue's  haunts. 
The  scoundrel  attempted  just  now  to  impose 
upon  me  in  the  dress  of  a  woman,  and,  were 
it  not  that  I  knew  him  so  well,  he  might  have 
got  my  beaixl  strij)ped  fi'om  my  face,  and 
my  bones  broken  besides  ;  but  I  feel  confi- 
dent that  if  any  one  could  ti'ace  and  secui-e 
the  outlaw,  he  could — I  mean  with  profier 
assistance.     Tliiuk  of  this." 

"  I  shall  find  him  out,"  replied  Woodward, 
"  and  sound  him,  at  all  events,  and  I  think 
through  Caterine  CoUius  I  may  possibl}' 
seciu'e  him  ;  but  we  must  be  cautious. 
Good-by  ;  I  wish  you  success  !  " 

After  which  he  passed  through  the  crowd, 
exclaiming, 

"  A  wonderful  man — an  astonishing  nnn 
— and  a  fearful  man  ;  that  is  if  he  6e  a  man, 
which  I  very  much  doubt." 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Fortune-telling. 

Ever  since  the  night  of  the  bonfire  Wood- 
ward's character  became  involved  more  or 
less  in  a  mystery  that  was  peculiar  to  the 
time  and  the  superstitions  of  the  period. 
That  he  possessed  the  Evil  Eye  was  whis- 
pered about ;  and  wliat  was  stiU  more 
strange,  it  was  not  his  wish  that  such  ru- 
<aors  should  be  suppressed.     They  had  not 


yet,  however,  reached  either  Mice  Goodvnn 
or  her  jjarents.  In  the  meantime  the  feel- 
ings of  the  two  families  were  once  more 
suspended  in  a  kind  of  neutral  ojiposition, 
each  awaiting  the  other  to  make  the  first 
advance.  Poor  Alice,  however,  appeared 
rather  declining  in  health  and  spirits,  for, 
notwithstanding  her  firm  and  generous  de- 
fence of  Charles  Lindsay,  his  brother,  t  >  a 
certain  extent,  succeeded  in  shaking  her 
confidence  in  his  attachment.  Her  parents 
frequently  asked  her  the  cause  of  her  appar- 
ent melancholy,  but  she  only  gave  them 
evasive  replies,  and  stated  that  she  had  not 
felt  herself  veiy  well  since  Henry  Wood- 
ward's last  interview  with  her. 

They  now  lu'ged  her  to  take  exercise — 
against  which,  indeed,  she  always  had  a 
constitutional  repugnance — and  not  to  sit 
so  much  in  her  own  room  as  she  did ;  and 
in  order  to  comply  with  their  wishes  in  this 
respect,  she  forced  herself  to  walk  a  couple 
of  hours  each  day  in  the  lawn,  where  she 
generally  read  a  book,  for  the  purpose,  if 
jjossible,  of  overcoming  her  habitual  melan- 
choly. It  was  uiiou  one  of  these  occasions 
that  she  saw  the  fortune-teller,  Caterine  Col- 
lins, approach  her,  and  as  her  spirits  were 
unusually  depressed  for  the  moment,  she 
felt  no  inclination  to  enter  into  any  conver- 
sation with  her.  Natui'ally  courteous,  how- 
ever; and  reluctant  to  give  oii'enee,  she  al- 
lowed the  woman  to  advance,  especially  as 
she  could  j)erceive  from  the  earnestness  of 
her  manner  that  she  was  anxious  to  sjseak 
with  her. 

"Well,  Cateiine,"  said  she,  "I  hope  you 
are  not  coming  to  tell  my  fortune  to-day  ;  I 
am  not  in  sjjirits  to  hear  much  of  the  future, 
be  it  good  or  bad.  Will  you  not  go  up  to 
the  house  ?  They  will  give  you  something 
to  eat." 

"  Thank  you.  Miss  Alice,  I  wlU  go  up  by 
and  by  ;  but  in  the  manetime,  what  fortime 
could  any  one  teU  you  but  good  fortune  ? 
There's  nothui'  else  before  you  ;  and  if  there 
is,  I'm  come  to  j'ut  you  on  your  guard 
against  it,  as  I  T\ill,  jilaise  goodness.  I 
heai'd  what  I'm  goin'  to  mention  to  you  on 
good  autority,  and,  as  I  know  it's  true,  I 
think  it's  but  right  you  should  know  of  it,  too." 

Alice  immediately  became  agitated  ;  but 
mingled  with"  that  agitation  was  a  natural 
wish — perhiijjs  it  might  be  a  jjardonable  cmi- 
osity,  under  the  circumstances — to  hear  how 
what  the  woman  had  to  disclose  could  af- 
fect herself.  Being  nei-vous,  restless,  and 
depressed,  she  was  just  in  the  very  fi-ame  of 
mind  to  receive  such  an  impression  as  might 
be  deeply  jirejudicial  to  the  ease  of  her  heart 
— perhaps  her  happiness,  and  conseqiventl_y 
her  health. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   TEE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


695 


■"  What  is  it  that  you  thiuk  I  should  know, 
Cfiteriue  ?  " 

Cateriue,  who  looked  about  her  fiu'tivelj', 
as  if  to  satisfy  herself  that  there  was  no  one 
present  but  themselves,  said, — 

"  Now,  ]\Iiss  Goodwin,  everything  depends 
on  whether  ,you'U  answer  me  one  question 
truly,  and  you  needn't  be  afeard  to  sjsake  the 
truth  to  me." 

"  Is  it  concerning  myself  ?  " 

"It  is,  Miss  Goodwija,  and  another,  too, 
but  iJiiucii^ally  yourself." 

"  But  what  right  have  you,  Caterine,  to 
question  me  upon  my  own  affairs  ?  " 

"  No  right,  miss  ;  but  I  wish  to  j)revent 
you  fi-om  harm." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  good  wishes,  Cate- 
riue ;  but  what  is  it  _you  would  say  ?  " 

"  Is  it  true,  Miss  Alice,  that  you  and  Mr. 
Woodward  are  coortin'  ?  " 

"Itis?(o/,  Caterine,"  replied  Alice,  utter- 
ing the  disavowal  with  a  good  deal  of  earnests 
ness  ;  "  there  is  no  truth  whatsoever  in  it ; 
nothing  can  be  more  false  and  gi-oundless — 
I  wonder  how  such  a  rumor  coidd  have  got 
abroad  ;  it  certainly  could  not  proceed  fi-om 
Mr.  Woodwai-d." 

"  It  did  not,  indeed,  Miss  Alice  ;  but  it  did 
from  his  brother,  who,  it  seems,  is  very  fond 
of  him,  and  said  he  was  glad  of  it ;  but  in- 
deed, miss,  it  dehghts  my  heart  to  hear  that 
there  is  no  truth  in  it.  Mr.  Woodward,  God 
save  us  !  is  no  fit  husband  for  any  Christian 
woman." 

"Why  so? "asked  Alice,  laboring  under 
some  vague  sense  of  alarm. 

"  Why,  Heavenly  Father !  Miss  Alice, 
sure  it's  well  known  he  has  the  EvU  E^-e  ; 
it's  in  the  family  ujion  his  mother's  side." 

"  My  God  !  "  exclaimed  Alice,  who  became 
instantly  as  jjale  as  death,  "  if  that  be  true, 
Caterine,  it's  shocking." 

"  True,"  repUed  Caterine  ;  "  did  j'ou  never 
observe  his  eyes  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly." 

"  Did  you  remark  that  they're  of  different 
colors  ?  that  one  of  them  is  as  black  as  the 
devil's,  and  the  other  a  gray  ?  " 

"I  never  observed  that,"  replied  Alice,  who 
really  never  had. 

"  Yes,  and  I  could  teU  you  more  than  that 
about  him,"  jjroceeded  Caterine  ;  "  they  saj' 
he's  connected  wid  what's  not  good.  Sure, 
when  they  got  up  a  bonfire  for  him,  doesn't 
all  the  world  know  that  it  was  put  out  by  a 
shower  of  blood  ;  and  that's  a  proof  that 
hes  a  favorite  wid  the  devil  and  the  fairies." 

"I  believe,"  rej)lied  Alice,  "that  there  is 
no  doubt  whatsoever  about  the  shower  of 
blood  ;  but  I  should  not  consider  that  fact 
as  proof  that  he  is  a  favorite  with  either  the 
devU  or  the  faiiies." 


"  Ay,  but  you  don't  know,  miss,  that  thaft 
the  way  tiwy  have  of  sho\vin'  it.  Then,  eve? 
since  he  has  come  to  the  countiy,  Bet  Har- 
ramount,  the  witch,  in  the  shajje  of  a  white 
hare,  is  come  back  to  the  neighliorhood; 
and  the  Shaum-dhinne-dhuo  is  now  seen  about 
the  Haunted  House,  oftener  than  he  ever 
was.  It's  well  known  that  the  white  hare 
jjlays  about  Mi-.  Woodward  like  a  dog,  and 
that  she  goes  into  the  Haunted  House,  too, 
every  night." 

"And  what  brought  you  to  tell  me  all 
this,  Caterine  ?  "  asked  Alice. 

"  Why,  miss,  to  jsut  j'ou  on  your  guard  ; 
afraid  you  might  get  married  to  a  man  that, 
maybe,  has  sould  himself  to  the  devil.  It's 
well  kuo^NTi  bj'  his  father's  sarvints  that  he's 
out  two  or  three  nights  in  the  week,  and  no- 
body can  teU  where  he  goes." 

"  Are  the  servants  yoiu-  authority  for 
that?" 

"  Indeed  they  are  ;  Barney  Casey  knows  a 
gi'eatdeal  about  him.  Now,  Miss  Alice,  you're 
on  your  guard  ;  have  nothing  to  do  wid  him 
as  a  sweetheart ;  but  above  all  things  don't 
fall  out  wid  him,  bekaise,  if  you  did,  as  sure 
as  I  stand  here  he'd  wither  you  off  o'  the 
earth.  And  above  all  things  again  watch  hi>: 
ej'es  ;  I  mane  the  black  one,  but  don't  set  ra 
to  do  so  ;  and  now  good-by,  miss  ;  I've  done 
my  duty  to  you." 

"But  about  his  brother,  Caterine?  He 
has  not  the  Evil  Eye,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Ah,  miss,  I  could  tell  .you  something 
about  him,  too.  They're  a  bad  graft,  these 
Lindsays  ;  there's  Mr.  Charles,  and  it's  whis- 
pered he's  goin'  to  make  a  fool  of  himself 
and  disgrace  his  family." 

"  How  is  that,  Caterine  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  rightly  ;  I  didn't  hear  tlie 
particulars  ;  but  I'U  be  on  the  watch,  and 
when  I  can  I'll  let  you  know  it." 

"Take  no  such  trouble,  Caterine,"  siil 
Alice  ;  "I  assure  you  I  feel  no  jjersonal 
interest  whatsoever  in  any  of  the  family  ex- 
cefit  Miss  Lindsay.  Leave  me,  Caterine, 
leave  me  ;  I  must  finish  my  book  ;  but  I 
thank  you  for  your  good  wishes.  Go  up, 
and  say  I  desired  them  to  give  you  your 
dinner." 

Alice  soon  felt  herself  obliged  to  follow  ; 
and  it  was,  indeed,  with  some  diifieidty  she 
was  able  to  reach  the  house.  Her  heart  got 
deadly  sick  ;  an  extraordinary  weakness 
came  over  her  ;  she  became  alarmed,  fright- 
ened, distressed  ;  her  knees  tottered  under 
her,  and  she  felt  on  reaching  the  hall-door 
as  if  she  wei'e  about  to  faint.  Her  imagina- 
tion became  disturbed  ;  a  heavy,  depressing 
gloom  descended  upon  her,  and  darkened  her 
flexible  and  unresisting  spirit,  as  if  it  were 
the  forebodings  of  some  terrible  calamity.  • 


G96 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


The  diabolical  wretch  who  had  just  left  her 
took  care  to  perform  her  base  and  heartless 
task  with  double  effect.  It  was  not  merely 
tlie  information  she  had  communicated  con- 
i;erning  Woodward  that  affected  her  so 
deeply,  although  she  felt,  as  it  were,  in  the 
inmost  recesses  of  her  soul,  that  it  was  true, 
hut  that  which  went  at  the  moment  with 
greater  agony  to  her  heart  was  the  allusion 
to  Charles  Lindsay,  and  the  corroboration  it 
afforded  to  the  truth  of  the  charge  which 
Woodward  had  brought,  with  so  much  appar- 
ent reluctance,  against  him — the  charge  of 
having  neglected  and  abandoned  her  for 
another,  and  that  other  a  person  of  low 
l)irth,  who,  by  reUnquishing  her  virtue,  had 
contrived  to  gain  such  an  artful  and  selfish 
ascendancy  over  him.  How  could  she  doubt 
it  ?  Here  was  a  woman  ignorant  of  the  com- 
munication Woodward  had  made  to  her, — 
ignorant  of  the  vows  that  had  passed  between 
lliem, — who  had  heard  of  his  falsehood  and 
profligacy,  and  who  never  would  have  alluded 
(o  them  had  she  not  been  questioned.  So 
f.ir,  then.  Woodward,  she  felt,  stood  without 
blame  with  respect  to  his  brother.  And  how 
could  she  suspect  Caterine  to  have  been  the 
agent  of  that  gentleman,  when  she  knew  now 
that  her  object  in  seeking  an  interview  with 
Jierself  was  to  put  her  on  her  guard  against 
him  ?  The  case  was  clear  and,  to  her,  dread- 
ful as  it  was  clear.  She  felt  herself  now, 
however,  in  that  mood  which  no  sympathy 
'i.in  alleviate  or  remove.  She  experienced  no 
wish  to  communicate  her  distress  to  any 
one,  but  resolved  to  jsreserve  the  secret  in 
her  own  bosom.  Here,  then,  was  she  left 
to  suffer  the  weight  of  a  twofold  atHiction — 
■he  dread  of  Woodward,  with  which  Cater- 
ine's  intelligence  had  filled  her  heart,  feeble, 
and  timid,  and  credulous  as  it  was  ujson  any 
liubject  of  a  superstitious  tendency — and  the 
stiU  deeper  distress  which  weighed  her 
down  in  consequence  of  Charles  Lindsay's 
)  reachery  and  dishonor.  Alas !  poor  Alice's 
heart  was  not  one  for  sti'uggles,  nurtured 
and  bred  up,  as  she  had  been,  in  the  very 
wildest  spirit  of  superstition,  in  all  its  de- 
gradmg  ramifications.  There  was  something 
in  the  imagination  and  constitution  of  the 
poor  girl  which  generated  and  cherished  the 
superstitious  which  prevailed  in  her  daj'. 
She  could  not  throw  them  oft'  her  mind,  but 
dwelt  upon  them  with  a  kind  of  fearful 
pleasure  which  we  can  understand  from  those 
which  operated  upon  our  own  fancies  in  our 
youth.  These  prepare  the  mind  for  the 
j'cceijtion  of  a  thousand  fictions  concerniug 
ghosts,  witches,  fairies,  apparitions,  and  a 
long  catalogue  of  nonsense,  equally  disgust- 
ing and  repugnant  to  reason  and  common- 
'  sense.     It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  poor 


Alices  mind  on  that  night  was  filled  \»itb 
phantasms  of  the  most  feverish  and  excited 
description.  As  far  as  she  could,  however, 
she  concealed  her  agitation  from  her  i^arents, 
but  not  so  successfully  as  to  prevent  them 
from  j)erceiving  that  she  was  laboring  under 
some  extraordinary  and  unaccountable  de-- 
pression.  This  uufortimately  was  too  true. 
On  that  night  she  experienced  a  series  of 
such  wild  and  frightful  visions  as,  when  she 
was  startled  out  of  them,  made  her  ih-ead  to 
go  again  to  sleep.  The  white  liai-e,  the  Black 
Spectre,  but,  above  all,  the  fearful  exj^res- 
sion  her  alai-med  fancy  had  felt  in  AVood- 
ward's  eye,  which  was  riveted  upon  her,  she 
thought,  with  a  balefid  and  demoniacal 
glance,  that  pierced  and  jsrostrated  her 
sijirit  with  its  mahgnant  and  supernatural 
power  ;  all  these  terrible  images,  \\ ith  fiftj- 
other  incoherent  chimeras,  flitted  before  the 
wi'etched  girl's  imagination  duiing  her  fever- 
ish slumbers.  Towards  morning  she  sank 
into  a  somewhat  calmer  state  of  rest,  but 
still  with  occasional  and  flitting  glimpses  of 
the  same  horrors. 

So  far  the  master-.s2)irit  had  set,  at  least, 
a  portion  of  his  machinery  in  motion,  in  ordet 
to  work  out  his  jjui-poses  ;  but  we  shall  find 
that  his  designs  became  deeper  and  blacker 
as  he  proceeded  in  his  coui'se. 

In  a  few  days  Alice  became  sonjewhat  re- 
lieved from  the  influence  of  these  tumultuous 
and  spectral  phantasms  which  had  run  riot 
in  her  terrified  fancy ;  and  this  was  princi- 
pally owing  to  the  circumstance  of  her  hav- 
ing j)revailed  upon  one  of  the  mrjd-sei-vants, 
a  girl  named  Bessy  Mangan,  Barney  Casey's 
sweetheart,  to  sleeis  privately  in  her  room. 
The  attack  had  reduced  and  enfeebled  her 
very  much,  but  still  she  was  slightly  im- 
proved and  somewhat  reheved  in  her  spirits. 
The  shock,  and  the  nervous  i^aroxysm  thai 
accomj)auied  it,  had  nearlj' passed  away,  and 
she  was  now  anxious,  for  the  sake  of  hei 
health,  to  take  as  much  exercise  as  she  could. 
Still — still — the  two  leading  thovights  would 
recur  to  her — that  of  Charles's  treaclierj', 
and  the  terrible  gift  of  curse  i^ossessed  bj' 
his  brother  Henry ;  and  once  more  he 
heart  would  sink  to  the  uttermost  depths  of 
distress  and  terror.  The  sujaernatural,  how- 
ever, in  the  course  of  a  little  time,  prevailed, 
as  it  was  only  reasonable  to  sujipose  it  would 
in  such  a  temperament  as  hers ;  and  as 
her  mind  proceeded  to  struggle  with  the 
two  impressions,  she  felt  that  hei-  dread 
of  Woodward  was  gradually  gaining  upon 
and  absorbing  the  other.  Her  fear  of  him, 
consequent^,  was  deadlj'  ;  that  terrible  and 
midignant  eye — notwithstanding  its  dai'k 
biilhancy  and  a\vful  beauty,  alas !  too,  sig- 
nificant of  its  power — was  constantly  befor« 


Lkr,-.-,y 

):  THE 
•JNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


Tikn    WHJCH    RE    CAME  TO    THE    DOOB  HE    PAUSED   A    MOMENT,  TUBNING    LTON    HEE    ONE   LO»e,  DA£», 

INKXPLICABUE  GA7.IL — Evii.  Eyt^  chap.  xii,  p.  CC'7. 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    TEE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


097 


ier  imagination,  gazing  upon  her  with  a 
fixed,  determined,  and  mysterious  look,  ac- 
companied by  a  smOe  of  triumph,  whicli 
deepened  its  satanity,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
to  coin  a  word,  at  everj'  glance.  It  was  not 
mere  antipathy  she  felt  for  him  now,  but 
dread  and  horror.  How,  then,  was  she  to 
act '?  She  had  jDledged  herself  to  receive  his 
visits  ujjon  one  condition,  and  to  permit  him 
to  continue  a  friendly  intimacy  altogether 
apart  fiom  love.  How,  then,  could  she 
violate  her  word,  or  treat  him  vdth  rudeness, 
who  had  always  not  only  treated  her  with 
courtesj-,  but  expressed  an  interest  in  her 
happiness  which  she  had  every  reason  to 
believe  sincere?  Thus  was  the  jjoor  girl 
entangled  with  difficulties  on  every  side 
■without  possessing  any  means  of  releasing 
herself  from  them. 

Li  a  few  daj's  after  this  she  was  sitting  in 
the  drawing-room  when  Woodward  unex- 
pectedlj'  entered  it,  and  saluted  her  mth 
great  apparent  good  feeling  and  poUteness. 
The  surprise  caused  her  to  become  as  pale  as 
death  ;  she  felt  her  very  hmljs  relax  with 
weakness,  and  her  breath  for  a  few  moments 
taken  away  fi'om  her  ;  she  looked  upon  him 
with  an  expression  of  alarm  and  fear  which 
she  could  not  conceal,  and  it  was  with  some 
difficulty  that  she  was  at  length  enabled  to 
sjjeak. 

"  Yoii  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  she  said,  "for 
not  rising  ;  I  am  very  nervous,  and  have  not 
been  at  all  well  for  the  last  week  or  up- 
wards." 

"  Indeed,  ^Miss  Goodwin,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  hear  this  ;  I  trust  it  is  only  a  mere  pass- 
ing indisposition  ;  I  think  the  complaint  is 
general,  for  my  sister  has  also  been  ailing 
much  the  same  way  for  the  last  few  days. 
Don't  be  alarmed,  Miss  Goodw-in,  it  is  noth- 
ing, and  won't  signify.  You  should  mingle 
more  in  society,;  you  keep  too  much  alone." 

"  But  I  do  not  relish  society  ;  I  never 
mingle  in  it  that  I  don't  feel  exhausted  and 
depressed." 

"  That  certainly  makes  a  serious  diflfei-- 
ence  ;  in  such  a  ease,  then,  I  imagine  societj' 
would  do  you  more  harm  than  good.  I 
should  not  have  intruded  on  you  had  not 
your  mother  requested  me  to  come  up  and 
try  to  raise  your  spii-its — a  ijleasui'e  which  I 
woidd  gladly  enjoy  if  I  could." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," she  rejilied  ;  "  I  hope  a  short  time 
will  remove  this  unusual  depression,  and  I 
must  only  have  a  little  patience." 

"  Just  so,  Miss  Goodwin  ;  a  little  time,  as 
you  say,  ^^-ill  restore  you  to  yourself." 

Now  all  tliis  was  very  courteous  and  kind 
of  ]\Ir.  Woodward,  and  might  have  raised  her 
spirits  were  it  not  for  the  I'ye.     From  the 


moment  he  entered  the  ajjartment  that 
dreaded  instrument  of  his  power  was  fixed 
upon  her  with  a  look  so  concentrated,  pierc- 
ing, and  intense,  that  it  gave  a  character  of 
abstraction  to  all  he  said.  In  other  words, 
she  felt  as  if  his  language  proceeded  out  of 
his  lips  imeonsciously,  and  that  some  mys- 
terious jjui-jjort  of  his  heart  emanated  from 
his  eye.  It  ajj^^eared  to  her  that  he  was 
thinking  of  something  secret  connected  with 
herself,  to  which  his  words  bore  no  reference 
whatsoever.  She  neither  knew  what  to  do 
nor  what  to  say  under  this  terrible  and  per- 
meating  gaze  ;  it  was  in  vain  she  tui'ned 
away  her  eyes  ;  she  knew — she  felt — that  his 
was  upon  her — that  it  was  drinking  up  her 
strength — that,  in  fact,  the  evil  influence  was 
mingling  with  and  debilitating  her  frame, 
and  operating  upon  all  her  faculties.  There 
was  still,  however,  a  worse  sjmptom,  and 
one  which  gave  that  gaze  a  significance  that 
appalled  her — this  was  the  smile  of  triumjjh 
winch  she  had  seen  playing  coldly  but  tri- 
umphantly about  his  lips  in  her  dreams. 
That  smile  was  the  feather  to  the  arrow  that 
pierced  her,  and  that  was  piercing  her  at 
that  moment — it  was  the  cold  but  glittering 
glance  of  the  rattlesnake,  when  breaking 
down  by  the  poison  of  his  eyes  the  power  of 
resistance  in  his  devoted  rictim. 

"Mr.  Woodward,"  said  she,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  I  am  unable  to  beai-  an  interview — • 
have  the  goodness  to  withdraw,  and  when 
you  go  down-stairs  send  my  mother  up.  Ex- 
cuse me,  sir  ;  but  you  must  perceive  how 
very  Ul  I  have  got  within  a  few  mumtes." 

"I  regret  it  exceedingly,  Miss  Goodwin. 
I  had  something  to  mention  to  you  respect- 
ing that  uufortun  ite  brother  of  mine ;  but 
you  are  not  now  in  a  condition  to  hear  anj- 
thing  unpleasant  and  distressing  ;  and,  in- 
deed, it  is  better,  I  think,  now  that  I  observe 
your  state  of  health,  that  you  should  not  even 
wish  to  hear  it." 

"I  never  do  wish  to  hear  it,  sir  ;  but  have 
the  goodness  to  leave  me." 

"  I  ti'ust  my  next  visit  will  find  you  better. 
Good-by,  Miss  Good\vin  !  I  shall  send  your 
mother  up." 

He  %vithdrew  verj'  much  after  the  etiquette 
of  a  subject  leaving  a  crowned  head — that  is, 
nearly  backwards  ;  but  when  he  came  to  tlie 
door  he  paused  a  moment,  turning  upon  her 
one  long,  dark,  inexplicable  gaze,  whilst  the 
muscles  of  his  hard,  stony  mouth  were 
drawn  back  with  a  smile  that  contained  in  its 
expression  a  spirit  that  might  be  considered 
complacent,  but  which  Alice  interpreted  as 
derisive  and  diabolical. 

"  Mamma,"  said  she,  when  her  mother 
joined  her,  "  I  am  ill,  and  I  know  not  what 
to  do." 


398 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"I know  you  are  not  well,  my  love,"  re- 
plied her  mother,  "  but  I  hope  you're  not 
worse  ;  how  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"Quite  feeble,  utterly  without  strength, 
and  dreadfully  de^H-essed  and  alarmed." 

"Alarmed,  Alley  !  Why,  what  could  alarm 
you  ?  Does  not  Sir.  Woodward  always  con- 
duct himself  as  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  He  does,  ma'am  ;  but,  nevertheless,  I 
never  wish  to  see  him  again." 

"  ^liy,  dear  me  !  Alice,  is  it  reasonable 
that  you  should  give  way  to  such  a  j)rejudice 
against  that  gentleman?  Lideed  I  bcUeve 
you  absolutely  hate  him." 

"It  is  not  personal  hatred,  mother  ;  it  is 
fear  and  terror.  I  do  not,  as  I  said,  hate 
the  man  jiersonally,  because  I  must  say 
that  he  never  deserved  such  a  feeling  at  my 
hands,  but,  in  the  meantime,  the  sight  of  him 
sickens  me  almost  to  death.  I  am  not  aware 
that  he  is  or  ever  was  immoral,  or  guilty  of 
anj'  act  that  ought  to  expose  him  to  hatred  ; 
but,  notwithstanding  that,  my  impression, 
when  conversing  with  him,  is,  that  I  am  in 
the  presence  of  an  evil  sjiirit,  or  of  a  man 
who  is  possessed  of  one.  Mamma,  he  must 
be  excluded  the  house,  and  forbidden  to 
visit  here  again,  otherwise  my  heidth  will 
be  destroyed,  and  my  very  life  placed  in 
danger." 

"  My  dear  Alice,  that  is  all  very  strange," 
replied  her  mother,  now  considerably 
alarmed  at  her  language,  but  still  more  so  at 
her  ap25earanee  ;  "  why,  God  bless  me, 
child  !  now  that  I  look  at  you,  you  certainly 
do  seem  to  be  in  an  extraordinary  state.  You 
are  the  color  of  death,  and  then  you  are  all 
tremliling  !     Why  is  this,  I  ask  again  ?  " 

"  The  presence  of  that  man,"  she  replied, 
in  a  faint  voice  ;  "  his  presence  sim^ily  and 
solely.  That  is  what  has  left  me  as  you  see 
me." 

"  Well,  Alice,  it  is  very  odd  and  very  strange, 
and  it  seems  as  if  there  was  some  mysteiy 
in  it.  I  will,  however,  talk  to  your  father 
about  it,  and  we  will  hear  what  he  shall 
say.  In  the  meantime,  raise  your  sj^irits, 
and  don't  be  so  easily  alarmed.  You  are 
naturally  nen'ous  and  timid,  and  this  is 
merely  a  poor,  cowardlj'  conceit  that  has  got 
into  your  head  ;  but  your  own  good  sense 
will  soon  show  you  the  folly  of  jdelding  to  a 
mere  fancy.  Amuse  yourself  on  the  sj)inet, 
and  play  some  brisk  music  that  will  cheer 
your  spirits  ;  it  is  nothing  but  the  spleen." 

Woodward,  in  the  meantime,  having  ef- 
fected his  object,  and  satisfied  himself  of  his 
power  over  Alice,  jnirsued  his  way  home  in 
high  si:)irits.  To  his  utter  astonishment, 
however,  he  found  the  family  in  an  uproar, 
the  cause  of  which  we  will  explain.  His 
mother,  whose  temper   neither  she    herself 


J  nor  an}'  other  human  being,  unless  her  hus- 
band, when  j)rovoked  too  far,  could  keep  un  • 
der  anj'thing  like  decent  restraint,  had  got 
into  a  passion,  while  he.  Woodward,  waa 
making  his  visit ;  and  while  in  a  blaze  of  re- 
sentment against  the  Goodwins  she  dis- 
closed the  secret  of  his  rejection  by  Alice, 
and  dwelt  with  bitter  indignation  upon  the 
attachment  she  had  avowed  for  Charles — a 
secret  which  Henry  had  most  dishonorably 
intrusted  to  her,  but  which,  as  the  reader 
sees,  she  had  neither  temper  nor  princiisle 
to  keep. 

On  entering  the  house  he  found  his 
mother  and  step-father  at  high  feud.  The 
brows  of  the  latter  were  knit,  as  was  always 
the  case  when  he  found  himself  bent  upon 
mischief.  He  was  calm,  however,  which 
was  another  bad  sign,  for  in  him  the  okl  ad- 
age was  comjiletely  reversed,  "  After  a  storm 
comes  a  calm,"  whilst  in  his  case  it  uniform- 
ly preceded  it. 

Woodward  looked  about  him  with  amaze- 
ment ;  his  step-father  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  parlor  fire,  holding  the  skirts  of 
his  coat  divided  behind,  whilst  his  wife  stood 
opposite  to  him,  her  naturally  red  face  still 
flaming  more  deejjly  with  a  tornado  of  in- 
dignation. 

"And  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  you'll  con- 
sent to  Charles's  marriage  wth  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  dare  to  tell  you  so. 
You  have  no  objection  that  she  should  mai-ry 
your  son  Harry  there.  You  forgot  or  dis- 
sembled your  scorn  and  resentment  against 
her,  when  you  thought  you  could  make  a 
catch  of  her  projjerty  :  a  very  candid  and 
disinterested  f)roceeding  on  your  jiart. 
j  Well,  what's  the  conseqiience  ?  That's  all 
j  knocked  up  ;  the  girl  won't  have  him,  be- 
cause she  is  attached  to  his  brother,  and  be  • 
I  cause  his  brother  is  attached  to  her.  Now, 
that  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be,  and,  jslease 
God,  we'll  have  them  married.  And  I  now 
take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  both  to  the 
wedding." 

"  Lindsay,  you're  an  ofi'ensive  old  dog, 
sir." 

"  I  might  retort  the  compliment  by  chang- 
ing the  sex,  my  dear,"  he  rejslied,  laughing 
and  nodding  at  her,  with  a  face,  from  the 
nose  down,  rather  benevolent  than  other- 
^^dse,  but  still  the  knit  was  between  the 
brows. 

"  Lindsaj',  you're  an  unmanly  villain,  and 
a  coward  to  boot,  or  you  wouldn't  use  such 
language  to  a  woman." 

"  Not  to  a  woman  ;  but  I'm  sometimes 
forced  to  do  so  to  a  termagant." 

"  What's  the  cause  of  all  this  ?"  inquired 
Woodward  ;  "  upon  my  honor,  the  language 
I  hear  is  very  surprising,  as  coming  fi-om  ;) 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


iustice  of  quorum  and  his  lady.  Fie  !  fie  ! 
I  am  ashamed  of  you  both.  In  what  did  it 
originate  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Harry,  she  has  told  us 
that  Alice  Goodwin,  in  the  most  decided 
manner,  has  rejected  yoiu-  addresses,  and 
confided  to  you  an  avowal  of  her  attachment 
to  Charles  here.  Now,  when  I  heard  this,  I 
felt  highly  delighted  at  it,  and  said  we  should 
have  them  married,  and  so  we  shall.  Then 
your  mother,  in  flaming  indignation  at  this, 
enacted  Vesuvius  in  a  blaze,  and  there  she 
stands  ready  for  another  eruption." 

"I  wish  you  were  in  the  bottom  of  Vesu- 
vius, Lmdsay  ;  but  you  shall  not  have  your 
way,  notwithstanding." 

"  So  I  am,  my  dear,  every  day  in  my  hfe. 
I  have  a  Httle  volcano  of  my  own  here,  under 
the  very  roof  with  me  ;  and  I  tell  that  vol- 
cano that  I  wiU  have  my  own  way  in  this 
matter,  and  that  this  man-iage  must  take 
place  if  Alice  is  willing ;  and  I'm  sure  she  is, 
the  dear  girl." 

"  Sir,"  said  Woodward,  addressing  his 
step-father  calmly,  "I  feel  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised that  a  thinking  man,  of  a  naturally 
SB  late  temjjer  as  you  are " 

"  Yes,  Harry,  I  am  so." 

"  Of  such  a  sedate  temper  as  you  ai'e, 
should  not  recollect  the  possibiUty  of  my 
mother,  who  sometimes  takes  up  impres- 
sions hastily,  if  not  erroneously  —  as  the 
calmest  of  us  too  frequenHy  do — of  my  moth- 
er, I  say,  considerably  mistaking  and  uncon- 
sciously misrejiresentLng  the  circumstances 
I  mentioned  to  her." 

"  But  why  did  you  mention  them  exclu- 
sively to  her  ?  "  asked  Charles  ;  "  I  cannot 
see  your  object  in  concealing  them  from 
the  rest  of  the  family,  especially  from  those 
who  were  most  interested  in  the  knowledge 
of  them." 

"  Simply  because  I  had  nothing  actually 
decisive  to  mention.  I  principally  confined 
myself  to  my  own  inferences,  which  unfor- 
tunately my  mother,  with  her  eager  habit  of 
snatching  at  conclusions,  in  this  instance, 
mistook  for  facts.  I  shaU  satisfy  you,  Charles, 
of  this,  and  of  other  matters  besides  ;  but 
we  will  require  time." 

"  I  assure  you,  Harry,  that  if  your  mother 
does  not  keep  her  temper  within  some 
reasonable  bounds,  either  she  or  I  shall  leave 
the  house — and  I  am  not  Ukely  to  be  the 
man  to  do  so." 

"  This  house  is  mine,  Lindsay,  and  the 
property  is  mine — both  in  my  own  right ; 
and  you  and  your  familj'  may  leave  it  as  soon 
as  you  like." 

"But  you  forget  that  I  have  property 
enough  to  supi^oi-t  myself  and  them  inde- 
pendently of  you." 


"  Wherever  you  go,  my  dear  papa,"  said 
Maria,  bm-sting  into  tears,  "  I  will  accom- 
pany you.  I  admit  it  is  a  painful  determi- 
nation for  a  daughter  to  be  forced  to  mako 
against  her  own  mother  ;  but  it  is  one  I 
should  have  died  sooner  than  come  to  if  she 
had  ever  treated  me  as  a  daughter."  ; 

Her  good-natured  and  affectionate  .father 
took  her  in  Ms  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"My  own  darhng  Maria,"  said  he,  "I 
could  forgive  your  mother  all  her  domestic 
violence  and  outrage  had  she  acted  with 
the  affection  of  a  mother  towards  you.  She 
has  a  heart  only  for  one  individual,  and  that 
is  her  son  Harry,  there." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Chaiies,  "  wherever  my 
father  goes,  I,  too,  my  dear  Maria,  will  ac- 
company him." 

"  You  hear  that,  Harry,"  said  Mrs.  Lind- 
say ;  "  you  see  now  they  are  in  a  league — in 
a  consjjiracy  against  your  happiness  and 
mine  ;  —  but  think  of  their  selfishness  and 
cunning — it  is  the  girl's  property  they  want." 

"  Perish  the  property,"  exclaimed  Charles 
mdignantly.  "  I  wiU  now  mention  a  fact 
which  I  have  hitherto  never  breathed — Al- 
ice Goodwin  and  I  were,  I  may  say,  be- 
trothed before  ever  she  dreamed  of  possess- 
ing it ;  and  if  I  held  back  since  that  time,  I 
did  so  from  tlie  princijiles  of  a  man  of  honor, 
lest  she  might  imagine  that  I  renewed  our 
intimacy,  after  the  aUenation  of  the  families, 
from  mercenai-y  motives." 

"  You're  a  fine  fellow,  Charley,"  said  his 
father  ;  "  you're  a  fine  feUow,  and  you  de- 
serve her  and  her  property,  if  it  was  ten 
times  what  it  is." 

"  Don't  you  be  disheartened,  Harry,"  said 
his  mother ;  "  I  have  a  better  wife  in  my 
eye  for  you — a  wife  that  wiU  bring  j'ou  con- 
nection, and  that  is  Lord  Bilberry's  niece." 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  ironically,  "a 
man  with  fifty  thousand  acres  of  movmtain. 
Faith,  Harry,  you  will  be  a  happy  man,  and 
maj'  feed  on  bilbeii-ies  aU  your  life  ;  but 
upon  little  else,  unless  you  can  pick  the  spare 
bones  of  an  old  maid  who  has  run  herself 
into  an  asthma  in  the  unsuccessful  sport  of 
husband  -hunting. " 

"  She  wiU  inherit  her  uncle's  property, 
Lindsay." 

"  Yes,  she  wiU  inherit  the  heather  and  the 
bilberries.  But  go  in  God's  name  ;  work 
out  that  project ;  there  is  nobody  here  dis- 
I^osed  to  hinder  j'ou.  Only  I  hope  you  will 
ask  us  to  the  wedding." 

"  Mother,"  said  Woodward,  affectionately 
taking  her  hand  and  giving  it  a  significant 
squeeze  ;  "  mother,  you  must  excuse  me  for 
what  I  am  about  to  say  " — another  squeeze, 
and  a  glance  which  >the  very  well  understood 
— "  upon  my  honor,  mother,  I  must  give  my 


TOO 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S,   WOEES. 


verdict  for  the  present  " — anotlier  squeeze — 
"  against  yoii.  You  m  list  he  kinder  to 
Cliarles  and  Maria,  and  you  mud  not  treat 
my  father  mth  such  disrespect  and  harsh- 
ness. I  wish  to  become  a  mediator  and 
pacilicator  in  the  famUy.  As  for  myself,  I 
care  not  about  property  ;  I  wish  to  marry 
the  girl  I  love.  I  am  not,  I  trust,  a  selfish 
man— ^God  forbid  I  should  ;  but  for  the 
present  " — another  squeeze — "  let  me  entreat 
yon  all  to  forget  this  little  breeze  ;  urge 
nothing,  precipitate  nothing ;  a  little  time, 
perhaps,  if  we  have  patience  to  wait,  may 
restore  us  all,  and  everything  else  we  are 
quaiTelling  about,  to  peace  and  ha2:)piness. 
Charles,  I  wish  to  have  some  conversation 
with  you." 

"Harry,"  said  Lindsay,  "I  am  glad  you 
iiave  spoken  as  you  did  ;  your  words  do  you 
credit,  and  your  conduct  is  manly  and  hon- 
orable." 

"I  do  believe,  iudeed,"  said  hia  unsus- 
pecting brotlier,  "  that  the  best  thuig  we 
could  all  do  would  be  to  put  om-selves  under 
his  guidance  ;  as  for  my  part  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  do  so,  Harry.  After  hearing  the 
good  sense  you  have  just  uttered,  I  think  you 
are  entitled  to  every  confidence  from  us  all." 

"You  overrate  my  abilities,  Charles  ;  but 
not,  I  hojie,  the  goodness  of  an  affectionate 
heart  that  loves  you  aU.  Charles,  come  with 
me  for  a  few  minutes  ;  and,  mother,  do  you 
also  expect  a  private  lecture  fi-om  me  by 
and  by." 

"Well,"  said  the  mother,  "I  suppose  I 
must.  If  I  were  only  spoken  to  kindly  I 
could  feel  as  kindly  ;  however,  let  there  be 
an  end  to  this  quarrel  as  the  boy  says,  and 
I,  as  well  as  Charles,  shall  be  guided  by  his 
advice." 

"Now,  Charles,"  said  he,  when  they  had 
goje  to  another  room,  "  you  know  what  kind 
of  a  woman  my  mother  is  ;  and  the  truth  is, 
until  matters  get  settled,  we  will  have  occa- 
sion for  a  good  deal  of  patience  with  her  ; 
let  us,  therefore,  exercise  it.  Like  most  hot- 
tempered  women,  she  has  a  bad  memory, 
and  wrests  the  purport  of  words  too  fre- 
quently to  a  wrong  meaning.  In  the  account 
she  gave  you  of  what  occurred  between  Alice 
Good^dn  and  me,  she  entii'ely  did." 

"  But  what  did  occur  between  Alice  Good- 
win and  you,  Harry  ?  " 

"  A  very  few  words  wU  tell  it.  She  ad- 
mitted that  there  certainly  has  been  an  at- 
tachment between  you  and  her,  l)ut — that — 
that — I  will  not  exactly  rejjeat  her  words, 
although  I  don't  say  they  were  meant  offeu- 
«ively  ;  but  it  amounted  to  this,  that  she 
now  tilled  a  different  position  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  ;  that  slie  would  rather  tl.c  matter 
were  not  renewed  :    that  if  her  mind  had 


changed,  she  had  good  reason  for  justifying 
the  change  ;  and  when  I,  finding  that  I  had 
no  chance  myself,  began  to  plead  for  you, 
she  hinted  to  me  that,  in  consequence  of  the 
feud  that  had  taken  place  between  the  fami' 
Ues,  and  the  slanders  that  my  mother  had 
cast  upon  her  honor  and  principles,  she  was 
resolved  to  have  no  fuilher  connection  what- 
soever with  any  one  of  the  blood  ;  her  afl'ec- 
tions  were  not  now  her  own." 

"  Alas,  Harry  !  "  said  Charles,  "  how  few 
can  bear  the  effects  of  unexpected  prosperi- 
ty. When  she  and  I  were  both  comparative- 
ly poor,  she  was  all  affection  ;  but  now  that 
she  has  become  an  heu-ess,  see  what  a  change 
there  is  !  Well,  Hai'iy,  if  she  can  be  faith- 
less and  selfish,  I  can  be  both  resolute  and 
proud.  She  shall  have  no  fiu-ther  trouble 
fi'om  me  on  that  subject ;  only  I  must  say,  I 
don't  envy  her  her  conscience." 

"  Don't  be  rash,  Charles — we  should  judge 
of  her  charitably  and  generously  ;  I  don't 
think  myself  she  is  so  much  to  blame. 
O'Connor  Fardour,  or  Farther,  or  whatever 
you  call  him " 

"  O,  Ferdora  !  " 

"  Yes,  Ferdora  ;  that  fellow  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  all  ;  he  has  pUed  her  well  during 
the  estrangement,  and  to  some  purioose.  I 
never  visit  them  that  I  don't  find  him  alone 
with  her.  He  is,  besides,  both  frank  and 
handsome,  with  a  good  deal  of  dash  and  in- 
sinuation in  his  address  and  manner,  and, 
besides,  a  good  property,  I  am  told.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you  ; 
that  is,  if  you  think  j'ou  can  place  confidence 
in  me." 

"  Everj'  confidence,  my  dear  Harrj-,"  said 
Charles,  clasping  his  hand  warmly  ;  "  every 
confidence.  As  I  said  before,  you  shall  be 
mj^  guide  and  adviser." 

"Thank  you,  Charles.  I  may  make  mis- 
takes, but  I  shall  do  all  for  the  best.  Well, 
then,  will  you  leave  O'Connor  to  me  ?  If 
j'ou  do,  I  shall  not  promise  much,  because  I 
am  not  master  of  futiu-e  events  ;  but  this 
is  all  I  ask  of  you — yes,  there  is  one  thing 
more — to  hold  ajoof  fi'om  her  and  her  family 
for  a  time." 

"  After  what  you  have  told  me,  Harry,  that 
is  an  iinnecessary  request  now  ;  but  as  for 
O'Connor,  I  think  he  ought  to  be  left  to  my- 
self." 

"  And  so  he  shall  in  due  time  ;  but  I  must 
25lace  him  in  a  ^Jroper  j)ositiou  for  }"ou  first — 
a  thing  which  you  could  not  do  now,  nor 
even  attemjit  to  do,  without  meanness.  Ai-e 
you,  then,  satisfied  to  leave  this  matter  in 
my  hands,  and  to  remain  quiet  until  I  shall 
bid  you  act  f  " 

"Perfectly,  Hariy,  perfectly;  I  stall  be 
guided  by  you  in  everything." 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE    BLACL    SPECTRE. 


701 


"  Well,  now,  Cliavley,  we  ^\•ill  have  a 
double  triumph  soon,  I  hope.  All  is  not 
lost  that's  in  dauner.  The  poor  girl  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  clique.  Priests  have  inter- 
fered. Her  parents,  you  know,  are  Cath- 
olics ;  so,  you  kn.£)w,  is  O'Connor.  Poor 
Alice,  you  know,  too,  is  anything  but  ada- 
mant. And  now  I  will  say  no  more  ;  but  in 
requital  for  what  I  hare  said,  go  and  send 
our  patient  mild  mamma,  to  me.  I  really 
must  endeavor  to  try  something  with  her,  in 
order  to  save  us  all  fi-om  this  kind  of  Ufa  she 
is  leading  us." 

When  his  mother  entered  he  assumed  the 
superior  and  man  of  authority  ;  his  counte- 
nance exhibited  something  unpleasant,  and 
in  a  decisive  and  rather  authoritative  tone  he 
said, —  . 

"  Mother,  will  you  be  pleased  to  take  a 
seat  ?  " 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,  Harry — I  know 
j'ou  are  ;  but  I  could  not  restrain  my  feeHngs, 
nor  keep  your  secret,  when  I  thought  of  their 
insolence  in  requiting  you — you,  to  whom  the 
property  would  and  ought  to  have  come " 

"  Pray,  ma'am,  take  a  seat." 

She  sat  down — anxious,  but  already  sub- 
dued, as  was  evident  by  her  manner. 

"I,"  proceeded  her  son,  "to  whom  the 
property  wovild  and  ought  to  have  come — 
and  I  to  whom  it  will  come " 

"  But  are  you  sure  of  that?  " 

"  Not,  I  am  afraid,  while  I  have  such  a 
mother  as  you  are — a  woman  in  whom  I  can 
place  no  confidence  with  safety.  Why  did 
you  betray  me  to  this  silly  famih-  ?  " 

"  Because,  as  I  said  before,  I  could  not 
help  it ;  my  temper  got  the  better  of  me." 

"  Ay,  and  I  fear  it  will  always  get  the  bet- 
ter of  you.  I  could  now  give  you  very  agree- 
able information  as  to  that  jJroperty  and  the 
piece  of  curds  that  possesses  it ;  but  then,  as 
I  said,  there  is  no  placing  any  confidence  in 
a  woman  of  your  temper." 

"If  the  property  is  concerned,  Harry,  you 
may  depend  yoiu-  life  on  me.  So  help  me, 
God,  if  ever  I  will  betray  you  again." 

"  Well,  that's  a  solemn  asseveration,  and  I 
will  depend  on  it  ;  but  if  you  betray  me  to 
this  family  the  property  is  lost  to  us  and  our 
heirs  forever." 

"  Do  not  fear  me  ;  I  have  taken  the  oath." 

"  Well,  then,  hsten  ;  if  you  could  under- 
stand Latin,  I  would  give  you  a  quotation 
from  a  line  of  Virgil — 

'  Heeret  lateri  lethalis  arundo.' 

The  girl's  doomed — subdued — overcome  ;  I 
am  in  the  process  of  killing  her." 

"  Of  killing  her  !  My  God,  how  ?  not  by 
violence,  surely — that,  you  know,  would  not 
be  safe." 


"I  know  that  ;  no — not  by  violence,  but 
by  the  power  of  this  dark  eye  that  you  see  in 
my  head." 

"  Heavenly  Father  !  thenj'ou  possess  it?" 

"  I  do  ;  and  if  I  were  never  to  see  her  again 
I  don't  think  she  could  recover  ;  she  will 
merelj-  wither  away  verj'  gently,  and  in  due 
time  will  disappear  ivilhout  issue — and  then, 
whose  is  the  property  ?  " 

"  As  to  that,  you  know  there  can  be  no 
doubt  about  it ;  there  is  the  wiU — the  stupid 
will,  b_y  which  she  got  it." 

"  I  shall  see  her  again,  however — nay,  in 
spite  of  them  I  shall  see  her  time  after  time, 
and  shall  give  her  the  Evil  Eye,  until  the 
scene  closes — until  I  attend  her  funeral." 

"  My  mind  is  somewhat  at  ease,"  replied 
his  mother  ;  "  because  I  was  alarmed  lest  j'ou 
should  have  had  recourse  to  any  process  that 
might  have  brought  you  within  the  opera- 
tion of  the  law. " 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point,  my 
dear  mother.  No  law  compels  a  man  to  close 
his  eyes ;  a  cat,  you  know,  may  look  on  a 
king  ;  but  of  one  thing  you  may  be  certain — 
she  dies — the  victiji  is  mine." 

"  One  thing  i.s  certain,"  replied  his  mother, 
"  that  if  she  and  Charles  should  many,  j'ou 
ai'e  ousted  from  the  property." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  such  a  con- 
tingency ;  I  have  taken  steps  which  I  think 
will  prevent  that.  I  speak  in  a  double  sense  ; 
but  if  I  find,  after  all,  that  they  are  likely  to 
fail,  I  shall  take  others  still  more  decisive." 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

Woodward  is  Discarded  from  Mr.  Goodwin^s  Fam- 
ily—  Other  Particulars  of  Importance. 

The  reader  sees  that  HaiTy  Woodward, 
having  ascertained  the  mutual  affection  which 
subsisted  between  his  brother  and  Alice,  re- 
sorted to  such  measures  as  were  likely  to 
place  obstructions  in  the  way  of  their  meet- 
ing, which  neither  of  them  was  likely  to  re- 
move. He  felt,  now,  satisfied  that  Charles, 
in  consequence  of  the  malignant  faln'ieations 
which  he  himself  had  palmeil  upon  him  for 
truth,  would,  most  assiu'edly,  make  no  fur- 
ther attempt  to  renew  their  former  intimacy. 
When  Alice,  too,  stated  to  him,  that  if  she 
married  not  Charles,  whether  he  proved 
worthy  of  her  or  otherwise,  she  would  never 
marry  another,  he  felt  that  she  was  uncon- 
sciously advancing  the  diabolical  plans  which 
he  was  projecting  and  attempting  to  carry 
into  effect.  If  she  died  without  marriage  oi 
without  issue,  the  property,  at  her  death,  ac- 
cording to  his  uncle's  will,  reverted,  as  we 


702 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


have  said,  to  himself.  His  object,  therefore, 
was  to  expedite  her  demise  with  as  little  de- 
lay as  possible,  in  order  that  he  might  be- 
come master  of  the  j)atrimoiiy.  With  this 
generous  principle  for  his  pfuide,  he  made  it 
a  point  to  visit  the  Goodwins,  and  to  see 
Alice  as  often  as  was  compatible  with  the 
ordinary  usages  of  society.  Had  Caterine 
Collins  not  put  the  unsuspecting  and  timid 
girl  on  her  guard  against  the  influence  of 
the  Evil  Eye,  as  possessed  by  Woodward, 
for  whom  she  acted  as  agent  in  the  business, 
that  poor  girl  would  not  have  felt  anything 
like  what  this  diabolical  jiiece  of  information 
occasioned  her  to  experience.  From  the 
moment  she  heard  it  her  active  imagiuation 
took  the  alarm.  An  unaccountable  terror 
seized  upon  her  ;  she  felt  as  if  some  dark 
doom  was  impending  over  her.  It  was  in  .a 
peculiar  degree  the  age  of  superstition  ;  and 
the  terrible  influence  of  the  Evil  Eye  was 
one  not  only  of  the  commonest,  but  the  most 
formidable  of  them  all.  The  dark,  signifi- 
cant, but  sinister  gaze  of  Harry  Woodward 
was,  she  thougnt,  forever  upon  her.  She 
could  not  withdraw  her  imagination  from  it. 
It  haunted  her  ;  it  was  fixed  upon  her,  ac- 
companied bj'  a  dreadful  smile  of  apparent 
courtesy,  but  of  a  malignity  which  she  felt 
as  if  it  penetrated  her  whole  l)eing,  both  cor- 
poreal and  mental.  She  hurried  to  bed  at 
night  with  a  hope  that  sleep  might  exclude 
the  frightful  vision  which  followed  her  ;  but, 
alas !  even  sleep  was  no  security  to  her 
against  its  teiTors.  It  was  now  that  in  her 
distempered  dreams  imagination  ran  riot. 
She  fled  from  him,  or  attemi^ted  to  fly,  but 
feared  that  she  had  not  strength  for  the  ef- 
fort ;  he  followed  her,  she  thought,  and  wlieu 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  in  order 
to  avoid  the  sight  of  him,  she  felt  him  seiz- 
ing her  by  the  twists,  and  removing  her 
arms  in  order  that  he  might  pour  the  malig- 
nant influence  of  that  terrible  eye  into  her 
very  heart.  Erom  these  scenes  she  gener- 
ally awoke  with  a  shriek,  when  her  maid, 
Sarah  Sullivan,  who  of  late  slept  in  the  same 
room  with  her,  was  obliged  to  come  to  her 
assistance,  and  soothe  and  sustain  her  as 
well  as  she  could.  She  then  lay  for  hours 
in  such  a  state  of  terror  and  agitation  as 
cannot  be  described,  until  near  morning, 
«Then  she  generally  fell  into  something  like 
sound  .sleej).  In  fact,  her  waking  moments 
were  easy  when  compared  \\ith  the  persecu- 
tion which  the  spirit  of  that  man  inflicted  on 
her  during  her  broken  and  restless  slumbers. 
The  dreadful  eye,  as  it  rested  upon  her, 
seemed  as  if  its  powerful  but  killing  exi:)res- 
sion  proceeded  from  the  heart  and  spirit  of 
some  demon  who  sought  to  wither  her  by 
slow  degrees  out  of  life  :  and  she  felt  that  he 


was  succeeding  in  his  murderous  and  merci- 
less  object.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
then,  that  she  dreaded  the  state  of  sleef, 
more  than  any  other  condition  of  existence 
in  which  she  could  find  herself.  As  night, 
and  the  hour  of  retiring  to  what  ought  to 
have  been  a  refi-eshing  rest  returned,  her 
ahirms  also  returned  with  tenfold  terror ; 
and  such  was  her  api^rehension  of  those 
fiend-like  and  nocturnal  visits,  that  she  en- 
treated Sarah  Sullivan  to  sleej)  with  and 
awaken  her  the  moment  she  heard  her  groan 
or  shi-iek.  Our  readers  may  perceive  that 
the  innocent  girl's  tenure  of  hfe  could  not  be 
a  long  one  under  such  strange  and  unexam- 
j)led  sufferings. 

The  state  of  her  health  now  occasioned 
her  parents  to  feel  the  most  serious  alarm. 
She  herself  disclosed  to  them  the  fearful  in- 
telligence which  had  been  communicated  to 
her  in  such  a  fiiendly  spirit  by  Caterine 
Colhns,  to  wit,  that  Harrv'  Woodward  pos- 
sessed the  terrible  power  of  the  Evil  Eye, 
and  that  she  felt  he  was  attempting  to  kill 
her  by  it ;  adding,  that  fi'om  the  state  of  her 
mind  and  health  she  feared  he  had  succeeded, 
and  that  certainly,  if  he  were  permitted  to 
continue  his  visits,  she  knew  that  she  could 
not  long  survive. 

"  I  remember  well,"  said  her  father,  "  that 
when  he  was  a  boy  of  about  six  or  seven 
he  was  called,  by  way  of  nickname,  Harry  na 
Suil  Gloir  ;  and,  indeed,  the  common  report 
always  has  been  that  his  mother  possesses 
the  evil  eye  against  cattle,  when  she  wishes 
to  injure  any  neighbor  that  doesn't  treat  her 
with  what  she  thinks  to  be  proper  and  be- 
coming respect.  If  her  son  Harry  has  the 
accursed  gift  it  comes  from  her  blood  ;  they 
say  there  is  some  old  story  connected  with 
her  family  that  accounts  for  it,  but,  as  I 
never  heard  it,  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  I  agTee  with  you,"  said  his  wife  ;  "  if  he 
has  it  at  all,  he  may  thank  her  for  it.  There 
is,  I  fear,  some  bad  principle  in  her ;  for 
surely  the  fierceness  and  overbearing  spirit 
of  her  pride,  and  the  malignant  calumnies 
of  her  foul  and  scandalous  tongue,  can  jjro- 
ceed  from  nothing  that's  good." 

"Well,  Martha,"  obsei-ved  her  husband, 
"  if  the  devilish  and  unaccountable  hatred 
which  she  bears  her  fellow-creatures  is 
violent,  she  has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
— and  well  she  knows  it — that  it  is  returned 
to  Iter  with  compound  interest ;  I  cpiestion 
if  the  deril  himself  is  detested  with  such  a 
venomous  feeling  as  she  is.  Her  own  hus- 
band and  children  cannot  like  a  bone  in  her 
skin." 

"  And  yet,"  replied  Alice,  "  you  would 
have  made  this  woman  mj'  mother-in-law ' 
Do  you  think  it  was  from  auj-  regard  to  us 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


703 


that  slie  came  liei'e  to  propose  a  marriage 
between  her  sou  and  me  ?  No,  iudeed,  dear 
papa,  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  securing  the 
property,  which  her  brother  left  me,  for  him 
who  would  otherwise  have  inherited  it.  jind 
do  you  imagine  for  a  moment  that  Harry 
Woodward  himself  ever  felt  one  emotion  of 
jjersonal  arTectiou  for  me  ?  If  you  do  you 
are  quite  mistaken.  I  knew  and  felt  all  along 
— even  while  he  was  assuming  the  part  of  the 
lover — that  he  actually  hated,  not  only  me, 
but  every  one  of  the  family.  His  object  was 
the  property,  and  so  was  that  of  his  mother  ; 
but  I  absolve  all  the  other  members  of  the 
family  from  any  knowledge  of,  or  particiim- 
tion  in,  their  schemes.  As  it  is,  if  you  msh 
to  see  yourselves  childless  3'ou  will  allow  his 
d.sits,  oi',  if  not,  you  will  never  permit  his 
presence  imder  this  roof  agam.  I  fear, 
however,  that  it  is  now  too  late — you  see 
that  I  am  already  on  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
in  consequence  of  the  evil  influence  which 
the  dreadful  villain  has  gained  over  me,  and, 
mdeed,"  she  added,  bursting  into  tears,  "  I 
have,  at  this  moment,  no  hopes  of  recoveiy. 
]\Iy  strength,  both  bodily  and  mental,  is 
gone — I  am  as  weak  as  an  infant,  and  I  see 
nothing  before  me  bat  an  eai'ly  grave.  I 
have  also  other  sorrows,  but  even  to  you  I 
wiU  not  disclose  them — perhaps  on  my  bed 
of  death  I  may." 

The  last  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when 
she  fainted.  Her  parents  were  di'eadfiilly 
alarmed — in  a  moment  both  were  in  tears, 
but  they  immediately  summoned  assistance. 
Sarah  Sidhvan  made  her  aispearance,  attend- 
ed by  others  of  the  servants  ;  the  usual 
remedies  were  applied,  and  in  the  course  of 
about  ten  or  twelve  minutes  she  recovered, 
and  was  weeping  in  a  paroxysm  bordering 
on  despair  when  Harry  WoodwiU'd  entered 
the  room.  This  was  too  much  for  the  im- 
fortunate  girl.  It  seemed  hke  setting  the 
seal  of  death  to  her  fate.  She  caught  a 
ghmpse  of  him.  There  was  the  malignant, 
but  derisive  look — one  which  he  meant  to 
be  courteous,  but  which  the  bitter  feeUng 
within  him  over.shadowed  with  the  gloomy 
triumijli  of  an  exil  spirit.  She  placed  her 
hands  over  her  eyes,  gave  one  loud  shriek, 
and  immediately  fell  into  strong  convul- 
sions. 

"Good  heavens  I  "  exclaimed  Woodward, 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  Miss  Goodwin  ?  I 
am  sincerely  sorry  to  see  this.  Is  not  her 
health  good  ?  " 

"Pray,  sir,"rephed  her  father,  "how  did 
you  come  to  obtiiide  yourself  here  at  such  a 
moment  of  domestic  distress?  " 

"  ^^^ly,  my  dear  sir,"  replied  ^Yoodward, 
"  of  course  you  must  know  that  I  was  ignor- 
cnt  of  all  this.     The  haU-door  was  open,  as 


it  generally  is,  so  was  the  door  of  this  room, 
and  I  came  in  accordingly,  as  I  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
famUy." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Goodwin,  "the  haU-door 
is  generallj'  open,  but  it  shall  not  be  so  iii 
future.  Come  out  of  the  room,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward ;  your  j^resence  is  not  requii-ed  here." 

"  O,  certainly,"  rejilied  Woodward,  "I  feel 
that  ;  and  I  assure  j-ou  I  would  not  by  any 
means  have  intruded  had  I  known  that  Miss 
Goodwin  was  unwell." 

"  She  is-  unwell,"  responded  her  father ; 
"  veiy  unwell ;  unwell  unto  death,  I  fear. 
And  now,  Mr.  Woodward,"  he  proceeded, 
when  they  had  reached  the  liaU,  "I  beg  to 
state  peremptorily  and  decidedly  that  all  in- 
timacy anil  intercourse  between  you  and  our 
family  must  cease  from  this  hour.  You  visit 
here  no  more." 

"  This  is  very  strange  language,  Mr. 
Goodwin,"  rephed  the  other,  "  and  I  think, 
as  between  two  gentlemen,  I  am  entitled  to 
an  explanation.  I  received  the  permission  of 
yourself,  your  lady,  and  your  daughter  to 
visit  here.  I  am  not  conscious  of  having 
done  anything  unbecoming  a  gentleman, 
that  could  or  ought  to  deprive  me  of  a 
pri\'ilege  which  I  looked  upon  as  an  honor." 

"  Well,  then,"  repUed  her  father,  "  look  into 
your  own  conscience,  and  perhaps  you  wiU 
find  the  necessni-y  explanation  there.  I  am 
master  of  mj'  own  house  and  my  own 
motions,  and  now  I  beg  you  instantly  to  with- 
draw, and  to  consider  this  your  Last  visit 
here." 

"  May  I  not  be  permitted  to  call  to-mor- 
row to  inquire  after  Miss  Goodwin's  health  ?  " 

"Assuredly  not." 

"Nor  to  send  a  messenger?" 

"By  no  means  ;  and  now,  sir,  withdraw  ; 
I  must  go  in  to  my  daughter,  tOl  I  see  what 
can  be  done  for  her,  or  whether  anything 
can  or  not." 

Harry  Woodward  looked  upon  him  stead- 
ily for  a  time,  and  the  old  man  felt  as  if  his 
veiT  strength  was  becoming  relaxed  ;  a  sense 
of  faintness  and  terror  came  over  him,  and, 
as  Woodward  took  his  departiu'e  in  silence, 
the  fatlier  of  Alice  began  to  abandon  all 
hopes  of  her  recovery.  He  himself  felt  the 
effects  of  the  mysterious  gaze  which  Wood- 
ward had  fastened  on  him,  and  entered  the 
room,  conscious  of  the  fatal  jjower  of  the 
EvH  Eye. 

Fit  after  fit  succeeded  each  other  for  the 
space  of,  at  least,  an  hour  and  a  half,  after 
which  they  ceased,  but  left  her  in  such  a 
state  of  weakness  and  terror  that  she  might 
Ije  said,  at  that  moment,  to  hover  between 
life  and  death.  She  was  carried  in  lier  dis- 
tracted father's  ai'ms  to  bed,  and  after  they 


T04 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WOIiJTS. 


had  composed  her  as  well  as  tliey  could,  her 
father  said, — 

"  My  darling  child,  you  may  now  summon 
strength  and  courage  ;  that  man,  that  bad 
man,  will  never  come  under  this  roof  again. 
I  have  finally  settled  the  point,  and  you 
have  nothing  further  now,  nor  anything 
worse,  to  dread  from  him.  I  have  given  the 
villaLn  his  nunc  dimittis  once  and  forever, 
and  you  will  never  see  him  more." 

"  But  I  fear,  papa,"  she  replied,  feebly, 
"  that,  as  I  said  before,  it  is  now  too  late.  I 
feel  that  he  has  killed  me.  I  know  not  how 
I  will  pass  this  night.  I  dread  the  hours  of 
sleep  above  all  conditions  of  my  unhappy 
existence.  O,  no  wonder  that  the  entrance 
of  that  man-demon  to  our  house  should  be 
heralded  by  the  storms  and  hurricanes  of 
heaven,  and  that  the  terrible  furj'  of  the 
elements,  as  indicative  of  the  Almighty's 
anger,  should  mark  his  introduction  to  our 
family.  Then  the  prodigy  which  took  place 
when  the  bonfires  were  lighted  to  welcome 
his  accursed  return — the  shower  of  blood  ! 
O,  may  God  support  me,  and,  above  all 
things,  banish  him  fiom  my  dreams  !  Still,  I 
feel  some  relief  by  the  knowledge  that  he  is 
not  to  come  here  again.  Yes,  I  feel  that  it 
i-elieves  me  ;  but,  alas  !  I  fear  that  even  the 
consciousness  of  that  cannot  px'eveut  the 
avrful  imj)ression  that  I  think  I  am  near 
death." 

"No,  darling,"  replied  her  mother,  "don't 
allow  that  thought  to  gain  upon  you.  We'll 
get  a  fairy-man  or  a  fiiiry-woman,  because 
they  know  the  best  remedies  against  every- 
thing of  that  kind,  when  a  common  leech  or 
chirurgeon  can  do  nothing." 

"  No,"  replied  her  father,  "  I  will  allow 
nothing  of  the  kind  under  this  roof.  It's 
not  a  safe  thing  to  have  dealings  with  such 
people.  We  know  that  the  Chiu'ch  forbids 
it.  Perhaps  it's  a  witch  we  might  stumble 
on  ;  and  would  it  not  be  a  fi-ightful  thing  to 
see  one  of  those  who  are  leagued  with  the 
devil  bringing  their  uncousecrated  breaths 
about  us  this  week,  as  it  were,  and,  jjerhaps, 
burned  the  next  ?  No,  we  will  have  a  regu- 
lar physician,  who  has  his  own  chaiacter,  as 
Bueh,  to  look  to  and  support  by  his  honest}' 
and  skill,  but  none  of  those  withered  classes 
of  hell  that  are  a  curse  to  the  country." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Goodwin,  "  have 
j'our  own  way  in  it.  I  dare  sav  you  are 
right." 

"  O,  don't  bring  any  fairy -women  or  fairy- 
men  about  me,"  said  Alice.  "  The  very  sight 
of  them  would  take  away  the  little  life  I  have 
left." 

In  the  meantime  Harry  Woodward,  who 
had  a  vai'iety  of  plans  and  projects  to  elabo- 
rate, found  himself,  as  every  villain  of  his 


kind  generally  does,  encompassed  by  doubt 
and  apprehension  of  their  failure.  The  reader 
will  understand  the  condition  of  his  heart 
and  feehngs  when  he  advances  fiu'ther  in  tliis 
narrative.  Old  Lindsay,  who  was  of  a  manly 
and  generous  disposition,  felt  considerable 
surprise  that  all  intimacy  should  have  been 
discontinued  between  his  son  Charles  and 
Alice  Goodwin.  As  for  the  projaerty  which 
she  now  possessed,  he  never  once  thought  of 
it  in  connection  with  their  former  affection 
for  each  other.  He  certainlj'  appreciated 
the  magnanimity  and  disinterestedness  of  his 
son  in  ceasing  to  urge  his  claims  after  she 
had  become  possessed  of  such  a  fortune  : 
and  it  struck  him  that  something  must  have 
been  wi'ong,  or  some  evil  agency  at  work, 
which  prevented  the  Goodwins  fi-om  re- 
establishing theu'  former  intimacy  with 
Charles  whilst  they  seemed  to  court  that  of 
his  brother.  Here  was  something  strange, 
and  he  could  not  understand  it.  One  morn- 
ing, when  they  were  all  seated  at  breakfast, 
he  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"  I  can't,"  he  said,  "  comjirehend  the  con- 
duct of  the  Goodwdns.  Their  daughter,  if 
we  are  to  judge  from  appeai-ances,  has  dis- 
carded her  accepted  lover,  j)oor  Charles, 
here.  Now,  this  doesn't  look  w'elL  There 
seems  to  be  something  capricious,  perhaps 
selfish,  in  it.  Still,  knowing  the  goodness  of 
their  hearts,  as  I  do,  I  cannot  but  feel  that 
there  is  something  like  a  mystery  in  it.  I 
had  set  my  heart  upon  a  marriage  between 
Charles  and  Ahce  before  ever  she  came  into 
the  propertj'  bequeathed  to  her.  In  this  I 
was  not  selfish  certainly.  I  looked  only  to 
their  happiness.  Yes,  and  my  mind  is  still 
set  upon  this  man-iage,  and  it  shall  go  hard 
with  me  or  I  wdll  accomplish  it." 

"Father,"  said  Chai-les,  "  if  you  regard  or 
respect  me,  I  entreat  of  you  to  abandon  any 
such  firoject.  Ferdora  O'Connor  is  now  the 
favorite  there.  He  is  rich  and  I  am  poor  ; 
no,  the  only  favor  I  ask  is  that  you  will  never 
more  allude  to  the  subject  in  my  hearing." 

"  But  I  will  allude  to  it,  and  I  will  de- 
mand an  explanation  besides,"  replied  Lind- 
say. 

"Father,"  observed  Harry,  "I  trust  that 
no  member  of  this  family  is  cajjable  of  an  act 
of  unparalleled  meanness.  I,  myself,  pleaded 
my  brother's  cause  with  that  heartless  and 
deceitful  girl  in  language  which  could  not  be 
mistaken.  And  what  was  the  consequence  ? 
Because  I  ventured  to  do  so  I  have  been  for- 
bidden to  visit  there  again.  They  told  me, 
withovit  either  preface  or  apology,  that  they 
will  have  no  further  intercourse  with  our 
family.  Fei-dora  O'Connor  is  the  chosen 
man." 

"It   is   false,"  said   his   sister,    her   eyes 


±aE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


705 


sparkling  ^^^th  inclignation  as  she  spoke  ;  "it 
is  abominably  false  ;  and,  father,  you  are 
right ;  seek  an  exjilanation  from  the  Good- 
wins. I  feel  certain  that  there  are  evil 
spirits  at  work." 

"  I  shall,  my  dear  p^irl,"  replied  her  father  ; 
"  it  is  only  an  act  of  justice  to  tliem.  And 
if  the  matter  be  at  all  practicable,  I  shall 
have  Charles  and  her  married  still." 

"  Wliy  not  think  of  Harry  ?  "  said  his  wife  ; 
"  as  the  person  originally  destined  to  re- 
ceive the  property,  he  has  the  strongest 
claim." 

"  You  are  talking  now  in  the  selfish  and 
accursed  principles  of  the  world,"  replied 
Lindsay.  "  Charles  has  the  claim  of  her 
early  aftection,  and  I  shall  urge  it." 

" Very  well,"  said  his  wife;  "if  you  suc- 
ceed in  bringing  about  a  marriage  between 
her  and  Charles,  I  will  punish  both  you  and 
him  severely." 

"  As  how,  madam  ?"  asked  her  husband. 

"  Are  you  aware  of  one  fact,  Lindsay  ?  " 

"lamawai-eof  one  melancholy  fact,"  he 
replied,  sarcastically. 

"  And,  pray,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Faith,"  he  reislied,  "that  I  am  your  hus- 
band." 

"  O,  yes — just  so — that  is  the  way  I  am 
treated,  children  ;  you  see  it  and  you  hear  it. 
But,  now,  listen  to  me  ;  you  know,  Lindsay, 
that  the  prope:  ty  I  brought  you,  as  your  un- 
fortunate wife,  was  property  in  my  own 
right  ;  you  know,  too,  that  by  our  marriage 
settlement  that  property  was  settled  on  me, 
with  the  right  of  devising  it  to  any  of  my 
children  whom  I  may  select  for  that  pui-pose. 
Now,  I  tell  you.  that  if  you  jiress  this  mar- 
riage between  Charles  and  Alice  Goodwin,  I 
shall  take  this  property  into  mj'  own  hands, 
shall  make  my  will  in  favor  of  Harry,  and 
you  and  your  children  may  seek  a  shelter 
where  you  can  find  one." 

"  ]\Ie  and  nuj  children  !  Wliy,  I  believe 
you  think  you  have  no  children  liut  Harry 
here.  Well,  you  maj'  do  as  you  like  with 
your  property  ;  I  am  not  so  poor  but  I  and 
my  children  can  live  upon  my  own.  This 
house  and  place,  I  grant  you,  are  yours,  and, 
as  for  myself,  I  am  willing  to  leave  it  to-day  ; 
a  life  of  exclusion  an<l  solitude  will  be  bet- 
ter than  that  which  I  lead  with  you." 

"  Papa,"  said  Maria,  tlu'owing  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  bursting  into  tears, 
"  when  you  go  I  shall  go  ;  and  wherever  you 
may  go  to,  I  shall  accomj)any  j'ou." 

"  Father,"  said  Charles,  in  a  choking  voice, 
and  grasping  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  "  if  you 
leave  this  house  you  shall  not  go  alone. 
Neither  I  nor  ]\Iaria  shall  sejoarate  ourselves 
fi'om  you.  We  will  have  enough  to  live  on 
with  comfort  and  decency." 


"  Mother,"  said  Hany,  rising  up  and  ap- 
proaching  her  with  a  face  of  significant  se.. 
verity  ;  "  mother,  you  have  forced  me  to  say 
— and  heaven  knows  the  pain  with  which  1 
say  it — that  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Why 
will  you  use  language  that  is  calculated  tc 
alienate  from  me  the  aifections  of  a  brother 
and  sister  whom  I  love  with  so  much  tender- 
ness? I  trust  you  imderstand  me  when  1 
tell  you  now  that  I  identify  myself  with  their 
feelings  and  objects,  and  that  no  sordid  ex- 
pectation of  your  property  shall  ever  in- 
duce me  to  take  iip  j'our  quan-el  or  separate 
myself  from  them.  Dispose  of  your  prop- 
erty as  you  wish  ;  I  for  one  shall  not  eara 
it  lay  sacrificing  the  best  affections  of  the 
heart,  nor  by  becoming  a  slave  to  such  a 
violent  and  indefensible  temper  as  yours. 
As  for  me,  I  shall  not  stand  in  need  of  your 
property — I  will  have  enough  of  my  own." 

They  looked  closely  at  each  other  ;  but 
that  look  was  suiBcient.  The  cunning  mother 
thoroughly  understood  the  freemason  glance 
of  his  eye,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Well,  I  see  I  am  abandoned  by  all  my 
children  ;  but  I  wUl  endeavor  to  bear  it.  I 
now  leave  you  to  yourselves — to  meditate 
and  put  in  practice  whatever  plot  you  please 
against  my  hapj^iness.  Indeed,  I  know 
what  a  consolation  my  death  would  be  to 
you  all." 

She  then  withdrew,  in  accordance  with 
the  significant  look  which  Harry  gave  tow- 
ards the  door. 

"  Harry,"  said  Lindsay,  holding  out  his 
hand,  "you  are  not  the  son  of  my  blood,  but 
I  declare  to  heaven  I  love  you  as  well  as  if 
you  were.  Your  conduct  is  noble  and  gen- 
erous ;  ay,  and  as  a  natural  consequence, 
disinterested  ;  there  is  no  base  and  selfish 
principle  in  you,  my  dear  boy  ;  and  I  honor 
and  love  you  as  if  I  were  your  father  in  re- 
alit}'." 

"  Harry,"  said  Maria,  kissing  him,  "1  re- 
jjeat  and  feel  all  that  dear  papa  has  said." 

"And  so  do  I,"  exclaimed  Charles,  "and 
if  I  ever  entertained  any  other  feeling,  I  fling 
it  to  the  winds." 

"  You  all  overrate  me,"  said  Harry  ;  "  but, 
perhaps,  if  you  were  aware  of  my  private  re- 
monstrances with  my  mother  upon  her  un- 
fortunate principles  and  temper,  you  would 
give  me  more  credit  even  than  you  do.  ]\Iy 
object  is  to  produce  peace  and  harmony  be- 
tween j'ou,  and  if  I  can  succeed  in  that  I 
shall  feel  satisfied,  let  my  mother's  property 
go  where  it  maj'.  Of  course,  you  must  now 
be  aware  that  I  separate  myself  from  her  and 
her  projects,  and  identify  myself,  as  I  said, 
with  you  all.  Still,  there  is  one  request  I 
have  to  make  of  you,  father,  my  dear  father, 
for  well  I  may  call  you  so  ;  and  it  is  that  you 


706 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


will  not,  as  an  independent  man  and  a  gentle- 
man, attempt  to  ui-ge  this  marriage,  on 
whicli  you  seem  to  have  set  your  heai't,  be- 
tween Charles  and  Goodwin's  daughter.  You 
are  not  aware  of  what  I  know  ujjou  this  sub- 
ject. She  and  Ferdora  O'Connor  are  about 
to  be  married  ;  but  I  wiU  not  mention  what 
I  could  mention  until  after  that  ceremony 
shall  have  taken  place." 

"  Well,"  said  his  sister,  "  j-ou  appear  to 
speak  very  sincerely,  Harry,  but  I  know  and 
feel  that  there  is  some  mistake  somewhere." 

"Harry,"  said  Lindsay,  "from  what  has 
occarrcd  this  morning,  I  shall  be  guided  by 
you.  I  will  not  jjress  this  marriage,  neither 
shall  I  stoo23  to  seek  an  explanation." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Harry.  "  I  ad- 
vise you  as  I  do  because  I  would  not  wish  to 
see  our  whole  family  insulted  in  your  per- 
son." 

Maria  and  her  brother  Charles  looked  at 
ea'jh  other,  and  seemed  to  labor  under  a 
strange  and  somewhat  mysterious  feeling. 
The  confidence,  however,  with  which  Harry 
ei)oke  evidently'  depressed  them,  and,  as 
they  entertained  not  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  his  treachery,  they  left  the  apai-tment 
each  with  a  heavy  heart. 

HaiTj',  from  tliis  time  forward,  associated 
more  with  his  brother  than  he  had  done, 
and  seemed  to  take  him  more  into  his  con- 
fidence. He  asked  him  out  in  aU  his  sport- 
ing expeditions ;  and  proposed  that  they 
should  each  procure  a  shooting  dress  of  the 
same  color  and  materials,  which  was  accord- 
ingly done  ;  and  so  strongly  did  they  re- 
Bemi)le  each  other,  when  dressed  in  them, 
that  in  an  uncertain  light,  or  at  a  distance, 
it  was  nearly  impossible  to  distinguish  the 
one  from  the  other.  In  fact,  the  brothers 
were  now  inseparable,  Harry's  object  being 
to  keep  Charles  as  much  under  his  eye  and 
control  as  jjossible,  fi'om  an  api^rehension 
that,  on  cool  reflection,  he  might  take  it 
into  his  head  to  satisfy  himself  by  a  personal 
interview  with  Alice  Goodwin  as  to  the 
incompreliensible  change  which  had  es- 
tranged her  affection  from  him. 

Still,  although  the  affection  of  those 
brothers  seemed  to  increase,  the  conduct  of 
Harry  was  full  of  mystery.  That  the  confi- 
dence he  jjlaced  in  Charles  was  slight  and 
Eartial  adm.itted  of  no  doubt.  He  was  in  the 
abit,  for  instance,  of  going  out  after  the 
family  had  gone  to  bed,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned before ;  and  it  was  past  all  doubt 
that  he  had  been  frequently  seen  accompan- 
ied, in  his  midnight  rambles,  by  what  was 
known  in  the  neighborhood  as  the  Black 
Spectre,  or,  by  the  common  people,  as  the 
Shan-dhinne-dliuv,  or  the  dark  old  man. 
These  facts  invested  his  character,  which,  in 


j  spite  of  all  his  plausibility  of  manner,  was 
I  unpopular,  with  something  of  great  dread, 
as  involving  on  his  part  some  unholy  asso- 
ciation with  the  evil  and  supernatural.  This 
was  jjeeuharly  the  age  of  superstition  and  of 
a  belief  in  the  connection  of  both  men  and 
women  with  diabolical  agencies  ;  for  such 
was  the  creed  of  the  day. 

One  evening,  about  this  time,  Caterine 
Collins  was  on  her  way  home  to  RathfiUan, 
when,  on  crossing  a  piece  of  bleak  moor  ad- 
jacent to  the  town,  a  pow-erfnl  young  fellow, 
dressed  in  the  trais,  cloak,  and  barrad  of 
the  period,  started  up  from  a  clump  of  furze 
bushes,  and  addressed  her  as  follows : — 

"  Caterine,"  said  he,  "  are  you  in  a 
hurry  ?  " 

"  Not  ijartieularly,"  she  replied  ;  "but  in 
God's  name,  Shawn,  what  brings  you  here  ? 
Are  you  mad  ?  or  what  temjjts  you  to  come 
witliin  the  jaws  of  the  law  that  are  gaj^ing 
for  you  as  their  appointed  victim  ?  Don't 
you  know  you  are  an  outlaw  ?  " 

"  I  will  iuaswer  your  first  question  first," 
he  replied.  "  "^"hat  tempted  me  to  come 
here?  Vengeance — deep  and  deadly  ven- 
geance. Vengeance  upon  the  villain  who 
has  ruined  Grace  Davoren.  I  had  intended 
to  take  her  life  first ;  but  I  am  an  Irishman, 
and  will  not  visit  upon  the  head  of  the  inno- 
cent girl,  whom  this  incarnate  devil  has 
tempted  beyond  her  strength,  the  crime  for 
which  he  is  accountable." 

"Well,  indeed,  Shawn,  it  would  be  "only 
sending  him  right ;  but,  in  the  meantime, 
you  had  better  be  on  your  guard  ;  it  is  said 
that  he  fears  neither  God  nor  devil,  and 
always  goes  weU  armed  ;  so  be  cavitious,  and 
if  you  take  him  at  all,  it  must  be  by  treach- 
ery." 

"No,"  said  the  outlaw,  indignantly,  "I'll 
never  take  him  or  any  man  by  treachery. 
I  know  I  am  an  outlaw  ;  but  it  was  the  mer- 
ciless laws  of  the  country,  and  their  injus- 
tice to  me  and  mine,  that  made  me  so  ;  I 
resisted  them  openly  and  like  a  man  ;  but, 
bad  as  I  am  supposed  to  be,  I  will  never 
stain  either  my  name  or  my  conscience  by 
i  an  act  of  cowardly  treachery.  I  wiU  meet 
!  this  dark  villain  face  to  face,  and  take  my 
j  revenge  as  a  brave  man  ought.  You  say  he 
I  goes  well  armed,  and  that  is  a  proof  that  he 
feels  his  own  guilt  ;  yes,  he  goes  well  armed, 
you  say  ;  so  do  I,  and  it  will  not  be  the 
treacherous  murderer  that  he  wUl  meet,  but 
the  open  foe." 

"  WeU,"  replied  Caterine,  "  that  is  just 
like  you,  ShawTi  ;  and  it  is  no  wonder  that 
the  women  were  fond  of  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  but  the  girl  that  was  dear- 
er to  me  a  thousand  times  than  my  own  life 
has  proved  faitldess,  because  there  is  a  stain 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


TOT 


upon  my  name  —  a  stain,  but  no  crime, 
Caterine  ;  a  stain  made  by  the  law,  but  no 
crime.  Had  lier  heart  been  loyal  and  true, 
she  would  have  loved  me  ten  times  more  in 
consequence  of  my  veiy  dis;j;race — if  dis- 
grace I  ought  to  call  it ;  but  instead  of  that 
—but  wait— O,  the  villain  !  Well,  I  shall 
meet  him,  I  trust,  before  long,  and  then, 
Caterine,  ah,  then  !  " 

"  Well,  Shawn,  if  she  has  desarted  you, 
I  krow  one  that  loves  you  better  than  ever 
she  aid,  and  that  would  never  desart  you,  as 
Grace  Davoren  has  done." 

"  Ah,  Caterine,"  replied  the  outlaw,  sor- 
rowfuUj',  "  I  am  past  that  now  ;  my  heart  is 
broke — -I  could  never  love  another.  \\Tiat 
proof  oi  truth  or  affection  could  any  other 
woman  give  me  after  the  treachery  of  her 
who  once  said  she  loved  me  so  well '?  She 
said,  indeed,  some  time  ago,  that  it  was  her 
father  forced  her  to  do  it,  but  that  was 
after  she  had  seen  him,  for  well  I  know 
she  often  told  me  a  different  story  before 
the  night  of  tlie  bonfire  and  the  shower  of 
blood.  Well,  Caterine,  that  shower  of  blood 
was  not  sent  for  nothing.  It  came  as  the 
proiDliecy  of  his  fate,  which,  if  I  have  life, 
will  be  a  bloody  one." 

"Shawn,"  replied  Caterine,  as  if  she  bad 
not  paid  much  attention  to  his  words, 
"  Shawn,  dear  ShawTi,  there  is  one  woman 
who  would  give  her  life  for  your  love." 

"  Ah,"  said  Shawn,  "  it's  aisily  said,  at  all 
events — aisily  said  ;  but  who  is  it  Caterine  ?  " 

"  She  is  now  speaking  to  you,"  she  re- 
turned. "  Shawn,  j'ou  cannot  but  know 
that  I  have  long  loved  you  ;  and  I  now  teU 
you  that  I  lovej-ou  still — ay,  and  a  thousand 
times  more  than  ever  Grace  Davoren  did." 

"  You  !  "  said  Shawn,  recoiling  with  in- 
dignation ;  "  is  it  you,  a  spy,  a  fortune-tell- 
er, a  go-between,  and,  if  all  be  true,  a 
witch  ;  you,  whose  life  and  character  would 
make  a  modest  woman  blush  to  hear  them 
mentioned  ?  Why,  the  curse  of  heaven  upon 
you  !  how  dare  you  think  of  projjosing  such 
a  subject  to  me  ?  Do  you  think  because  I'm 
marked  b_y  the  laws  that  my  heart  has  lost 
anything  of  its  honesty  and  manhood  ?  Be- 
gone, you  hardened  and  unholy  vagabond, 
and  leave  my  sight." 

"Is  that  your  language,  ShawTi?  " 

"  It  is  ;  and  what  other  language  could  any 
man  with  but  a  single  spark  of  honestj-  and 
respect  for  himself  use  towai'd  you  ?  Be- 
gone, I  say." 

"  Yes,  I  will  begone  ;  but  perhaps  you  may 
live  to  rue  your  words  :  that  is  all." 

"  And,  perhaps,  so  may  you,"  he  replied. 
"  Leave  my  sight.  You  are  a  disgrace  to 
the  name  of  woman." 

She   turned   upon  her  heel,  and  on  the 


instant  bent  her  steps  towards  Eathiillan 
House. 

"  Shawn-na-Middocjue,"  she  said  as  she  went 
along,  "  you,  talk  about  revenge,  but  wait  till 
you  know  what  the  revenge  of  an  insulted 
woman  is.  It  is  not  an  aisy  thing  to  know 
your  haunts  ;  but  I'll  set  them  upon  youi 
trail  that  will  find  you  out  if  you  were  to 
hide  yourself  in  the  bownls  of  the  earth,  for 
the  words  .you  used  to  me  this  night.  Dar 
manim,  I  will  never  rest  either  night  or  day 
until  I  see  you  swing  fi'om  a  gibbet." 

Instead  of  proceeding  to  the  little  town 
of  IrlithfiUan,  she  changed  her  mind  and 
turned  her  stejjs  to  EathfiUan  House,  the 
residence,  as  our  readers  are  aware,  of  the 
generous  and  kind-hearted  Mi-.  Lindsay. 

On  aiTiving  there  she  met  our  old  acquam- 
tance,  Barney  Casey,  on  the  way  frc^n  the 
kitchen  to  the  stable.  Observing  that  she 
was  approaching  the  hall-door  with  the  evi- 
dent purjjose  of  knocking,  and  feeling  satis- 
fied that  her  business  could  be  with  none  of 
the  family  except  Harry,  he  resolved  to  have 
some  conversation  with  her,  in  order,  if  pos- 
sible, to  get  a  glimpse  of  its  purjjort.  Not, 
indeed,  that  he  entertained  any  expectation 
of  such  a  result,  because  he  knew  the  craft 
and  secrecy  of  the  woman  he  had  to  deal 
with  ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  thought  that  he 
might  still  glean  something  significant  even 
by  her  equivocations,  if  not  by  her  very 
silence.  He  accordingly  tiu-ned  over  and 
met  her. 

"  Well,  Caterine,  won't  this  be  a  fine  night 
when  the  moon  and  stars  comes  out  to  show 
you  the  road  home  again  afther  you  manage 
the  afi'aii-  j-ou're  bent  on  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  am  I  bent  on  ?  "  she  replied, 
sharply. 

"  Why,  to  build  a  church  to-night,  wid  the 
assistance  of  Mr.  HariT  Woodward." 

"Talk  withresjiect  of  your  masther's  ste])- 
son,"  she  replied,  indignantly. 

"And  my  sweet  misthress's  son,"  returned 
Barney,  significantlj'.  "  Why,  Caterine,  1 
hojje  you  n'on't  lift  me  till  I  fall.  What  did 
I  say  disrespectful  of  him?  Faith,  I  only 
know  that  the  wondher  is  how  such  a  devil's 
scald  could  have  so  good  and  kind-hearted 
a  son,"  he  added,  disentangling  hi;nself  from, 
her  suspicions,  knowing  perfectly  vv'ell,  as  he 
did,  that  any  unfavorable  expression  he  might 
utter  against  that  vindictive  gentleman  would 
most  assuredly  be  communicated  to  him  with 
comments  much  stronger  than  the  text. 
This  would  only  throw  him  out  of  Harry's 
confidence,  and  deprive  him  of  those  ojipor- 
tunities  of  probably  learning,  from  their 
casual  conversation,  some  tendency  of  his 
mysterious  movement.^,  especially  at  night ; 
for  that  he  was  enveloped  in  ■"ij'ster^f  ~sas  a 


ro8 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


fact  of  which  he  felt  no  doubt  whatsoever. 
He  accordingly  resolved  to  cancel  the  conse- 
q'.ienoes  even  of  the  equivocal  jillusion  to  him 
which  he  had  mads,  and  which  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  Caterine's  keen  suspicions  had 
interpreted  into  a  bad  sense. 

"  So  you  see,  Katly,'"he  proceeded,  "  agra- 
machi'ee  that  you  wor,  don't  lift  me,  as  I 
adid,  till  I  fall  ;  but  what  harm  is  it  to  be 
fond  of  a  spree  wid  a  purty  girl  ?  Sure  it's 
a  good  man's  case  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  more  ; 
you  must  know  the  misthress's  wig  took  fire 
this  mornin',  and  she  was  within  an  inch  of 
haviu'  the  house  in  flames.  All,  it's  she  that 
blew  a  regular  breeze,  threatened  to  make 
the  masther  and  the  other  two  take  to  their 
travels  from  about  the  house  and  place,  and 
settle  the  same  house  and  place  upon  Mr. 
Harry." 

"  Well,  Barney,"  said  Cateriue,  deeply  in- 
terested, "  what  was  the  upshot?  " 

"  Why,  that  Masther  Harry — long  life  to 
him — parted  company  wid  her  on  the  spot ; 
said  he  would  take  part  wid  the  masther  and 
the  other  two,  and  tould  her  to  her  teeth 
that  he  did  not  care  a  damn  about  the  proper- 
ty, and  that  she  might  leave  it  as  a  legacy  to 
ould  Nick,  who,  he  said,  desarved  it  better  at 
her  hands  than  he  did." 

"  Well,  well,"  I'eplied  Caterine,  "  I  never 
thought  he  was  such  a  fool  as  all  that  comes 
to.  De\'irs  cvu'e  to  him,  if  she  laves  it  to 
some  one  else  !  that's  my  compassion  for 
him." 

"Well,  but,  Caterine,  what's  the  news? 
When  will  the  sky  faU,  you  that  knows  so 
much  about  futurity  ?  " 

"  The  news  is  anything  but  good,  Barney. 
The  sky  wUl  fall  some  Sunday  in  the  middle 
of  next  week,  and  then  for  the  lark-catching. 
But  tell  me,  Barney,  is  Mr.  Harry  within  ? 
because,  if  he  is,  I'd  thank  you  to  let  him 
know  that  I  wish  to  see  him.  I  have  a  bit  of 
favor  to  ask  of  him  about  my  uncle  Solo- 
mon's cabin  ;  the  masther 's  threatnin'  to  pull 
it  down." 

Now,  Barney  knew  the  assertion  to  be  a 
he,  because  it  was  only  a  day  or  two  previous 
to  the  conversation  that  he  had  heard  Mr. 
Lindspy  express  hit;  intention  of  building  the 
old  herbahst  a  new  one.  He  kept  liis  knowl- 
edge of  this  to  himself,  however. 
!  "  And  so  you  want  him  to  change  the  mas- 
ther's  mind  ujjon  the  subject.  Faith  and 
you're  just  in  luck  after  this  momin's  skirm- 
ish— skirmish  !  no  bedad,  but  a  field  day  it- 
self ;  tlie  masther  could  refuse  him  nothing. 
Win  I  say  what  you  want  him  for  ?  " 

"  You  may  or  you  may  not ;  but,  on  sec- 
ond thoughts,  I  tliink  it  v/ill  be  enough  to 
8ay  simply  that  I  wish  to  spake  to  him  par- 
ticularly." 


"  VeiT  well,  Cateiine," replied  Barney,  "  IH 
tell  him  so." 

In  a  few  minutes  Harr\'  joined  her  on  the 
lawn,  where  she  awaited  him,  imd  the  follow- 
ing dialogue  took  place  between  them  : 

"  Well,  Caterine,  Casey  tells  me  that  j-ou 
have  something  jjarticular  to  say  to  me." 

"And  very  particular  indeed,  it  is,  Mr. 
Harry." 

"  Well,  then,  the  sooner  we  have  it  the 
better  ;  pray,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  afeard,  Mr.  Woodward,  that  unless 
you  have  some  good  body's  blessin'  about 
you,  your  hfe  isn't  worth  a  week's  \>vx- 
chase." 

"  Some  good  body's  blessing  !  "  he  repliecf 
ironically  ;  "  well,  never  mind  that,  but  let 
me  know  the  danger,  if  danger  there  be  ;  at 
aU  events,  I  am  well  prepared  for  it." 

"  The  danger  then  is  this — and  ten-ible  it 
is — that  bom  devil,  Hhavm-na-Middocjur,  has 
got  hold  of  what's  goin'  on  between  j'ou  and 
Grace  Davoren." 

"  Between  me  and  Grace  Davoren  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  well-feigned  aston- 
ishment. "  You  mean  my  brother  Charles. 
Why,  Caterine,  that  soft-hearted  and  soft' 
headed  idiot,  for  I  can  call  him  nothing  else, 
has  made  himself  a  perfect  fool  about  her, 
and  what  is  worst  of  all,  I  am  afraid  he  will 
break  his  engagement  with  Miss  Goodwin, 
and  many  this  wench.  Me  !  why,  except 
that  he  sent  me  once  or  t^^■ice  to  meet  her, 
and  ajjologize  for  his  not  being  able  to  keep 
his  appointment  with  her,  I  know  nothing 
whatsoever  of  the  imfortunate  girl,  unless 
that,  like  a  fool,  as  she  is,  it  seems  to  me 
that  she  is  as  fond  of  him  as  he,  the  fool,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  of  her.  As  for  my  part, 
I  shall  deliver  his  messages  to  her  no  more 
— and,  indeed,  it  was  wrong  of  me  ever  to 
do  so." 

The  moon  had  now  risen,  and  Caterine, 
on  looking  keenly  and  incredulously  into 
his  face,  read  nothing  ihere  but  an  expres- 
sion of  apjiarent  sincerity  and  sorrow  for 
the  indiscretion  and  foUy  of  his  brother. 

"  Well,"  she  f)roceeded,  "  in  spite  of  all 
you  tell  me  I  say  that  it  does  not  make  your 
danger  the  less.  It  is  not  yoiu-  brother  but 
yourself  that  he  suspects,  and  whether  right 
or  ^Tong,  it  is  upon  you  that  his  vengeance 
will  fall." 

"Well,  but,  Caterine,'  he  replied,  "could 
you  not  see  Shawn-na-3Iiddogue  and  remedy 
that?" 

"How,  sir?"  she  replied. 

"  Why,  by  telling  him  the  truth,"  said 
the  far-sighted  riUain,  "  that  it  is  my  bro- 
ther, and  not  I,  that  was  the  intriguer  with 
her." 

"Is  that  generous  towards  your  broUier, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


T09 


Mi  Woodward  ?  No,  sir  ;  sooner  than  bring 
the  vengeance  of  such  a  person  as  Shawn 
upon  him,  I  .would  have  the  tongue  cut  out 
of  my  mouth,  or  the  right  arm  ofl'  my 
body." 

"  Aiid  I,  Cateriue,"  he  answered,  retriev- 
ing himself  as  well  as  he  could  ;  "yes,  /  de- 
serve to  have  my  tongue  cut  out,  and  my 
right  arm  chopped  off,  for  what  I  have  said. 
O,  no  ;  if  there  he  danger  let  me  run  the 
risk,  and  not  poor,  good,  kind-hearted 
Charles,  who  is  certainly  infatuated  by  this 
girl.'  He  is  to  meet  her  to-morrow  night  at 
nine  o'clock,  iu  the  little  elumjj  of  alders  be- 
low the  well,  but  I  shall  go  iu  his  place — 
that  is,  if  I  can  prevail  upon  him  to  allow 
me — and  endeavor  once  for  all  to  put  an  end 
to  this  business  :  mark  that  I  said,  if  he  will 
allow  me,  although  I  scarcely  think  he  will. 
Now,  good-niglit,  and  many  thanks  for  your 
good  wishes  towards  myself  and  him.  Ac- 
cept of  this,  and  good-night  again."  As  he 
sjjoke  he  placed  some  money  in  her  unre- 
luctant  hand,  aud  returned  on  his  way 
home. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

S!iawn-na-Midiln!lue  Stabs  Chnrles  Liiidsa;/  in  Mil- 
take  fur  his  Brutlur. 

Shawn-na-Middogue,  though  uneducated, 
Was  a  young  man  of  no  common  intellect. 
That  he  had  been  selected  to  head  the  out- 
laws, or  rapjjarees,  of  that  day,  was  a  suffi- 
cient proof  of  this.  After  parting  from 
Caterine  Collins,  on  whom  the  severity  of 
his  language  fell  with  such  bitterness,  he 
began  to  reflect  that  he  had  acted  with  great 
indiscretion,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  He  knew 
that  if  there  was  a  woman  in  the  barony  who, 
if  she  determined  on  it,  could  trace  him  to 
his  most  secret  haunts,  she  was  that  woman. 
He  saw,  too,  that  aft«r  she  had  left  him,  evi- 
dently in  deep  indignatiou,  she  turned  her 
steps  towards  Rathtillau  House,  most  prob- 
ably with  an  intention  of  communicating  to 
Harry  Woodward  the  strong  determinations 
of  vengeance  which  he  had  expressed  against 
him.  Here,  then,  by  want  of  temper  aud 
common  pohcj',  had  he  created  two  formid- 
able enemies  against  himself.  This,  he  felt, 
was  an  oversight  for  which  he  could  scarcely 
forgive  himself.  He  resolved,  if  possible,  to 
repair  the  error  he  had  committed,  and,  with 
this  object  iu  view,  he  hung  about  the  jjlace 
until  her  return  should  afford  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  such  an  explanation  as 
might  soothe  her  into  good  humor  and  a 
more  friendly  feeling  towards  him.  Nay,  he 
even  determined  to  promise  her  marriage,  in  i 


oi-der  to  disarm  her  resentment  and  avert 
the  danger  which,  lie  knew,  was  to  be  appre- 
hended from  it.  He  accordingly  stationed 
himself  in  the  shelter  of  a  ditch,  along  which 
he  knew  she  must  pass  on  her  way  home. 
He  had  not  long,  however,  to  wait.  In  the 
coui'se  of  h:ilf  an  hour  he  saw  her  ajsproach, 
and  as  she  was  passing  him  he  said  in  a  low, 
confideutial  voice, — 

"  Cateriue !  " 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  she  asked,  but  without 
exhibiting  any  symjstoms  of  alarm. 

"  Its  me,"  he  rephed,  "Shawn." 

"  WeU,"  she  replied,  "and  what  is  that  to 
me  whether  it's  you  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  over  our  discourse  a 
while  ago,  and  I'm  sorry  for  wh  it  I've  said  ; 
— will  you  let  me  see  you  a  part  of  the  way 
home  ?  " 

"  I  can't  prevent  you  fi'om  comin',''  she 
rephed,  "  if  you're  disposed  to  come — the 
way  is  as  free  to  j'ou  as  to  me." 

They  then  p)roceeded  together,  and  our 
readers  must  gather  from  the  incidents 
which  are  to  follow  what  the  result  was  of 
Shawn's  policy  in  his  conversation  with  her 
on  the  way.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they 
parted  on  the  best  and  most  affectionate 
terms,  and  that  a  certain  smack,  very  deli- 
cious to  the  lips  of  Caterine,  was  heard  be- 
fore Shawn  bade  her  good-night. 

Barnej'  Casey,  who  suspected  there  was 
something  in  the  wind,  in  consequence  of  the 
secret  intei'\dew  which  took  place  between 
Caterine  Collins  and  Harry,  conscious  as  he 
felt  that  it  was  for  no  good  purpose,  watched 
that  worthy  gentleman's  face  with  keen  but 
quiet  observation,  iu  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  di'aw  some  inference  from  its  expression. 
This,  howevei',  was  a  vain  task.  The  face 
was  impassable,  inscrutable  ;  no  symptom  of 
agitation,  alarm,  or  concealed  satisfaction 
could  be  read  in  it,  or  anj'thing  else,  in 
short,  but  the  ordinary  expression  of  the 
most  perfect  indifference.  Barney  knew  his 
man,  however,  and  felt  aware,  fi'om  former 
observations,  of  the  power  which  Woodward 
possessed  of  disgiiising  his  face  whenever  he 
wished,  even  under  the  influence  of  the 
strongest  emotions.  Accordingly,  notwith- 
standing all  this  indifference  of  manner,  he 
felt  that  it  was  for  no  common  purpose 
Cateriue  CoUins  sought  an  interview  with 
him,  and  with  this  impression  on  his  mind 
he  resolved  to  watch  his  motions  closely. 

The  next  day  Hai-ry  and  Charles  went  out 
to  course,  accompanied  by  Barney  himself, 
who,  by  the  waj',  observed  that  the  former 
made  a  j)oint  to  bring  a  case  of  jsistols  and  a 
dagger  vnth  him,  which  he  concealed  so  as 
that  the}'  might  not  be  seen.  This  discovers' 
was  the  result  of  Barney's  vigilance  and  sus- 


710 


WILLI  AX  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


picions,  for  when  Harry  was  prepared  to  fol- 
low his  brother,  who  went  to  put  the  clogs 
in  leash,  he  said  : 

"  Barney,  go  and  assist  Mr.  Chailes,  and  I 
will  join  you  both  on  the  lawn." 

Barney  accordingly  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  after  him  ;  but  instead  of 
proceeding,  as  directed,  to  join  Charles,  he 
deliberately  put  his  eye  to  the  key-hole,,  and 
saw  Harry  secrete  the  pistols  and  dagger 
about  his  pierson.  Each,  also,  brought  his 
gun  at  the  suggestion  of  Harry,  who  said, 
that  although  they  went  out  merely  to 
course,  yet  it  was  not  improbable  .;hat  they 
might  get  a  random  shot  at  the  grouse  or 
partridge  as  they  went  along.  Upon  all  these 
matters  Barney  made  his  comments,  al- 
though he  said  nothing  upon  the  subject 
even  to  Charles,  from  whom  he  scarcely  ever 
concealed  a  .secret.  That  Harry  was  brave 
and  intrepid  even  to  rashness  he  knew  ;  but 
why  he  should  arm  himself  with  such  secrecy 
and  caution  occasioned  him  much  conjecture. 
His  intrigue  with  Grace  Davoren  was  begin- 
ning to  be  .suspected.  Shaim-na-3Iuidogue 
might  have  heard  of  it.  Caterine  Collins 
was  one  of  Woodward's  agents — at  least  it 
was  supposed  from  their  frequent  interviews 
that  she  was,  to  a  certain  degree,  in  his  con- 
fidence ;  might  not  her  request,  then,  to  see 
him  on  the  preceding  night  proceed  from  an 
anxiety,  on  her  part,  to  warn  him  against 
some  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  that 
fearful  freebooter  ?  This  was  well  and  cor- 
rectly reasoned  on  the  part  of  Barney,  and, 
with  those  impressions  fixed  upon  his  mind, 
he  accompanied  the  two  brothers  on  the 
sporting  expedition  of  the  day. 

We  shall  not  dwell  upon  their  success, 
which  was  even  better  than  they  had  ex- 
pected. Nothing,  however,  occuiTed  to  ren- 
der either  jDistols  or  dagger  necessary  ;  but 
Barney  obsei'ved  that,  on  their  return  home, 
Harry  made  it  a  point  to  come  by  the  well 
where  he  and  Grace  Davoren  were  in  the 
habit  of  meeting,  and,  having  taken  his  bro- 
ther aside,  he  pointed  to  the  little  dark 
elump  of  alders,  which  sku'ted  a  smiill  grove, 
and,  having  whispered  something  to  him 
whicli  he  could  not  hear,  they  passed  on  by 
the  old,  broken  boreeu,  which  we  have  de- 
scribed, and  reached  home  loaded  T\ith  game, 
but  without  any  particidar  adventure.  Bar- 
ney's \igilauce,  however,  was  still  awake,  and 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
why  Harry  had  armed  himself,  for  as  yet  he 
had  nothing  but  suspicion  on  which  to  rest. 
He  knew  that  whenever  he  went  out  at  night 
or  in  the  evening  he  always  went  armed  ; 
and  this  was  only  natural,  for  the  country 
was  in  a  dangerous  and  disturbed  state,  ow- 
ing, as  the    rejiort   went,  to    the    outrages 


against  property  which  were  said  to  hava 
been  committed  by  Shaicn-na-Middofjue  and 
his  rapparees.  During  his  sjiorting  excur- 
sions in  the  oj)en  day,  howe^'er,  he  never 
knew  him  to  go  armed  in  this  manner  be- 
fore, because,  on  such  occasions  he  had  al 
ways  seen  his  pistols  and  dagger  hinging 
against  the  wall,  where  he  usually  kept  them. 
On  this  occasion,  however,  Woodward  went 
like  a  man  who  felt  apprehensive  of  some 
premeditated  violence  on  the  jiart  of  an 
enemy.  Judging,  therefore,  from  what  he 
had  seen,  as  well  as  from  what  he  copjec- 
tured,  Barney,  as  we  said,  resolved  to  watch 
him  closely. 

In  the  meantime,  the  state  of  poor  Alice 
Goodwin's  health  was  deplorable.  The 
dreadful  image  of  Harry  Woodward,  or, 
rather,  the  fiightful  power  of  his  satnnic 
spirit,  fastened  upon  her  morbid  and  dis- 
eased imagination  with  such  force,  that  no 
efi'ort  of  her  reason  could  shake  it  oft",  lliat 
dreadful  eye  was  perpetually  upon  her  roid 
before  her,  both  asleep  and  awake,  and,  lest 
she  might  have  any  one  point  on  which  to 
rest  for  comfort,  the  idefi  of  Charles  Lindsay'? 
attachment  to  Grace  Davoren  would  come 
over  her,  only  to  suj^ersede  one  misery  by  in- 
troducing another.  In  this  wretched  state 
she  was  when  the  calamitous  circumstances, 
which  we  are  about  to  relate,  took  place. 

Barne}'  Casey  was  a  good  deal  engaged 
that  evening,  for  indeed  he  was  a  general 
servant  in  his  master's  family,  and  was  ex- 
pected to  put  a  hand  to,  and  superintend, 
everything.  He  was,  therefore,  out  of  the 
way  for  a  time,  having  gone  to  Rathfillnn  on 
a  message  for  his  mistress,  whom  he  cursed 
in  his  heart  for  having  sent  him.  He  lost 
little  time,  however,  in  discharging  it.  and 
was  just  ou  his  return  when  he  saw  Harry 
Woodward  entering  the  old  boreen  we  have 
described ;  and,  as  the  night  was  rather 
dark,  he  resolved  to  ascertain — although  he 
truly  suspected — the  object  of  (his  nocturnal 
adventure.  He  accordingly  dogged  him  at 
a  safe  distance,  and,  in  accordance  with  his 
suspicions,  he  found  that  Woodward  dii-eci- 
ed  his  steps  to  the  clump  of  alders  which  he 
had,  on  theii'  retm-n  that  day,  pointed  out  to 
his  brother.  Here  he  (Barney)  ensconced 
himself  in  a  close  thicket,  in  order  to  watch 
the  event.  Woodward  had  not  been  many 
minutes  there  when  Grace  Davoren  joined 
him.  She  seemed  startled,  and  surprised, 
and  disappointed,  as  Casey  could  perceive 
hy  her  manner,  or  rather  by  the  tones  of  lier 
voice  ;  but,  whatever  the  cause  of  her  dis- 
appointment may  have  been,  there  was  little 
time  left  for  either  remonstrances  or  expla- 
nation on  the  i^art  of  her  lover.  Waist  ad- 
dressing her,  a   young  and   powerful   man 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


711 


bounded  f  jrward,  and,  brandisliing  a  lonj:^ 
dagger — tlie  dreads<3  iciddogiie — plunged  it 
into  Lis  body,  aiKi  her  companion  fell  with  a 
groan.  The  act  was  rapid  as  lightning,  and 
the  moment  the  work  of  blood  and  ven- 
geance had  been  accompUshed,  the  young 
ifellow  bounded  away  again  with  the  same 
speed  observable  in  the  rapidity  of  his  ap- 
proach. Grace's  screams  and  shrieks  were 
loud  and  fearful. 

"  jViurdherin'  villain  of  hell,"  she  shouted 
after  Shawn — for  it  was  he — "  you  have 
killed  the  wrong  man — you  have  murdered 
the  innocent.     This  is  his  brother." 

Barney  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"Heavenly  Father!"  he  exclaimed, 
shocked  and  astounded  by  her  words,  "  what 
means  this  ?     Is  it  Mr.  Charles  ?  " 

"  O,  yes,"  she  rejjlied,  not  conscious  that 
in  the  alarm  and  terror  of  the  moment  she 
had  betrayed  herself,  or  rather  her  para- 
mour— "  innocent  Mr.  Charles  I'm  afeard  is 
murdhered  by  that  revengeful  villain  ,  and 
now,  Barney,  what  is  to  be  done,  and  how 
will  we  get  assistance  to  bring  him  home  ? 
But,  cheerna  above !  what  will  become  of 
me  !  " 

"  Mr.  Charles,"  said  Barney,  "  is  it  pios- 
sible  that  it  is  you  that  is  here  ?  " 

"I  am  here,  Barney,"  he  rei^lied,  with  dif- 
ficulty, "  and,  I  fear,  mortally  wounded." 

"  O,  God  forl)id  !  "  replied  his  humble 
but  faithful  fi-iend.  "  I  hope  it  is  not  so 
bad  as  you  think." 

"  Take  this  handkerchief,"  said  Charles, 
"  tie  it  about  my  breast,  and  trj'  and  stop 
the  blood.     I  feel  myself  getting  weak." 

This  Barney  proceeded  to  do,  in  which 
operation  we  shall  leave  him,  assisted  by  the 
unfortunate  girl  who  was  indirectly  the 
means  of  bringing  this  dreadful  calamity 
ui^on  him. 

Shawn-va-Middoriue  was  not  out  of  the 
reach  of  hearing  when  Grace  shouted  after 
him,  ha^^ng  paused  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
whether  he  had  done  his  work  eti'ectually. 
That  Hari-y  Woodward  was  Grace's  para- 
mour, he  tneic  ;  and  that  Charles  was  inno- 
cent of  that  guilt,  he  also  knew.  All  that 
Cateriue  Collins  had  told  him  on  the  preced- 
ing night  went  for  nothing,  because  be  felt 
that  Woodward  had  coined  those  falsehoods 
with  a  view  to  screen  himself  from  his 
(Shawn's)  vengeance.  But  in  the  meantime 
Grace's  words,  uttered  in  the  extremity  of 
her  terror,  assured  him  that  there  had  been 
soffe  mistake,  and  that  one  brother  might 
hav^  come  to  explain  and  apologize  for  the 
absence  of  the  other.  He  eonsec[iiently  crept 
back  within  hearing  of  their  conversation, 
and  ascertained  with  regret  the  mistake  he 
had   coniniit'..ed.     Shawn,  at  night,  seldom 


went  unattended  by  several  of  his  gang,  and 
on  this  occasion  he  was  accompanied  bj 
aliout  a  dozen  of  them.  His  murderou/v 
mistake  occasioned  him  to  feel  deep  sorrow, 
for  he  was  perfe:;tly  well  acquainted  with 
the  amiable  and  generous  character  which 
Charles  bore  amongst  his  father's  tenrmtiy. 
His  life  had  been,  not  only  inoffensive,  but 
benevolent ;  whilst  that  of  his  brother — 
short  as  was  the  time  since  his  return  to 
Ratlrfillan  House — was  marked  bj'  a  very  li- 
centious profligacy, — a  profligacy  which  he 
attempted  in  vain  to  conceal.  Whilst  Grace 
D.ivoren  and  Casey  were  attempting  to 
staunch  the  blood  which  issued  fi'om  the 
wound,  four  men,  despatched  by  Shawn  for 
the  pur^jose,  came,  as  if  alarmed  by  Grace's 
shrieks,  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  and, 
after  having  inquired  as  to  the  cause  of  its 
occurrence,  precisely  as  if  they  had  been  ig- 
norant of  it,  they  jsroposed  that  the  only 
thing  to  be  done,  so  as  to  give  him  a  chance 
for  life,  was  to  carry  him  home  without  a 
moment's  delay.  He  was  accordingly  raised 
upon  their  .shoulders,  and,  with  more  sym- 
pathy than  could  be  exj^ected  from  such 
men,  was  borne  to  his  father's  house  iu  ap- 
parently a  dying  state. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  attemjst  any  description 
of  the  alarm  which  his  appearance  there  cre- 
ated. His  father  and  Maria  were  distracted  ; 
even  his  mother  manifested  tokens  of  un- 
usual sorrow,  for  after  all  she  vas  his 
mother  ;  and  nothing,  indeed,  could  sui-pass 
the  sorrow  of  the  whole  family.  The  ser- 
vants were  all  iu  tears,  and  nothing  but  soba 
and  wailings  could  be  heard  throughout  the 
house.  Harry  Woodward  himself  put  his 
handkerchief  to  his  e.yes,  and  seemed  to  feel 
a  deej)  but  subdued  sorrow.  Medical  aid 
was  immediately  sent  for,  but  such  was  his 
precarious  condition  that  no  opinion  could 
be  formed  as  to  his  ultimate  recovery. 

The  next  morning  the  town  of  Eathfillan, 
and  indeed  the  parish  at  large,  were  iu  a 
state  of  agitation,  and  tumult,  and  sorrow,  as 
soon  as  the  melancholy  catastrophe  had  be- 
come knowii.     The  neighbors  and   tenants 
flocked  in  multitudes  to  leam  the  particulars, 
and  ascertain  his  state.    About  eleven  o'clock 
[  Harrj'  mounted  his  horse,  and,  in  defiance 
j  of  the  interdict  that  had  been  laid  upon  him, 
j  proceeded  at  a  rapid  pace  to  Mr.  Goodwin's 
I  house,  in  order  to  disclose — ^^•ith  what  ob- 
ject the  reader  may  conjecture — the   meian- 
!  choly    event    which    had    hajjpened.       He 
I  found  Goodwin,  his  wife,  and  Sarah  Sullivan 
I  in  the  parlor,  which  he  had  scarcely  entered 
when  Mr.  Goodwin  got  up,   and,  approach- 
ing him  in  a  state  of  great  alarm  and  excite- 
ment, exclaimed, — 

"  Good   Heavens,    Mr.    Woodward  !     can 


712 


WILLIAM    CARLETON  'S  W0IiA6: 


this  dreadful  intelligence  which  we  have 
heard  be  true  ?  " 

"  O,  you  have  heai'd  it,  then,"  rejjlied 
Woodward.  ''Alas  !  yes,  it  is  too  true,  and 
my  unfortunate  brother  hes  with  Hfe  bai-ely 
in  him,  but  without  the  slightest  hope  of  re- 
covery. As  for  myself  I  am  in  a  state  of 
absolute  disti-action  ;  iuid  were  it  not  that  I 
possess  the  consciousness  of  having  done 
evervtliing  in  my  power  as  a  fi-ieud  and  bro- 
ther to  vdthdi'aw  him  fi'om  this  unfortunate 
intrigue,  I  thiuk  I  should  become  fairly 
crazed.  !Miss  Goodwin  has  for  some  time 
past  been  awiu-e  of  my  deep  anxiety  upon 
this  very  subject,  because  I  deemed  it  a 
solemn  duty  on  my  part  to  let  her  know 
that  he  had  degraded  himseK  by  this  low 
attaclnnent  to  such  a  girl,  and  was  conse- 
quently utterly  unworthy  of  her  atiection.  I 
txDuld  not  see  the  mnocence  and  pmity  im- 
posed upon,  nor  her  generous  contideuce 
jilaced  on  an  unworthy  object.  This,  how- 
I  :ver,  is  not  a  time  to  deal  hai'shly  by  him. 
He  will  not  be  long  with  us,  and  is  entitled 
to  nothing  but  oui-  forbearance  and  sym- 
pathy. Poor  fellow  !  he  has  paid  a  hea\-v" 
and  a  fatal  penalty  for  his  crime.  Alas,  my 
brother  !  cut  down  in  the  very  jjrime  of  hfe, 
when  there  was  still  time  enough  for  refor- 
mation imd  repentance  !  O.  it  is  too  much  I  " 

He  turned  towards  the  window,  and.  put- 
ting his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  did  the 
pathetic  witli  a  veiy  good  gi-ace. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin.  "  what  were 
the  exact  cii'cumstauces  imder  which  the  de- 
plorable act  of  vengeance  was  committed  ?  " 

"  Alas  I  the  usuid  tiling,  ili-s.  Goodwin," 
replied  Harry,  attempting  to  clear  his  throat  ; 
"  they  met  last  night  between  nine  and 
ten  o'clock,  in  a  clumj)  of  iilders,  neai-  the 
well  fi'om  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  ad- 
joining hamlet  fetch  theii-  water.  The  out- 
law, Shaw»-»(i-A[uldogiie,  a  rejected  lover  of 
the  giiis,  stung ■nith  jealousy  and  vengeance, 
sui-prised  them,  and  stabbed  my  unfortu- 
nate brother,  I  fear,  to  death." 

"  And  do  you  thiuk  there  is  no  hope  ?  " 
she  added,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  "  O,  if  he 
had  only  time  for  repentance  !  " 

"  Alas  !  madam,  the  medical  man  who  has 
seen  him  scai-cely  holds  out  any  hope  ;  but, 
as  you  say,  if  he  had  time  even  to  repent, 
there  wovJd  be  much  consolation  in  that." 

"  "Well,"  observed  Goodwin,  his  eyes  moist 
with  teai's,  "  after  this  day,  I  shall  never 
place  contidenee  in  man.  I  did  imagine  that 
if  ever  there  was  an  individual  whose  heart 
was  the  source  of  honor,  truth,  generosity, 
disinterestedness,  and  atiection,  your  brother 
Chai'les  was  that  man.  I  am  confoimded, 
amazed — smd  the  whole  thing  appears  to  me 
like   a   dream ;  at    all   events,    thank    God, 


-our  daughter  has  had  a  narrow  escape  c^ 
him." 

"  Pi'ay,  by  the  way,  how  is  Miss  Good- 
win? "  asked  Harry  ;  "I  hope  she  is  recover- 
ing." 

"  So  far  fi-om  that,"  rephed  her  father, 
"  she  is  sinking  fast ;  in  truth  we  entertain 
but  httle  hopes  of  her." 

'•  On  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  here  you 
forbade  me  your  house,  JIi\  Good^Nin,"  said 
Woodward  ;  "but  perhaps,  now  that  you  ai-e 
aware  of  the  stejis  I  have  taken  to  detach 
your  daughter's  att'ections  fi-om  an  individual 
whom  I  knew  at  the  time  to  be  imworthy  of 
them,  you  may  be  prevailed  on  to  rescind 
that  stern  and  painful  decree." 

Goodwiu,  who  was  kind-hearted  and  plae- 

;  able,  seemed  rather  perplexed,  and  looked 

i  towards  his  wife,  as  if  to  be  guided  by  her 
decision. 

'•  Well,  indeed,"  she  repUed,  "  I  don't 
exactly  know ;  perhaps  we  wiU  think  of 
it" 

i  "  No,"  rephed  Sai"ah  Sullivan,  who  was 
toasting  a  thin  sUce  of  bread  for  Alice's 
breakfast.  "  ^'o  ;  if  you  allow  this  m;m  to 
come  about  the  place,  as  God  is  to  judge 
me,  you  wiU  both  have  a  hand  in  your 
daughter's  death.  If  the  de\Tls  from  heE 
wei'e  to  visit  here,  she  might  beai-  it :  biit  at 
the  ijresent  moment  one  look  from  that  man 
would  kn]  her." 

j       This  remonsti'ance  decided  them. 

"  No,    Mi\    "Woodwaixl,"    said    Good\^■in, 

\  "the  truth  is,  my  daughter  entertains  a 
strong  prejudice  against  you — in  fact,  a  ter- 
ror of  you — and  under  these  circumstances, 
and  considering,  besides,  her  state  of  health, 
we  could  not  think  of  permitting  your  visits, 
at  least,"  he  added,  "imtU  that  prejudice  be 
removed  and  her  hejdth  I'estored — if  it  ever 
shall  be.     "SVe  owe  you  no  iU-will,  sii- ;  but 

1  under  the  circumstances  we  cannot,  for  the 

I  jjresent,  at  least,  allow  you  to  visit  us." 

"  ^^'eU.''  reiilied  "Woodward,  '•  perhaps — 
and  I  sincerely  trust — her  health  will  be  re- 
stored, and  her  jarejiidices  agiiinst  me  re- 
moved, and  when  better  times  come  about  I 
shall  look  with  anxiety  to  tlie  privilege  of 
renewing  my  intimacy  with  you  all. " 

"Perhaps  so,"  returned  ilr.  Good^sin, 
"and  then  we  shall  receive  your  visits  with 
pleasure." 

Woodward  then  shook  hands  vWth  him 
and  his  wife,  and  wished  them  a  good  morn- 
ing. 

On  his  way  home  woi-thy  .Sfo'/  Balor  began 
to  entertain  reflections  upon  his  prospects  in 
hfe  that  he  felt  to  be  rather  agi-eeable.  Here 
was  his  brother,  whom  he  had  kindly  sent  U\ 
apologize  to  Grace  Davoren  for  the  impossi- 

I  bihty  fi'om  Ulness  of  his  meeting  her  accord- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPEC  TEE. 


713 


ing  to  their  previous  arrangement ;  yes,  we 
say  he  feigned  iUness  on  that  evening,  and 
prevailed  on  the  uusu.specting  young  man  to 
go  in  his  stead,  in  order,  as  he  siiid,  to  give 
her  the  necessary  explanations  for  his  ab- 
sence. Charles  undertook  this  mission  the 
more  wiUingly,  as  it  was  his  firm  intension 
to  remonstrate  with  the  girl  on  the  impro- 
priety of  her  conduct,  in  continuing  a  secret 
and  guQty  iutrigue,  which  must  end  only  in 
her  o^^Ti  shame  and  ruin.  But  when  Harrv 
deputed  him  upon  such  a  message  he  antici- 
pated the  verj'  event  which  had  occurr6;d,  or, 
rather,  a  more  fiital  one  still,  for,  despite  his 
hopes  of  Alice  Goodwin's  ill  state  of  health, 
he  entei-tained  strong  ajjjjrehensions  that  his 
stepfather  might,  hy  some  accidental  piece 
of  intelligence,  Ije  restored  to  his  original 
impressions  on  the  relative  position  ui  which 
she  and  Charles  stood.  An  interview  be- 
tween ilr.  Lindsay  and  her  might  cancel  all 
he  had  done ;  and  if  eveiy  obstruction 
which  he  had  endeavored  to  jjlace  between 
their  union  were  removed,  her  health  might 
recover,  their  mariiage  take  place,  and  then 
what  became  of  his  chance  for  the  property  ? 
It  is  true  he  had  managed  his  i)lans  and 
speculations  with  great  abdity.  Substituting 
Charles,  like  a  villain  as  he  was,  in  his  ovra 
aS&vc  with  Grace  Davoren,  he  contrived  to 
corroborate  the  falsehood  by  the  tragic  in- 
cident of  the  preceding  night.  Now,  if  this 
would  not  satisfy  Alice  of  the  truth  of  his 
own  fiJsehood,  nothing  could.  That  Chai-les 
was  the  intrigant  must  be  clear  and  palpable 
from  what  had  hajjpened,  and  accordingly, 
after  taking  a  serious  review  of  his  own  Ln- 
iquitj-,  he  felt,  as  we  said,  peciiliarly  gi-atified 
with  his  prospect.s.  StiU,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  an  occa.sional  shadow,  not  proceeding 
from  any  consciousness  of  guilt,  but  from  an 
apprehension  of  disappointment,  would  ca-st 
its  deep  gloom  across  his  spirit.  With  such 
ten-ible  states  of  feeling  the  machinations  of 
guilt,  no  matter  how  successful  its  progress 
may  be,  are  fi'om  time  to  time  attended  ; 
and  even  in  his  case  the  torments  of  the 
damned  were  httle  short  of  what  he  suffered, 
from  a  dread  of  failure,  and  its  natural  con- 
sequences— an  exjx)sure  which  would  bar 
him  out  of  society.  StiU,  his  earnest  expec- 
tation was  that  the  inteUigence  of  the  fate  of 
her  lover  would,  considering  her  feeble  state 
of  health,  effectually  accompUsh  his  wishes, 
and  with  this  consoling  reliection  he  rode 
home. 

His  great  anxiety  now  was,  his  alarm  lest 
his  brother  should  recover.  On  reaching 
■RathtlLlan  House  he  proceeded  to  his  bed- 
room, where  he  found  his  sister  watching. 

"My  dear  ilaiia,''  said  he,  in  a  low  and 
aiObt  affectionate  voice,  "  is  he  better  ?  " 


"  I  hope  so,"  she  repHed,  in  a  voic« 
equally  low  ;  "this  is  the  hrst  sleep  he  has 
got,  and  I  hope  it  will  remove  the  fever." 

"  WeU,  I  wUl  not  stop,"  said  he,  "  but  do 
j'ou  watch  him  carefully,  Maria,  and  see  that 
he  is  not  disturbed." 

"  O,  indeed,  Hany,  you  may  rest  assured 
that  I  shall  do  so.  Poor,  de;ir  Charles,  what 
would  become  of  us  all  if  v>e  lost  him — and 
Alice  Goodwin,  too — O,  she  would  die.  Now, 
go,  dear  Hany,  and  leave  him  to  me." 

Hany  left  the  room  apj^arently  in  pro- 
found soiTOw,  and,  on  going  into  the  jjarlor, 
met  Barney  Casey  in  the  halL 

"  Barney,"  said  he,  "  come  into  the  parlor 
for  a  moment.  My  father  is  out,  and  my 
mother  is  upstairs.  I  want  to  know  how 
tliis  aflair  happened  last  night,  and  how  it 
occurred  that  you  were  present  at  it  It's  a 
bad  business,  Barney." 

"Devil  a  wor.ser,"  repUed  Barney,  "es- 
pecially for  poor  Mr.  Cliarles.  I  was  for- 
tunately goin'  do^vn  on  my  kniie  to  the  family 
of  poor  disconsolate  Granua  (Grace),  when, 
on  passing  the  clump  of  alders,  I  heard 
screams  and  shouts  to  no  end.  I  ran  to  the 
spot  I  heard  the  skirls  comin'  from,  and  there 
I  found  Mr.  Charles,  hrai  as  if  dead,  and 
Grace  Davoren  with  her  hands  clasped  Uke  a 
mad  woman  over  him.  Tlie  strange  men  then 
joined  us,  and  carried  him  home,  and  that's 
all  I  know  about  it." 

"  But,  can  you  understand  it,  Barney  ?  As 
for  me,  I  caimot.  Did  Grace  say  nothing 
duiing  her  alarm  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  syllable,"  replied  Barney,  lying 
without  remor.se  ;  "  she  was  so  thunderstruck 
with  what  happened  that  she  could  do  noth- 
ing nor  say  anything  but  ciy  out  and  scream 
for  the  bare  Ufe  of  her.  They  say  she  has 
disappeared  from  her  family,  and  that  no- 
body knows  where  she  has  gone  to.  I  was 
at  her  fixther's  to-day,  and  I  know  they  are 
seai'chin'  the  country  for  her.  It  is  thought 
she  has  made  away  ^vith  her.self." 

"  Poor  Charles,"  exclaimed  his  brother, 
"  what  an  unfortunate  business  it  has  turned 
out  on  both  sides !  I  thought  he  was 
attached  to  Mias  Goodwin  ;  but  it  would  ap- 
pear now  that  he  was  deceiving  her  all 
along." 

"  WeU,  Ml-.  Harry,"  rephed  Barney,  dryly, 
or  rather  with  some  severity,  "  you  see  what 
the  upshot  is ;  treachery,  they  say,  seldom 
prospers  La  the  long  run,  although  it  may 
for  a  while.  God  forgive  them  that  makes  a 
practice  of  it.  As  for  ^Master  Charles,  I 
couldn't  liave  dreamt  of  s-ueh  a  tiling-" 

"  Nor  L  Barney.  I  know  not  what  to  say. 
It  per[jlexes  me,  from  whatever  jjoint  I  look 
at  it.  At  ;dl  events,  I  hope  he  may  recover, 
and  if  he  does.  I  trust  he  wiU  consider  what 


714 


WILLIAM  CARL  ETON'S  WOBKS. 


bas  happened  as  a  warning,  and  act  upon  ' 
better  principles.     May  God  forgive  him  !  "    ' 

And  so  ended  their  dialogue,  little,  in- 
deed, to  the  satisfaction  of  Harry,  whom 
Bai'uey  left  in  eomijlete  ignorance  of  the 
signiiieaut  exclamations  by  which  Grace 
Davoren,  in  the  alarm  of  the  moment,  had 
betrayed  her  own  guilt,  by  stating  that  ' 
Shawn-na-Middorjue  had  stabbed  the  wrong 
man. 

Sarah  Sullivan — poor,  thoughtless,  but 
affectionate  gii-1 — on  repairing  vnih  the  thin 
toast  to  lier  mistress's  bedroom,  felt  so  brim-  . 
fill  of  the  disiister  whicli  had  befallen  Charles, 
that — now  believing  in  his  gTiilt,  as  she  did,  ' 
and  with  a  hope  of  eifectually  alienating 
Alice's  atTections  from  him — she  lost  not  a 
moment  in  coumiunicating  the  melancholy 
intelligence  to  her.  I 

"  O,  Miss  Alice  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  have  ; 
you  heard  what  has  happened  ?  O,  the  false 
&nd  treacherous  villain  !  Who  would  believe 
it?  To  lave  a  beautiful  hnhj  Uke  you,  and 
take  up  mth  sich  a  vulgar  vagabone  !  How- 
ever, he  has  suffered  for  it.  Shaim-na-Mid-  ■. 
dogue  did  for  him." 

"  Wliat  do  you  mean,  Sarah  ?  "  said  her 
mistress,  much  alarmed  by  such  a  startling  ■ 
preface  ;  "  explain  yourself.  I  do  not  im-  ! 
derstand  you." 

"But  you  soon  ^vill,  miss.  Shawn -na- 
Hfiddtxjue  found  'Mi:  Charles  Lindsay  and 
Grace  Davoren  togeth'er  last  night,  and  has 
stabbed  him  to  death  ;  life's  only  in  him  ; 
and  that's  the  gentleman  that  pretend(  d  to 
love  you.     Devil's  cure  to  the  villain  !  " 

She  paused.  The  exjjression  of  her  mis- 
tress's face  was  a-n-ful.  A  paUor  more  fright- 
ful than  that  of  death,  because  it  was  asso- 
ciated with  life,  overspread  her  countenance. 
Her  eyes  became  dim  and  dull ;  her  features 
in  a  moment  were  collapsed,  and  resembled 
those  of  some  individual  struck  by  paralysis 
—they  were  altogether  without  meaning. 
She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands,  like 
one  under  the  influence  of  strong  hysterical 
agony  ;  she  laid  herself  back  in  bed,  where 
she  had  been  sitting  ujJ  expecting  her  coffee, 
her  eyes  closed,  for  she  had  not  f)hysical 
strength  even  to  keep  them  open,  and  with 
considerable  difficulty  she  said,  in  a  low  and 
scarcely  audilile  voice, — "  My  mother  !  " 

Poor  Sarah  felt  and  saw  the  mischief  she 
had  done,  and,  with  streaming  eyes  and  loud 
sobbings,  lost  not  a  moment  in  summoning 
Mrs.  Goodwin.  In  truth  she  feared  that  her 
mistress  lay  d^■ing  before  her,  and  was  im- 
•  mediately  tortured  with  the  remorseful  im- 
pression that  the  thoughtless  and  indiscreet 
communication  she  had  made  was  the  cause 
of  her  death.  It  is  unnecessaiy  to  describe 
tite  terror  and  alarm  of  her  mother,  nor  of 


her  father,  when  he  saw  her  lyinf?  as  it  wera 
between  life  and  dissolution.  The  physician 
was  immediately  sent  for,  but,  notwitlistand- 
ing  all  his  remedies,  until  the  end  of  the 
second  day,  there  appeared  no  change  in 
her.  Towards  the  close  of  that  day  an  im- 
provement was  perceptible  ;  she  was  able  to 
sjieak  and  take  some  nourishment,  but  it 
was  observed  that  she  never  once  made  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  disaster  which  had 
befallen  Charles  Lindsay.  She  sank  into  a 
habitual  silence,  and,  unless  when  forced  to 
ask  for  some  of  those  usual  attentions  which 
her  illness  required,  she  never  ventured  to 
iud,ulge  in  conversation  on  any  subject 
whatsoever.  One  thing,  however,  struck 
Sarah  SuUivan,  which  was,  that  in  all  hei 
startings,  both  asleeji  and  awake,  and  in  all 
her  unconscious  ejaculations,  that  which 
appeared  to  press  upon  her  most  was  th« 
unceasing  horror  of  the  Evil  Eye.  The 
name  of  Charles  Lindsay  never  escaped  her, 
even  in  the  feverish  agitation  of  her  dreams, 
nor  in  those  exclamations  of  terror  and 
alarm  which  she  uttered. 

'■  O,  save  me  ! — save  me  from  his  eye — he 
is  killing  me  !  Yes,  "Woodward  is  a  devil — 
he  is  killing  me — save  me — s:ive  me  !  " 

Well  had  the  villain  done  his  work  ;  and 
how  his  web  of  iniquity  was  woven  out  we 
shall  see. 

On  leaving  Barney,  that  worthy  gentle- 
man sought  his  mother,  and  thus  addressed 
her  : — 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  .apparently  much 
moved,  "this  is  a  melancholy,  and  I  trust 
in  heaven  it  may  not  turn  out  a  fatal,  busi- 
ness. I'm  afraid  f)Oor  Charles's  case  is 
hojjeless." 

"  O,  may  God  forbid,  jjoor  boy !  "  ex- 
claimed RIi's.  Lindsay  ;  "  foi',  although  he 
always  joined  his  father  against  me,  stiU  he 
was  in  other  respects  most  obliging  to  every 
one,  and  inoffensive  to  all." 

"  I  know  that,  and  I  am  soriw  that  thia 
jade — and  she  is  a  handsome  jade,  they  s.",y 
. — should  have  giiined  such  a  cursed  influ- 
ence over  him.  That,  however,  is  not  the 
question.  We  must  think  of  nothing  now 
but  his  recovery.  The  strictest  attention 
ought  to  be  f)aid  to  him  ;  and  as  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  there  is  no  female  under 
this  roof  who  understands  the  management 
of  a  sick  bed,  we  ought,  under  these  circum- 
stances, to  provide  a  nurse  for  him." 

"  Well,  indeed,  that  is  true  enough,  Harn-, 
and  it  is  veiw  kind  and  considerate  of  you 
to  think  of  it ;  but  who  will  we  get  ?  The 
women  here  are  very  ignorant  and  stupid." 

"  I  have  been  making  inquiries,"  he  repUed, 
"  and  I  am  told  there  is  a  woman  in  Eathfil- 
km,  named  CoUins,  niece  to  a  religious  herb« 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPEC  THE. 


715 


alist  or  herb  doctor,  who  jjossesses  much  ex- 
perience in  thiit  way.  It  is  just  such  a  wo- 
man we  want." 

"  Well,  then,  let  her  come  ;  do  you  go 
and  engage  her  ;  but  see  that  she  will  not 
extort  dishonest  terms  from  you,  because 
there  is  nothing  but  fraud  and  knavery  among 
these  wretches." 

Harry  lost  little  time  in  securing  the  ser- 
vices of  Cateriue  Collins,  who  was  that  very 
day  established  as  nurse-tender  in  Chai'les 
Liiudsays  sick  room. 

Alice's  illness  was  now  such  as  left  little 
esj)ectation  of  her  recovery.  She  was  stated, 
and  with  good  reason,  to  be  in  a  condition 
absolutely  hopeless  ;  and  nothing  could  ex- 
ceed the  regret  and  sorrow  which  were  felt 
for  the  benevolent  and  gentle  girl.  We 
saj'  benevolent,  because,  since  her  accession 
to  her  newly-acquired  property,  her  charities 
to  the  poor  and  distressed  were  bountifi  1 
and  generous,  almost  beyond  belief ;  and 
even  during  her  illness  she  constituted  her 
father  as  the  agent — and  a  willuig  one  he 
was — of  her  beneficence.  In  fact,  the  sor- 
row for  her  approaching  death  was  deep  and 
general,  and  the  sj'mjsathy  felt  for  her  pa- 
rents such  as  rarely  occurs  in  hfe. 

Of  course  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  these 
tidings  of  her  hopeless  illness  did  not  reach 
the  Lindsays.  On  the  second  morning  after 
Harry's  visit  he  asked  for  a  private  inter- 
view with  his  mother,  which  was  accorded  to 
liim. 

''Mother,"  said  he,  "you  must  pay  the 
Goodwins  another  visit —  a  visit,  mark  you, 
of  sympathy  and  condolence.  You  forget 
all  tlie  unpleasant  circumstances  that  have 
occurred  between  the  famiUes.  You  forget 
everything  but  your  anxiety  for  the  recovery 
of  poor,  dear  Alice." 

"But,"  replied  his  mother,  "I  do  not  wish 
to  go.  Wliy  should  I  go  to  exjoress  a  sym- 
pathy' which  I  do  not  feel  ?  Her  death  is  i 
only  a  judicial  puni.shment  on  them  for  ' 
having  inveigled  your  silly  old  uncle  to  j 
leave  them  the  property  which  would  have  j 
otherwise  come  to  you  as  the  natural  ! 
heir." 

"  Mother,"  said  her  dutiful  son,  "  you  have  i 
a  nose,  and  beyond  that  nose  jou  never  .yet 
have  been  able  to  look  with  anything  like 
perspicuity.  If  you  don't  visit  them,  your 
good-natured  noodle  of  a  husband  wiU,  and 
perhaps  the  result  of  that  visit  may  cut  us 
out  of  the  property  forever.  At  breakfast 
this  morning  you  will  propose  the  visit, 
■which,  mark  you,  is  to  be  made  in  the  name 
and  on  behalf  of  aU  the  family.  You,  con- 
sequently, being  the  deputation  on  this  oc- 
casion, l)oth  your  husband  and  Maria  will 
not  feel  themselves  called  upon  to  see  them. 


You  can,  besides,  say  that  her  state  of  health 
precludes  her  from  seeing  any  one  out  oi 
her  own  family,  and  thus  all  risk  of  an  ex- 
IDlanatiou  will  be  avoided.  It  is  best  to  make 
everything  safe  ;  but  that  she  can't  live  I 
know,  because  I  feel  that  my  power  and  in- 
fluence ai'e  upon  her,  and  that  the  force  of 
this  Evil  Eye  of  mine  has  killed  her.  I  told 
you  tliis  before,  I  think." 

"Even  so,"  said  his  mother  ;  "  it  is  only 
what  I  have  said,  a  judicial  punishment  for 
their  villany.  Villany,  Harry,  never  pros-- 
pers." 

"Egad,  my  dear  mother,"  he  replied,  "I 
know  of  nothing  so  prosj^erous  :  look  tlirough 
life  and  you  will  see  the  villain  thrive  uj)on 
his  fraud  and  iniquity,  wliere  the  honest 
man — the  man  of  integiity,  who  binds  him- 
self by  all  the  principles  of  what  are  called 
honor  and  moralit}- — is  elbowed  out  of  pros- 
perity by  the  knave,  the  swindler,  and  the 
hypocrite.  O,  no,  my  dear  mother,  the  two 
worst  passports  to  independence  and  success 
in  life  are  truth  and  honesty." 

"  Well,  Harry,  I  am  a  bad  logician,  and 
will  not  dispute  it  with  you  ;  but  I  am  far 
from  well,  and  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able 
to  visit  ihem  for  two  or  three  days  at 
least." 

"  But,  in  the  meantime,  express  your  in 
teution  to  do  so — on  behalf  of  the  family, 
mark  ;  assume  your  right  as  the  j)roprietor 
of  this  place,  and  as  its  representative,  and 
then  your  visit  mil  be  considered  as  the 
visit  of  the  whole  family.  In  the  meantime, 
mark  me,  the  girl  is  dead.  I  have  aecom- 
l^lished  that  gratifj'ing  event,  so  that,  after 
all,  your  visit  will  be  a  mere  matter  of  form. 
Wheii  you  reach  their  house  you  will  prob- 
ably find  it  the  house  of  death." 

"And  then,"  replied  his  mother,  "the 
twelve  hun^lred  a  year  is  yours  for  hfe,  and 
the  property  of  your  children  after  you. 
Thank  God'l" 

That  morning  at  breakfast  she  expressed 
her  determination  to  visit  the  Good\vins, 
making  it,  she  said,  a  visit  from  the  family 
in  general ;  such  a  visit,  she  added,  as  might 
be  i^roper  on  their  (the  Lindsays)  \ixvi,  but 
yet  such  an  act  uf  neighborhood  that,  while 
it  manifested  sufficient  respect  for  them, 
would  preclude  all  hopes  of  any  futm-e  intei'- 
course  between  them. 

Mr.  Linds.ay  did  not  relish  this  much  ; 
but  as  he  had  no  particu'ar  wish,  in  conse- 
quence of  Charles's  illness,  to  o2:)pose  her 
motives  in  making  the  visit,  he  said  she 
might  manage  it  as  she  wished — he  would 
not  raise  a  fresh  breeze  about  it.  He  only 
felt  that  he  was  sincerely  sorry  for  the  losg 
whic'.i  the  Goodwins  were  about  to  experi- 
ence. 


716 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

The  Banshee. — Disappearance  of  Grace  Davoren. 

In  the  meantime  it  was  certainly  an  un- 
questionable fact  that  Grace  Davoren  had 
disappeared,  and  not  even  a  trace  of  her 
could  be  found.  The  unfortunate  girl, 
alarmed  at  the  tragic  incident  of  that  woful 
night,  and  impressed  with  a  belief  that 
Charles  Linds:iy  had  been  murdered  by 
Sliawii-iia-JIuklogue,  had  betaken  herself  to 
some  place  of  concealment  which  no  search 
on  behalf  of  her  fi'iends  could  discover.  In 
fact,  her  disappearance  was  involved  in  a 
mystery  as  deep  as  the  alarm  and  distress 
it  occasioned.  But  what  astonished  the 
public  most  was  the  fact  that  Charles,  whose 
whole  life  had  been  untainted  by  a  single  act 
of  impropriety,  much  less  of  proiiigac}', 
should  have  been  discovered  in  such  a 
heartless  and  unprincipled  intrigue  with 
the  daughter  of  one  of  his  father's  tenants, 
bU  innocent  girl,  who,  as  such,  was  entitled 
to  protection  rather  than  injury  at  his  hands. 

Whilst  this  tumult  was  abroad,  and  the 
country  was  in  an  unusual  state  of  alarm 
and  agitation,  Harry  Woodward  took  mat- 
ters very  quietly.  That  he  seemed  to  feel 
deeplj'  for  the  uncertain  and  dangerous  state 
of  his  brother,  who  lay  suspended,  as  it 
were,  between  life  and  death,  was  evident 
to  every  individual  of  hi^  family.  He  fre- 
quently took  Caterine  Collins's  j^lace,  attend- 
ed him  personally,  with  singular  kindness 
and  affection,  gave  him  his  drinks  and  de- 
coctions with  his  own  hand  ;  and,  when  the 
surgeon  came  to  make  his  daily  visit,  the 
anxiety  he  evinced  in  ascertaining  whether 
there  was  any  chance  of  his  recovery  was 
most  aiffectiouate  and  exemplary.  Still,  as 
usual,  he  was  out  at  night ;  but  the  mystery 
of  his  whei'eabouts,  while  absent,  could  never 
be  penetrated.  On  those  occasions  he  al- 
ways went  armed — a  fact  which  he  never  at- 
tempted to  conceal.  On  one  of  these  nights 
it  so  hajDpened  that  Barney  Casey  was  called 
upon  to  attend  at  the  wake  of  a  relation,  and, 
as  his  master's  family  were  apprised  of  this 
circumstance,  they  did  not  of  course  exjoect 
him  home  imtil  a  late  hour.  He  left  the 
wake,  however,  earlier  than  he  had  proposed 
to  do,  for  he  found  it  a  rather  dull  afl'air, 
and  was  on  his  way  home  when,  to  his 
astonishment,  or  rather  to  his  horror,  lie 
saw  Harry  Woodward — ^also  on  his  way 
home — in  close  conversation  with  the  super- 
natural being  so  well  known  by  description 
as  the  Shait-uliinne-dhin),  or  Black  Spectre. 
Now,  Barney  was  half  cowardly  and  half 
brave — that  is  to  say,  had  he  lived  in  an  en- 
lightened age  he  would  have  felt  little  terror 


of  supernatural  appearances  ;  but  at  the  period 
of  our  story  such  was  the  predominance  oi 
a  belief  in  ghosts,  fairies,  evil  sj^irits,  and 
witches,  that  he  should  have  been  either 
less  or  more  than  man  covdd  he  have  shaken 
ofl'  the  larevailing  superstitions,  and  the 
gross  creduhty  of  the  times  in  which  he 
lived.  As  it  was,  he  knew  not  what  to 
think.  He  remembered  the  character  which 
had  been  whispered  abroad  about  Harry 
Woodward,  and  of  his  intercourse  with  su- 
pernatural beings — he  was  known  to  possess 
the  Evil  Eye  ;  and  it  was  generally  under- 
stood that  those  who  hajDjiened  to  be  endowed 
with  that  accursed  gift  were  aided  in  the 
exercises  of  it  by  the  powers  of  darkness  and 
of  evil.  What,  then,  was  he  to  do  ?  There 
probably  was  an  opportunity  of  solving  the 
mystery  which  hung  around  the  midnight 
motions  of  Woodward.  If  there  was  a 
s^jirit  before  him,  there  was  also  a  human 
being,  in  li%ing  flesh  and  blood — an  ac- 
quaintance, too  —  an  individual  w  hom  he 
l^ersonallj'  knew,  ready  to  sustain  him,  and 
afford,  if  necessary,  that  protection  which, 
mider  such  jsecuhar  circumstances,  one  fel- 
low-creature has  a  right  to  exjject  from 
another.  Now  Barney's  way  home  led  him 
necessai-ily — and  a  painful  necessity  it  was — 
near  the  Haunted  House  ;  and  he  observed 
that  the  place  where  they  stood,  for  they 
had  ceased  walking,  was  about  fifty  j'ards 
above  that  much  dreaded  mansion.  He 
resolved,  however,  to  make  the  plunge  and 
advance,  but  deemed  it  only  good  manners 
to  give  some  intimation  of  his  api)roach. 
He  was  now  within  about  twenty  yards  from 
them,  and  made  an  attempt  at  a  comic  song, 
which,  however,  cpivered  oft"  into  as  dismal 
and  cowardly  a  ditty  as  ever  proceeded  from 
human  lips.  Harry  and  the  Sj^ectre,  both 
startled  hj  the  voice,  tiu-ned  round  to  ob- 
serve his  api^roach,  when,  to  his  utter  con- 
sternation, the  Shan-dhinne-dhiiv  sank,  as 
it  were,  into  the  earth  and  disappeared. 
The  hair  rose  upon  Barney's  head,  and  when 
Woodward  called  out : 

"  Who  comes  there  ?  " 

He  could  scarcely  summon  voice  enough 
to  reply  : 

"  It's  me,  sir,"  said  he  ;  "  Barney  Casey." 

"  Come  on,  Barney,"  said  Woodward, 
"  come  on  quickly  ;  "  and  he  had  scaj-cely 
spoken  when  Barney  joined  him. 

"Barney,"  said  he,  "I  am  in  a  state  ol 
gi-eat  terror.  I  have  felt  ever  since  I  passed 
that  Haunted  House  as  if  there  was  an  evil 
spirit  in  my  company.  The  feeling  was  dread- 
ful, and  I  am  very  weak  in  consequence  of  it. 
Give  me  you  arm." 

"But  did  you  see  nothing,  sir?"  said 
Bai-uey  ;  "  didn't  it  become  visible  to  you  V  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPEC  TEE. 


717 


"  No,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  but  I  felt  as  if 
I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  supernatural 
beiuj?,  anil  an  evil  one,  too." 

"  God  protect  us,  Mr.  Harry  !  then,  if  you 
didn't  see  it  I  did." 

"  You  did  !  "  replied  the  other,  startled  ; 
"  and  pray  what  was  it  like  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  black  ould  man,  sir ;  and,  by  aU 
accounts  that  ever  I  could  hear  of  it,  it  was 
nothing  else  than  the  Shan-dhinne-dhui;.  For 
God's  s:ike  let  us  come  home,  sir,  for  this, 
if  aU  they  say  be  true,  is  unholy  and  cursed 
ground  we're  standin'  on." 

"And  where  did  it  disappear?"  asked 
"Woodward,  leading  him  by  a  circuit  from 
the  spot  wliere  it  had  vanished. 

"Just  over  there,  sir,"  rephed  Barney, 
pointing  to  the  place.  "  But,  in  God's 
name,  let  us  make  for  home  as  fast  as  we 
can.  I'U  think  every  minute  an  hour  till  we 
get  safe  undlier  our  own  roof." 

"Barney,"  said  Woodward,  solemnly,  "I 
have  a  request  to  make  of  you,  and  it  is  this 
— the  common  report  is,  that  the  spirit  in 
question  follows  ovu-  family — I  mean  by  my 
mother's  side.  Now  I  beg,  as  you  expect 
my  good  will  and  countenance,  that,  for  my 
sake,  and  out  of  respect  for  the  family  in  gen- 
eral, you  will  never  breathe  a  syllable  of  what 
you  have  seen  this  night.  It  could  answer  no 
earthly  purpose,  and  would  only  send  abro.ad 
idle  and  unpleasant  rumors  throughout  the 
country.     Will  j-ou  promise  this  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  promise  it,"  replied  Barney  ; 
"  what  object  could  I  gain  by  repeatin'  it  ?  " 

"  None  whatsoever.  Well,  then,  be  silent 
on  the  subject,  and  let  us  reach  home  as  soon 
as  we  can." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  honest 
Barney's  feelings  as  they  went  along.  He 
imagined  that  he  felt  Harry's  arm  tremble 
within  his,  and  when  he  thought  of  the  re- 
ports concerning  the  evil  spirit,  and  its  con- 
nection with  Mrs.  Lindsay's  familj-,  his  sen- 
sations were  anything  but  comfortable.  He 
tossed  and  tumbled  that  night  for  hours  in 
his  bed  before  he  was  able  to  sleep,  and  when 
he  did  sleep  the  Shan-dhinnp-dhnv  rendered 
his  fh'eams  feverish  and  fiightful. 

Precisely  at  this  period,  before  ]\Irs.  Lind- 
say had  recovered  from  her  indisposition, 
and  could  pay  her  intended  visit  to  the 
Goodwins,  a  circumstance  occurred  which 
suggested  to  Hariy  Woodward  one  of  the 
most  remorseless  and  satanic  schemes  that 
ever  was  concocted  in  the  heart  of  man.  He 
was  in  the  habit  occasionally  of  going  down 
to  the  kitchen  to  indulge  in  a  smoke  and  a 
piece  of  1  )anter  with  the  sen-ants.  One  even- 
ing, whilst  thus  amusing  himself,  the  conver- 
sation turned  ujjon  the  prevailing  supersti- 
tious of  the  day.     Ghosts,  witches,  wizards, 


astrologers,  fairies,  leprechaims,  and  all  that 
could  be  tei-med  sujjernatural,  or  even  relat- 
ed to  or  aided  by  it,  were  discussed  at  con- 
siderable length,  and  with  every  variety  of 
feeling.  Amongst  the  rest  the  Banshee  was 
mentioned  —  a  spirit  of  whose  jjeculiar  office 
and  character  Woodward,  in  consequence  ot 
his  long  absence  from  the  country,  was  com- 
pletely ignorant. 

"  The  Banshee  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  what 
kind  of  a  spirit  is  that  ?  I  have  never  heard 
of  it." 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  Barney,  who  was 
present,  "  the  Banshee — the  Lord  prevent  us 
from  heai'iu'  her — is  always  the  forerunner 
of  death.  She  attends  only  certain  families 
— principalh'  the  ould  Milesians,  and  mostlj 
Catholics,  too  ;  although,  I  believe,  it's  weU 
known  that  she  sometimes  attends  Protes- 
tants whose  families  have  been  Catholics  or 
Milesians,  until  the  last  of  the  name  disap- 
pears. So  that,  afther  all,  it  seems  she's  not 
over-scrupnlous  about  rehgion." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  attending  fam- 
ilies ?  "  asked  Woodward  ;  "  what  description 
of  attendance  or  service  does  she  render 
them  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Mi-.  Hariy,"  replied  Barney, 
"  anything  but  an  agi'eeable  attendance.  By 
goxty,  I  beheve  every  family  she  follows  would 
be  very  glad  to  dispense  with  her  attendance 
if  they  could." 

"  But  that  is  not  answering  my  question, 
Casey." 

"Why,  sir,"  proceeded  Barney,  "I'll  an^ 
swer  it.  ^Vhenever  the  family  that  she  fol  • 
lows  is  about  to  have  a  death  in  it,  she  comes 
a  Uttle  time  before  the  death  takes  plice,  sita 
either  undlier  the  windy  of  the  sick  bed  or 
somewhere  near  the  house,  and  wails  and 
cries  there  as  if  her  veiy  heart  would  break. 
They  say  she  generally  names  the  name  ol 
the  party  that  is  to  die  ;  but  there  is  no  case 
known  of  the  sick  j^erson  ever  recoverin' 
afther  she  has  given  the  warnin'  of  death." 

"It  is  a  stnmge  and  wild  superstition," 
obseiwed  Woodward. 

"  But  a  very  true  one,  sir,"  replied  the 
cook  ;  "  every  one  knows  that  a  Banshee 
follows  the  Goodwin  fnmily." 

"What !  the  Goodwins  of  Beech  Grove?" 
said  Harn'. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  the  cook  ;  "  they  lost 
six  children,  and  not  one  of  them  ever  died 
that  she  did  not  give  the  warnin'." 

"If  jjoor  Miss  Alice  heard  it,"  observed 
Barnej',  "  and  she  in  the  state  she's  in,  she 
wouldn't  hve  twenty-four  hours  afther  it." 

"According  to  what  you  say,"  observed 
Woodward,  "  that  is,  if  it  follows  the  f  iinily, 
of  course  it  will  give  the  warning  in  her  caa»f 
also." 


718 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  May  God  forbi(^,*  ejaculated  the  cook, 
"  for  it's  herself,  the  darlin'  girl,  that  'ud  be 
the  bitther  loss  to  the  poor  and  destitute." 

This  kind  ejaculation  was  fervently  echoed 
by  all  her  fellow-sei-vants  ;  and  Harry,  hav- 
ing finished  his  pipe,  vrent  to  see  how  his 
brother's  wound  was  progi-essing.  He  found 
him  asleep,  and  Caterine  Collins  seated  knit- 
tijig  a  stocking  at  his  bedside.  He  beckoned 
her  to  the  lobby,  where,  in  a  low,  guarded 
voice,  the  following  conversation  took  place 
between  them  : 

"  Caterine,  have  you  not  a  niece  that  sings 
well  ?  Barney  Casey  mentioned  her  to  me 
as  possessing  a  fine  voice." 

"  As  sweet  a  voice,  sir,  as  ever  came  from 
a  woman's  lijis  ;  but  the  poor  thing  is  deUcate 
and  sickly,  and  I'm  afeai'd  not  long  for  this 
world." 

"  Could  she  imitate  a  Banshee,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  If  ever  woman  could,  she  could.  There's 
not  her  aquil  at  the  keene,  or  Irish  cry, 
livin'  ;  she's  the  only  one  can  bate  myself  at 
it." 

"  Well,  Caterine,  if  you  get  her  to  go  to 
Mr.  Goodwin's  to-morrow  night  and  imitate 
the  cry  of  the  Banshee,  I  will  reward  her  and 
you  liberally  for  it.  You  are  already  well 
aware  of  my  generosity." 

"Indeed  I  am,  Mr.  Woodward;  but  if 
either  you  or  I  could  insure  her  the  wealth 
of  Europe,  we  couldn't  prevail  on  her  to  go 
by  herself  at  night.  Except  by  moonlight 
she  wo\ddn't  ventui-e  to  cross  the  street  of 
Rathfillau.  As  to  her,  you  may  put  that  out 
of  the  question.  She's  very  hand}',  how- 
ever, aliout  a  sick  bed,  and  I  might  contrive, 
undher  some  excuse  or  other,  to  get  her  to 
take  raj'  place  for  a  day  or  so.  But  here's 
your  father.     We  will  talk  about  it  again." 

She  then  returned  to  the  sick  room,  and 
Harry  met  Mr.  Lindsay  on  the  stairs  going 
up  to  inquire  after  Charles. 

"Don't  go  up,  sir,"  said  he;  "the  poor 
fellow,  thank  God,  is  asleep,  and  the  less 
noise  about  liim  the  better." 

Both  then  returned  to  the  jDarlor. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  next  night  Sarah 
Sullivan  was  sitting  by  the  bedside  of  her 
mistress,  who  was  then,  fortunately  for  her- 
self, enjoying,  what  was  very  rare  with  her,  an 
undisturbed  sleep  after  the  teiTor  and  agita- 
tion of  the  day,  when  a  low,  but  earnest  and 
sorrowful  waihng  was  heard,  immediately,  she 
thought,  under  the  window.  It  rose  and 
fell  alternately,  and  at  the  close  of  every 
division  of  the  cry  it  pronounced  the  name 
of  Alice  Goodwin  in  tones  of  the  most 
pathetic  lamentation  and  woe.  The  natural 
heat  and  warmth  seemed  to  depart  out  of 
the  poor  gu-l's  body  ;  she  felt  like  an  icicle, 


and  the    cold   pierspiration   ran  in  torrents 
from  her  face.  ■ 

"  My  darling  mistlu'ess,"  thought  she,  "  it's 
all  over  with  you  at  last.  There  is  the  sigTi 
— the  Banshee — and  it  is  well  for  joui-self 
that  you  don't  hear  it,  because  it  would  be 
the  death  of  you  at  once.  However,  if  I 
committed  one  mistake  about  ]\Iisthei 
Charles's  misfortune,  I  will  not  commit  an- 
other. You  shall  never  hear  of  this  from 
me." 

The  cry  was  then  heard  more  distant  and 
indistinct,  but  still  loaded  with  the  same 
mournful  exiDressiou  of  death  and  sorrow  ; 
but  in  a  little  time  it  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  was  then  heard  no  more. 

Sarah,  though  she  had  judiciously  resolved 
to  keep  this  awful  intimation  a  secret  from 
Miss  Good\vin,  considered   it   her   duty  to 
I  disclose  it  to  her  parents.     We   shall   not 
dwell,  however,  upon  the  scene  which  occur- 
red on  the  occasion.  Abelief  in  the  existence 
j  and  office  of  the  Banshee  was,  at  the  period 
I  of  which  we  write,  almost  univers.ally  held 
I  by  the  peasantry,  and  even  about  half  a  cen- 
!  tury  ago  it  was  one  of  the  strongest  dogmas 
.  of  popular  superstition.     After  the  grief  of 
the  parents  had  somewhat  subsided  at  this 
j  dreadful  intelligence,   Mr.   Goodwin    asked 
Sarah  Sullivan  if  his  daughter  had  heard  the 
[  wail  of  this  prophetic  sjiirit  of  death  ;  and 
on  her  answering  in  the  negative,  he  en- 
joined her  never  to  breathe  a  syllable  of  the 
circumstance  to  her  ;  but  she  told  him  she 
had  come  to  that  conclusion  herself,  as  she 
felt  certain,  she  said,  that  the  knowledge  of 
j  it  would  occasion  her  mistress's  almost  im- 
I  mediate  death. 

i      "  At  all  events,"  said  her  master  ;  "  by  the 
j  doctor's  advice  we  shall  leave  this  place  to- 
morrow morning  ;  he   says  if   she  has  any 
chance  it  will  be  in  a  change  of  air.  of  so- 
j  ciety,  and  of  scenerj'.     Everything  here  has 
associations  and  recollections  that  ai-e  pain- 
!  ful,  and  even  horrible  to  her.    If  she  is  capa- 
ble of  beai'ing  an  easy  journey  we   shall  set 
out  for  the  Sjja  of  Ballyspellan,  in  the  coun- 
ty of  Kilkenny.     He  thinks  the  waters  of 
that  famous  sjoring  may  jn-ovc  beneticial  to 
her.     If  the  Banshee,  then,  is  anxious  to  ful- 
fil its  mission  it  must  follow  us.     They  say 
it  alwrys  pays  three  visits,  but  as  yet  it  has 
paid  us  only  one." 

Jlrs.  Lindsay  had  now  recovered  from  her 
slight  indisposition,  and  I'esolved  to  pay  the 
last  formal  visit  to  the  Goodwins, — a  visit 
which  was  to  close  all  future  intercourse  be- 
tween the  famihes  ;  and  our  readers  ai-e  not 
ignorant  of  her  motives  for  this,  nor  how 
completely  and  willingly  she  was  the  agent 
of  her  son  Harry's  designs.  Slie  went  in  all 
her  pomp,  dressed  in  satins  and  brocades, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


rij) 


and  attended  by  Barney  Casey  in  full  livery. 
Her  own  old  family  carriage  bad  been  swejst 
of  its  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  put  into  requi- 
sition on  this  important  occasion.  At  length 
they  reached  Beech  Grove,  and  knocked  at 
the  door.wliich  was  oj)ened  by  om-  old  friend, 
Tom  Kennedy. 

"  My  goo  J  man,"  she  asked,  "  are  the 
family  at  home  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  WQiat !  not  at  home,  and  Miss  Goodwin 
so  iLL  ? — dying,  I  am  told.  Perhaps,  in  con- 
sequence of  lier  liealth,  tliej'  do  not  wish  to 
see  strangers.  Go  and  say  that  Mrs.  Lind- 
Baj%  of  Kathfillan  House,  is  here." 

"Ma'am,  they  are  not  at  home  ;  they  have 
left  Beech  Grove  for  some  time." 

"  Left  Beech  Grove  ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  and 
pray  where  are  thej'  gone  to '?  I  tliought 
Aliss  Goodwin  was  not  able  to  be  removed." 

"It  was  do  or  die  with  her,"  replied  Tom. 
"The  doctor  said  there  was  but  one  last 
chance — change  of  air,  and  absence  from 
dangerous  neighbors." 

"  But  you  did  not  tell  me  where  they  ai'e 
gone  to." 

"  I  did  not,  ma'am,  and  for  the  best  reason 
in  life — because  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  !  Why,  is  it  possible 
they  mnde  a  secret  of  such  a  matter  ?  " 

"  Quite  possible,  ma'am,  and  to  the  back 
o'  that  they  swore  every  one  of  us  upor.  the 
seven  gospels  never  to  tell  any  individual, 
man  or  woman,  where  they  went  to." 

"But  did  they  not  tell  yourselves?  'V 

"Devil  a  syllable,  ma'am." 

"And  why,  then,  did  they  swear  you  to 
secrecy  ?  " 

"  WTiy,  of  course,  ma'am,  to  make  us  keep 
the  secret." 

"  But  why  swear  you,  I  ask  again,  to  keep 
a  secret  which  j'ou  did  not  know  ?  " 

"  Wiy,  ma'am,  because  they  knew  that  in 
that  case  thei-e  was  little  danger  of  our  com- 
mittin'  parjuiy ;  and  because  every  saicret 
which  one  does  not  know  is  sure  to  be 
•kejst." 

She  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  added, 
"  I'm  incUned  to  think,  sirrah,  that  you  are 
impertinent." 

"  Verj'  likely,  ma'am,"  rej)lied  Tom,  with 
great  gravity.  "I've  a  strong  notion  of  that 
myself.  My  father  before  me  was  impertin- 
ent, and  his  last  dying  words  to  me  were, 
'  Tom,  I  lay  it  as  a  last  injunction  upon  you 
to  keep  up  tlie  principles  of  our  family,  and 
always  to  show  nothing  but  impertinence  to 
those  who  don't  deserve  respect.'  " 

With  a  face  scarlet  from  indignation  she 
immediately  ordered  her  cai-riage  home,  but 
before  it  had  anived  there  the  intelligence 
from  anoUier  source  had  reached  the  family. 


together  with  the  fact  that  the  Banshee  had 
been  heard  by  Mi'.  Goodwin's  servants  un- 
der Miss  Alice's  window.  Such,  indeed,  was 
the  fact ;  and  the  report  of  the  circumstance 
had  .sin-ead  through  half  the  parish  before 
the  hour  of  noon  next  day. 

The  removal  of  Alice  sank  heavily  upon 
the  heart  of  Hiury  Woodward  ;  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  she  had  gone  out  of  his  grasp,  and 
from  under  the  influence  of  his  eye,  for,  by 
whatever  means  he  might  accomplish  it,  he 
was  resolved  to  keejD  the  deadly  power  of 
that  eye  upon  her.  He  had  calculated  upon 
the  voice  and  prophetic  wail  of  the  Banshee 
as  being  fatal  in  her  then  state  of  health  ;  or 
was  it  this  ominous  and  supernatural  fore- 
boding of  her  dissolution  that  caused  them 
to  My  from  the  place?  He  reasoned,  as  the 
reader  may  perceive,  upon  the  principle  of 
the  Banshee  being,  according  to  the  super- 
stitious notions  entertained  of  her,  a  real 
supernatural  visitant,  and  not  the  unscrupu- 
lous and  diaboUcal  imitation  of  her  by  Oat- 
erine  Collins.  StiU  he  thought  it  barely 
possible  that  the  change  of  air  and  the 
waters  of  the  celebrated  sjiring  might  re- 
cover her,  notwithstanding  aU  his  inhuman 
anticip.itions.  His  brother,  also,  according 
to  the  surgeon's  last  report,  alforded 
ho]3es  of  convalescence.  A  kind  of  teiTor 
came  over  him  that  hio  plans  might  fail,  be- 
cause he  felt  almost  certain  that  if  Alice  and 
his  brother  both  recovered,  Mi-.  Lindsay 
might,  or  rather  would,  mount  his  ol<l  hob- 
by, and  insist  on  having  them  married,  in 
the  teeth  of  all  opposition  on  the  part  of 
either  himself  or  his  mother.  This  was  a 
gloomy  j)rospect  for  ]\im,  and  one  which  ho 
could  not  contemplate  'without  falling  back 
upon  still  darker  schemes. 

After  the  night  on  which  Barney  Casey 
had  seen  him  and  the  Black  Sjjectre  together 
we  need  scarcely  say  that  he  watched  Bartey 
closely,  nor  that  Barney  watched  him  with 
as  keen  a  vigilance.  Wliatever  Woodward 
may  have  actu.ally  felt  upon  the  suliject  of 
the  apparition,  Barney  was  certaiulj-  unde- 
cided as  to  its  reality  ;  or  if  there  existed 
any  bias  at  all,  it  was  in  favor  of  that  reality. 
W^hy  did  Woodward's  arm  tremble,  and  why 
did  the  man,  who  was  sujaposed  ignorant  of 
fear,  exhibit  so  much  terror  and  agitation  on 
the  occasion  ?  Still,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
appeared  to  be  a  convei'sation,  as  it  were, 
between  them,  and  a  familiarity  of  manner 
consideivably  at  variance  with  Woodward's 
version  of  the  circumstances.  Be  this  as  it 
might,  he  felt  it  to  be  a  subject  on  which 
he  could,  by  no  process  of  reasoning,  come 
to  anything  like  a  definite  conclusion. 

Woodward  now  determined  to  consult  hia 
mother  as  to  the  plan  of  their  future  operar 


720 


WILLIAM   CAIILETON'S  WORKS. 


tions.  The  absence  of  Alice,  and  the  possible 
chance  of  her  recovery,  rendered  it  necessary 
that  some  new  series  of  projects  should  be 
adopted  ;  but  although  several  had  occurred 
to  him,  he  had  not  yet  come  to  a  definite 
resolution  respecting  the  selection  he  would 
make.  With  this  view  he  and  his  conscien- 
tious mother  closeted  themselves  in  her 
room,  and  discussed  the  state  of  affairs  in 
the  following  dialogue  : 

"Mother,"  said  he,  "this  escape  of  Miss 
Curds-and-whey  is  an  untoward  business. 
What,  after  all,  if  she  should  recover  ?  " 

"  Recover  !  "  exclaimed  the  lady  ;  "  why, 
did  you  not  assui-e  me  that  such  an  event 
was  impossible — that  you  were  kiUing  her, 
and  that  she  must  die  ?  " 

"  So  1  stili  think  ;  but  so  long  as  the  no- 
tion of  her  recovery  exists,  even  only  as  a 
dream,  so  certainly  ought  we  to  provide 
against  such  a  calamity." 

"Ah!  Harry,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  may 
well  term  it  a  calamity,  for  such  indeed  it 
would  be  to  you." 

"  Well,  but  what  do  you  think  ought  to  be 
done,  my  dear  mother?  I  am  anxious  to 
have  both  your  advice  and  opinion  upon  our 
fature  proceedings.  Suppose  change  of  air 
— the  waters  of  that  damned  brimstone 
spring,  and  above  aU  things,  the  confidence 
she  will  derive  from  the  consciousness  that 
she  is  removed  from  me  and  out  of  my 
reach — cuppose,  I  say,  that  all  these  circum- 
stances should  produce  a  beneficial  effect 
upon  her,  then  liow  do  I  stand  ?  " 

"  Why,  with  vei-j'  little  hojie  of  the  prop- 
erty," she  repUed  ;  "  and  then  what  tenacitj' 
of  life  slie  has !  WTiy,  there  are  very  few 
girls  who  would  not  have  been  dead  long  ago, 
if  thej'  had  gone  through  half  what  she  has 
suffered.  Well,  you  wish  to  ask  me  how  I 
would  advise  you  to  act  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  heard  the  old  pro- 
verb :  It  is  good  to  have  two  strings  to  one's 
bow.  We  shall  set  aU  consideration  of  her 
aside  for  a  time,  and  turn  our  attention  to 
another  object.  " 

"^Vhat  or  who  is  that,  mother?  " 

"  You  remember  I  mentioned  some  time 
ago  the  names  of  a  neighboring  nobleman 
and  his  niece,  who  lives  with  him.  The 
man  I  allude  to  ivas  Lord  Bilberry,  but  is 
now  Earl  of  Cockletown.  He  was  raised  to 
this  rank  for  some  services  he  rendered  the 
government  against  the  tories,  who  had  been 
devastating  the  country,  and  also  against 
some  turbulent  papists  who  were  supposed 
to  have  privately  encouraged  them  in  their 
outrages  against  Protestant  life  and  proper- 
ty. He  was  a  daring  and  intrepid  man  when 
in  his  prime  of  life,  and  appeared  to  seek 


danger  for  its  ovm  sake.  He  is  now  an  oM 
man,  although  a  young  peer,  and  was  al- 
ways considered  eccentric,  which  he  is  to 
the  jjresent  day.  Some  people  look  upon 
him  as  a  fool,  and  others  as  a  knave  ;  but  in 
balancing  his  claims  to  each,  it  has  never 
yet  been  determined  on  which  side  the  scale 
would  sink.  He  is  the  proprietor  of  a  little 
fishing  village  on  the  coast,  and  on  tliis  ac- 
count he  assumed  the  title  of  Cockletown  ; 
and  when  he  biiilt  himself  a  mansion,  as  they 
term  it,  he  would  have  it  called  by  no  othei' 
name  than  that  of  Cockle  HaU.  It  is  true 
he  laughs  at  the  thing  himself,  and  considers 
it  a  good  joke." 

"And  so  it  is,"  replied  her  son;  "but 
what  about  the  lady,  his  niece  ?  " 

"Why,  she  is  a  rather  interesting  j>er- 
son." 

"  Ahem  !  person  !  " 

"  Yes,  about  thirty-four  or  so  ;  but  she 
will  inherit  his  property." 

"  And  have  you  any  notion  of  what  that 
may  amount  to  ? "  asked  her  calculating 
son. 

"I  could  not  exactly  say,"  she  replied; 
"  but  I  believe  it  is  handsome.  A  great  deal 
of  it  is  mountain,  but  they  say  there  are 
large  j^ortions  of  it  capable  of  being  re- 
claimed." 

"  But  how  can  the  estate  go  to  h'^r  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  there  is  no  other  heir," 
replied  his  mother;  "they  are  the  last  of 
I  the  family.  It  is  not  entailed." 
I  "  Tliirty-four !  "  ruminated  Woodward. 
I  "  Well,  I  have  seen  very  tine  girls  at  thirty- 
four  ;  but  in  personal  ajjpearance  and  man- 
[  ner  what  is  she  like  ?  " 

"Wliy,  perhaps  a  critical  eye  might  not 
I  call  her  handsome  ;  but  the  general  opinion 
on  that  point  is  in  her  favor.  Her  manners 
are  agreeable,  so  are  her  features  ;  but  it  is 
said  that  she  is  fastidious  in  her  lovers,  and 
has  rejected  many.  It  is  true  most  of  them 
were  fortune-hunters,  and  deserved  no  bet- 
ter success." 

"  But  what  do  you  call  vie,  mother  ?  " 

"  Sui-ely  not  a  fortune-hunter,  Harry.  Is 
not  there  your  granduncle's  large  property 
who  is  a  bachelor,  and  you  are  his  favor 
ite." 

"  But  don't  you  know,  mother,  that,  as  re- 
spects my  granduncle,  I  have  confided  that 
secret  to  you  already  ?  " 

"I  know  no  such  thing,  you  fool,"  she  re- 
plied, looking  at  him  vrith  an  expression  in 
her  odious  eyes  which  could  not  be  de- 
scribed ;  "  I  am  altogether  ignorant  of  that 
fact  ;  but  is  there  not  the  twelve  hundred 
per  annum  which  reverts  to  you  on  the  de- 
mise of  that  djing  girl  ?  " 

"  True,  my  dear  mother,  true  ;   you  are 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE 


721 


right.  I  am  a  fool.  Of  course  I  never  told 
"ou  the  secret  of  my  disinheritance  by  the 
old  scoundrel." 

'■  All,  Harry,  I  fear  you  played  your  cards 
badly  there.  You  knew  he  was  religious,  aud 
yet  j'OU  should  become  a  seducer  ;  but  whj' 
make  free  with  his  money  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  ^Vhy,  because  he  kejit  me  upon 
the  tight  curb  ;  but,  as  these  matters  are 
known  only  to  ourselves,  I  see  you  are  right. 
I  am  still  to  be  considered  his  favorite — his 
heu" — and  am  here  only  on  a  visit." 

"  Well,  but,  Harry,  he  must  have  dealt 
liberally  with  you  on  your  departure  fiom 
him  ?  " 

"  He  !  Don't  you  know  I  was  obliged  to 
fly  ? — to  take  French  leave,  I  assure  you.  I 
reached  EathtiU:in  House  with  not  more  than 
twenty  pounds  in  my  pocket." 

"  But  how  does  it  happen  that  you  always 
appear  to  have  plenty  of  money  ?  " 

"  My  dear  mother,  there  is  a  secret  there  ; 
but  it  is  one  which  even  you  shall  not  know, 
— or  come,  y  ni  ^hall  know  it.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  certain  supematu'tal  being  which 
follows  yom-  family,  which  supernatural  being 
is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Black  Si^ectre, 
or  some  such  denomination  which  I  cannot 
rememljer  ?  " 

"  I  don't '^vish  to  hear  it  named,"  replied 
his  mother,  deeply  agitated.  "  It  resembles 
the  Banshee,  and  never  appears  to  any  one 
of  our  family  except  as  a  precursor  of  his 
death  by  violence." 

Woodward  started  for  a  moment,  and 
could  not  avoid  being  struck  at  the  coinci- 
dence of  the  same  mission  having  been  as- 
signed to  the  two  sjsirits,  and  he  reflected, 
with  an  impression  thrt  was  anything  but 
agreeable,  upon  his  damnable  suggestion  of 
having  had  recourse  to  the  vile  agency  of 
Caterine  Collins  m  enacting  the  said  Banshee, 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  tlie  last  fatal  blow 
to  the  almost  dying  AUce  Goodmn.  He 
felt,  and  he  had  reason  to  feel,  that  there 
was  a  mysteiy  about  the  Black  Spectre, 
which,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not 
fathom.  He  was,  however,  a  firm  and  res- 
olute man,  and  after  a  moment  or .  two's 
thought  he  df  dined  to  make  any  further 
disclosure  on  the  subject,  but  revei-ted 
to  the  general  topic  of  their  conversa- 
tion. 

•  "  Well,  mother,"  said  he,  "  after  all,  your 
speculation  may  not  be  a  bad  one  ;  but  pray, 
what  is  the  lady's  name  '? " 

"  Riddle— J\liss  Riddle.  She  is  of  the 
Clan-Riddle  family,  a  close  relation  to  the 
Nethersides  of  i\Iiddletown." 

"  And  a  devilish  enigmatical  name  it  is," 
replied  her  son,  "as  is  that  of  all  her  con- 
nections." 


I      "  Yes,   but   they  were   always   close  and 

!  prudent  people,  who  kept  their  opinions  to 
themselves,  and  wrought  their  way  in  the 

I  world  with  great  success,  and  without  giving 

i  offence  to  any  party.  If  j'ou  many  her. 
Harry,  I  would  advise  you  to  enter  j>ublic 
life,  recommend  yourself  to  the  powers  that 
be,  and,  my  word  for  it,  you  stand  a  gre.it 

[  chance  of  having  the  title  of  Cockletowu  re- 

I  vived  in  your  j)erson." 

!  "  Well,  although  the  title  is  a  ridiculous 
one,  I  should  have  no  objection  to  it,  not- 
withstanding ;  but  there  will  certainly  arise 
some  difficulty  when  we  come  to  the  mar- 
riage settlements.  There  will  be  sharp  law  - 
j"ers  there,  whom  we  cannot  imjiose  upon  ; 
and  you  know,  mother,  I  am  without  any 
ostensible  propertj'." 

"Yes,  but  we  can  calculate  upon  the 
death  of  cunning  Alice,  who,  by  her  undue 

j  and  flagitious  influence  over  your  uncle,  left 

i  you  so." 

j  "  Ay,  but  such  a  calculation  would  never 
do  either  mth  her  uncle  or  the  la\vyers.  I 
think  we  have  nothing  to  fall  back  upon, 
mother,  but  your  own  property.  If  you 
settle  that  ujjon  me  everything  wiU  go 
right." 

"  And  leave  myself  depending  ujion  Lind- 
say ?  No,  no,"  replied  this  selfish  and  peni\- 
rious  woman  ;  "  never,  Harry — never,  never  ; 
you  must  wait  until  I  die  for  that.  But  I 
can  tell  you  what  we  can  do  ;  let  us  enter 
upon  the  negotiation — let  us  say  for  the 
time  being  that  you  have  twelve  hundred 
a-year,  and,  while  the  business  is  proceeding, 
what  is  there  to  jwevent  you  from  going  to. 
recruit  your  health  at  BaUeyspeUan,  and  kill 
out  Alice  Goodwin  there,  as  well  as  if  slie 
remained  at  home  ?  By  this  plan,  before  the 
negotiations  are  closed,  you  will  be  able  to 
meet  Miss  Riddle  with  twelve  hundred 
a-year  at  your  back.  Alice  Goodwin  !  O, 
how  I  hate  and  detest  her — ay,  as  I  do 
hell !  " 

"The  plan,"  replied  her  son,  "  is  an  excel- 
lent one.  We  will  commence  oiserations 
with  Lord  Cockletown  and  Miss  Riddle,  in 
the  first  place  ;  and  having  opened  nego- 
tiations, as  you  say,  I  shall  become  un- 
well, and  go  for  a  short  time  to  try 
what  efficacy  the  waters  of  B.illyspellan 
may  have  on  mi)  health — or  rather  on  my 
fortunes." 

"We  shall  visit  them  to-moiTow,"  saiil 
the  mother. 

"So  be  it,"  replied  the  son  ;  and  to  this 
resolution  they  came,  which  closed  the  above 
interesting  dialogue  between  them.  We  s.ay 
interesting,  for  if  it  has  not  been  such  to 
the  reader,  it  was  so  at  least  to  them* 
selves. 


723 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


CHAPTER  X\T 

fi  House  of  Sorrow. — After  which  follows  a 
Courtinrj  Scene. 

The  deep  sorrow  and  desolation  of  spirit 
introduced  by  the  profligate  destroyer  into 
the  humble  abode  of  jjeace  and  iuuoeeuce  is 
an  awful  thing  to  couteruplate.  In  our 
chapter  headed  "The  Wake  of  a  Murderer  " 
we  have  attempted  fo  give  a  picture  of  it. 
The  age,  indeed,  was  one  of  licentiousness 
nud  profligacy.  The  reigning  monarch, 
Charles  the  Second,  of  infamous  memory, 
had  set  the  iniquitous  examj)le  to  his  sub- 
jects, and  surrounded  his  court  by  an  aristo- 
cratic crew,  who  had  scarcely  anything  to 
recommend  them  but  their  imitation  of  his 
vices,  and  this  was  always  a  passport  to  his 
favor,  whilst  virtue,  morality,  and  honor 
were  excluded  with  contemjit  and  derision. 
In  fact,  the  corrupt  atmosphere  of  his  court 
carried  its  contagion  throughout  the  empire, 
uutil  the  seduction  of  female  innocence  be- 
came the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  no  man 
could  consider  liimself  entitled  to  a  becom- 
ing iDosition  in  society  who  had  not  distin- 
guished himself  by  half  a  dozen  criminal 
intrigues  either  with  the  mves  or  daughters 
of  his  acquaintances,  ^^^aen  we  contemplate 
for  a  moment  the  contrast  between  the  aban- 
doned court  of  that  royal  profligate,  and 
that  under  which  we  have  the  happiness  to 
live — the  one,  a  sty  of  infamy,  licentious- 
ness, and  corruption ;  the  other,  a  well, 
uudefiled  of  puri  y,  ■\'irtue,  and  honor,  to 
whose  clear  rnd  unadulterated  waters  noth- 
ing equivocal,  cr  even  questionable,  dares 
to  approach,  much  less  the  base  or  the  taint- 
ed— we  say  that,  on  instituting  tliis  com- 
parison and  contrast,  the  secret  of  that  love 
and  ati'ectionate  veneration  which  we  bear  to 
our  pure  and  highminded  Queen,  and  the 
pride  which  we  feel  in  the  noble  example 
which  she  and  her  Royal '  Consort  have  set 
us,  requires  no  illustration  whatsoever.  The 
affection  and  gratitude  of  her  people  are 
only  the  meed  due  to  her  vu'tues  and  to  his. 
"We  need  not  apologize  to  our  readers  for 
this  striking  contrast.  The  period  and  the 
subject  of  our  nai-rative,  as  well  as  the 
m'elancholy  scene  to  which  we  are  about  to 
introduce  the  reader,  rendered  it  an  impos- 
sibility to  avoid  it. 

W'enow  proceed  to  the  humble  homestead 
of  Torley  Davoren  ;  a  homestead  which  we 
have  ah-eady  described  as  the  humble  abode 
of  peace  and  happiness.  Barney  Casey,  who 
felt  anxious  to  know  from  the  parents  of 
Grace  Davoren  whether  any  trace  or  tidings 
of  her  had  been  heard  of,  went  to  pay  the 
beart-brokeu  family  a  visit  for  that  purpose. 


On  entering,  he  found  the  father  seated  al 
his  humble  hearth,  unshaven,  and  altogether 
a  man  cai'eless  and  negligent  of  his  appear- 
ance. He  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  before 
him,  and  his  heavy  eyes  fixed  on  the  embers 
of  the  peat  tire  which  smouldered  on  the 
hearth.  The  mother  was  at  her  distaff,  and 
so  were  the  other  two  females — to  wit,  her 
grandmother  and  Grace's  sister.  But  the 
mother  !  gi-acious  heaven,  what  a  spirit  of 
distress  and  misery  breathed  from  those 
hopeless  and  agonizing  features !  There  was 
not  only  natural  sorrow  there,  occasioned  by 
the  disapj)earance  of  her  daughter,  but  the 
shame  which  resulted  fi-om  her  fall  and  her 
infamy  ;  and  though  last  not  least,  the  terri- 
ble apprehension  that  the  hapless  girl  had 
rushed  by  suicidal  means  into  the  presence 
of  an  ofl'ended  God,  "  unauointed,  imanel- 
ed,"  with  aU  her  sins  upon  her  head.  Her 
clothes  were  hanging  fi'om  the  branches  of  a 
large  burdock*  ajrainst  the  wall,  and  fi'om 
time  to  time  the  father  cast  his  eyes  upon 
them  with  a  look  in  which  might  be  read  the 
hollow  but  teft-ible  expression  of  despau-. 

Honest  Barnej'  felt  his  heart  deeplj'  moved 
by  aU  this,  and,  sooth  to  say,  his  uatnral 
cheerfulness  and  lightness  of  spirit  complete- 
ly aliandoned  him  at  the  contemplation  of 
the  awful  anguish  which  pressed  them  do\\"n. 
There  is  nothing  wliich  makes  such  a  cowai-d 
of  the  heart  as  the  influence  of  such  a  scene. 
He  felt  that  he  stood  witliin  a  circle  of  mis- 
ery, and  that  it  was  a  solemn  and  serious  task 
even  to  enter  into  conversation  with  them. 
But,  as  he  had  come  to  make  friendly  inqui- 
ries about  the  unfortunate  girl,  he  forced  him- 
self to  break  this  pitiable  but  terrible  silence 
of  desf)air. 

"  I  know,"  said  he,  with  a  diffident  and 
melancholy  spirit,  "  that  it  is  painful  to  you 
all  to  make  the  inquiries  that  I  wish  to  make  ; 
but  still  let  me  ask  you  if  you  have  got  any 
account  of  her?" 

The  mother's  heart  had  been  bursting — • 
pent  up  as  it  were — and  this  allusion  to  her 
withdrew  the  floodgates  of  its  sorrow ;  she 
spread  out  her  ai-ms,  and  rismg  \\p  ap- 
proached her  husband,  and  throwing  them 
about  his  neck,  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  the 
most  penetrating  grief, — 

"  O,  Torley,  Torley,  my  husband,  was  she 
not  our  dearest  and  oui-  best  ?  " 

The  husband  embraced  her  with  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  She  was,"  said  he,    "  she  was."     But  im- 

*  The  branches  of  the  buriiock.  when  it  is  cut, 
trimmed,  and  seasoned,  are  nsed  by  the  humh'.o 
classes  to  hang  their  clothes  upon.  They  prow  up- 
wards towards  the  top  of  the  stalk,  an'l,  in  con- 
sequence of  this,  are  capable  of  sustaining  the 
heaviest  garment. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


723 


me.Iiately  lookiug  upon  her  sister  Dora,  lie 
s.iid,  "  Dora,  come  here — bring  Dora  to 
me,"  and  his  wife  went  over  and  brought  lier 
to  him. 

"  O,  Dora  deai-,"  said  he,  "I  love  you. 
But,  darling,  I  never  loved  you  as  I  loved 
her." 

"  But  was  /  ever  jealous  of  that,  father  ?  " 
repUed  Dora,  with  tears.  "  Didn't  we  all 
love  her  ?  and  did  any  one  of  you  love  her 
more  than  myself?  Wasn't  she  the  pride  of 
the  whole  family  '?  But  I  didn't  cai-e  about 
her  disgrace,  father,  if  we  had  her  back  with 
us.  She  might  rejjent ;  and  if  she  did,  eveiy 
one  would  forgive  their  favorite — for  sure 
she  was  every  one's  favorite  ;  and  above  all, 
God  would  forgive  her." 

"I  loved  her  as  the  core  of  my  heart,"  said 
the  grandmother;  "but  you  spoiled  her 
yourselves,  and  indulged  her  too  much  in 
dress  and  everything  she  wished  for.  Had 
you  given  her  less  of  her  own  way,  and  kejit 
her  more  from  dances  and  merry-makings, 
it  might  be  better  for  yourselves  and  her  to- 
day ;  still,  I  grant  you,  it  was  hard  to  do  it 
— for  who,  mavrorw,  could  refuse  her  any- 
thing ?  O !  Goil  sees  my  heart  how  I  pity 
j'ou,  her  father,  and  you,  too,  her  mother, 
above  all.  But,  Torley,  dear,  if  we  onlj'  had 
her— if  we  onlj-hadher  back  again  safe  with 
us — then  what  darling  Dora  says  might  be 
true,  and  her  repentance  would  wash  away 
Jier  shame — for  every  one  loved  her,  so  that 
they  wouldn't  judge  her  harshly." 

"I  can  bear  witness  to  that,"  said  Barney  ; 
"  as  it  is,  every  one  pities  her,  and  but  very 
few  blame  her.  It  is  all  set  down  to  her  in- 
nocence and  want  of  experience,  aj',  and  her 
youthful  years.  No  ;  if  you  could  only  find 
her,  the  shame  in  regard  of  what  I've  said 
would  not  be  laid  heavily  upon  her  by  the 
psople." 

"O,"  exclaimed  her  father,  starting  up, 
"  O,  Granua,  Granua,  my  heart's  Ufe  !  where 
are  you  from  us  ?  Was  not  your  voice  the 
music  of  our  hearth?  Did  not  your  hght 
laugh  keep  us  cheerful  and  happy?  But 
where  are  you  now  ?  O,  will  no  one  bring 
me  back  mj'  daughter  ?  Where  is  my  cliild  ? 
she  that  was  the  light — the  breakin'  of  the 
summer  mornin'  amongst  us  !  But  wait ; 
they  say  the  villain  is  recoverin'  that  de- 
stroyed her — well — he  may  recover  fi-om  the 
blow  of  Shawn-na-Middoijiic,  but  he  will  get 
a  blow  fi'om  me  that  he  won't  recover  fi-om. 
I  wiU  imitate  Morrissy — and  will  welcome 
his  fate." 

"Aisy,  Torley,"  said  Casey;  "hould  in  I 
a  little.  You  are  spakin'  now  of  Masther  ! 
Charles  ?  "  ! 

"  I  am,  the  villain !  waxn't  they  found  to- 
gether ? "  I 


"I  have  one  question  to  ask  van,"  pro- 
ceeded Barney,  "  and  it  is  this — when  did 
you  see  or  spake  with  Sliawn-na-Jfiddogue  f  * 

"Not  since  that  unfortunate  night." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  tell  you  is  this — that 
Masther  Charles  had  as  much  to  do  with  the 
ruin  of  your  daughter  as  the  king  of  Jerusa- 
lem. Take  my  word  for  that.  He  is  not  the 
stuft'  that  such  a  villain  is  made  of,  but  I  sus- 
jiect  who  is." 

"And  who  do  you  suspect,  Barney  ?" 

"I  say  I  only  su.spect  ;  but,  so  long  as  it 
is  onlj-  suspicion,  I  will  mention  no  names. 
It  wouldn't  be  right ;  and  for  that  reason  I 
will  wait  until  I  have  betther  information. 
But,  after  all,"  he  proceeded,  "  maybe  noth- 
ing wrong  has  happened." 

'The  mother  shook  her  head  :  "  I  know  to 
the  contrairy,"  she  repUed,  "and  intended 
on  that  very  night  to  bring  her  to  an  account 
about  her  appearance,  but  I  never  had  the 
o23poi'tunity." 

'The  father  here  wrung  his-  hands,  and  his 
groans  were  dreadful. 

"  Could  you  see  Shawn-na-Middogue  ^  " 
asked  Barney. 

"No,"  replied  Davoren  :  "he,  too,  has  dis- 
appeared ;  and  although  he  is  hunted  hke  a 
bag-fox,  nobody  can  find  either  hilt  or  hair 
of  him." 

"  Might  it  not  be  possible  that  she  is  with 
him  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"No,  Barney,"  replied  her  mother,  "we 
know  Shawn  too  weU  for  that.  He  knows 
how  we  loved  her,  and  what  we  would  suffer 
by  her  absence.  Shawn,  though  driven  to  be 
an  outlaw,  has  a  kind  heart,  and  would  never 
allow  us  to  suffer  what  we  are  sufi'erin'  on 
her  account.  O,  no  !  we  know  Shawn  too 
well  for  that." 

"  Well,"  replied  Barney,  meditatively, 
there's  one  thing  I'm  inclined  to  think:  that 
whoever  was  the  means  of  bringing  shame 
and  disgi'ace  upon  poor  Granua  will  get  a 
touch  of  his  middogue  that  won't  fail  as  the 
first  did.  Shawn  now  knows  his  man,  and, 
with  the  help  of  God,  I  hope  he  won't  miss 
his  next  blow.  I  must  now  go  ;  and  before 
I  do,  let  me  tell  you  that,  as  I  said  before, 
Masther  Charles  is  as  innocent  of  the  shame 
brought  upon  poor  Granua  as  the  king  of 
Jerusalem." 

There  is  a  feeling  of  deep  but  silent  sorrow 
which  weighs  down  the  spirit  after  the  death 
of  some  beloved  individual  who  is  taken 
away  fi-om  among  the  family  circle.  It 
broods  upon,  and  casts  a  shadow  of  the  most 
profound  gloom  over  the  bereaved  heart ; 
but  let  a  person  who  knew  the  deceased,  and 
is  capable  of  feeling  a  sincere  and  friendly 
sympathy  for  the  survivors,  enter  into  thia 
cii'cle  of  son'ow  ;  let  him  or  her  dwell  upoij 


T24 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORLDS. 


the  memory  of  tlie  departed ;  then  that 
silent  and  peut-up  yrief  bursts  out,  and  the 
clamor  of  lamentation  is  loud  and  vehement. 
It  was  so  upon  this  occasion.  "When  Barney 
rose  to  take  his  departure,  a  low  murmur  of 
grief  assailed  his  ears  ;  it  gi-adually  became 
more  loud  ;  it  increased  ;  it  biu'st  into  irre- 
pressible violence — they  wept  aloud  ;  they 
llew  to  her  clothes,  which  hung,  as  we  said, 
motionless  upon  the  stalk  of  bm-dock  against 
the  wall  ;  they  kissed  them  over  and  over 
again  ;  and  it  was  not  until  Barney,  now 
deeply  affected,  succeeded  in  moderating 
their  sorrow,  that  these  strong  and  im- 
passioned paroxysms  were  checked  and  sub- 
dued into  something  like  reasonable  grief. 
Having  consoled  and  paciiied  them  as  far  as 
it  was  in  his  power,  he  then  took  his  depar- 
ture under  a  feeling  of  deej)  regi-et  that  no 
account  of  the  unfortunate  gii'l  had  been  ob- 
tained. 

The  next  day  l\Ii-s.  Lindsay  and  Hany  pre- 
pared to  pay  the  important  visit.  As  before, 
the  old  tamilj'  carriage  was  furbished  up, 
and  the  lady  once  more  enveloped  in  her 
brocades  antl  satins.  Harry,  too,  made  it  a 
point  to  appear  in  his  best  and  most  becom- 
ing habiliments  ;  and,  truth  to  tell,  an  exceed- 
ingly handsome  and  well-made  young  fellow 
he  was.  The  dress  of  the  day  disjjlayed  his 
manly  and  well-proportioned  limbs  to  the 
best  advantage,  whilst  his  silver-hilted  sword, 
in  addition  to  the  general  richness  of  his  cos- 
tume, gave  him  the  manner  and  appearance 
of  an  accomplished  cavalier.  Barney's  hvei-y 
was  also  put  a  second  time  into  requisition, 
and  the  coachman's  cocked  hat  was  freshly 
crimped  for  the  occasion. 

"  Is  it  true,  mother '? "  inquired  Harry,  as 
they  went  along,  "  that  this  old  noodle  has 
built  his  residence  as  much  after  the  shape 
of  a  cockle-shell  as  was  jiossible  to  be  accom- 
l^hshed  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  true,  as  you  will  see,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"  But  what  could  put  such  a  ridiculous 
absurdity  into  his  head  ?  " 

"  Because  he  thought  of  the  name  before 
the  house  was  built,  and  he  got  it  built 
simply  to  suit  the  name.  '  There  is  no  use,' 
said  he,  '  in  calling  it  Cockle  Hall  unless  it 
.'csembles  a  cockle  ; '  and,  indeed,  when  you 
see  it,  j'ou  will  admit  the  resemblance." 

"  Egad,"  said  her  son,  "I  never  dreamed 
•that  fate  was  likely  to  cramp  me  in  a  cockle- 
shell. I  dare  say  there  is  a  touch  of  subUm- 
ity  about  it.  The  associations  are  in  favor 
of  it." 

"  No,"  replied  his  mother,  "  but  it  has 
plenty  of  ?omfort  and  convenience  about  it. 
The  pLut.  was  his  own,  and  he  conti'ived 
to   make    it,    notwithstanding  its  ludicrous 


shape,  one  of  the  most  agreeable  residtnces 
in  the  country.  He  is  a  blunt  hum;vist. 
who  drinks  a  good  deal,  and  instead  oi  feel- 
ing ofi'ence  at  his  maimer,  which  is  lathor 
rough,  you  will  jslease  him  best  by  answer- 
ing him  exactly  in  his  own  spirit." 

"lam  glad  you  gave  me  this  hint,"  said 
her  son  ;  "I  like  that  sort  of  thing,  and  it 
will  go  hai'd  if  I  don't  give  him  as  good  as 
he  brings." 

"In  that  case,"  rephed  the  mother,  "  the 
chances  will  be  ten   to  one   in   your  favor.  ■ 

Seem,  above  all  things,  to  like  his  manner, 
because  the  old  fool  is  vain  of  it,  and  noth- 
ing gi-atifies  him  so  much." 

"  But  about  the  niece  ?  "WTiat  is  the  cue 
there,  mother  'i " 

"  The  cue  of  a  gentleman,  Hany — of  a 
well-bred  and  respectful  gentleman.  You 
may  humor  the  old  fellow  to  the  top  of  his 
bent ;  but  when  you  become  the  gentleman 
with  her,  she  'v^ill  not  misinterpret  your 
manner  with  her  uncle,  but  will  look  upon 
the  transition  as  a  mark  of  defereijce  to  her- 
self. And  now  you  have  your  instructions  : 
be  careful  and  act  upon  them.  Miss  Riddle 
is  a  girl  of  sense,  and,  they  say,  of  feeling  ; 
and  it  is  on  this  account,  I  believe,  that  she  ia 
so  critical  in  scrutinizing  the  conduct  and  in- 
tellect of  her  lovers.  So  there  is  my  last 
hint." 

"  Many  thanks,  my  dear  mother  ;  it  wll,  1 
think,  be  my  own  fault  if  I  fail  v,itli  either 
uncle  or  niece,  supported  as  I  shall  be  by 
your  eloquent  advocacy." 

On  arriving  at  Cockle  Hall,  Harry,  on  look- 
ing out  of  the  carriage  window,  took  it  for 
granted  that  his  mother  had  been  absolutely 
bantering  him.  "  Cockle  Hall  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed :  "why,  curse  the  haU  I  see  here, 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  W^iat  did  you 
mean,  mother?     "Were  you  only  jesting?  " 

"Keep  quiet,"  she  replied,  "and  above 
all  things  don't  seem  surprised  at  the  appear- 
ance of  the  place.  Look  precisely  as  if  j'ou 
had  been  in  it  ever  since  it  was  built." 

The  appearance  of  Cockle  Hall  was,  in- 
deed, as  his  mother  had  very  properly  in- 
formed him,  ludicrous  in  the  extreme.  It 
was  built  on  a  sui-face  hollowed  out  of  a  high 
bank,  or  elevation,  with  which  the  roof  of  it 
was  on  a  level.  It  was,  of  course,  circukir 
and  flat,  and  the  roof  drooped,  or  slanted 
oil'  towards  the  rear,  precisely  in  imitation  of 
a  cockle-shell.  There  was,  however,  a  com- 
l^lete  (h'ceptio  visus  in  it.  To  the  eye,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  j)eculiarity  of  its  jsosition,  it 
api:)eared  to  be  very  low,  which,  in  point  of 
fact,  was  not  exactly  the  case,  for  it  consisted 
of  two  stories,  and  had  comfortable  and  ex- 
tensive apartments.  There  was  a  paved 
space  wide  enough  for  two  carriages  to  pass 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPEC  TEE. 


725 


ein'li  otlier,  wliich  sepai-ated  it  from  the  em- 
bankment tliat  surrounded  it.  Altogether, 
when  taken  in  connection  with  the  original 
idea  of  its  construction,  it  was  a  difficult 
thing  to  look  at  it  without  mirth.  On  enter- 
ing the  drawLug-room,  which  Harry  did 
alone — for  his  mother,  having  seen  Miss 
Riddle  in  the  parlor,  entered  it  in  order  to 
have  a  2)relimiuary  chat  with  her — her  sou 
found  a  per.sou  inside  dressed  in  a  pan-  of 
red  plush  hreeches,  white  stockings  a  good 
deal  soiled,  a  yellow  long-flaj^ised  waistcoat, 
and  a  wig,  with  a  cue  to  it  which  extended 
down  the  whole  length  of  his  back, — evi- 
dently a  servant  in  dirty  hvery.  There  was 
something  drgayee  and  rather  impudent  in 
his  manner  and  appeai'ance,  which  Harry 
considered  as  in  good  keeping  with  all  lie  had 
heard  of  this  eccentric  nobleman.  Like  mas- 
ter like  man,  thought  he. 

"Well,"  said  the  sen-ant,  looking  hardly 
at  him,  "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  You  be  cursed,"  replied  Harry  ;  "  don't 
be  impertinent ;  do  you  thiuk  I'm  about  to 
disclose  my  business  to  you,  you  desjjicable 
menial '?  Why  don't  you  get  your  stockings 
washed  ?  But  if  you  wish  to  know  what  I 
want,  I  want  your  master." 

The  butler,  footman,  or  whatever  he  might 
have  been,  fixed  a  keeu  look  upon  him,  ac- 
companied by  a  grin  of  derision  that  made 
the  visitor's  gorge  rise  a  good  deal. 

"  My  master,"  said  the  other,  "  is  not  un- 
der this  roof.     What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  old  cockle  is  not  in  his 
shell,  then,"  replied  HaiTy. 

"  Come,"  said  the  other,  with  a  chuckle  of 
enjoyment,  "  curse  me,  but  that's  good. 
Who  are  you  ? — what  ai-e  you  ?  You  are  in 
good  feathers — only  give  an  account  of  your- 
sell." 

HaiTj'  was  a  keen  observer,  but  was  con- 
siderably aided  by  what  he  had  heard  fi'om 
his  mother.  The  rich  rings,  however,  which 
he  saw  sparkling  on  the  fingers  of  what  he 
had  conceived  to  be  tin?  butler  or  footman, 
at  once  satisfied  him  that  he  was  then  ad- 
dressing the  worthy  nobleman  himself.  In 
the  meantime,  having  made  this  discovery,  he 
resolved  to  act  the  farce  out. 

"  Why  should  I  give  an  account  of  myself 
to  you,  you  cursed  old  sot "? — you  drink, 
sirrah  :  I  can  read  it  in  your  face." 

"  I  say,  give  an  account  of  yourself ;  what's 
your  business  here  ?  " 

"  Come,  then,"  replied  Harry,  "  as  you 
appear  to  be  a  comical  old  scoundrel,  I  don't 
<!are,  for  the  joke's  sake,  if  I  do.  I  am 
ftoming  to  court  jMiss  Riddle,  ridiculous  old 
Cockletown's  niece." 

"  Wliy  are  you  coming  to  court  her  ?  " 

"Because  I  understand   she  will  have  a 


good    fortune   after   old   Cockle   takes    his 
departure." 

"  Eh,  confound  me,  but  that's  odd  ;  why, 
you  are  a  deWlish  queer  fellow.  Did  j'ou 
ever  see  Lord  Cockleto^vn  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  repUed  HaiTy  ;  "  nor  I  don't  care 
a  curse  whether  I  do  or  not,  j)rovided  I  had 
his  niece  secure." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  niece "?  " 

"  Don't  annoy  me,  sirrah.  No,  I  didn't ; 
neither  do  I  care  if  I  never  did,  provided  I 
secure  old  Cockle's  money  and  proi^erty.  If 
it  could  be  so  managed,  I  would  prefer  being 
married  to  her  in  the  dai-k." 

The  old  peer  walked  two  or  three  times 
through  the  room  in  a  kind  of  good-humored 
2)erplexity,  raising  his  wig  and  scratching  his 
head  under  it,  and  surveying  Woodward 
from  time  to  time  with  a  serio-comic  expres- 
sion. 

"  Of  course  you  are  a  profligate,  for  that 
is  the  order  of  the  day  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course  I  am,"  replied  Harry. 

"  Any  intrigues — eh  ?  " 

"  Indeed,"  replied  the  other,  pulling  a  long 
face,  "  I  am  ashamed  to  answer  you  on  that 
subject.  Litrigues  !  I  regret  to  say  only 
half  a  dozen  yet,  but  my  prospects  in  that 
du'ection  are  good." 

"Have  you  fought '?  Did  you  ever  commit 
miuxler  ?  " 

"  It  can  scarcely  be  called  by  that  name. 
It  was  in  tavern  brawls  ;  one  was  a  rascixUy 
cockleman,  and  the  other  a  rascally  oyster- 
man.  " 

"  How  did  you  manage  the  oysterman " 
With  a  knife,  eh?" 

"  No,  sirrali ;  with  my  sword  I  did  him 
oijen." 

"  Have  you  any  exj)ectation  of  being 
hanged '? " 

"  Why,  according  to  the  hfe  I  have  led,  I 
think  there  is  every  probabdity  that  I  may 
reach  that  honorable  position." 

The  old  peer  could  bear  this  no  longer. 
He  burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  which  lasted 
uj) wards  of  two  minutes. 

"Faith,"  said  Harry,  "if  you  had  such  a 
prospect  before  you,  I  don't  think  you  would 
consider  it  such  a  laughing  matter." 

"  Curse  you,  sir,  do  you  know  who  I 
am?  " 

"  Curse  yourself,  sir,"  replied  the  otiier, 
"  no,  I  don't  ;  how  should  I,  when  I  never 
saw  you  before  ?  " 

"  Sir,  /  am  Lord  Cockletown." 

"  And,  sir,  I  am  Harry  Woodward,  son- 
favorite  son — to  Mi'S.  Lindsay  of  Rathfillan 
House." 

"  Wliat !  are  you  a  son  of  that  old  fagot  ?  " 

"  Her  favorite  son,  as  I  said  ;  that  old 
fagot,  sir,  is  my  mother." 


726 


WljbLIAM  CARLETOj^'S   WOEKS. 


"Ay,  but  who  was  your  father  ?"  asked 
his  lordshij),  with  a  grin,  "  for  that's  the 
rub." 

"That  j'.s  the  nib,"  said  Woodward,  laugh- 
ing' ;  "how  the  de^il  can  I  tell  ?  " 

"  Good  again,"  said  his  lordsliip  ;  "  con- 
found me  but  you  are  a  queer  one.  I  tell 
you  what,  I  like  you." 

"I  don't  care  a  curse  whether  you  do  or 
not,  provided  your  niece  does." 

"  Ai-e  you  the  fellow  that  has  been  abroad, 
and  returned  home  lately  V  " 

"  I  am  the  \ery  ffUoiu,"  replied  Woodward, 
with  a  ludicrous  and  good-humored  empha- 
sis upon  the  word /(^//o?r. 

"  There  was  a  bonfire  made  for  you  on 
your  return  ?  " 

"There  was,  my  lord." 

"  And  there  fell  a  shower  of  blood  ujion 
that  occasion  ?  " 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  lord." 

"Well,  you  are  a  strange  fellow  altogether. 
I  have  not  for  a  long  time  met  a  man  so 
much  after  my  o\yn  heart." 

"  That  is  because  our  dispositions  resem- 
ble each  other.  If  I  had  the  chance  of  a 
peerage,  I  would  be  as  original  as  your  lord- 
shijj  in  the  selection  of  my  title  ;  but  I  trust 
I  shall  be  gTatified  in  that,  too  ;  because,  if 
I  marry  your  niece,  I  will  enter  into  jjublic 
life,  make  myself  not  only  a  useful,  but  a 
famous  man,  and,  of  course,  the  title  of 
Cockletown  will  be  revived  in  mj'  person, 
and  will  not  perish  with  you.  No,  my  lord, 
shoidd  I  mai'ry  your  niece,  your  title  shall 
descend  with  }"our  blood,  and  there  is  some- 
thing to  console  you." 

"  Come,"  said  the  old  peer.  "  shake  hands. 
Have  j'ou  a  capacity  for  public  business  ?  " 

"  I  was  bom  for  it,  my  lord.  I  feel  that 
fact  ;  besides,  I  have  a  generovis  ambition  to 
distinguish  myself." 

"W'ell,"  said  the  peer,  "we  will  talk  ail 
that  over  in  a  few  days.  But  don't  you  ad- 
mit that  I  am  an  eccentric  old  fellow  ?  " 

"And  doesn't  your  lordship  admit  that  I 
am  an  eccentric  young  fellow  ?  " 

"Ay,  but,  hai'kee,  Mr.  Woodward,"  said 
the  peer,  "  I  always  sleep  with  one  eye  ojjen." 

"And  I,"  replied  Harry,  "  sleep  with  both 
eyes  open." 

"  Come,  confound  me,  that  beats  me,  you 
must  get  On  in  life,  and  I  will  consider  your 
pretensions  to  my  niece." 

At  this  moment  his  mother  and  Miss  Rid- 
dle entered  the  drawing-room,  which,  not- 
withstanding the  comical  shape  of  the  man- 
sion, was  spacious,  and  admirably  fiu'uished. 
IMiss  Riddle's  Christian  name  was  Thomas- 
ina  ;  but  her  eccentric  uncle  never  called  her 
by  any  other  appellation  than  Tom,  and  oc- 
iMsicnally  Tommy. 


"  Mi's.  Lindsay,  uncle,"  said  the  girl,  ui 
troducing  her. 

"  Eh  ?  Mi-s.  Lindsaj' !  O  !  how  do  ynu  do, 
Mi-s.  Lindsay?  How  is  that  unfortunate 
devU,  your  husband  ?  " 

Now  Mi-s.  Lindsay  was  one  of  those  wo- 
men  who,  whenever  there  was  a  selfish  ob- 
ject in  view,  could  not  only  sujjpress  her 
feelings,  but  exhibit  a  class  of  them  in  direct 
opposition  to  those  she  actually  felt. 

"  Why  unfortimate,  my  lord  ?  "  she  asked, 
smUing. 

"  Why,  because  I  am  told  he  plays  second 
fiddle  at  home,  and  a  devilish  deal  out  of 
time  too,  in  general.  You  jilay  first,  ma'am  ; 
but  they  say,  notwithstanding,  that  there's 
a  plentiful  lack  of  harmony  in  your  con- 
certs." 

"  Ah,"  she  replied,  "  your  loi'dship  must 
still  have  your  joke,  I  jierceive  ;  but,  at  aU 
events,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  such  spirits." 

"  Well,  you  may  thank  your  son  for  that. 
I  say,  Tom,"  he  added,  addressing  his  niece, 
"  he's  a  devilish  good  fellow  ;  a  queer  cliap, 
and  I  like  him.  Woodward,  this  is  Tom 
Riddle,  my  niece.  This  scamp,  Tom,  is  that 
woman's  son,  Mr.  Woodward.  He's  an  ac- 
comj)hshed  youth  :  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  isn't. 
I  asked  him  how  many  intrigues  he  has  had, 
and  he  replied,  with  a  dolorous  face,  only 
half  a  dozen  yet.  He  only  committed  two 
murders,  he  says  ;  and  when  I  asked  him  if 
he  thought  there  was  any  probability  of  his 
being  hanged,  he  replied  that,  from  a  re- 
view of  his  past  life,  and  what  he  contem- 
plated in  the  future,  he  had  little  doubt  of 
it." 

HaiTy  Woodward  was  indeed,  a  most  con- 
summate tactician.  From  the  moment  Miss 
Riddle  entered  the  room,  his  air  and  manner 
became  that  of  a  mo.st  j)olished  gentleman  ; 
and  after  bowing  to  her  when  introduced, 
he  cast,  from  time  to  time,  a  glance  at  her, 
which  told  her,  by  its  significance,  that  he 
had  only  been  gratifying  her  uncle  b>'  play- 
ing into  his  whims  and  eccentricities.  In 
the  meantime  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Lindsay 
bounded  with  delight  at  the  progress  which 
she  saw,  by  the  complacent  spirit  of  the  old 
peer,  honest  and  adroit  Harry  had  made  in 
his  good  opinion. 

"  Mss  Riddle,"  said  he,  "  his  lordship  and 
I  have  been  bantering  each  other  ;  but  al- 
though I  considered  mj-self  what  I  may  term 
an  able  hand  at  it,  yet  I  find  I  am  no  match 
for  him." 

"  Well,  not  exactly,  I  believe,"  replied  his 
lordship  ;  "  but,  notwithstanding,  you  are 
one  of  the  best  I  have  met." 

" 'Wliy,  my  lord,"  replied  Woodward,  "I 
like  the  thing  ;  and,  indeed,  I  never  knew 
any  one  fond  of  it  who  did  not  possess  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


721 


^ood  heart  and  a  candid  disposition  ;  so, 
you  see,  my  lord,  there  is  a  comjaliment  for 
each  of  us." 

'•  Yes,  Woodward,  and  we  both  deserve  it." 

"I  trust  Mr.  Woodward,"  observed  his 
niece,  "  that  you  don't  practise  your  abilities 
Rs  a  bauterer  upon  our  sex." 

"  Never  !  Miss  Kiddle  ;  that  would  be  un- 
generous and  unmanly.  There  is  nothing 
due  to  your  sex  but  respect,  and  that,  j-ou 
know,  is  incompatible  with  banter.  The  wit 
that  could  wantonly  sport  with  the  modesty 
of  womim  degenerates  into  imjiudenee  and 
insult ; "  and  he  accompanied  the  words 
with  a  low  and  graceful  bow. 

This  youn-g  fellow,  thought  Miss  Riddle, 
is  a  gentleman. 

"  Yes,  but,  j\Ir.  Woodward,  we  sometimes 

require  a  bantering  ;  and,  what  is  more,  a 

remonstrance.     We    are    not    jjerfect,   and 

sui-ely  it  is  not  the  part  of  a  friend  to  over- 

"lock  our  foibles  or  our  error.s." 

"  Tm?,  Miss  Riddle,  but  it  is  not  by  ban- 
tering they  will  be  reclaimed.  A  friendly 
remonstrance,  delicately  conveyed,  is  one 
thing,  but  the  butfoonery  of  a  banter  is  an- 
other." 

"  \Miat's  that  ? "  said  the  peer,  "  buf- 
foonery !  I  deny  it,  sir,  there  is  no  buffoon- 
ery in  banter." 

"  Not,  my  lord,  when  it  occurs  between 
gentlemen,"  replied  Woodward,  "but  you 
know,  with  the  ladies  it  is  a  diiierent  thing." 

"  Ay,  well,  that's  not  bad  ;  a  j)rof)er  dis- 
tinction. I  tell  you  what,  Woodward,  you 
are  a  clever  feUow  ;  and  I  in  not  sure  but  I'U 
advocate  your  cause  with  Tom  there.  Tom, 
he  teUs  me  he  is  coming  to  court  j"ou,  and 
he  says  he  doesn't  care  a  fig  about  either  of 
us,  jjrovided  he  could  secure  your  fortune. 
Ay,  and,  what's  more,  he  says  that  if  you 
and  he  are  married,  he  hopes  it  will  be  in 
the  dark.     What  do  you  think  of  that  now  '?  " 

Miss  Riddle  did  not  blush,  nor  affect  a 
burst  of  indignation,  but  she  said  what 
pleased  both  Woodward  and  his  mother  far 
better. 

"  Well,  uncle,"  she  replied,  calmly,  "  even 
if  he  did  say  so,  I  believe  he  only  expressed 
in  words  what  most,  if  not  all,  of  my  former 
lovers  actually  felt,  but  were  too  cautious  to 
acknowledge." 

"  I  trust,  Miss  Riddle,"  said  Harry,  smil- 
ing graciously,  "  that  I  am  neither  so  silly 
nor  so  stupid  as  to  defend  a  jest  by  anything 
like  a  serious  apologj'.  Y'on  will  also  ])e 
pleased  to  recollect  that,  as  an  argument  for 
my  success,  I  admitted  two  murders,  half  a 
dozen  intrigues,  and  the  lively  prospect  of 
being  hanged.  The  deuce  is  in  it,  if  these 
are  not  strong  qualifications  in  a  lover,  espe- 
cially in  a  lover  of  j-our.s.  Miss  Riddle." 


Tlie  reader  sees  that  the  peer  was  anything 
but  a  match  for  Woodward,  who  contrived, 
and  with  perfect  success,  to  turn  all  his  jocu- 
lar attacks  to  his  own  account. 

Miss  Riddle  smiled,  for  the  truth  was  tlia.^ 
Harry  began  to  rise  rapidly  in  her  good  opin 
ion.  His  sprightliness  was  gentlemanly  and 
agreeable,  andhecontrived,besides,  toassun^e 
the  look  and  air  of  a  man  who  only  indulged 
in  it  in  compliment  to  her  uncle,  and,  of 
course,  indu-ectly  to  herself,  with  whom,  it 
was  but  natural,  he  should  hope  to  mako 
him  an  advocate.  Still  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  as  he  managed  it,  appeared  to 
her  to  be  that  of  a  ijrofound  and  serious 
tliinker — one  whose  feelings,  when  engaged, 
were  hkely  to  retain  a  strong  hold  of  his 
heart.  That  he  should  model  his  features 
into  such  an  esjsressiou  is  by  no  means 
strange,  when  we  reflect  with  what  success 
hj'pocrisy  can  stamp  upon  them  all  thosff 
traits  of  character  for  which  she  wishes  to 
get  credit  from  the  world. 

"  Come,  Tom,"  said  his  loixlship,  "  it's 
time  for  luncheon  ;  we  can't  allow  our  friends 
to  go  without  refreshments.  I  say,  Wood- 
ward, I'm  a  hospitable  old  fellow  ;  did  you 
ever  know  that  before  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  heard  it,  my  lord,"  replie.l 
the  other,  "and  I  hope  to  have  still  better 
proof  of  it."  This  was  uttered  with  a  signi- 
ficant, but  resjjectful  glance,  at  the  niece, 
who  was  Ijy  no  means  displeased  at  it. 

"Ay!  ay!"  ':i.id  his  lordship,  Liughing, 
"  the  proof  of  the'  pudding  is  in  the  eating. 
Well,  you  shall  have  an  opportunity,  and 
soon,  too  ;  you  appear  to  be  a  blunt,  honesi 
fellow  ;  and  hang  me  but  I  like  you." 

Miss  Riddle  now  went  out  to  order  in  tho 
refreshments,  but  not  without  feeling  \ 
strange  how  her  uncle  and  herself  shoul  1 
[  each  contemplate  Woodward's  character  in 
X  so  different  a  light — the  uncle  looking  ujjoa 
him  as  a  blunt,  honest  fellow,  whilst  to  her 
he  appeared  as  a  man  of  sense,  and  a  jaerfect 
gentleman  Such,  however,  was  the  depth 
of  his  hj^ocrm,  that  he  succeeded  at  once 
in  pleasing  both,  and  in  deceiving  both. 

"  Well,  Woodward,  what  do  j'ou  think  ol 
Tom  ?  "  asked  his  lordship. 

"  Why,  my  lord,  that  she  is  an  admirable 
and  lovely  girl." 

"  Well,  you  are  right,  sir  ;  Tom  is  an  ad- 
mirable girl,  and  loves  her  old  uncle  as  if  he 
was  her  father,  or  maybe  a  great  deal  better  ; 
she  will  liave  all  I  am  worth  when  I  pop  oft', 
so  there's  something  for  you  to  think 
upon." 

"  No  man,  my  lord,  capable  of  appreciat- 
ing her  could  think  of  anything  but  her- 
self." 

"  What !  not  of  her  jiroj^ertj  ?  " 


72S 


WILLI  Ail    CARLETON'S  WORLDS. 


"  Property,  my  lord,  is  a  very  secondary 
subject  when  taken  into  consideration  with 
tlie  merits  of  the  lady  herself.  I  am  no  ene- 
my to  i^roperty,  and  I  admit  its  importance 
as  an  element  of  hapjiiness  when  reasonably 
applied,  but  I  am  neither  sordid  nor  selfish  ; 
and  I  know  how  little,  after  all,  it  contributes 
to  domestic  enjoyment,  unless  accompanied 
by  those  virtues  which  constitute  the  charm 
of  connuliial  life." 

"  Confound  me  but  you  must  have  got 
that  out  of  a  book,  Woodward." 

"  Out  of  the  best  book,  my  lord — the 
book  of  life  and  observation." 

"  Wliy,  curse  it,  you  are  talking  philoso- 
pliy,  though." 

"Only  common  sense,  my  lord." 

His  lordship,  who  was  walking  to  and  fro 
in  the  room,  turned  abruptly  round,  looked 
keenly  at  him,  and  then,  addressing  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  said, — 

"Wliy,  upon  my  soiil,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  we 
nuist  try  and  do  something  with  this  fellow  ; 
he'll  be  lost  to  the  world  if  we  don't.  Come, 
i  say,  we  must  juake  a  public  man  of  him." 

"  To  become  a  pubhc  man  is  his  own  am- 
bition, my  lord,"  rejjlied  Mis.  Lindsay  ; 
"  and  although  I  am  his  motlier,  and  may 
feel  prejudiced  in  his  favor,  still  I  agree  with 
your  lordship  that  it  is  a  pity  to  see  such 
abilities  as  his  unemployed." 

"  Well,  madam,  we  shall  consider  of  it. 
What  do  you  think,  Woodward,  if  we  made 
a  baihff  of  you  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Miss  Riddle  entered  the 
room  just  in  time  to  heaj-  the  question. 

"  The  very  thing,  my  lord ;  and  the  first 
eipture  I  should  make  would  be  Miss  Kid- 
dle, your  fair  niece  here." 

"  Curse  me,  bvit  the  fellow's  a  eat,"  said 
ll)e  peer,  laughing.  "Throw  him  as  you 
will,  he  always  falls  uj)on  his  legs.  What 
do  you  think,  Tom  ?  Curse  me  but  your 
suitor  here  talked  philosophy  in  your  ab- 
sence." 

"  Only  common  sense,  Miss  Riddle,"  said 
HaiTy.  "  Philosophy,  it  is  said,  excludes 
feeling  ;  but  that  is  not  a  charge  which  I 
ever  heard  brought  against  common  sense." 

"  I  am  an  enemy  neither  to  philosophy  nor 
common  sense,"  replied  his  niece,  "  because  I 
think  neither  of  them  incompatible  with  feel- 
ing ;  but  I  certainly  prefer  common  sense." 

"  There's  luncheon  announced,"  said  the 
peer,  i-ubbing  his  hands,  "  and  that's  a  devQ- 
ish  deal  more  comfortable  than  either  of 
them.  Come,  Mrs.  Lindsay ;  Woodward, 
take  Tom  with  you." 

They  then  descended  to  the  dining-room, 
where  the  conversation  was  lively  and  amus- 
ing, the  humorous  old  peer  furnishing  the 
greater  proj)ortion  of  the  mu-th. 


"Mrs.  Lindsay,"  said  he,  as  they  were 
prejjaring  to  go,  "I  hope,  after  all,  that 
this  clever  son  of  yours  is  not  a  fortune- 
hunter." 

"  He  need  not  be  so,  my  lord,"  rejjlied  his 
mother,  "and  neither  is  he.  He  liimseU 
will  have  a  handsome  property." 

"  Will  have.  I  would  rather  you  wouldn't 
speak  in  the  future  tense,  though.  Wood- 
ward," he  added,  addressing  that  gentleman, 
"  remember  that  I  told  you  that  I  sleej)  with 
one  eye  open." 

"If  you  have  any  doubts,  my  lord,  on 
this  subject,"  replied  W^oodward,  "you may 
imitate  me  :  sleep  with  both  open." 

"Ay,  as  the  hares  do,  and  de^-il  a  bit 
they're  the  better  for  it ;  but,  in  the  mean- 
time, what  property  have  you,  or  will  you 
have  ?  There  is  nothing  like  coming  to  the 
point." 

"  My  lord,"  replied  Woodwai'd,  "  I  respect 
Miss  Riddle  too  much  to  enter  upon  such  a 
topic  in  her  presence.  You  must  excuse  me, 
then,  for  the  present ;  but  if  you  wish  for 
;  I^recise  information  on  the  subject,  I  refer 
you  to  my  mother,  who  will,  iipon  a  future 
occasion — and  I  trust  it  will  be  soon — afford 
you  every  satisfaction  on  this  matter." 

"  Well,"  replied  his  lordship,  "  that  is  fail- 

I  enough  —  a  little   vagne,    indeed  —  but   no 

matter,  your  mother  and  I  will  talk  about 

it.     Li   the   meantime   you    are   a   devilish 

clever  fellow,  and,  as  I  said,  I  like  you  ;  but 

still  I  will  suffer  no  fortune-hunter  to  saddle 

himself  upon  my  property.     I  repeat  it,  I 

sleep  with  one  eye  open.     I  will  be  hapijy 

j  to  see  you  soon,  Mr.  Woodward  ;  but  re- 

I  member  I  will  be  determined  on  this  siib- 

1  ject  altogether  by  the  feelings  of  my  niece 

Tom  here.  " 
!  "I  have  already  said,  my  lord,"  replied 
i  Woodward,  "that,  except  as  a  rational  ele- 
[  meut  in  domestic  hajiijiness,  I  am  indifl'er- 
I  ent  to  the  consideration  or  influence  of 
I  proijerty.  The  prevaihng  motives  with  me 
j  are  the  personal  charms,  the  character,  and 
I  the  well-known  virtues  of  your  niece.  It 
is  jiainful  to  me  to  say  even  this  in  her 
j  j)resence,  but  your  lordship  has  forced  it 
I  from  me.     However,  I  trust  that  Miss  Riddle 

understands  and  will  pardon  me." 
I       "  jVIi\    ^^'oodward,"   ^he   observed,    "you 
have  said  nothing  unbecoming  a  gentleman  ; 
1  nothing  certainly  but  that  which  you  could 
j  not  avoid  saving." 

1  After  the  usual  forms  of  salutation  at 
parting,  HaiTy  and  his  mother  entered  the 
old  carriage  and  proceeded  on  their  way 
home. 

"Well,  Harry,"  said  his  mother,  "what  do 
you  think  ?  " 

"A  hit,"  he  replied;    "a  hit  with  both, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


'29 


hut  especially  with  the  niece,  who  certainly 
is  a  Hue  girl.  K  there  is  to  be  auy  oppo- 
sition, it  will  be  with  that  comical  old  buf- 
foon, her  uncle.  He  says  he  sleejjs  with  one 
ej-e  open,  and  I  believe  it.  You  told  me  it 
could  not  be  determined  whether  he  was 
more  fool  or  knave  ;  but,  fi'om  all  I  have 
seen  of  him,  the  devil  a  bit  of  fool  I  can  per- 
ceive, but,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  deal  of 
the  knave.  Take  my  word  for  it,  old  Cockle- 
town  is  not  to  be  imijosed  upon." 

"  Is  there  no  hkelihood  of  that  wretch, 
Alice  Goodwin,  dying  ?  "  said  his  mother. 

"  That  is  a  case  I  must  take  in  hand," 
returned  the  sou.  "I  shall  go  to BaUyspeUan 
and  put  an  end  to  her.  After  that  we  can 
meet  old  Cockletowu  mth  courage.  I  feel 
tliat  I  am  a  favorite  with  his  niece,  and  she, 
you  must  have  jjerceived,  is  a  favorite  with 
him,  and  can  manage  him  as  she  wishes,  and 
that  is  one  great  point  gained — indeed,  the 
greatest." 

"  No,"  replied  his  mother,  "the  gr-eatest 
is  the  death  of  AUce  Goodwin." 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  her  worthy  sou  ;  "  that 
shall  be  accompUshed." 


CHAPTER  X"\TI. 

Description  of  the  OrirjinnJ  Tory. — Their  Manner  of 
awed  ring. 

"VVe  have  introduced  an  Irish  outlaw,  or 
tory,  in  the  jierson  of  Shawn-na-Middogue, 
and,  as  it  maj'  be  necessary  to  afford  the 
reader  a  clearer  insight  into  this  subject,  we 
shall  give  a  short  sketch  of  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  ^^'ild  and  lawless  class  to  which 
he  belonged.  The  first  descrijation  of  those 
savage  banditti  that  has  come  down  to  us 
with  a  distinct  and  characteristic  designation, 
is  kno^\^l  as  that  of  the  wild  baud  of  tories 
who  overran  the  South  and  West  of  Ireland 
both  before  the  Revolution  and  after  it. 
The  actual  signification  of  the  word  tonj, 
though  now,  and  for  a  long  time,  the  appel- 
lative of  a  political  pai-ty,  is  scarcely  known 
except  to  the  Ii-ish  scholar  and  historian. 
The  term  proceeds  from  the  Irish  noun  tmr, 
a  pur.suit,  a  chase  ;  and  from  that  comes  its 
cognate,  toirec,  a  person  chased,  or  pursued 
— therebj-  meaning  an  on/law,  from  the  fcict 
that  the  individuals  to  whom  it  was  first  ap- 
phed  were  such  as  had,  by  their  murders 
and  robberies,  occasioned  themselves  to  be 
put  beyond  the  protection  of  all  laws,  and, 
consequently,  were  considered  outlaws,  or 
{ories,  and  liable  to  he  shot  down  without 
the  intervention  of  judge  or  jury,  as  they 
often  were,  wherever  they  could  be  seen  or 


apj)rehended.  We  beheve  the  word  first  as- 
sumed its  distinct  ch;u-acter  in  the  wars  of 
Cromwell,  as  appihed  to  the  wild  freebooters 
of  Ireland. 

Tory-hunting  was  at  one  time  absolutely 
a  pastime  in  Ireland,  in  consequence  of  this 
desperate  bodj'  of  people  having  proved  the  ■ 
common  enemy  of  every  class,  without  refer- 
ence to  either  religious  or  pohtical  distinction. 
We  iill  remember  the  old  nursery  song, 
which,  however  simple,  is  very  significant, 
and  affords  us  an  excellent  illustration  of 
theu"  unfortunate  condition,  and  the  places 
of  their  usual  reti'eat. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  story  about  Johnny  Magrory, 
Who  went  to  the  wood  and  shot  a  tory  ; 
I'll  tell  you  another  about  his  brother, 
Who  went  to  the  wood  a.nA  shot  another." 

From  this  it  is  evident  that  the  tories  of 
the  time  of  Cromwell  and  Charles  the  Second 
were  but  the  hneiil  descendants  of  the 
thievish  wood  kernes  mentioned  by  Spenser, 
or  at  least  the  iaheritors  of  their  habits. 
Defoe  attributes  the  estabUshment  of  the 
word  in  England  to  the  infamous  Titus 
Gates. 

"  There  was  a  meeting,"  says  he  "  (at 
which  I  was  present),  in  the  city,  upon  the 
occasion  of  the  discovery  of  some  attempt  to 
stifle  the  evidence  of  the  witnesses  (about 
the  Po])ish  plot),  and  tampering  with  Bed- 
low  and  Stejjhen  Dugdale.  Among  the  dis- 
course Mr.  Bedlow  said  '  he  had  letters  from 
Ireland  ;  that  there  were  some  tories  to  be 
brought  over  hither,  who  were  privately  to 
murder  Dr.  Gates  and  the  said  Bedlow.'  Tlie 
doctoi",  whose  zeal  was  very  hot,  could  never 
hear  any  man  after  this  talk  against  the  plot, 
or  against  the  witnesses,  but  he  thought  he 
was  one  of  the  tories,  and  called  almost  every 
man  who  ojaposed  him  in  his  discourse  a 
tory — till  at  last  the  word  became  poj^ular." 

Hume's  account  of  it  is  not  very  much 
different  fi'om  this. 

"The  court  j)ai-ty,"  says  he,  "reproached 
their  antagonists  with  their  affinity  to  the 
fanatical  conventiclers  of  Scotland,  who  were 
known  by  the  name  of  Whigs.*  The  country 
party  found  a  resemblance  between  the 
courtiers  and  the  Popish  banditti  in  Ireland, 
on  whom  the  ajipellation  of  tory  was  affixed. 
And  after  this  manner  these  foolish  terms 
of  reproach  came  into  public  and  general 
use." 

It  is  evident,  from  Irish  history,  that  the 


*  The  word  ii^hif/  is  taken  from  the  fact,  that  in 
Scotland  it  was  ajiplied  to  milk  that  had  become 
sour  ;  and  to  this  day  milk  that  has  lost  its  sweet- 
ness is  termed  by  the  Scotch,  and  their  descendants 
in  the  north  of  Ireland,  whigged  milk. 


730 


^yILLIA^L  carleton'S  works. 


original  toides,  politically'  sjieaking,  belonged 
to  no  party  whatever.  They  were  simjsly 
thieves,  robbers,  and  murderers  on  their  own 
account.  Every  man's  hand  was  against 
them,  and  certainly  their  hands  were  against 
every  man.  The  fact  is,  that  in  consequence 
of  the  iJredatory  nature  of  L'ish  warfare, 
which  plundered,  burned,  and  de\astated 
as  it  went  along,  it  was  impossible  that 
thousands  of  the  wretched  Irish  should  not 
themselves  be  driven  bj'  the  most  cruel  neces- 
sity, for  the  preservation  of  their  lives  and  of 
those  of  their  families,  to  become  thieves  and 
plunderei's  in  absolute  self-defence.  Theu' 
habitations,  such  as  they  were,  having  been 
destroyed  and  laid  in  ruins,  they  were  neces- 
sarily cbiven  to  seek  shelter  in  the  woods, 
caves,  and  other  fastnesses  of  the  country, 
from  which  they  issued  forth  iu  desperate 
hordes,  armed  as  well  as  they  could,  to  rob 
and  to  plunder  for  the  very  means  of  life. 
Goaded  by  hunger  and  distress  of  every 
kind,  those  formidable  and  ferocious  "  wood 
kernes "  ouly  'paid  the  country  back,  by  in- 
flicting on  it  that  plunder  and  devastation 
which  they  had  received  at  its  hands. 
Neither  is  it  surj)rising  that  they  should 
make  no  distinction  in  theii'  dejiredations, 
beeause  they  experienced,  to  theu'  cost,  that 
no  "hosting,"  on  either  or  any  side,  ever 
made  a  distinction  with  them.  Whatever 
hand  was  uppermost,  whether  iu  the  sangui- 
nary' struggles  of  theii-  rival  chiefs,  or  in  those 
between  the  Irish  and  English,  or  Anglo- 
Ii'ish,  the  result  was  the  same  to  them.  If 
they  were  not  robbed  or  burned  out  to-day, 
they  might  be  to-morrow  ;  and  under  such 
circumstances  to  what  purpose  could  thej'  be 
expected  to  exercise  industrious  or  laborious 
habits,  when  they  knew  that  they  might  go 
to  bed  in  comfort  at  night,  and  rise  up 
beggars  iu  the  morning  ?  It  is  easy  to  see, 
then,  that  it  was  the  lawless  and  turbulent 
state  of  the  country  that  reduced  them  to 
such  a  mode  of  life,  and  drove  tliem  to  make 
rej)risals  upon  the  property  of  others,  in  the 
absence  of  any  safe  or  sj'stematic  way  of  liv- 
ing. There  is  no  doubt  that  a  princifile  of 
revenge  and  retaliation  animated  their  pro- 
ceedings, and  that  they  stood  accountable 
for  acts  of  great  cruelty  and  murder,  as  well 
as  of  robbery.  The  consequence  necessarily 
was,  that  they  felt  themselves  beyond  the 
protection  of  all  law,  and  fearfully  distinct 
in  the  ferocity  of  their  character  fi-om  the 
more  civilized  population  of  the  countrj', 
which  waged  an  exterminating  warfare 
against  them  under  the  sanction  and  by  the 
assistance  of  whatever  government  existed. 

It  was  about  the  year  1689  that  they 
began  to  assume  or  to  be  characterized  by  a 
different  designation — we  mean  that  of  rap- 


parees  ;  so  called,  it  is  said,  from  the  fact  ol 
their  using  the  half  pike  or  short  rajjier. 
although,  for  our  part,  we  are  inclined  to 
think  that  they  were  so  termed  fiom  the 
word  rapio,  to  plunder,  which  strikes  us  as 
the  most  appropiiate  and  ob\'ious.  At  all 
events  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the  tones 
were  absorbed  iu  the  rapjDarees,  and  their 
name  in  Ireland  and  Great  Britain,  except 
as  a  jjoUtical  class,  was  forgotten  and  lost  iu 
that  of  the  rapjiarees,  who  long  survived 
them. 

Barney  Casey  was,  as  the  reader  must 
have  perceived,  a  young  fellow  of  good  sense 
and  vei'y  acute  observation.  He  had  been, 
since  an  early  jieriod  of  his  youth,  domesti- 
cated in  the  family  of  111-.  Lindsay,  who 
respected  him  highly  for  his  attachment  and 
integrity.  He  had  a  brother,  however,  who, 
with  his  many  good  Cjualities,  was  idle  and 
headstrong.  His  name  was  Michael,  and, 
sooth  to  say,  the  \\ild  charm  of  a  freebooter's 
life,  in  addition  to  his  own  indisj)osition  to 
labor  for  his  living,  were  more  than  the  weab 
materials  of  his  character  could  resist.  He 
consequently  joined  Sliawn-na-Middij(jue  and 
his  gang,  and  jjreferred  the  dangerous  and 
licentious  life  of  a  robber  and  jilunderer  to 
that  of  honesty  and  labor — jirecisely  as  mam- 
men  connected  with  a  seafaring  life  prefer 
the  habits  of  the  smuggler  or  the  jjirate  to 
those  of  the  more  honorable  or  legitimate 
profession.  Poor  Barney  exerted  all  his  in- 
fluence with  his  brother  with  a  hope  of  res- 
cuing him  fi'om  the  society  and  habits  of  his 
dissolute  companions,  but  to  no  purpose.  It 
was  a  life  of  danger  and  excitement — of  j^hms 
and  projects,  and  changes,  and  chases,  and 
unexjjected  encounters — of  retaliation,  and, 
occasionally,  the  most  dreadful  revenge. 
Such,  however,  was  the  state  of  society  at 
that  time,  that  those  jiersons  who  had  con- 
nected themselves  with  these  desperate  out- 
laws were  by  no  means  afraid  to  pay  occa- 
sional visits  to  their  ovmi  relatives,  and  from 
time  to  time  to  hold  communication  vith 
them.  Nay,  not  only  was  this  the^lact,  but, 
what  is  still  more  strange,  many  persons 
who  were  related  to  indiviiluals  connected 
with  this  daring  and  unmanageable  class 
were  in  the  habit  of  attending  their  nightly 
meetings,  sometimes  for  the  purpose  of  pre- 
venting a  robbery,  or  of  setliny  a  family 
whom  they  wished  to  suft'er. 

One  night,  during  this  period  of  our  nar- 
rative, Barney's  brother  contrived  to  have  a 
secret  interview  with  him  for  the  purjjose  of 
communicating  some  information  to  hiia 
which  had  reached  his  ears  from  Sliowii-nu- 
JIIiddor/i(e,  to  the  effect  that  Caterine  Collins 
had  admitted  to  him  (Shawn),  upon  his 
jjromise  of  maiTving  her — a  promise  made 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPEC! RE. 


731 


only  for  the  pui-pose  of  getting  into  lier  con- 
fidence, and  making  her  useful  as  an  agent 
to  Ids  designs — that  she  knew,  she  said,  that 
it  was  not  his  brother  Charles  who  had 
brought  unfortunate  Grace  Davoren  to  ruin, 
but  Hariy  Woodward,  and,  she  added,  when 
it  was  too  late,  she  suspected  something 
from  his  manner,  of  his  intention  to  send 
Charles,  on  that  disastrous  night,  in  his 
stead.  But  Shawn,  who  knew  Cateriue  and 
her  connections  well,  recommended  Michael 
Casej'  to  aj^prise  his  brother  that  he  could 
not  keep  too  sharp  an  eye  upon  the  move- 
ments of  both,  but,  aliove  all  things,  to  try 
and  induce  him  to  set  Woodwai'd  in  such  a 
way  that  he  could  rejsair  the  blow  upon  him, 
which,  in  mistake,  he  had  dealt  to  his  inno- 
cent brother.  Now,  although  Barney  almost 
detested  Woodward,  yet  he  was  incap.ible  of 
abetting  Shavs-n's  designs  upon  Sail  Balor. 

"No,"  said  he  to  his  brother,  "I  would 
die  first.  It  is  true  I  do  not  like  a  bone  in 
his  body,  but  I  will  never  lend  myself  to 
such  a  cowardly  act  as  that  ;  besides,  fiom 
all  I  know  of  .Sha'WTi,  I  did  not  think  he 
would  stoop  to  murder." 

"  Ay,  but  think  of  our  companions,"  re- 
phed  his  brother,  "  and  think  too,  of  what  a 
notion  /hcij  have  of  it.  Shawn,  however,  is 
a  different  man  fi'om  most,  if  not  all,  of  them 
— and  he  says  he  was  urged  on  hy  a  fit  of 
fury  when  he  found  the  man,  that  he  thought 
the  destroyer  of  Grace  Davoren,  speaking  to 
her  in  such  a  lonely  and  suspicious  place. 
It  was  his  intention  to  have  bidden  him  to 
stand  on  his  guard  and  defend  himself,  but 
jealousy  and  revenge  overcame  him  at  the 
moment,  and  he  struck  the  blow.  Thank 
God  that  it  failed  ;  but  you  may  take  my 
word  that  the  nest  won't— because  Shawn 
now  swears,  that  ■\\'ithout  preface  or  ajjology, 
or  one  moment's  warning,  he  will  stab  him 
to  the  heart  wherever  he  can  meet  him." 

"It's  a  bad  life,"  rephed  B;u-ney,  "that 
Shawn's  leading  ;  but,  poor  fellow,  he  and 
his  resaved  hard  treatment — their  house  and 
])laee  torn  down  and  laid  in  ruins,  and  in- 
stead of  protection  fi-om  government,  they 
found  themselves  proclaimed  outlaws.  What 
could  he  and  they  do?  But,  Michael,  it 
was  a  different  thing  with  you.  Om-  family 
were  comfortable — too  much  so,  indeed,  for 
you  ;  you  got  idle  habits  and  a  distaste  for 
work,  and  so,  rather  than  settle  down  to  in- 
dustry, you  should  join  them." 

"  Ay,  and  so  would  you,  if  you  knew  the 
Ufa  we  lead." 

"  That  might  be,"  replied  his  brother,  "  if 
I  didn't  happen  to  think  of  the  death  you 
die." 

"As  to  that,"  said  Michael,  "we  have  _all 
made  np  our  minds ;  shooting  and  hanging 


will  get  nothing  out  of  iiS  but  the  death, 
laugh  at  oui-  enemies." 

"Ay,  enemies  of  your  )\m  miking,"  said 
Barney;  "but  as  to  the 'leath-laugh  on  the 
gallows,  rememlier  that  'ihat  is  at  your  o\^ti 
expense.  It  will  be  what  we  call  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  mouth,  I  flunk.  But  in  regard 
of  these  nightly  meetLugs  of  yours,  I  would 
have  no  objection  to  8ee  one  of  them.  Do 
you  think  I  would  be  allowed  to  join  you  for 
an  hour  or  two,  that  I  might  heai'  and  see 
what  you  say  and  do  ?  " 

"  You  may,  Barney  ;  but  you  know  it  isn't 
every  one  that  would  get  that  privilege  ;  but 
in  ordher  to  make  sure,  I'U  spake  to  Shavsn 
about  it.  Leave  is  hght,  they  saj' ;  and  as 
he  knows  you're  not  likely  to  turn  a  spy 
upon  our  hands,  I'm  certain  he  won't  have 
any  objection."' 

"When  and  where  -n-ill  you  meet  next?  " 
asked  Barne}-. 

"  On  the  very  spot  where  Shawn  stnick 
his  middogue  into  the  body  of  Masther 
Charles,"  replied  his  brother.  "  Shawn  has 
some  oath  of  revenge  to  make  against  Wood- 
ward, because  he  susjsects  that  the  ^'illain 
knows  where  poor  Granua  Davoren  is." 

"Well,  on  that  subject  he  may  take  his 
own  coorse,"  replied  Barney  ;  "but  as  for  me, 
]Michael,  I  neither  care  nor  will  think  of  the 
murdher  of  a  fellow-cratui-e,  no  matther 
how  wicked  he  may  be,  especially  when  I 
know  that  it  is  planned  for  him.  As  a  man 
and  a  Christian,  I  cannot  lend  myself  to  it, 
and  of  coorse — but  this  is  between  oiu'selves 
— I  will  put  jVIi-.  Woodward  on  his  guard." 

Those  were  noble  sentiments,  considering 
the  wild  and  licentious  j^eriod  of  winch  we 
write,  and  the  dreadfully  low  estimate  at 
which  human  life  was  then  held. 

"Act  as  you  like,"  repUed  Michael  ;  "but 
this  I  can  tell  you,  and  this  I  do  tell  you, 
that  if,  for  the  safety  of  this  villain,  you  take 
a  single  step  that  may  bring  Shaicn-iui-3Ii,d- 
dogup.  into  danger,  if  ypu  were  my  brother 
ten  times  over  I  will  not  prevent  him — 
Shawn  I  mean — fi-om  letting  loose  his  ven- 
geance upon  ycu.  No,  nor  upon  Kathfillan 
House  and  all  that  it  contains,  you  among 
the  number." 

"  I  will  do  nothing,"  replied  Barney,  firm- 
ly, "  to  bring  Sha^vu  or  any  of  you  into 
danger  ;  but  as  sure  as  I  have  a  Chi-istian 
soul  to  be  saved,  and  my  life  in  my  body,  I 
will,  as  I  said,  put  Mr.  Hai-ry  "\Voodward 
upon  his  guard  against  him.  So  now,  if 
you  think  it  proper  to  let  me  be  present  at 
your  meeting,  knowing  what  you  know,  I 
will  go,  but  not  othel•\^^se." 

"I  feel,  B.aruey,"  said  his  brother,  "that 
my  mmd  is  much  hardened  of  late  by  the 
society  I  keep.     I  remember  when  I  thought 


733 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


murder  as  liorrible  a  thing  as  you  do,  Ijut 
now  it  is  not  so.  The  planning  and  the 
plotting  of  it  is  considered  only  as  a  good 
joke  among  us." 

"  But  why  don't  j'ou  lave  them,  then  ?  " 
said  Barney.  "  The  i:)ious  j^rinciples  of  our 
father  and  mother  were  never  such  as  they 
practise  and  preach  among  you.  Wliy  don't 
you  lave  them,  I  say  ?  " 

"Don't  you  know,"  replied  Michael,  "  that 
that  stejo  would  be  my  death  warrant  ?  Once 
we  join  them  we  must  remain  with  them, 
let  what  may  hajDpen.  No  man  laving  them, 
unless  he  gets  clear  of  the  country  alto- 
gether, may  exj)ect  more  than  a  week's  lease 
of  life  ;  in  general  not  so  much.  They  look 
upon  him  as  a  man  that  has  been  a  spy 
among  them,  and  who  has  left  them  to 
make  his  peace,  and  gain  a  fortune  from 
government  for  betraying  them  ;  and  you 
know  how  often  it  has  hapjiened." 

"It  is  too  tnie,  Michael,"  i-eplied  his  bro- 
ther, "  for  unfortunately  it  so  happens  that, 
whether  for  good  or  evil.  Irishmen  can 
never  be  got  to  stand  by  each  other.  Ay,  it 
is  true — too  true.  In  the  meantime  call  on 
me  to-morrow  with  liberty  from  Shawn  to 
attend  yoiu-  meetmg,  and  we  wiU  both  go 
there  together." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  his  brother,  "I  will 
do  so." 

The  next  night  was  one  of  tolei-ably  clear 
moonlight ;  and  about  the  hour  of  twelve  or 
one  o'clock  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  out- 
laws were  assembled  immediately  adjoining 
the  spot  where  Charles  Lindsaj'  was  so 
severely  and  dangerously  wounded.  The  ap- 
pearance of  those  men  was  singular  and 
striking.  Their  garbs,  we  need  scarcely  in- 
form our  readers,  were  different  from  those  of 
the  present  day.  Many — nay,  most,  if  not  all 
of  them,  were  bitter  enemies  to  the  law,  which 
rendered  it  penal  for  them  to  wear  their 
gUbs,  and  in  consequence  most  of  those 
present  had  them  in  full  jJerfection  ai'ouud 
their  heads,  over  which  was  worn  the  bai-rad 
or  Irish  caji,  which,  however,  was  then  be- 
giunmg  to  fall  into  desuetude.  There  was 
scarcely  a  man  of  them  on  whose  counten- 
ance was  not  stamped  the  expression  of  care, 
inward  suffering,  and,  as  it  would  seem,  the 
recollection  of  some  grief  or  sorrow  which 
had  befallen  themselves  or  their  families. 
There  was  something,  consequently,  deter- 
mined and  utterly  reckless  in  their  faces, 
which  denoted  them  to  be  men  who  had  set 
at  defiance  both  the  world  and  its  laws. 
They  all  woi-e  the  trids,  the  brogue,  and 
beneath  the  cloaks  which  covered  them  were 
concealed  the  celebrated  Irish  skeau  or  mid- 
dogue,  80  that  at  the  first  glance  they  pre- 
sented the  ajipearance  of  men  who  were  in  a 


peaceful  garb  and  unarmed.  The  persons  ol 
some  of  them  were  powerful  and  admirably 
symmetrical,  as  could  be  guessed  from  their 
well-defined  outHnes.  They  aiTanged  them- 
selves in  a  kind  of  circle  ai'oiuid  Shawn-na- 
Mkldogue,  who  stood  in  the  centre  as  their 
chief  and  leader.  A  spectator,  however, 
could  not  avoid  observing  that,  owing  to  the 
Ijeculiarity  of  their  costume,  which,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  exclusion  fi-om  society,  not 
to  mention  the  jDoverty  and  hardship  which 
the}'  were  obhged  to  suffer,  theu'  appearance 
as  a  body  was  wild  and  almost  savage.  In 
their  countenances  was  blended  a  twofold 
expression,  composed  of  ferocity  and  des- 
pair. They  felt  themselves  excommunicated, 
whether  justly  or  not,  from  the  world  and  its 
institutions,  and  knew  too  well  that  society, 
and  the  laws  by  which  it  is  regulated  and 
lirotected,  were  hunting  them  like  beasts  of 
23rey  for  their  destruction.  Perhaps  they 
deserved  it,  and  this  consideration  may  still 
more  strongly  account  for  their  fierce  and 
relentless-looking  aspect.  There  is,  in  thfe 
meantime,  no  doubt  that,  however  vnld,  fero- 
cious, and  savage  they  may  have  appeared, 
the  strong  and  terrible  hand  of  injustice  and 
oppression  had  much,  too  much,  to  do  with 
the  crimes  which  they  had  committed,  and 
which  drove  them  oixt  of  the  pale  of  civihzed 
life.  Altogether  the  spectacle  of  their  aj)- 
pearance  there  on  that  night  was  a  melan- 
choly, as  well  as  a  fearful  one,  and  ought  to 
teach  statesmen  that  it  is  not  by  oppressive 
laws  that  the  heart  of  man  can  be  improved, 
but  that,  on  the  contraiy,  when  those  who  jjro- 
ject  and  enact  them  come  to  reap  the  harvest 
of  their  jiolicj',  they  uniformly  find  it  one  of 
violence  and  crime.  So  it  has  been  since 
the  world  began,  and  so  it  will  be  so  long  as 
it  lasts,  unless  a  more  genial  and  humane 
j^rinciple  of  legislation  shall  become  the  gen- 
eral system  of  managing,  and  consequently, 
of  improving  society. 

"  Now,  my  fi'iends,"  said  Shamn-na-Mid- 
dogue,  "  you  all  know  why  we  are  here.  Un- 
fortunate Grauua  Davoren  has  disappeared, 
and  I  have  brought  you  together  that  we 
may  set  about  the  task  of  recovering  her, 
whether  she  is  living  or  dead.  Even  her 
heart-broken  parents  would  feel  it  a  con- 
solation to  have  her  corpse  in  onler  that  they 
might  give  it  Christian  burial.  It  will  be  a 
shame  and  a  disgrace  to  us  if  she  is  not 
found,  as  I  said,  living  or  dead.  Will  you 
all  promise  to  rest  neither  night  nor  day  till 
she  is  found  ?  In  that  case  swear  it  on  your 
skeans." 

In  a  moment  every  skean  was  out,  and, 
VNath  one  voice,  they  said,  "  By  the  contents 
of  this  blessed  iron,  that  has  been  sharpened 
for  the  hearts  of  our   oppressors,  we  will 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


never  rest,  either  by  night  or  by  day,  till  we 
find  her,  Hving  or  dead  " — every  man  then 
crossed  himself  and  kissed  his  skean — "and, 
what  is  more,"  they  added,  "  we  ^vill  take 
vengeance  uj^on  the  villain  that  ruined  her." 

"Hould,"  said  ShaTvu  ;  "do  you  know 
who  he  is  ?  " 

"  By  all  accounts,"  they  replied,  "  the 
man  that  you  stiiiek." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Shawn,  "I  struck  the 
wrong  man  ;  and  poor  Granua  was  right 
wlien  she  screamed  out  that  I  had  mui'dered 
tlie  innocent.  But  now,"  he  added,  "  why- 
am  I  here  among  you  ?  I  will  tell  you,  al- 
though I  suppose  the  most  of  you  know  it 
already :  it  was  good  and  generous  Mr. 
Lindsay's  she-deWl  of  a  wife  that  did  it  ; 
and  it  was  her  he-devil  of  a  son,  Harry 
Woodward,  that  rained  Grauua  Davoreu. 
jM}'  mother  happened  to  say  that  she  was  a 
heu'tless  and  tjTannical  woman,  that  she 
had  the  Evil  Eye,  and  that  a  devil,  under  the 
;i  mie  of  f^han-dhiiuip-dhnv,  belonged  to  her 
•f:i;uily,  and  put  her  up  to  every  kind  of 
wi/kodness.  This,  which  was  only  the  com- 
mon report,  reached  her  ears,  and  the  ccnse- 
quence  was  that  beca\ise  we  were  behind  in 
the  rent  only  a  single  gale,  she  sent  in  her 
bailifls  without  the  knowledge  of  her  hus- 
band, who  was  from  home  at  the  time,  and 
left  neither  a  bed  under  us  nor  a  roof  over 
us.  At  all  events,  it  is  well  for  her  that  she 
in  a  woman  ;  liut  she  has  a  son  born  in  her 
o^vn  image,  so  far,  at  least,  as  a  bad  heart  is 
concerned ;  that  son  is  the  destroyer  of 
Granua  Davoren  ;  but  not  a  man  of  you 
must  raise  his  hand  to  him  :  he  must  be  left 
to  my  vengeance.  Caterine  Collins  has  told 
me  much  moi-e  about  him,  but  it  is  useless  to 
mention  it.  The  Evil  Sjiirit  I  sf)oke  of,  the 
Shar>-dliinne-dhui\  and  he  have  been  often 
seen  together  ;  but  no  matter  for  that  ;  he'll 
find  the  same  spirit  badh'  able  to  protect 
him  ;  so,  as  I  said  before,  he  must  be  left  to 
my  vengeance." 

"  You  mentioned  Caterine  Collins  ?  "  said 
one  of  them.  "  Caterine  has  fi'iends  here, 
Shawn.     What  is  your  opinion  of  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  observed  another,  "  she  has  friends 
here  ;  but,  then,  she  has  enemies  too  ;  men 
who  have  a  good  right  to  hate  the  gi'ound 
she  walks  on." 

"  Whatever  my  opinion  of  Caterine  CoUins 
may  be,"  said  Sha\vn,  "I  will  keep  it  to  my- 
self; I  only  siy,  that  the  man  who  injures 
her  is  no  fi-iend  of  mine.  Isn't  she  a 
woman  ?  And,  surely,  we  are  not  to  quar- 
rel with,  or  injure  a  defenceless  woman." 

Hy  this  piece  of  policy  Shawn  gained  con- 
siderable advantage.  His  purpose  was  to 
preserve  such  an  ascendency  over  that  cun- 
ning and  treacherous  woman  as  might  eua- 


'  ble  him  to  make  her  useful  in  working  out 
his  own  designs,  his  object  being,  not  only 
on  that  account,  but  for  the  sake  of  his  owu 
personal  safety,  to  stand  well  with  both  her 
j  friends  and  her  enemies. 
[      Other  matters  were  discussed,  and  plans 
j  of  vengeance  proposed  and  assented  to,  the 
'  details  of  which  would  afibrd  oui-  readers 
j  but  slight  gratification.     After  theii-  projects 
i  had  been  aiTanged,  this  wild  and  savage,  but 
melancholy  group,   dispersed,  »nd  so  inti- 
mately were  they  accjuainted  with  the  intri- 
cacies of  cover  and  retreat  which  then  char- 
acterized the  surface  of  the  country,  that  in 
a  few  minutes  they  seemed  rather  to  have 
j  vanished  like  spectres  than  to  have  disap- 
25eared   like  living  men.     Shawn,  however, 
remained  behind  in  order  to  hold  some  pri- 
J  vate  conversation  with  Barney  Casey. 
i      "Barney,"  said  he,  "I  wish  to  S2)eak  to 
you  about  that  villain  Woodward." 

"I  don't  at  all  doubt,"  replied  this  honest 
and  manly  peasant,  "  that  he  is  a  \'illain  : 
but  at  the  same  time,  Shawn,  you  must  re- 
'\  member  that  I  am  not  a  tory,  and  that  I  will 
neither  aid  nor  assist  you  in  your  designs  of 
mui'dher  upon  him.  I  received  betther 
principles  fi-om  my  father  and  the  mother 
who  bore  me  ;  and  indeed  I  think  the  same 
thing  may  be  said  of  yourseK,  Shawn.  Still 
and  all,  thei-e  is  no  doubt  but  that,  unlike  that 
self-willed  brother  of  mine,  you  had  heavy 
jjrovocation  to  join  the  life  you  did." 

"  Well,  Barney,"  replied  ShavNii,  in  a  mel- 
j  ancholy  tone  of  voice,  "  if  the  same  oppres- 
'  sions  were  to  come  on  us  again,  I  think  I 
!  would  take  another  course.     My  die,  how- 
ever, is  cast,  and  I  must  abide  by  it.     What 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  however,  is  this  : — 
You  are  li^-in'  in  the  same  house  with  Wood- 
ward ;  keep  your  eye  on  him — watch  him  well 
and  closely  ;  lie  is  plotting  e\i\  for  somebody." 
j      "Why,"  said  Barney,  "  how  do  you  know 
that?"  " 

"  I  have  it,"  replied  Shawn,  "  fi'om  good 

I  authority.     He  has  paid  tlu-ee  or  four  mid- 

t  night  visits  to   Sol,   the  herb  docthor,  and 

;  you  know  that  a  greater  old  scoundrel  than 

he  is  doesn't  breathe  the  breath  of  Ufe.     It 

has  been  long  suspected  that  he  is  a  poisoner, 

■  and  they  say  that  in  spite  of  the  j)overty  he 

j  takes  on  him,  he  is  rich  and  full  of  money. 

!  It  can  be  for  no  good,  then,  that  Woodward 

j  consults  him  at  such  unseasonable  hours." 

I      "Ay  ;  but  who  the  devil  could  he  thinlc  of 

poisoning  ?  "  said  Barney.     "  I  see  nobody 

he  could  vrif-'h  to  poison." 

"Maybe,  for  all  that,  the  deed  is  done," 
replied  Sha^^'n.  "  Where,  for  instance,  is 
unfortunate  Oran  ua  ?  "VMio  can  tell  that  he 
hasn't  dosed  hi'r  ?  " 

"  I  believe  him  villain  enough  to  do  it,"  r& 


734 


WILLIAM   UARLETON'S   WORKS. 


turned  the  other  ;  "  but  still  I  don't  think  he 
did.  He  was  at  home  to  my  own  knowledge 
the  night  she  disapjieared,  and  could  know 
nothing  of  what  became  of  her.  I  think 
that's  a  sure  case." 

"  Well,"  said  Shawn,  "  it  may  be  so  ;  but 
in  the  mauetime  his  stolen  visits  to  the  ould 
herb  docthor  are  not  for  nothing.  I  end, 
then,  as  I  began — keep  your  eye  on  him  ; 
watch  him  closely — and  now,  good  night." 

These  hitts  were  not  thrown  away  ujjon 
Barney,  who  was  naturally  of  an  observant 
turn  ;  and  accordingly  he  kept  a  stricter  ej'e 
than  ever  upon  the  motions  of  Harry  Wood- 
ward. This  accomplished  gentleman,  hke 
every  villain  of  his  class,  was  crafty  and  se- 
cret in  everything  he  did  and  said  ;  that  is 
to  say,  his  object  was  always  to  lead  those 
with  whom  he  held  intercourse,  to  draw  the 
wrong  inference  from  his  words  and  actions. 
Even  his  mother,  as  the  reader  will  learn, 
was  not  in  his  fuU  confidence.  Such  men, 
however,  are  so  completely  absorbed  in  the 
management  of  their  own  jjkms,  that  the  la- 
tent principle  or  motive  occasionally  becomes 
apparent,  without  any  consciousness  of  its 
e.Kliibition  on  their  j)art.  Barney  soon  had  an 
opportunity  of  suspectuig  this.  His  brother 
Charles,  after  what  appeared  to  be  a  satisfac- 
tory convalescence,  began  to  relapse,  and  a 
fresh  fever  to  set  m.  The  first  person  to  com- 
municate the  melancholy  intelligence  to  Wood- 
ward happened  to  be  Barney  himself,  who, 
on  meeting  him  early  in  the  morning,  said, — 

"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Woodward,  to  tell  you 
that  Masther  Charles  is  a  great  deal  worse  ; 
he  spent  a  bad  night,  and  it  seems  has  got 
very  feverish." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction — short  and  transi- 
ent, but  which,  however,  was  too  significant 
to  be  misunderstood  by  such  a  sagacious 
observer  as  Barney — flashed  across  his  coun- 
tenance— but  only  for  a  moment.  He  re- 
composed  his  features,  and  assuming  a  look 
expressive  of  the  deepest  sorrow,  said, — 

"  Good  heavens,  Casey,  do  you  tell  me  that 
my  j)oor  bi'other  is  worse,  and  we  all  in  such 
excellent  spirits  at  what  we  considered  his 
certain  but  gradual  recovery  ?  " 

"He  is  much  woi-se,  sir  ;  and  the  masther 
this  morning  has  strong  doubts  of  his  recov- 
ery. He's  in  great  affliction  about  him,  and 
so  are  they  all.  His  loss  would  be  felt  in 
the  neighi3orhood,  for,  indeed,  it's  he  that 
was  well  beloved  by  all  who  knew  him." 

"He  certainly  was  a  most  amiable  and  af- 
fectionate j'ouug  feUow,"  said  Woodward, 
"  and,  for  my  jjart,  if  he  goes  from  us 
through  the  means  of  that  murdering  blow,  I 
shall  hunt  Shawn-na-3Iiddogite  to  the  death." 

"Will  you  take  a  friend's  (uivice?"  re- 
phed  Biu-ney  :  "  we  aU  of  us  vfish,  of  coorse, 


to  die  a  Christian  death  upon  our  beds,  that 
we  may  think  of  the  sLns  we  have  committed, 
and  ask  the  pardon  of  our  Saviour  and  in- 
thersessor  for  them.  I  say,  then,  if  you 
wish  to  die  such  a  death,  and  to  have  time 
to  repent  of  your  sins,  avoid  coming  across 
Shmvn-na-3Iid(iogtie  above  all  men  in  the 
world.  I  tell  you  this  as  a  fiiend,  and  now 
you're  warned." 

Woodward  paused,  and  his, face  became 
black  mth  a  spirit  of  vengeance. 

"  How  does  it  hai^jjen,  Casey,"  he  asked, 
"  that  you  are  able  to  give  me  such  a  warn- 
ing ?  You  must  have  some  particular  infor- 
mation on  the  subject." 

"  The  only  information  I  have  on  the  sub- 
ject is  this — that  you  are  set  down  among 
most   people    as   the   man    who    destroyed 
Grace  Davoren,  and  not  your  brother  ;  Shawn 
beheves  this,  and  on  that  account,  I  say,  it 
will  be  well  for  you  to  avoid  him.     He  be 
lieves,    too,    that   you   have    her   concealed 
1  somewhere — although  I  don't  think  so  ;  but 
I  if  you  have,  111'.  Woodward,  it  would  be  an 
act  of  great  kindness — an  act  becomiu'  both 
I  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian — to  restore  the 
j  unfortunate  gii'l  to  her  jjareuts." 

"  I  know  no  more  about  her  than  you  do, 
Casey.  How  could  If  Perhaps  my  poor 
1  brotlier,  when  he  is  capable  of  it,  may  be 
j  able  to  afford  us  some  information  on  the 
subject.  As  it  is  I  know  nothing  of  it,  but 
I  shall  leave  nothing  undone  to  recover  her 
if  she  be  alive,  or  if  the  thing  can  be  accom- 
2)lislied.  In  the  meantime  all  I  can  think  of 
is  the  relajjse  of  my  poor  brother.  Until  he 
gets  better  I  shall  not  be  able  to  fix  my  mind 
ujion  anything  else.  Wliat  is  Grace  Davoren 
or  Shaivn-na-Middogue — the  accursed  scoun- 
drel— to  me,  so  long  as  my  dear  Charles  is 
in  a  state  of  danger  ?  " 

"Now,"  said  he,  when  they  parted  "now 
to  work  earth  and  hell  to  secure  Shairn-na- 
iliddogue.  He  has  got  my  secret  concerning 
the  girl  Davoren,  and  I  feel  that  while  he  is 
at  large  I  cannot  be  safe.  There  is  a  reward 
for  his  head,  whether  aUve  or  dead,  but  that 
I  scorn.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  not  lose 
an  hour  in  getting  together  a  band  who  will 
scour  the  country  along  with  myself,  until 
we  secure  him.  After  that  I  shall  be  at  per- 
fect liberty  to  work  out  my  plans  without 
either  fear  of,  or  danger  from,  this  murder- 
ing ruffian." 


CHAPTER  XVni. 

The  Toir,  or  Tory  ffiint. 

Haery  Woodward  now  began  to  apprehend 
that,  as  the  reader  sees,  either  his  star  or  that 
of  Shawii-na-Middogm  must  be  in  the  ascen- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


735 


dant.  He  accordingly  set  to  work  with  all 
his  skill  and  craft  to  secure  his  person  and 
offer  him  up  as  a  victim  to  the  outraged  laws 
of  his  country,  and  to  a  government  that  had 
set  a  price  upon  his  head,  as  the  leader  of 
the  outlaws  ;  or,  what  came  nearer  to  his 
wish,  either  to  shoot  him  down  with  his  own 
hand,  or  have  him  shot  by  those  who  were 
on  the  alert  tor  such  persons.  The  first  in- 
dividual to  whom  he  ajDjilied  ujiou  the  sub- 
ject was  his  benevolent  steji-father,  who  he 
knew  was  a  magistrate,  and  whose  duty  was 
to  have  the  wretched  class  of  whom  we 
write  arrested  or  shot  as  best  they  might. 

'■  Sir,"  said  he,  "I  think  after  what  has  be- 
fallen my  dear  brother  Charles  that  this 
murdering  villain,  S}iaw)>-na-Mlddogne,  who 
is  at  the  head  of  the  tories  and  outlaws, 
ought  to  be  shot,  or  taken  u})  and  handed 
over  to  government." 

"Wliy,"  asked  Mr.  Lindsay,  "what  has 
happened  in  connection  with  Hhaivn-na-Mid- 
dijijiic  and  your  brother?" 

"Why,  that  it  was  from  his  hand  he  re- 
ceived the  wound  that  may  be  his  death. 
That,  I  think,  is  sufficient  to  make  j'ou  exert 
yourself  ;  and  indeed  it  is,  in  my  opinion, 
both  a  shame  and  a  scandal  that  the  subject 
has  not  been  taken  uj)  with  more  energy  by 
the  magistracy  of  the  country. " 

"But  who  can  tell,"  replied  Lindsay, 
"  whether  it  was  Shaivn-na-Jliddogue  that 
stabbed  Charles  ?  Charles  himself  does  not 
know  the  individual  who  stabbed  him."       « 

"  The  language  of  the  girl,  I  think,"  repUed 
Woodward,  "might  indicate  it.  He  was 
once  her  lover " 

"  But  she  named  nobody,"  replied  the 
other  ;  "  and  as  for  lovers,  she  had  enough  of 
them.  If  Shawn-na-Middogue  is  an  outlaw 
yn'nv,  I  know  who  made  him  so.  I  remember 
Vhen  there  wasn't  a  better  conducted  boy  on 
lour  mother's  property.  He  was  a  credit  to 
uis  familj'  and  the  neighborhood  ;  but  they 
Were  turned  out  in  my  absence  by  your  un- 
feeling mother  there,  Harry  ;  and  the  fine 
roung  fellow  had  nothing  else  for  it  but  the 
life  of  an  outlaw.  Confound  me  if  I  can 
much  blame  him." 

"Thank  you,  Lindsay,"  replied  his  wife  ; 
*  as  kind  as  ever  to  the  woman  who  brought 
foil  that  property.  But  you  forget  what 
Ihe  young  scoundrel's  mother  said  of  me — 
ilo  you  ?  that  I  had  the  Evil  Eye,  and  that 
there  was  a  familiar  or  devil  connected  with 
me  and  ray  family  ?  " 

"  Egad  !  and  I'm  much  of  her  opinion," 
replied  her  husband  ;  "  and  if  she  said  it,  I 
give  you  my  honor  it  is  only  what  every  one 
who  knows  you  says,  and  what  I,  who  know 
you  best,  say  as  well  as  they.  Begone, 
madam — leave  the  room  ;  it  was  yoilr  damn- 


ed oppression  made  the  boj'  a  tory.  Begone, 
I  say — I  wiU  bear  with  your  insolence  no 
longer." 

He  stood  up  as  he  spoke — his  eye  flashed, 
and  the  stamp  of  his  foot  made  the  floor 
shake.  Mrs.  Lindsay  knew  her  husband 
well,  and  without  a  single  syllable  in  reply 
she  arose  and  left  the  room. 

"  Harry,"  pi-oceeded  his  stepfather,  "  I 
shall  take  no  proceedings  against  that  un- 
fortunate yoimg  man — tory  though  he  be  ;  I 
would  resign  my  magistracy  sooner.  Do  not, 
therefore,  count  on  me." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  calm  but 
black  expression  of  countenance,  "I  will  not 
enter  into  domestic  quarrels  ;  but  I  am  my 
mother's  son." 

"  You  are,"  rejilied  Lindsay,  looking  close- 
ly at  him — "  and  I  regret  it.  I  do  not  hke 
the  expression  of  your  face — it  is  bad  ;  worse 
I  have  seldom  seen." 

"Be  that  expression  what  it  may,  sir,"  re- 
phed  Woodward,  "by  the  heavens  above  me 
I  shall  rest  neither  night  nor  day  until  I  put 
an  end  to  Shaivn-na-Middogue." 

"  In  the  meantime  you  shall  have  no  as- 
sistance from  me,  Harry  ;  and  it  ill  becomes 
your  mother's  son — the  woman  whose  ci^uel- 
ty  to  the  family  made  him  what  he  is — to 
attempt  to  hunt  liini  down.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  tell  you  as  a  fi'iend  to  let  him  pass  ; 
the  young  man  is  desperate,  and  his  venge- 
ance, or  that  of  his  followers,  may  come  on 
you  when  you  least  exjject  it.  It  is  not  his 
death  that  will  secure  you.  If  he  dies 
through  your  means,  he  will  leave  those  be- 
hind him  who  will  afford  you  but  short  space 
to  settle  your  last  account." 

"  Be  the  consequences  what  they  may," 
replied  Woodward,  "  either  he  or  I  shall 
fall." 

He  left  the  room  after  expressing  this  de- 
termination, and  his  step-father  said, — 

"  I'm  afraid,  Mai'ia,  we  don't  2:)roperly 
understand  Master  Harry.  I  am  much  trou- 
bled by  what  has  occurred  just  now.  I  fear 
he  is  a  hj-jiocrite  in  morals,  and  withou  /,  a 
single  atom  of  honorable  principle,  l/id 
you  obsei-ve  the  expression  of  his  fa,  e  ? 
Curse  me  if  I  think  the  devil  himself  hai.i  so 
bad  a  one.  Besides,  I  have  heard  something 
about  him  that  I  don't  like — sometling 
which  I  am  not  going  to  mention  to  y*  lu  ; 
but  I  say  that  in  future  we  must  beware  of 
him." 

"  I  was  sorry,  papa,  to  see  the  exyn  ssion 
of  his  face,"  replied  Maria  ;  "it  was  tearful ; 
and  above  aU  things  the  expressiou  oi  his 
eye.  It  made  me  feel  weak  wheue^ej  he 
turned  it  on  me." 

"  Egad,  and  it  had  something  o<  tl  e  same 
effect  on  myself,"  replied  her  fathei .     '  Tbere 


73G 


WILLlA3r  UARLETON'S   WORKS. 


in  some  damned  expression  in  it  that  takes 
away  one's  strength.  Well,  as  I  said,  we 
must  beware  of  him." 

Woodward's  next  step  was  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Lord  Cockletown,  who,  as  he  had  gained 
his  title  in  consequence  of  his  success  in 
tory -hunting,  and  captiuing  the  most  trouhle- 
some  and  distinguished  outlaws  of  that  day, 
was,  he  thought,  the  best  and  most  exjieri- 
enced  i^erson  to  whom  he  could  ajjply  for 
information  as  to  the  most  successful  means 
of  accomplishing  his  object.  He  accordingly 
waited  on  his  lordshii),  to  whom  he  thought, 
very  naturally,  that  this  exploit  would  recom- 
mend him.  His  lordship  was  in  the  garden, 
where  Woodward  found  him  in  hobnailed 
shoes,  digging  himself  into  what  he  called 
his  daily  jjerspu-ations. 

"  Don't  be  surprised,  Mr.  Woodward," 
said  he,  "  at  my  employment  ;  I  am  takmg 
my  every-day  sweat,  because  I  feel  that  I 
could  not  drink  as  I  do  and  get  on  without 
it.  Well,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?  Is  it 
anything  about  Tom  ?  Egad,  Tom  says  she 
rather  likes  you  than  otherwise  ;  and  if  you 
can  satisfj-  nie  as  to  property  settlements, 
and  all  that,  I  won't  stand  in  your  way  ;  but, 
in  the  meantime,  what  do  you  want  with  me 
now  ?  If  it's  Tom's  alMr,  the  state  of  your 
property  comes  first." 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  shall  leave  aU  deaUugs 
of  business  between  you  and  my  mother. 
This  is  a  different  afl'air,  and  one  on  which  I 
wish  to  have  your  lordship's  advice  and 
direction." 

"  Ay,  but  what  is  it?  Confound  it,  come 
to  the  point." 

"  It  is  a  tory-hunt,  my  lord." 

"  Who  is  the  tory,  or  who  are  the 
tories  ?  Come,  I'm  at  home  here.  'Wliat's 
j-om-  plan '? " 

"  Why,  simple  piu-suit.  We  have  the  posse 
comitatus." 

"  The  2wsse  comitatiis  f — the  posse  devil; 
what  do  the  tories  care  about  the  posse  comi- 
tatus f     Have  you  bloodhounds  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,  but  I  think  we  can  procure 
them." 

"Because,"  proceeded  his  lordship,  "to 
go  hunt  a  tory  without  bloodhounds  is  like 
looking  for  your  gi'andmother's  needle  in  a 
bottle  of  straw." 

"  I  am  thankful  to  your  lordshijD  for  that 
hint,"  replied  Harry  Woodward  ;  "  but  the 
truth  is,  I  have  been  almost  since  my  infancy 
out  of  the  country,  and  am,  cousec^uently, 
very  ignorant  of  its  usages." 

"  What  particular  toiy  are  you  going  to 
hmit?" 

"  A  fellow  named  Shawn-na-Middogue." 

"Ah!  Shn wn-na-3liddognc,  youv  mother's 
victim  ■?     Don't  hunt   him.      If  you're  wise 


youll  keep  your  distance  fi'om  that  young 
fellow.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Woodwai'd,  there 
wiU  be  more  danger  to  yourself  in  the  hunt 
than  there  will  be  to  him.  It's  a  well-known 
fact  that  it  was  your  mother's  severity  to  his 
family  that  made  a  tory  of  him  ;  and,  as  I 
said  before,  I  would  strongly  recommend 
you  to  avoid  him.  How  many  bloodhounds 
have  you  got  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  think  we  can  muster  half  a 
dozen." 

"Ay,  but  do  -^ou  know  how  to  hinit 
them  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  suppose  we  may  de- 
pend ujJon  the  instinct  of  the  dogs." 

"  No,  sir,  you  may  not,  unless  to  a  ver^' 
limited  extent.  Those  tones  always,  ivhen 
pursued  by  bloodhounds,  go  down  the  wind 
whenever  it  is  possible,  and,  consequently, 
leave  vei-y  httle  trail  behind  them.  Your 
object  will  be,  of  course,  to  hunt  them  against. 
the  wuid  ;  they  will  consequently  have  little 
chance  of  escajse,  unless,  as  they  are  often  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  they  administer  r.  sop." 

"  Wliat  is  a  sojd,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  A  piece  of  raw  beef  or  mutton,  kept  for 
twenty-foui"  hoiu'S  under  the  ai-mpit  until  it 
becomes  saturated  with  the  moisture  of  the 
body  ;  after  this,  administer  it  to  the  dog, 
and  instead  of  attackmg  he  will  follow  you 
over  the  world.  The  other  sof>  resorted  to 
by  these  fellows  is  the  middogiie,  or  skean, 
and,  as  they  contrive  to  manage  its  applica- 
jjon,  it  is  the  siu'er  of  the  two.  Should  you 
like  to  see  Tom  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,  my  lord.  I  intende<l 
before  going  to  have  requested  the  honor  ol 
a  short  inteiTiew." 

"  Ay,  of  course,  to  make  love.  Well,  1 
tell  you  that  Tom,  like  her  inicle,  has  her 
^^•its  about  her.  Go  up,  then,  you  wiU  find 
her  in  the  withdrawing-room  ;  and  listen — •! 
desire  that  j'ou  will  tell  her  of  your  tory- 
hunting  project,  and  ask  her  opinion  upon 
it.  Now,  don't  forget  that,  because  I  will 
make  inquiries  about  it." 

Woodward  certainly  found  her  in  what 
was  then  termed  the  withdrawing-roon). 
She  was  in  the  act  of  embroidering,  and  re- 
ceived him  with  much  courtesy  and  kindness. 

"  I  hope  your  mother  and  familj-  are  all 
well,  Mr.  Woodward,"  she  said  ;  "  as  for  your 
sister  Jlaiia  she  is  quite  a  stay-at-home. 
Does  she  ever  visit  any  one  at  all '? " 

"Very  rarely,  indeed.  Miss  Eiddle  ;  but  I 
think  she  will  soon  do  herself  the  pleasure 
of  calHng  upon  you." 

"  I   shall  feel"  much   obliged,   IMr.  Wood- 

w-ard.     From  what  I   have  heard,   and  the 

!  little  I  have  seen  of  her,  a  most  amiable  girl. 

I  You  have  had  a  chat  ydth  my  kind-hearted. 

but  eccentric  uncle  ?  " 


:^///V- 


"ahI   'i■^alcn-na-Jtfiddo^u<,    youb  motbeb's  tictim?    dokt  hunt  Attn,    if  iou'be  wise  Yor'u,  k£ep  toub 
DisTAKCB  FBOu  THAT  TouKO  Fsux>w  "— £rC  EyA,  chap.  xviii,  p.  73C. 


liBRARY 

;:  THE 

UNIVERSIlV  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE'. 


nzt 


"  I  have  ;  and  be  imjiosed  it  on  me  as  a 
condition  that  I  should  mention  to  you  an 
enterprise  ou  which  I  am  bent." 

"  An  enterprise  !     Pray,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Wh^',  a  tory-hunt ;  I  am  going  to  hunt 
down  Shawn-na-Middo(jue,  as  he  is  called, 
and  I  think  it  wOl  be  rendering  the  country 
a  service  to  get  rid  of  him." 

Miss  Eiddle's  face  got  pale  as  ashes  ;  and 
she  looked  earnestly  and  solemnly  into 
Woodward's  face. 

"Mr.  Woodward,"  said  she,  "would  you 
oblige  me  with  one  simple  request  ?  Do  not 
hunt  down  Shawn-na-3Iiddorjue :  my  uncle 
and  I  owe  him  our  lives." 

"  How  is  that,  Jliss  Eiddle  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  that  my  uncle  was  a 
tory  hunter  ?  " 

"  I  have  certainly  heard  so,"  replied 
Woodward  ;  "  and  I  am,  besides,  aware  of 
it  from  the  admirable  instiiictioiis  which  he 
gave  me  concerning  the  best  method  of  hunt- 
ing them  do^Ti." 

"  Yes,  but  did  he  encourage  you  in  your 
determination  of  hunting  down  Shaum-na- 
Middogu<'  1 " 

"  No,  certainly  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  ad- 
vised me  to  jjass  him  by — to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  him." 

"  Did  lie  state  his  reasons  for  giving  you 
such  advice  ?  " 

"  He  mentioned  something  with  reference 
to  certain  legal  proceedings  taken  by  my 
mother  against  the  family  of  Shawn-na-Mid- 
dofjue.  But  I  presume  my  mother  had  her 
own  rights  to  vindicate,  and  bej'ond  that  I 
know  nothing  of  it.  He  nearly  stabbed  mj 
brother  to  death,  and  I  wiU  leave  no  earthly 
means  unattempted  to  shoot  the  vUlain  down, 
or  otherwise  secure  him." 

"  Yrell,  you  are  aware  that  my  uncle  was 
the  most  successful  and  celebrated  toiy-hunt- 
er  of  his  day,  and  rendered  important  ser- 
vices to  the  government  in  that  capacity 
—  services  which  have  been  hberaUy  re- 
warded." 

"I  am  aware  of  it,  Miss  Riddle." 

"  But  j'ou  are  not  aware,  as  I  am,  that  this 
Fame  Shatm-na-Jffiddor/ue  saved  my  uncle's 
life  and  mine  on  the  night  before  last  ?  " 

"  How  could  I,  ]\Iiss  Riddle  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  fact,  though,  and  I  beg  you  to 
mark  it ;  and  I  trust  that  if  you  resj)ect 
ray  uncle  and  myself,  you  mil  not  engage 
in  this  ei-uel  and  inhuman  expedition." 

"  But  j-our  uncle  mentioned  nothing  of 
this  to  me,  Miss  Riddle." 

"  He  does  not  know  it  yet.  I  have  been 
all  yesterdaj"  thinking  over  the  circumstance, 
with  a  view  of  getting  his  lordship  to  inter- 
fere with  the  government  for  this  unfor- 
tunate youth  ;  but  I  felt  myself  placed   in 


circumstances  of  great  difficulty  and  deli- 
cacy with  respect  to  your  family  and  ours. 
I  hope  you  understand  me,  Mr.  Woodward. 
I  allude  to  the  circumstances  wliich  forced 
him  to  become  an  outlaw  and  a  tory,  and  ii 
struck  me  that  my  uncle  could  not  urge  any 
application  in  lus  favor  without  adverting  to 
them." 

"O,  Miss  Riddle,  if  you  feel  an  interest 
in  liis  favor,  he  shall  experience  no  molesta- 
tion from  me." 

"  The  only  interest  which  I  feel  in  him  is 
that  of  humanity,  and  gratitude,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward ;  but,  indeed,  I  should  rather  say 
that  the  gratitvide  should  not  be  common 
to  a  man  who  saved  my  uncle's  hfe  and 
mine." 

"  And  pray  may  I  ask  how  that  came 
about?  At  all  events  he  has  made  me  his 
friend  forever." 

"  My  uncle  and  I  were  returning  home 
from  dinner, — we  had  dined  at  Squire 
Dawson's, — and  on  coming  to  a  lonely  part 
of  the  road  we  found  our  carriage  surround- 
ed by  a  party  of  the  outlaws,  who  shout- 
ed out,  '  This  is  the  old  tory-himter,  who 
got  his  wealth  and  title  by  isersecuting  us, 
and  now  we  will  j)ay  him  home  for  all,'  '  Ay,' 
observed  another,  '  and  his  niece  is  with  him, 
and  we  wiU  have  her  off  to  the  mountains.' 
The  carriage  was  immediately  surrounded, 
and  I  know  not  to  what  an  extent  their  vio- 
lence and  revenge  might  have  proceeded, 
when  Shawn  same  bounding  among  them 
with  the  air  of  a.man  who  possessed  authority 
over  them. 

"  '  StojD,'  said  he  ;  'on  this  occasion  they 
must  go  free,  and  on  every  occasion.  Lord 
Cockletown,  let  him  lie  what  he  may  before, 
is  of  late  a  good  landlord,   and  a  friend  to 

the  people.     His  niece,  too,  is '  He  then 

complimented  me  upon  some  trifling  acts  of 
kindness  I  had  paid  to  his  family  when — 
hem — ahem — in  fact,  when  they  stood  much 
in  need  of  it." 

This  was  a  delicate  evasion  of  any  allusion 
to  the  cruel  conduct  of  his  mother  towards 
the  outlaw's  fimily. 

"  When,"  she  went  on,  "  he  had  succeeded 
in  restraining  the  meditated  violence  of  the 
tories,  he  ajjjjroached  me — for  they  had  al- 
ready dragged  me  out,  and  indeed  it  was  my 
screaming  that  brouglit  him  with  such  haste 
to  the  spot.  'Now,  Miss  Riddle,' said  he, 
in  a  low  whisper  which  my  uncle  could  not 
hear,  '  one  good  act  deserves  another  ;  you 
were  kind  to  my  family  when  they  stood 
sorely  in  need  of  it.  You  and  your  uncle 
are  safe,  and,  what  is  more,  will  be  safe :  I 
will  take  care  of  that ;  but  forget  Shawn-na 
Middofjue,  the  outlaw  and  torj',  or  if  ever  you 
mention  his  name,  let   it   be  in  a  spiiit  of 


738 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


mercy  and  forgiveness.'  Mr.  Woodward,  you 
will  not  hunt  down  this  generous  young 
man?" 

"I  would  as  soon  hunt  down  my  father, 
Miss  Riddle,  if  he  were  alive.  I  trust  you 
don't  imagine  that  I  can  be  insensible  to 
such  noble  conduct." 

"I  do  not  think  j'ou  are,  Jlr.  Woodward  ; 
and  I  hope  you  will  allow  the  unfortunate 
youth  to  remain  unmolested  until  mj'  uncle, 
to  whom  I  shall  mention  this  circumstance 
this  day,  may  strive  to  have  him  restored  to 
society." 

We  need  scarcely  assure  our  readers  that 
Woodward  jaledged  himself  in  accordance 
with  her  wishes,  after  which  he  went  home 
and  j^repared  such  a  mask  for  his  face,  and 
such  a  disguise  of  dress  for  his  person,  as, 
when  assumed,  rendered  it  imjjossible  for 
any  one  to  recognize  him.  Such  was  the 
spirit  in  which  he  kept  his  promise  to  Miss 
Riddle,  and  such  the  honor  of  every  word 
that  proceeded  from  his  hypocritical  lips. 

Li  the  meantime  the  preparations  for  the 
chase  were  made  with  the  most  extraordinary 
energy  and  caution.  Woodward  had  other 
persons  engaged  in  it,  on  whom  he  had  now 
made  up  his  mind  to  devolve  the  conse- 
quences of  the  whole  jDroeeedings.  The  sher- 
iff and  thepo.sse  comitatus,  together  \vith  as- 
sistance from  other  quarters,  had  all  been 
engaged ;  and  as  some  vague  intelligence  of 
Hhawn-na-Middoguen  retreat  had  been  ob- 
tained. Woodward  proceeded  in  comi3lete 
disguise  before  daybreak  with  a  j)arty,  not 
one  of  whom  was  able  to  recognize  him, 
well  armed,  to  have  what  was,  in  those  days, 
called  a  tory-hunt. 

The  next  morning  was  dark  and  gloomy. 
Gray,  heavy  mists  lay  upon  the  mountain- 
tops,  from  which,  as  the  Ught  of  the  rising 
sun  fell  upon  them,  they  retreated  in  broken 
masses  to  the  valleys  and  lower  grounds  be- 
neath them.  A  cold,  chilly  aspect  lay  upon 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  the  white  mists 
that  had  descended  from  the  movmtain-tops, 
or  were  drawn  up  from  the  ground  by  the 
influence  of  the  sun,  were,  although  more 
condensed,  beginning  to  get  a  warmer  look. 

Notwithstanding  the  secrecy  with  which 
this  enterprise  was  projected  it  had  taken 
wind,  and  many  of  those  who  had  suffered 
by  the  depredations  of  the  tories  were  found 
joining  the  band  of  pursuers,  and  many 
others  who  were  fiiendly  to  them,  or  who 
had  relations  among  them,  also  made  their 
appearance,  but  contrived  to  keep  somewhat 
aloof  from  the  main  body,  though  not  at 
such  a  distance  as  might  seem  to  render 
them  suspected  ;  their  object  being  to  aflbrd 
whatever  assistance  they  could,  with  safety 
to   themselves   and   without  incurring   any 


suspicion  of  aflfinity  to  the  anfortunata 
tories. 

The  country  was  of  intricate  jiassage  und 
full  of  thick  woods.  At  this  distance  of 
time,  now  that  it  is  cleared  and  cultivated, 
our  readers  could  form  no  conception  of  its 
appearance  then.  In  the  fastnesses  and  close 
brakes  of  those  woods  lay  the  liiding-places 
and  retreats  of  the  tories  —  "  the  wood 
kernes  "  of  Spenser's  day.  A  tory-hunt  at 
that  time,  or  at  anj'  time,  was  a  jDastime  of 
no  common  danger.  Those  ferocious  and 
determined  banditti  had  little  to  render  life 
desirable.  They  consequently  set  but  a  slight 
value  upon  it.  The  result  was  that  the  jjur- 
suits  after  them  by  foreign  soldiers,  and 
other  persons  but  slightly  acquainted  with 
the  comitry,  generally  ended  in  disaster  and 
death  to  several  of  the  j^ursuers. 

On  the  morniug  in  question  the  toiy- 
hunters  litei-ally  beat  the  woods  as  if  they 
had  been  in  the  piu'suit  of  game,  but  for  a 
considerable  time  ^\ii\\  little  effect.  Not  the 
api^earance  of  a  single  tory  was  anywhere 
visible ;  but,  notwithstanding  this,  it  so 
happened  that  some  one  of  their  enemies 
occasionally  dropped,  eithei'  dead  or  wound- 
ed, by  a  shot  from  the  intricacies  and  covers 
of  the  woods,  which,  upon  being  searched 
and  examined,  afibrded  no  trace  whatsoever 
of  those  who  did  the  mischief  This  was 
harassing  and  provocative  of  vengeance  to 
the  militarj'  and  such  wretch.ed  police  as 
existed  in  that  day.  No  search  could  dis- 
cover a  single  trace  of  a  tory,  and  many  of 
those  in  the  pursuit  were  obliged  to  with- 
draw from  it — not  unreluctantly,  indeed — 
in  order  to  bear  liack  the  dead  and  wounded 
to  the  town  of  Rathiillan. 

As  they  were  entering  an  open  space  that 
lay  between  two  wooded  enclosures,  a  white 
hare  started  across  their  path,  to  the  utter 
consternation  of  those  who  were  in  j^ursuit. 
Woodwai'd,  now  disguised  an<l  in  his  mask, 
had  been  for  a  considerable  time  looking  be- 
hind him,  but  this  circumstance  did  not 
escape  his  notice,  and  he  felt,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  startled  at  her  second  appearance.  It 
reminded  him,  however,  of  the  precautions 
which  he  had  taken  ;  and  he  looked  back 
from  time  to  time,  as  we  have  said,  in  expec- 
tation of  something  appertaining  to  the  jnir- 
suit.     At  length  he  exclaiuied, — 

"  Where  are  the  party  with  the  blood- 
hounds ?  ^Miy  have  they  not  joined  us  and 
come  up  with  us  ?  " 

"  They  have  started  a  wolf"  reijlied  one  of 
them,  "and  the  dogs  are  after  him;  and 
some  of  them  have  gone  back  upon  the  trail 
of  the  wounded  men." 

"  Return  for  them,"  said  he  ;  "  -ndthout 
their  assistance  we  can  never  fuid  the  trail 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPEC  TEE. 


739 


&f  these  accursed  tories  ;  but,  above  all,  of 
Shaim-na-Middijijue." 

In  due  time  the  dogs  were  brought  up, 
but  the  trails  were  so  various  that  they  sep- 
arated mostly  iuto  single  hunts,  and  went  at 
such  a  rapid  speed  that  they  were  lost  in 
the  woods. 

At  length  two  of  them  who  came  up 
first,  gave  tongue,  and  the  body  of  pursuers 
concentrated  themselves  on  the  newly-dis- 
covered trail,  keeping  as  close  to  the  dogs  as 
they  could.  Those  two  had  quartered  the 
woods  and  returned  to  the  party  again  when 
they  fell  upon  the  slot  of  some  unfortunate 
victim  who  had  recently  escaped  fi-om  the 
place.  The  pursuit  now  became  energetic 
and  full  of  interest,  if  we  could  forget  the 
melancholy  and  murderous  fact  that  the 
game  pursued  were  human  victims,  who  had 
nothing  more  nor  less  to  expect  from  their 
pur.suers  than  the  savage  wolves  which  then 
infested  the  forests — a  price  having  been 
laid  upon  the  heads  of  each. 

After  some  time  the  pai-ty  arrived  at  the 
outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  an  individual  was 
seen  bounding  along  in  the  direction  of  the 
mountains — the  two  dogs  in  full  pursuit  of 
him.  The  noise,  the  animation,  and  the  tu- 
mult of  the  pursuit  were  now  astounding, 
and  rang  long  and  loud  over  the  surface  of 
the  excited  and  awakened  neighborhood, 
whilst  the  wild  echoes  of  their  inhuman  en- 
joyment were  giving  back  their  tenible  re- 
sponses from  the  hills  and  valleys  around 
them.  The  shouting,  the  urging  on  of  the 
dogs  by  ferocious  cries  of  encouragement, 
were  loud,  incessant,  and  full  of  a  spirit 
which,  at  this  day,  it  is  terrible  to  reflect 
upon.  The  whole  countrv-  was  alive ;  and 
the  loud,  vociferous  agitation  which  disturbed 
it,  resembled  the  influence  of  one  of  those 
storms  which  lash  the  quiet  sea  into  mad- 
ness. Fre.sh  crowds  joined  them,  as  we 
have  said,  and  the  tumult  still  became  louder 
and  stronger.  In  the  meantime,  Shawn-na- 
Middorpie^  case-  —it  was  he — became  hope- 
less— for  it  was  the  speed  of  the  fleetest 
runner  that  ever  hved  to  that  of  two  power- 
ful bloodhounds,  animated,  as  they  were,  by 
their  ferocious  uistincts.  Indeed,  the  inter- 
est of  the  chase  was  heightened  by  the  man- 
ner and  conduct  of  the  dogs,  which,  when 
they  came  upon  the  trail  of  the  individual, 
in  question,  yelped  aloud  with  an  ecstatic 
delight  that  gave  fresh  courage  to  the  vocif- 
erous band  of  pursuers. 

"Who  can  that  man  be?"  asked  one  of 
them ;  "he  seems  to  have  wings  to  his 
feet." 

"By  the  sacred  light  of  day,"  exclaimed 
another,  "it  is  no  other  than  the  famous 
Shaivn-na-Middogue    himself     I   know   him 


well  ;  and  even  if  I  did  not,  who  could  mis- 
take him  by  his  speed  of  foot  ?  " 

"  Is  that  he  ?  "  said  the  mask  ;  "  then  fifty 
pounds  in  addition  to  the  government  re- 
ward to  the  man  who  will  shoot  him  down, 
or  secure  him,  hving  or  dead  :  only  let  him 
be  taken." 

Just  then  four  or  five  persons,  friends  of 
course  to  the  unfortunate  outlaw,  came  in 
before  the  dogs  across  the  trail,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  the  auim:ds  became  puzzled, 
and  lost  considerable  time  in  regaining  it, 
whilst  Sha^\T3,  in  the  meantime,  was  fast 
making  his  way  to  the  mountains. 

The  reward,  however,  offered  by  the  man 
in  the  black  mask — for  it  was  a  black  one — 
accelei'ated  the  speed  of  the  pursuers,  be- 
tween whom  a  comjjetition  of  terrible  energy 
and  action  arose  as  to  which  of  them  should 
secure  the  public  reward  and  the  premium 
that  were  offered  for  his  blood.  Shawn, 
however,  had  been  evidently  exhausted,  and 
sat  down  considerably  in  advance  of  them, 
on  the  mountain  side,  to  take  breath,  in  or- 
der to  better  the  chance  of  effecting  his  es- 
cape ;  but  whilst  seated,  panting  after  his 
race,  the  dogs  gained  rapidly  upon  him. 
Ha^•ing  jjut  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and 
looked  keenly  down — for  he  had  the  sight 
of  an  eagle — the  aj^proach  of  the  dogs  did 
not  seem  at  all  to  alarm  him. 

"  Ah,  thank  God,  they  will  have  him 
soon,"  said  the  mask,  "  and  it  is  a  pity  that 
we  cannot  give  them  the  reward.  Who  owns 
those  noble  dogs  ?  " 

"  You  will  see  that  very  soon,  sir,"  replied 
a  man  beside  him  ;  "  j-ou  will  see  it  very 
soon — you  maj'  see  it  now." 

As  he  uttered  the  words  the  dogs  sprang 
upon  Shawn,  wagged  theu-  tails  as  if  in  a 
state  of  most  ecstatic  delight,  and  began  to 
caress  him  and  lick  his  face. 

"Finn,  my  brave  Finn!"  he  exclaimed, 
patting  him  affectionately,  "and  is  this  you? 
and  Oonah,  my  darling  Oonah,  did  the  vil- 
lains think  that  my  best  friends  would  pur- 
sue me.  for  my  blood?  Come  now,"  said  he, 
"follow  me,  and  we  wiU  lead  them  a  chase." 

During  this  brief  rest,  however,  four  of  the 
most  active  of  his  pursuers,  who  knew  what 
is  called  the  lie  of  the  country,  succeeded,  by 
passing  through  the  skirt  of  the  wood  in  a 
direction  where  it  was  impossible  to  obsei^ve 
them,  in  coming  up  behind  the  spot  where 
he  had  sat,  and  conseciuently,  when  he  and 
his  dogs,  or  those  which  had  been  once  his, 
ascended  its  flat  summit,  the  four  men 
pounced  upon  him.  Four  against  one 
would,  in  ordinary  cases,  be  fearful  odds ; 
but  Shawn  knew  that  he  had  two  stanch 
and  fiithfid  friends  to  support  him.  (^uick 
as  hsrhtning  his  middogue  was  into  one  of 


740 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


their  hearts,  and  almost  as  quickly  were  two 
more  of  them  seized  by  the  throats  and 
dragged  down  by  the  powerful  animals  that 
defended  him.  The  fourth  man  was  as 
rapidly  despatched  by  a  single  blow,  whilst 
the  dogs  were  Uterally  tearing  out  the 
throats  of  their  victims.  In  the  course  of 
about  ten  minutes,  what  between  Sha's^Ti's 
middogue  and  the  terrible  fangs  and 
strength  of  those  dreadful  animals,  the  four 
men  lay  there  four-  coi-pses.  Shawn's  danger, 
however,  notwithstanding  his  success,  was 
only  increasing.  His  pursuers  had  now 
gained  upon  him,  and  when  he  looked 
aiound  he  found  himself  hemmed  in,  or 
nearly  so.  Speed  of  foot  was  everything  ; 
but,  what  was  worst  of  all,  with  reference  to 
his  ultimate  escajje,  four  other  dogs  were 
making  their  way  up  the  mountains — dogs 
to  which  he  was  a  stranger,  and  he  knew 
right  well  that  they  would  hunt  him  with 
ail  the  deadly  instincts  of  blood.  Thej'  were, 
however,  far  in  the  distance,  and  he  felt 
little  apprehension  fi'om  ihcm.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  he  bounded  oif  accomjDanied  by  his 
faithful  fi'iends,  and  not  less  than  twenty 
shots  were  fired  after  him,  none  of  which 
touched  him.  The  number  of  his  jDursuers, 
dogs  included,  almost  made  his  heart  sink  ; 
and  would  have  done  so,  but  that  he  was 
probably  desiderate  and  reckless  of  life.  He 
saw  himself  elmost  encompassed  ;  he  heard 
the  bullets  whisthng  about  him,  and  per- 
ceived at  a  glance  that  the  chances  of  his 
escape  were  a  thousand  to  one  against  him. 
With  a  rapid  sweep  of  his  eye  he  marked 
the  locaUty.  It  also  was  aU  against  him. 
Tliere  was  a  shoreless  lake,  abrujit  and  deep 
to  the  very  edge,  except  a  shp  at  the  oppo- 
site side,  lying  at  his  feet.  It  was  oblong, 
but  at  each  end  of  it  there  was  nothing  like  a 
pass  for  at  least  two  or  three  miles.  If  he 
could  swim  across  this  he  knew  that  he  was 
safe,  and  that  he  could  do  so  he  felt  certain, 
provided  he  escaped  the  bullets  and  the  dogs 
of  the  ijursuers.  At  all  events  he  dashed 
down  and  plunged  in,  accompanied  by  his 
faithful  attendants.  Shot  after  shot  was 
sent  after  him  ;  and  so  closely  did  some  of 
them  reach  him,  that  he  was  obUged  to  dive 
and  swim  under  water  from  time  to  time,  in 
order  to  save  himself  fi'om  their  aim.  The 
strange  bloodhounds,  however,  which  had 
entered  the  lake,  were  gaining  rapidly  on 
him,  and  on  lookmg  back  he  saw  them  with- 
in a  dozen  yai'ds  of  him.  He  was  now,  how- 
ever, beyond  the  reach  of  their  bullets,  un- 
less it  might  be  a  longer  shot  than  ordinary, 
but  the  foiu-  dogs  were  upon  him,  and  in 
the  extremity  of  despair  he  shouted  out, — 
"  Finn  and  Oonah,  won't  you  save  me  ?  " 
Shame  upon  the  friendship  and   attach- 


ment of  man  !  In  a  moment  two  of  the  most 
powerful  of  the  strange  dogs  were  in  some- 
thing that  resembled  a  de:ith  struggle  with 
his  brave  and  gallant  defenders.  The  other 
two,  however,  were  upon  himself  ;  but  by  a 
stab  of  his  middogue  he  de.spatched  one  ot 
them,  and  the  other  he  pressed  under  water 
until  he  was  ch-owued. 

In  the  meantime,  whilst  the  four  other 
dogs  were  fighting  furiously  in  the  water, 
Shawn,  having  felt  exhavisted,  was  ob- 
hged  to  he  on  his  back  and  float,  in  order 
to  regain  his  strength. 

A  httle  before  this  contest  commenced, 
the  black  mask  and  a  number  of  the  pur- 
suing party  were  standing  on  the  edge  of 
the  lake  loolcing  on,  conscious  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  their  interference. 

"  Is  there  no  stout  man  and  good  swim- 
mer present,"  exclaimed  the  mask,  "  who 
wiU  earn  the  fifty  poimds  I  have  ofl'ered  for 
the  capture  of  that  man  ?  " 

"Here  am  I,"  said  a  powerful  young  fel- 
low, the  best  swimmer,  with  the  exception 
of  Shawn-na-Middoyiie,  in  the  j)rovince.  "  I 
am  like  a  duck  in  the  water  ;  but  upon  my 
sowl,  so  is  he.  If  I  take  him,  you  will  give 
me  the  fifty  pounds  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably  ;  but  you  know  you  wUl 
have  the  government  rewai'd  besides." 

"  Well,  then,  here  goes.  I  cannot  bring 
my  carbine  with  me  ;  but  even  so — we  wO 
have  a  tug  for  it  with  my  skean." 

He  tlu'ew  off  his  coat  and  barrad,  and 
immediately  plunged  in  and  swam  with  as- 
tonishing rai^idity  towards  the  spot  where 
Shawn  and  the  dogs — the  latter  still  engag- 
ed in  their  ferocious  contest — were  in  the 
lake.  Shawn  now  had  regained  considerable 
strengih,  and  was  about  to  despatch  the 
enemies  of  his  brave  defenders,  when,  on 
looking  back  to  the  sjiot  on  the  margin  of 
the  lake  where  his  pursuers  stood,  he  saw 
the  powerful  young  .swimmei'  within  a  few 
yards  of  him.  It  was  well  for  him  that  he 
had  regained  his  strength,  and  such  was  his 
natural  courage  that  he  felt  rather  gratified 
at  the  appearance  of  only  a  single  individual. 

" Shawn-na-Middogue"  said  the  young  fel- 
low, "  I  come  to  make  you  a  prisoner.  WiU 
you  fight  me  fairly  in  the  water  ?  " 

"I  am  a  hunted  outlaw — a  tory,"  rejilied 
Sha^-n,  "  and  will  fight  30U  the  best  way  I 
can.  If  we  were  on  firm  earth  I  would  fight 
you  on  your  own  terms.  If  there  is  to  be  a 
fight  between  us,  remember  that  you  ai'e 
fighting  for  the  government  rewai'd,  and  I 
for  my  life." 

"  W^ill  you  fight  me,"  said  the  man,  "  with- 
out using  your  middogue  ?  " 

"I  saw  you  take  a  skean  from  between 
your    teeth    as  I    turned    round,"  rephed 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


741 


Sliawn,  "  and  I  know  now  that  you  are  a 
villain  and  a  treachei'ous  ruffian,  who  would 
take  a  cowardly  advantage  of  me  if  you 
could." 

The  fellow  made  a  plunge  at  Shawn,  who 
was  somewhat  taken  by  surjarise.  They  met 
and  grappled  in  the  water,  and  the  contest 
between  them  was,  probably,  one  of  the 
fiercest  and  most  original  that  ever  occurred 
between  man  and  man.  It  was  distinctly  visi- 
ble to  the  spectators  on  the  shore,  and  the 
interest  which  it  excited  in  them  can  sc  irce- 
ly  be  described.  A  terrible  grapjjle  ensued, 
but  as  neither  of  them  wished  to  die  by 
drowning,  or,  in  fact,  to  die  under  such 
peculiar  circumstances  at  all,  there  was  a  de- 
gree of  caution  in  the  contest  which  required 
great  skill  and  jjower  on  both  sides.  Not- 
withstanding this  caution,  however,  still, 
when  we  consider  the  imsubstantial  element 
on  which  the  battle  between  them  raged — 
for  rage  it  did — there  were  fiightful  alterna- 
tives of  jjlunging  and  sinking  between  them. 

Sliawn's  ojijjonent  was  the  stronger  of  the 
two,  but  Shawn  jiossessed  in  activity  what 
the  other  possessed  in  strength.  The  waters 
of  the  lake  were  agitated  by  their  struggles 
and  foamed  white  about  them,  whilst,  at 
the  same  time,  the  four  bloodhounds  tear- 
ing each  other  beside  them  added  to  the 
agitation.  Shawn  and  his  opponent  clasped 
each  other  and  frequently  disajjpeai-ed  for  a 
very  brief  space,  but  the  necessity  to  breathe 
and  rise  to  the  air  forced  them  to  relax  the 
grasps  and  seek  the  surface  of  the  water  ;  so 
was  it  with  the  dogs.  At  length,  Shawn, 
feeling  that  his  middogue  had  got  entangled 
in  his  dress,  which  the  water  had  closely 
contracted  about  it,  rendering  it  difficult, 
distracted  as  he  was  by  the  contest,  to  ex- 
tricate it,  turned  round  and  swam  several 
strokes  from  his  enemy,  who,  however,  jDur- 
sued  him  with  the  ferocity  of  one  of  the 
bloodhounds  beside  them.  This  ruse  was  to 
enable  Sha\vn  to  disengage  his  middogue, 
which  he  did.  In  the  meantime  this  expe- 
dient of  Shawn's  afforded  his  opponent  time 
to  bring  out  his  skean, — two  weapons  which 
differed  very  little  excejDt  in  name.  They 
once  more  approached  one  another,  each 
with  the  ai'med  hand  up, — the  left, — and  a 
fiercer  and  more  terrible  contest  was  re- 
newed. The  instability  of  the  element,  how- 
ever, on  which  they  fought,  prevented  them 
from  using  their  weapons  with  effect.  At 
all  events  they  played  about  each  other,  offer- 
ing and  warding  off'  tlie  blows,  when  Shawn 
exclaimed, — ha\-ing  grasped  his  opi^ouent 
with  his  right  arm, — 

"  I  am  tired  of  this  ;  it  must  be  now  sink 
or  swim  between  us.  To  die  here  is  better 
than  to  die  on  the  gallows." 


As  he  spoke  both  sank,  and  for  about  hall 
a  minute  became  invisible.  The  spectators 
from  the  shore  now  gave  them  both  over  for 
lost  ;  one  of  them  only  emerged  with  the 
fatal  middogue  in  his  hand,  but  his  opjjon- 
eut  appeared  not,  and  for  the  best  reason  in 
the  world  :  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  bot- 
tom  of  the  lake.  Shawn's  exhaustion  after 
such  a  stmggle  now  rendered  his  situation 
hojoeless.  He  was  on*  the  point  of  going 
down  when  he  exclaimed  : 

"It  is  all  in  vain  now  ;  I  am  sinking,  and 
me  so  near  the  only  slip  that  is  in  the  lake. 
Finn  and  Oonah,  save  me  ;  I  am  drown- 
ing." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  lips 
when  he  felt  the  two  faithful,  powerful,  and 
noble  animals,  one  at  each  side  of  him — see- 
ing as  they  did,  his  sinking  state — seizing 
him  hy  his  dress,  and  dragging  him  forward 
to  the  shp  we  have  mentioned.  AVith  great 
difficulty  he  got  ujjon  land,  but,  having  done 
so,  he  sat  down  ;  and  when  his  dogs,  in  the 
gambols  of  their  joy  at  his  safety,  caressed 
him,  he  wept  like  an  infant — this  proscribed 
outlaw  and  torj".  He  was  now  safe,  how- 
ever, and  his  pursuers  returned  in  a  spirit  of 
sullen  and  bitter  disappointment,  finding 
that  it  was  useless  to  continue  the  hunt  any 
longer. 


CHAPTER  XDL 

Plans  and  Negotiations. 

We  have  already  said  that  Woodward  was 
a  man  of  personal  courage,  and  without  fear 
of  anything  either  living  or  dead,  yet,  not- 
withstanding all  this,  he  felt  a  terror  of 
Shawn-na-Middugue  which  he  could  not 
overcome.  The  escajie — the  extraordinary 
escajje  of  that  celebrated  yoimg  tory — de- 
pressed and  vexed  him  to  the  heart.  He 
was  conscious,  however,  of  his  own  villany 
and  of  his  conduct  to  Grace  Davoren,  whom 
Shawn  had  loved,  and,  as  Shakespeare  says, 
"  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all."  One 
thing,  however,  aff'orded  him  some  consola- 
tion, which  was  that  his  disguise  jjrevented 
him  from  from  being  known  as  the  piincipal 
jjerson  engaged  in  the  attempt  to  hunt  down 
the  outlaw.  He  knew  that  after  the  solemn 
promise  he  had  given  Miss  Riddle,  any 
knowledge  on  her  part  of  his  participation 
in  the  pursuit  of  that  generous  but  unfor- 
tunate joung  man  would  have  so  completely 
sunk  him  in  her  opinion,  as  an  individual 
professing  to  be  a  man  of  honor,  that  she 
would  have  treated  his  projjosals  vrith  con- 
tempt, and  rejected  him  with  disdain.  At 
all  events,  his  chief  object  now  was  to  lose 


742 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


no  time  in  prosecuting  his  suit  with  her. 
For  this  purpose  he  urged  his  mother  to  pay 
Lord  Cockletown  another  visit,  in  order  to 
make  a  formal  proposal  for  the  hand  of  his 
niece  in  his  name,  with  a  view  of  bringing  the 
matter  to  an  issue  ^ith  as  little  delay  as  might 
be.  His  brother,  who  had  relapsed,  was  in 
a  very  precarious  condition,  but  still  slightly 
on  the  recovery,  a  circumstance  which  tilled 
him  with  alarm.  He  only  went  out  at  night 
occasionally,  but  still  he  went  out,  and,  as 
before,  did  not  return  until  about  twelve, 
but  much  more  frequently  one,  two,  and 
sometimes  three  o'clock.  Nobody  in  the 
house  could  understand  the  mystery  of  these 
midnight  excursions,  and  the  servants  of  the 
family,  who  were  well  aware  of  them,  began 
to  look  on  him  with  a  certain  undefined  ter- 
ror as  a  man  whose  unaccountable  move- 
ments were  associated  with  something  that 
was  evil  and  suisernatural.  They  felt  occa- 
sionally that  the  power  of  his  eye  was  dread- 
ful ;  and  as  it  began  to  be  whispered  about 
that  it  was  by  its  evil  influence  he  had 
brought  Alice  Goodwin  to  the  verj'  verge  of 
the  grave  for  the  purpose  of  getting  at  the 
property,  which  was  to  revert  to  him  in  case 
she  should  die  without  issue,  there  was  not 
one  of  them  who,  on  meeting  him,  either  in 
or  about  the  house,  would  run  the  risk  of 
looking  him  in  the  face.  In  fact,  they  ex- 
perienced that  kind  of  fear  of  him  which  a 
person  might  be  supposed  to  feel  in  the  case 
of  a  spirit ;  and  this  is  not  surprising  when 
we  consider  the  jieriod  in  which  they  lived. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  his  mother  got  up  the 
old  carriage  once  more  and  set  out  on  her 
journey  to  Cockle  Hall — her  head  filled  with 
many  an  iniquitous  design,  and  her  heart 
with  fraud  and  deceit.  On  reaching  Cockle 
Hall  she  was  ushered  to  the  withdrawiug- 
room,  where  she  found  his  lordship  in  the 
self-same  costume  which  we  have  alreadj-  de- 
scribed. Miss  Riddle  was  in  her  own  room, 
so  that  she  had  the  coast  clear — which  was 
precisely  what  she  wanted. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
How  do  you  do,  madam  ?  Is  your  son  with 
you  ?  "  he  added,  shaking  hands  with  her. 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"  O  !  an  embassadress,  then  ?  " 

"Something  in  that  capacity,  my  lord." 

"  Then  I  must  be  on  my  sharps,  for  I  am 
told  you  are  a  keen  one.  But  tell  me — do 
you  sleep  with  one  eye  open,  as  I  do  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,"  she  i-eplied,  laughing, 
"  I  sleep  as  other  peojjle  do,  with  both  eyes 
shut." 

"  Well,  then,  what's  your  proposal  ? — and, 
mark  me,  I'm  wide  awsike." 

"  By  all  accounts,  my  lord,  you  have  sel- 
dom been  otherwise.     How  could  you  have 


jjlayed  your  cards  so  well  and  so  succ3ssfullj 
if  you  had  not  ?  " 

"  Come,  that's  not  bad — just  what  I  ex- 
pected, and  I  like  to  deal  with  clever  people. 
Did  you  put  yourself  on  the  whetstone  be^ 
fore  you  came  here  ?     I'll  go  bail  you  did." 

"  If  I  did  not  I  would  have  little  chancs 
in  dealing  with  your  lordship,"  repHed  Slra 
Lindsay. 

"  Come,  I  like  that,  too  ; — well  said,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth.  In  fact  it  will  be 
diamond  cut  diamond  between  us — eh  ?  " 

"  Precisely,  my  lord.  You  will  find  me  as 
sharp  as  your  lordship,  for  the  life  of  jou." 

"  Come,  confound  me,  I  hke  that  best  of 
all — a  touch  of  my  own  candor  ; — we're  kin- 
dred sj)ii-its,  Mrs.  Lindsay." 

"  I  think  so,  my  lord.  We  should  have 
been  man  and  wife." 

"  Egad,  if  we  had  I  shouldn't  have  i^layed 
second  fiddle,  as  I'm  told  poor  Lindsay 
does  ;  however,  no  matter  about  that — even 
a  good  second  is  not  so  bad.  But  now 
about  the  negotiations  —  come,  give  a  speci- 
men of  your  talents.  Let  us  come  to  the 
point." 

"  Well,  then,  I  am  here,  my  lord,  to  pro- 
pose, in  the  name  of  my  son  Woodward, 
for  the  hand  of  Miss  Iliddle,  your  niece." 

"I  see  ;  no  regard  for  the  property  she  is 
to  have,  eh  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  me  a  fool,  my  lord  ?  Do 
you  imagine  that  any  one  of  common  sense 
would  or  should  overlook  such  an  element 
between  parties  who  pi'opose  to  mai'ry  ? 
\Vhatever  my  son  may  do — who  is  deeply 
attached  to  Miss  Riddle — I  am  sure  I  do 
not,  nor  will  not,  overlook  it ;  you  may  rest 
assured  of  that,  my  lord." 

Old  Cockletowii  looked  keenly  at  her,  and 
their  ej'es  met ;  but,  after  a  long  and  steady 
gaze,  the  eyes  of  the  old  peer  quailed,  and  he 
felt,  when  put  to  an  encounter  with  hers,  that 
to  which  was  attributed  such  extraordinary 
influence.  There  sjiarkled  in  her  steady 
black  orb  a  venomous  exultation,  mingled 
with  a  spiiit  of  strong  and  contemptuous  de- 
rision, which  made  the  eccentric  old  noble- 
man feel  rather  uncomfortable.  7/i.s  eye  fell, 
and,  considering  his  age,  it  was  decidedly  a 
keen  one.  He  fidgeted  upon  the  chair — he 
coughed,  hemmed,  then  looked  about  the 
room,  and  at  length  exclaimed,  rather  in  a 
j  soliloquy, — 

I  "  Second  fiddle  !  egad,  I'm  afraid  had  we 
been  man  and  wife  I  should  never  have  got 
beyond  it.  Poor  Lindsay !  It's  confound- 
edly odd,  though." 

"  Well,  Mi-s.  Lindsay — ahem — pray  pro- 
ceed, madam  ;  let  us  come  to  the  proper- 
tj'.  How  does  your  son  stand  in  that  rS' 
spect  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


743 


"  He  will  have  twelve  hundred  a  year,  my 
lord." 

"  I  told  you  before,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  that  I 
don't  like  the  futui-e  tense — the  present  for 
me.     What  haa  he  ?  " 

"  It  cau  scarcely  be  called  the  future  tense, 
my  lord,  which  you  seem  to  abhor  so  much. 
Notliing  stands  between  him  and  it  but  a 
dying  girl." 

"  How  is  that,  madam  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  lord,  his  Uncle  Hamilton,  my 
brother,  had  a  daughter,  an  only  child,  who 
died  of  decline,  as  hei  mother  before  her 
did.  This  foolish  child  was  inveigled  into  an 
unaccountable  affection  for  the  daughter  of 
Ml".  Goodwin — a  deep,  designing,  artful  girl 
— who  contrived  to  gain  a  complete  ascen- 
dency over  both  father  and  daughter.  For 
months  before  my  niece's  death  this  cunning 
gii-1,  prompted  by  her  designing  famUy,  re- 
mained at  her  sick  bed,  tended  her,  nursed 
her,  and  would  scarcely  allow  a  single  indi- 
vidual to  approach  her  except  herself.  In 
short,  she  gained  such  an  undue  and  ini- 
quitous influence  over  both  jiarent  and 
child,  that  her  diabolical  object  was  accom- 
plished." 

"  DiaboUcal !  Well,  I  can  see  nothing  dia- 
bolical in  it,  for  so  far.  Affection  and  sym- 
pathy on  tlie  one  hand,  and  gratitude  on  the 
other — that  seems  much  more  like  the  thing. 
But  proceed,  madam." 

"Wliy,  my  poor  brother,  who  became 
siUy  and  enfeebled  in  intellect  by  the  loss  of 
his  child,  was  prevailed  on  by  Miss  Good- 
win a!id  her  family  to  adopt  her  as  his 
daughter,  and  by  a  series  of  the  most  artful 
and  selfish  manoauvres  they  succeeded  in  get- 
ting the  poor  imbecUe  and  besotted  old 
man  to  make  a  will  in  her  favor  ;  and  the 
consequence  was  that  he  left  her  twelve 
hundred  a  year,  both  to  her  and  her  issue, 
should  she  marry  and  have  any ;  but  in  case 
she  should  have  no  issue,  then,  after  her 
death,  it  was  to  revert  to  my  son  Wood- 
ward for  whom  it  was  originally  intend- 
ed by  my  brother.  It  was  a  most  un- 
principled and  shameful  transaction  on  the 
jjart  of  these  Goodwins.  Providence,  how- 
ever, woidd  seem  to  have  punished  them 
for  their  iniquity,  for  Miss  Goodwin  is  d^dng 
— ^at  least,  beyond  aU  hope.  The  property, 
of  course,  wiU  soon  be  in  my  son's  j^osses- 
sion,  where  it  ought  to  have  been  ever  since 
his  uncle's  death.  Am  I  not  right,  then,  in 
calculating  on  that  property  as  his  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  circumstances  you  speak  of  are 
recent ;  I  remember  them  well  enough. 
There  was  a  lawsuit  about  the  wLU  ?  " 

"There  was,  my  lord." 

"  And  the  instrument  was  proved  strictly 
legal  and  viilid  ?  " 


"  The  siiit  was  certainly  determined  against 
us." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Lindsay  :  I  am 
certain  that  I  myself  would  have  acted  jjre- 
cisely  as  your  brother  did.  I  know  the 
Goodwins,  too,  and  I  know,  besides,  that 
they  are  incapable  of  reverting  to  either 
fraud  or  undue  influence  of  any  kind.  All 
that  you  have  told  me,  then,  is,  with  great 
resjiect  to  you,  nothing  but  mere  rigmarole. 
I  am  sorry,  however,  to  hear  that  the  daugh- 
ter, poor  girl,  is  dj'ing.  I  hoi^e  in  God  she 
will  recover." 

"  There  is  no  earthly  probability— nay, 
possibility  of  it — which  is  a  stronger  word 
— I  know,  my  lord,  she  will  die,  and  that 
very  soon." 

"  You  know,  madam  !  How  the  deuce 
can  you  know?  It  is  all  in  the  hands  of 
God.  I  hope  she  will  live  to  enjoy  her  prop- 
erty." 

"  My  lord,  I  visited  the  girl  in  her  illness, 
and  life  was  barely  in  her  ;  I  have,  besides, 
the  opinion  of  the  physician  who  attended 
her,  and  of  another  who  was  called  in  to  con- 
sult upon  her  state,  and  both  have  informed 
me  that  her  recovery  is  hojjelees." 

"  And  what  opinion  does  your  son,  Wood- 
ward, entertain  upon  the  subject  V  " 

"One,  my  lord,  in  comjilete  keeping  with 
his  generous  character.  He  is  as  anxious 
for  her  recovery  as  your  lordship." 

"  WeU,  I  like  that,  at  ail  events  ;  it  is  a 
good  point  in  him.  Yes,  I  like  that — but,  in 
the  meantime,  here  are  you  calculating  upon 
a  contingency  that  may  never  hapjien.  The 
calculation  is,  I  grant,  not  overburdened 
with  delicacy  of  feeling  ;  but  still  it  may 
proceed  from  anxietj'  fur  the  settlement  and 
welfare  of  your  son.  Not  an  improbable 
thing  on  the  part  of  a  mother,  I  grant 
that." 

"  Well,  then,  my  lord,"  asked  IMrs.  Lind- 
say, "what  is  to  be  done?  Come  to  the 
jioint,  as  you  very  projjerly  say  yourself." 

"  In  the  first  place  bring  me  the  written 
opinions  of  those  two  doctors.  They  ought 
to  know  her  state  of  health  best,  and  whether 
she  is  likely  to  recover  or  not.  I  know  I  am 
an  old  scoundrel  in  entering  into  a  matrimo- 
nial negotiation  upon  a  principle  so  inhuman 
as  the  poor  lady's  death  ;  but  still,  if  her  de- 
mise is  a  certain  thing,  I  don't  see  why  men 
of  the  ■rt'orld  should  not  avail  themselves  of 
such  a  circumstance.  Now,  I  wish  to  see. 
poor  Tom  settled  before  I  die  ;  and,  above 
all  things,  united  to  a  gentleman.  Your  son 
Woodward,  ]\Ii's.  Lindsay,  is  a  gentleman, 
and  what  is  more,  I  have  reason  to  believe 
Tommy  likes  him.  She  speaks  well  of  him, 
and  there  is  a  great  deal  in  that  ;  because  I 
know  that  if  she  disliked  him  she  would  not 


744 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


conceal  the  fact.  She  has,  occasionally, 
much  of  her  old  uncle's  bluntness  about  her, 
and  will  not  say  one  thing  and  think  another  ; 
unless,  indeed,  when  she  has  a  design  in  it, 
and  then  she  is  inscrutable." 

"  My  own  ojiiuion  is  this,  nij'  lord  :  let  my 
son  wait  upon  Miss  Eiddle — let  him  propose 
for  her — and  if  she  cpnsents,  why  the  mar- 
riage settlements  may  be  drawn  uj)  at  once 
and  the  ceremony  jjerformed." 

"Let  me  see,"  he  rejiUed.  "That  won't 
do.  I  will  never  marry  off  jsoor  Tommy  uf)- 
on  a  speculation  which  may  never  after  all 
be  realized.  No,  no — I'm  awake  there  ;  but 
I'U  tell  you  what — jjroduce  me  those  letters 
from  the  2>hysiciau  or  physicians  who  attend- 
ed her  ;  then,  should  Tom  give  her  consent, 
the  settlements  may  be  dra\vn  up,  and  thej' 
can  lie  unsigned  until  the  gui  dies — and 
then  let  them  be  married.  Curse  me,  I'm 
an  old  scoundrel  again  ;  however,  as  to  that 
the  whole  world  is  nothing  but  one  great 
and  universal  scoundrel,  and  it  is  nothing 
but  to  see  Tom  the  wife  of  a  gentleman  in 
feeling,  manners,  and  bearing,  that  I  consent 
even  to  this  conditional  arrangement." 

"Well,"  replied  the  lady,  "he  it  so  ;  it  is 
as  much  as  either  of  us  can  do  under  the 
circumstances. " 

^'  Ay,  and  more  than  we  ought  to  do.  I 
never  was  without  a  conscience  ;  but  of  all 
the  jjoor  pitiful  scoundrels  of  a  conscience 
that  ever  existed,  it  was  the  greatest.  But 
why  should  I  blame  it  ?  It  loved  me  too 
well ;  for,  after  some  gentle  rebukes  when  I 
was  about  to  do  a  rascally  act,  it  quietly 
withdrew  all  opjaosition  and  left  me  to  my 
own  will." 

"Ah,  we  aU  know  you  too  well,  my  lord, 
to  take  your  own  report  of  your  own  char- 
acter. However,  I  am  glad  that  matters 
have  jjroceeded  so  far.  I  shall  do  what  your 
lordship  wishes  as  to  the  opinions  of  the 
medical  men.  The  la\vj'ers,  with  our  assis- 
tance, will  niflnage  the  settlements." 

"Yes  ;  but  this  arrangement  must  be  kept 
a  secret  fi'om  Tom,  because  if  she  knew  of  it 
she  would  knock  up  the  whole  project." 

"She  shall  not  from  me,  my  lord." 

"  Nor  from  me,  I  joromise  you  that.  But 
now  for  another  topic.  I  am  glad  your  son 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  dreadful  chase  of 
that  unfortunate  jShawn-na-Middugiw ;  he 
pledged  his  honor  to  Tom  that  he  would 
rather  jjrotect  than  injure  him." 

"  So,  my  lord,  he  would,  ever  since  his 
conversation  with  Miss  Riddle  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

This,  indeed,  was  very  honestly  said,  inas- 
much as  it  was  she  herself  wlio  had  furnished 
him  with  the  mask  and  other  of  the  dis- 
guises. 


"  Well,  I  think  so  ;  and  I  believe  him  to 
beta  gentleman,  certainly.  This  unfortunate 
tory  saved  Tom's  life  and  mine  the  othel 
night ;  but,  independently  of  that,  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  no  son  of  yours  should  have  any- 
thing to  do  in  his  pursuit  or  captvure.  You 
understand  me.  It  is  my  intention  to  try 
what  I  can  do  to  get  him  a  j)ardon  fi'om 
government,  and  rescue  him  from  the  wild 
and  lawless  life  he  is  leading." 

Mrs.  Lindsay  merely  said, — 

"  If  my  son  Woodwai'd  could  render  you 
any  assistance,  I  am  sure  he  would  feel  great 
pleasure  in  doing  so,  notwithstanding  that 
it  was  this  same  Shawn-na-Middogue  who, 
perhajis,  has  murdered  his  brother,  for  he  is, 
by  no  means  out  of  danger." 

"  What — he  ?  Sltawn-na-Middogue  !  Have 
you  any  proof  of  that  ?  " 

"  Not  positive  or  legal  proof,  my  lord,  but 
at  least  a  strong  moral  certainty.  However, 
it  is  a  subject  on  which  I  do  not  wish  to 
speak." 

"  By  the  way,  I  am  very  stujjid  ;  but  no 
wonder.  When  a  man  approaches  seventy 
he  can't  be  expected  to  remember  everything. 
You  win  excuse  me  for  not  inquiring  after 
your  son's  health  ;  how  is  he  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  we  know  not  what  to 

say  ;  neither  does  the  doctor  who  attends 

j  him — the  same,  by  the  way,  who  attended 

Miss  Goodwin.    At  present  he  can  saj-  neither 

yes  or  no  to  his  recovery." 

"  No,  nor  wiU  not  as  long  as  he  can  ;  I 
know  those  gentry  well.  Curse  the  thing 
on  earth  frightens  one  of  them  so  much  as 
any  appeai-ance  of  convalescence  in  a  patient. 
I  had  during  my  life  about  half  a  dozen  fits  of 
illness,  and  whenever  they  found  that  I  was 
on  the  recovery,  they  always  contrived  to 
throw  me  back  with  their  damned  nostrums, 
for  a  month  or  six  weeks  together,  that  they 
might  squeeze  all  they  could  out  of  me.  O, 
devilish  rogues  !  devilish  rogues  !  " 

Mrs.  Lindsay  now  asked  to  see  his  niece, 
and  the  peer  said  he  would  send  her  down, 
after  which  he  shook  hands  vidth  her,  and  once 
more  cautioned  her  against  alluding  to  the  ar- 
rangement into  which  they  had  entered  touch- 
ing the  matrimonial  affairs  already  discussed. 
It  is  not  our  intention  to  give  the  conversation 
between  tlie  two  ladies,  which  was,  indeed, 
not  one  of  long  duration.  Mi's.  Lindsay 
simply  stated  that  she  had  been  deputed  by 
her  son.  Woodward,  to  have  the  honor  of 
making  a  proposal  in  his  name  to  her  uncle, 
in  which  proposal  she,  Miss  Eiddle,  was  deep- 
ly concerned,  but  that  her  son  himself  would 
soon  have  the  greater  honor  of  jaleaduig  his 
o\vn  cause  with  the  fair  object  of  his  most 
enthusiastic  affection.  To  this  Miss  RidtUe 
said  neither  yes  nor  no  ;  and,  after  a  further 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


74& 


chat  upon  indifferent  topics,  the  matron  took 
her  depia-tiu'e,  much  satisfied,  however,  with 
the  apparent  suavity  of  the  worthy  peers 
fair  niece. 

It  matters  not  how  hard  and  iniquitous  the 
hearts  of  mothers  may  be,  it  is  a  difiicult 
thing  to  extinguish  in  them  the  sacred  prin- 
cij^le  of  maternal  affection.  Mrs.  Lindsay, 
during  her  sou  Charles's  illness,  and  whUst 
laboring  under  the  ai^prehension  that  she 
was  about  to  lose  him,  went  to  his  sick  room 
after  her  return  fi-om  Lord  Cockletowu's,  and, 
finding  he  was  but  slightly  imi^roving, — if 
imjjroving  at  all, — she  felt  herself  much 
moved,  and  asked  liim  how  he  felt. 

"Lideed,  my  dear  mother,"  he  replied,  "I 
can  scarcely  say  ;  I  hardly  know  whether  I 
am  better  or  worse." 

Harry  was  in  the  room  at  the  time,  having 
gone  up  to  aseertiiiu  his  condition. 

"  O,  come,  Charles,"  said  she,  "  you  were 
always  an  affectionate  son,  and  you  must 
strive  and  recover.  If  it  may  give  you 
strength  and  hope,  I  now  teU  you  that  the 
property  which  I  intended  to  leave  to  Harry 
here,  I  shall  leave  to  you.  Harry  will  not 
require  it ;  he  wlU  be  well  off — much  better 
than  you  imagine.  He  wiU  have  back  that 
twelve  hundred  a  year  when  that  puny  girl 
dies.  She  is,  probably,  dead  by  this  time, 
and  he  will,  besides,  become  a  wealthy  man 
by  marriage." 

"  But  I  think,  my  dear  mother,  that  Harry 
has  the  best  claim  to  it ;  he  is  your  fii'st- 
born,  and  your  eldest  son." 

"  He  wiU  not  require  it,"  replied  his 
mother  ;  "  he  is  about  to  be  married  to  Miss 
Kiddle,  the  niece  of  Lord  Cockle  town." 

"Are  you  quite  siu-e  of  that,  mother?" 
asked  Harry,  with  a  brow  as  black  as  mid- 
night. 

"  There  is  an  arrangement  made,"  she 
rejilied  ;  "  the  marriage  settlements  are  to 
be  drawn  up,  but  left  unsigned  untU  the 
death  of  Alice  Goodwin." 

Chaiies  here  gave  a  groan  of  agony, 
which,  for  the  Ufe  of  him,  he  could  not 
suppress. 

'■  She  will  not  die,  I  hope,"  said  he  ;  "  and, 
mother,  as  for  the  property,  leave  it  to 
Harry.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  change 
your  contemplated  aiTangements  on  my  ac- 
count, even  should  I  recover." 

"  Yes,  Charles,  but  I  wiU — onlj'  contrive 
and  Uve  ;  you  are  mj-  son,  and  as  sure  as 
I  have  life  j-ou  \n)l  be  heir  to  my  property." 

"  But  Maria,  mother,"  replied  the  gener- 
ous   young    man  ;    "  Maria "    and     he 

looked  imploi-ingly  and  affectionately  into 
her  face. 

"  Maria  will  have  an  ample  portion  ;  I  have 
taken  care  of  that.      I  wiU  not  leave   my 


property  to  those  who  are  strangers  to  my 
blood,  as  a  son-in-law  must  be.  No,  Charley 
you  shall  have  my  property.  As  for  Harry, 
as  I  said  before,  he  won't  stand  in  need  ol 
it." 

"  Of  course  you  saw  Miss  Riddle  to-day, 
mother  ?  "  asked  Harry. 

"I  did." 

"  Of  course,  too,  you  mentioned  the  matter 
to  her  ? " 

"To  be  sure  I  did." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  think  she  acted  just  as  evei-y 
dehcate-minded  girl  ought.  I  told  her  you 
would  have  the  honor  of  jarojjosing  to  her- 
self Ln  person.  She  heard  me,  and  did  not 
utter  a  syllable  either  for  or  against  you. 
What  else  should  any  lady  do  ?  You  would 
not  have  her  jump  at  you,  would  you  ? 
Nothing,  however,  could  be  kinder  or  more 
gracious  than  the  reception  she  gave  me." 

"  Certainly  not,  mother ;  to  give  her 
consent  before  she  was  solicited  would  not 
be  exactly  the  thing  ;  but  the  uucle  is  wiU- 
iug?" 

"  Upon  the  conditions  I  said  ;  but  his  niece 
is  to  know  nothing  of  these  conditions  :  so  be 
cautious  when  you  see  her." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  replied  Harry  ; 
"  I  have  been  thinking  our  last  interview 
over  ;  but  it  strikes  me  there  is,  notwith- 
standing her  courtesy  of  manner,  a  hard, 
dry  air  about  her  which  it  is  difficult  to 
penetrate.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  no 
easy  task  to  ascertain  whether  she  is  in  jest 
or  earnest.  Her  eye  is  too  calm  and  refiect- 
ing  for  my  taste." 

"But,"  rejjlied  his  mother,  "those,  surely, 
are  two  good  qualities  in  any  woinan,  es- 
pecially in  her  whom  you  exj)ect  to  become 
your  wife." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  he;  "but  she  is  not 
my  wife  yet,  my  dear  mother." 

"  I  wish  she  was,  Harrj',"  obsei-ved  his 
brother,  "  for  by  aU  accounts  she  is  an  ex- 
cellent girl,  and  remarkable  for  her  charity 
and  humanity  to  the  poor." 

His  mother  and  Harry  then  left  the  room, 
and  both  went  to  her  own  apartment,  where 
the  foUowiug  conversation  took  place  be- 
tween them  : 

"Hiu-ry,"  said  she,  "I  hope  you  are  not 
angry  at  the  determination  I  exj)ressed  to 
leave  my  in-ojierty  to  Chaiies  should  he  re- 
cover ?  " 

"Why  should  I,  my  dear  mother?"  he 
replied  ;  "  your  property  is  your  own,  and 
of  course  you  may  leave  it  to  whomsoevei 
you  wish.  At  all  events,  it  will  remain  in 
}-our  own  family,  and  won't  go  to  strangers, 
like  that  of  my  sc-oundi'el  old  uucle." 

"Don't  speak  so,  Harry,  of  my  brother; 


746 


WILLIAM  CAItLETON'S  WORKS. 


silly,  besotted,  and  overreached  he  was  when 
he  acted  as  he  did  ;  but  he  never  was  a 
scoundrel,  Harry." 

"  Well,  well,  let  that  pass,"  replied  her 
son  ;  "but  the  question  now  is,  What  am  I 
to  do  ?  What  step  should  I  first  take  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Why,  I  uieau  whether  should  I  start 
directly  for  Ballyspellan  and  put  this  puling 
girl  out  of  paiu,  or  go  in  a  day  or  two  and 
put  the  question  at  once  to  Miss  Riddle, 
against  whom,  somehow,  I  feel  a  strong  an- 
tipathy." 

"Ah,  Harry,  that's  your  grandfather  all 
over  ;  but,  indeed,  our  family  were  full  of 
strong  antipathies  and  bitter  resentments. 
Why  do  you  feel  an  antij)athy  against  the 
girl?" 

"  Who  can  account  for  antipathies,  moth- 
er? I  cannot  account  for  this." 

"  And  j)erhaps  on  her  part  the  poor  girl 
is  attached  to  you." 

"  Well,  but  you  have  not  answered  my 
question.  How  am  I  to  act?  Which  step 
should  I  take  first — the  quietus  of  '  curds-and- 
whey,'  or  the  courtship  ?  The  sooner  matters 
come  to  a  conclusion  the  better.  I  wish,  if 
possible,  to  know  what  is  before  me  :  I  can- 
not bear  uncertainty  in  this  or  anything 
else." 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  to  advise  you,"  she 
replied  ;  "both  steps  are  of  the  deepest  im- 
portance, but  certainl}'  which  to  take  first  is 
a  necessai'v  consideration.  I  am  of  opinion 
that  our  best  plau  is  simply  to  take  a  day  or 
two  to  think  it  over,  after  which  we  will 
compare  notes  and  come  to  a  conclusion  : " 
and  so  it  was  determined. 

We  need  scarcely  assure  our  readers  that 
honest  and  aiiectionate  Barney  Casey  felt  a 
deep  interest  in  the  recovery  of  the  generous 
aud  kind-hearted  Charles  Lindsaj',  nor  that 
he  allowed  a  single  day  to  jjass  without 
going,  at  least  two  or  three  times,  to  ascer- 
tain whether  there  was  any  apjaearauce  of  his 
convalescence.  On  the  day  following  that  on 
which  Mrs.  Lindsay  had  declared  the  future 
disposition  of  her  projierty  he  went  to  see 
Charles  as  usual,  when  the  latter,  after  hav- 
ing stated  to  him  that  he  felt  much  better, 
and  the  fever  abating,  he  said, — 

"  Casey,  I  have  rather  strange  news  for 
you." 

"Be  it  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  sir,"  re- 
plied Barney,  "you  could  tell  me  no  news 
that  would  plaise  me  half  so  much  as  that 
there  is  a  certamty  of  your  gettin'  well 
again." 

"  Well,  I  think  there  is,  Barney.  I  feel 
much  better  to-day  than  I  have  done  for  a 
long  while — but  the  news,  are  you  not  anx- 
ious to  heai'  it  ?  " 


""Wliy,  I  hope  I'll  hear  it  soon,  Masthet 
Charles,  esijecially  if  it's  good  ;  but  if  it's 
not  good  I'm  jack-indifierent  about  it." 

"It  is  good,  Bai-ney,  to  me  at  least,  but 
not  so  to  my  brother  Woodward." 

Barney's  ears,  if  possible,  opened  and  ex- 
panded themselves  on  hearing  this.  To 
him  it  was  a  double  gratification  :  first,  be- 
cause it  was  favorable  to  the  invalid,  to 
whom  he  was  so  sincerely  attached  ;  and  sec- 
ondly, because  it  was  not  so  to  A^'oodward, 
whom  he  detested. 

"  My  mother  yesterday  told  me  that  she 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  jne  all  her 
l^roperty  if  I  recover,  instead  of  to  Harry, 
for  whom  she  had  originally  intended  it." 

Barney,  on  hearing  this  intelligence,  was 
commencing  to  dance  an  Iri.sh  jig  to  his  own 
music,  aud  would  have  done  so  were  it  not 
that  the  deUcate  state  of  the  jiatieut  pre- 
vented him. 

"  Blood  alive,  Masther  Charles  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, snapping  his  fingers  in  a  kind  of 
wild  triumph,  "what  are  you  lying  there 
for?  Bounce  to  your  feet  like  a  two-year 
ould.  O,  holy  Moses,  and  Melehisedek  the 
divine,  ay,  and  Solomon,  the  son  of  St. 
Pether,  in  all  his  glory,  but  that  is  news  !  " 

"  She  told  my  brother  Woodward,  face 
to  face,  that  such  was  her  fixed  determina- 
tion." 

"  Good  again  ;  and  what  did  he  say?  " 

"  Nothing  particular,  but  that  he  was 
glad  it  was  to  stay  in  the  family,  and  not  go 
to  strangers,  like  our  uncle's — alluding,  of 
coui-se,  to  his  will  in  favor  of  dear  Alice 
Good%vin." 

"  Ay,  but  how  did  he  look?"  asked  Bar- 
ney. 

"I  didn't  observe,  I  was  rather  in  pain  at 
the  time  ;  but,  from  a  jjassing  glimpse  I  got, 
I  thought  his  countenance  darkened.a  Httle  ; 
but  I  may  be  mistaken." 

"Well,  I  hope  so,"  said  Barney.  "I  hope 
so — but — well,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  are 
betther,  Masther  Charles,  and  to  hear  thg 
good  jjieee  of  fortune  you  have  mentionerS. 
I  trust  in  God  your  mother  will  keep  her 
word — that's  all." 

"  As  to  myself,"  said  Charles,  "  I  am  indif- 
ferent about  the  proj)erty  ;  all  that  presses 
upon  my  heart  is  my  anxiety  for  Miss  Good- 
win's recovery." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed  on  that  accourjt,''  said 
Casey  !  "  they  say  the  waters  of  Ba'jyspeUan 
would  bring  the  dead  to  life,  i^'iow,  good- 
by,  Masther  Charles  ;  don't  be  cist  dovsn — 
keep  up  your  spirits,  for  something  tells  me 
that's  there's  luck  bpfore  j'ou,  and  good 
luck,  too." 

After  leaving  him  Barney  began  to  rumi- 
nate.    He  had  remai-ked  an  extraordinary 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


747 


change  in  the  countenanee  and  deportment 
of  Harry  Woodward  during  the  evening  be- 
fore and  the  earlier  part  of  that  day.  The 
plausible  serenity  of  his  manner  was  replaced 
by  unusual  gloom,  and  that  abstraction 
which  is  produced  by  deep  and  absorbing 
thought.  He  seemed  so  completely  wrajjped 
up  in  constant  meditation  upon  some  jjartic- 
ular  subji-t^t,  that  he  absolutely  forgot  to 
guard  himself  ag.ainst  observation  or  re- 
mark, by  his  usual  artifice  of  manner.  He 
walked  alone  in  the  garden,  a  thing  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  do  ;  and  during  these 
walks  he  «ould  stoj)  and  pause,  then  go  on 
slowlj'  and  musingly,  and  stop  and  pause 
again.  Barney,  as  we  have  said  before,  was 
a  keen  observer,  and  having  watched  him 
from  a  remote  corner  of  the  garden  in  which 
he  was  temporarilj'  engaged  among  some 
flowers,  he  came  at  once  to  the  conclusion 
that  Woodward's  mind  was  bui'dened  with 
something  which  heavily  dejaressed  his 
spirits,  and  occupied  his  whole  attention. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Barney,  "the  villain  is 
brewing  mischief  for  some  one,  but  I  wiU 
watch  his  motions  if  I  should  j^ass  sleejsless 
nights  for  it.  He  requires  a  sharp  eye  after 
him,  and  it  will  go  hard  with  me  or  I  shall 
know  what  his  midnight  wanderings  mean  ; 
but  in  the  meantime  I  must  keep  calm  and 
quiet,  and  not  seem  to  watch  him." 

Wliilst  Barney,  who  was  unseen  by  Wood- 
ward, having  been  separated  from  him  by  a 
fi'uit  hedge  over  which  he  occasionally  peep- 
ed, indulged  in  this  soliloqu^y,  the  latter,  in 
the  same  deep  and  moody  meditation,  ex- 
tended his  walk,  his  brows  conti-acted,  and 
dark  as  midnight. 

"  The  damned  hag,"  said  he,  speaking  un- 
consciously aloud,  "is  this  the  affection 
which  she  professed  to  bear  me  ?  Is  this 
the  proof  she  gives  of  the  preference  which 
she  often  expressed  for  her  favorite  son  ? 
To  leave  her  property  to  that  miserable 
milksop,  my  haK-brother  !  What  devil  could 
have  tempted  her  to  this  ?  Not  Lindsay, 
certainly,  for  I  know  he  would  scorn  to  ex- 
ercise anj'  control  over  her  in  the  disposition 
other  property,  and  as  for  Maria,  I  know 
.s7ifi  would  not.  It  must  then  have  been  the 
milksoj)  himself  in  some  puling  fit  of  pain 
or  illness  ;  and  ably  must  the  beggarly 
knave  have  managed  it  when  he  succeeded 
in  changing  the  stem  and  flinty  heart  of 
such  a  she -devil.  Yes,  unquestionably  that 
must  be  the  true  meaning  of  it ;  but,  be  it 
so  for  the  present ;  the  future  is  a  difl'erent 
question.  My  plans  ai-e  laid,  and  I  will  put 
them  into  operation  according  as  circmstan- 
ces  may  guide  me." 

Whatever  those  plans  were,  he  seemed  to 
have  comijleted  them  in  his  own  mind.    The 


darkness  departed  from  his  brow  ;  his  face 
assumed  its  usual  expression  ;  and,  having 
satisfied  himself  by  the  contemplation  of  his 
future  course  of  action,  he  walked  at  his  usual 
pace  out  of  the  garden. 

"Egad,"  thought  Barney,  "I'm  half  a 
prophet,  but  I  can  say  no  more  than  I've 
said.  There's  mischief  in  the  wdnd ;  but 
whetlier  against  Masther  Charles  or  his 
mother,  is  a  puzzle  to  me.  What  a  dutiful 
son,  too !  A  she-devil !  Well,  upon  my 
sowl,  if  he  weren't  her  son  I  could  forgive 
him  for  thai,  because  it  hits  her  off  to  a  hair 
— but  from  the  lips  of  a  son  !  O,  the  blast- 
ed scoundrel !  Well,  no  matther,  there's  a 
sharjj  jiair  of  eyes  upon  him  ;  and  that's  all  1 
can  say  at  pi-esent." 

When  the  medical  attendant  called  that 
day  to  see  his  patient  he  found,  on  examin- 
ing Charles,  and  feeling  his  pulse,  tliat  he 
was  decidedly  and  rapidly  on  the  recovery. 
On  his  way  down  stairs  he  was  met  by  Wood- 
ward, who  said, — 

"  Well,  doctor,  is  there  any  chance  of  my 
dear  brother's  recovery  ?  " 

"  It  is  beyond  a  chance  now,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward ;  he  is  out  of  danger  ;  and  although 
his  convalescence  will  be  slow,  it  will  be 
sure." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  the  cold-blooded  hyp- 
ocrite ;  "I  have  never  heard  intelligence 
more  gratifying.  My  mother  is  in  the  with- 
cb'awing-room,  and  desired  me  to  say  that 
she  wishes  to  si:)eak  with  you.  Of  course  it 
is  about  my  brother  ;  and  I  am  glad  that 
you  can  make  so  favorable  a  report  of  him." 

On  going  down  he  found  Mrs.  Lindsay 
alone,  and  having  taken  a  seat  and  made  hia 
daily  report,  she  addressed  him  as  follows  : 

"Doctor,  you  have  taken  a  great  weight 
off  my  mind  by  your  account  of  my  sou's 
certain  recovery." 

"I  can  say  with  confidence,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said  to  his  anxious  brother,  madam, 
that  it  is  certain,  although  it  will  be  slow. 
He  is  out  of  danger  at  last.  The  wound  is 
beginning  to  cicatrize,  and  generates  laudable 
2)us.  His  fever,  too,  is  gone  ;  but  he  is  very 
weak  still, — quite  emaciated, — and  it  will 
require  time  to  place  him  once  more  on  his 
legs.  Still,  the  great  fact  is,  that  Ins  recov- 
ery is  certain.  Nothing  unless  agitation  of 
mind  can  retard  it ;  and  I  do  not  see  any- 
thing which  can  occasion  that." 

"  Nothing,  indeed,  doctor  ;  but,  doctor,  I 
wish  to  s^seak  to  you  on  another  subject. 
You  have  been  attending  Miss  Goodwin  dur- 
ing her  very  strange  and  severe  illness.  You 
have  visited  her,  too,  at  Ballysijellan." 

"  I  have,  madam.  She  went  there  by  mj 
directions." 

How  long  is  it  since  you  have  seen  her  ?  " 


748 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"1  saw  her  three  daj's  ago." 

"  And  how  was  she  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  beyond  hope,  madam.  She 
is  certainly  not  better,  and  I  can  scarcely  say 
she  is  worse,  because  worse  she  cannot  be. 
The  complaint  is  on  her  mind  ;  and  in  that 
case  we  all  know  how  diiBcult  it  is  for  a  phy- 
sician to  mmister  to  a  mind  diseased." 

"  You  think,  then,  she  is  past  recoveiy  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  am  certain  of  it,  and 
I  deeply  regret  it,  not  only  for  her  own  sake, 
but  for  that  of  her  heart-broken  parents." 

"My  dear  doctor — O,  by  the  way,  here  is 
your  fee  ;  do  not  be  surprised  at  its  amount, 
for,  although  your  fees  have  been  regularly 
paid " 

"And  liberally,  madam." 

"  Well,  in  consequence  of  the  favorable 
and  gratifj'ing  report  which  you  have  this 
day  made,  you  must  pardon  an  affectionate 
mother  for  the  compensation  which  she  now 
ofifers  you.  It  is  far  beneath  the  value  of 
your  skill,  your  anxiety  for  my  son's  recovery, 
and  the  puuetuality  of  your  attendance." 

"  What !  fifty  pounds,  madam  !  I  cannot 
accei3t  it,"  said  he,  exliibitiug  it  in  his  hand 
as  he  si3oke. 

"  O,  but  you  must,  my  dear  doctor  ;  nor 
shall  the  liberality  of  the  mother  rest  here. 
Come,  doctor,  no  remonstrance  ;  put  it  in 
your  pocket,  and  now  hear  me.  You  say 
Miss  Goodwin  is  past  ail  hope.  Would  you 
have  any  objection  to  write  me  a  short  note 
stating  that  fact?  " 

"  How  coidd  I.  madam  ?  "  replied  the  good- 
natured,  easy  man,  who,  of  course,  could 
never  dream  of  her  design  in  asking  him  the 
question.  Still,  it  seemed  singular  and  un- 
usual, and  quite  out  of  the  range  of  his  ex- 
perience. This  consideration  startled  him 
into  reflection,  and  something  like  a  curios- 
ity to  ascertain  why  she,  who,  he  felt  aware, 
was  of  late  at  bitter  feud  with  Miss  Good- 
win and  her  family — the  cause  of  which  was 
well  known  throughout  the  country — should 
wish  to  obtain  such  a  document  fi-om  him. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam  ;  pray,  may  I  inquire 
for  what  pvirpose  you  ask  me  to  furnish  such 
a  document  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,  doctor,  that  there  are 
secrets  in  all  families,  and,  although  this  is 
not,  strictly  speaking,  a  secret,  yet  it  is  a 
thing  that  I  should  not  wish  to  be  mentioned 
out  of  doors." 

"  Madam,  you  cannot  for  a  moment  do 
me  such  injustice  as  to  imagine  that  I  am 
capable  of  violating  professional  confidence. 
I  consider  the  confidence  you  now  repose  in 
me,  in  the  cajsacity  of  your  family  physician, 
as  coming  under  that  head." 

"  You  wiU  have  no  objection,  then,  to 
write  the  note  I  ask  of  you  ?  " 


"  Certainly  not,  madam." 

"  But  there  is  Dr.  Lendrum,  who  joined 
3'ou  in  consultation  in  my  son's  case,  as  well, 
I  believe,  as  in  IVIiss  Goodwin's.  Do  you 
think  you  could  get  him  to  write  a  note  to 
me  in  accordance  with  yovu-s  ?  Speak  to  him, 
and  tell  him  that  I  don't  think  he  has  been 
suflSciently  remunerated  for  his  trouble  in 
the  consultations  you  have  had  with  him 
here." 

"I  shall  do  so,  madam,  and  I  think  he  wdU 
do  himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  the 
course  of  to-morrow." 

Both  doctors  coiild,  with  a  very  good  con- 
science, furnish  Mrs.  Lindsay  with  the  opin- 
ions which  she  required.  She  saw  the  other 
medical  gentleman  on  the  following  day,  and, 
after  handing  him  a  handsome  douceur,  he 
felt  no  hesitation  in  corroborating  the  ojiinion 
of  his  brother  physician. 

Having  procured  the  documents  in  ques- 
tion, she  transmitted  them,  enclosed  in  a 
letter,  to  Lord  Cockletown,  stating  that  her 
son  Woodward,  who  had  been  seized  by  a 
pleuritic  attack,  would  not  be  able,  she 
feared,  to  pay  his  intended  visit  to  Miss 
Riddle  so  soon  as  he  had  exjjected  ;  but,  in 
the  meantime,  she  had  the  honor  of  enclosing 
him  the  documents  she  alluded  to  on  the 
occasion  of  her  last  visit.  And  this  she  did 
with  the  hojie  of  satisfying  his  lordship  on 
the  subject  they  had  been  discussing,  and 
with  a  further  hope  that  he  might  become 
an  advocate  for  her  son,  at  least  until  he 
should  be  able  to  plead  his  own  cause  with 
the  lady  herself,  which  nothing  but  indispo- 
sition prevented  him  from  doing.  The  doc- 
tor, she  added,  had  advised  him  to  try  the 
waters  of  the  Spa  of  BaUyspeUan  for  a  short 
time,  as  he  had  little  doubt  that  they  would 
restore  him  to  pei'fect  health.  She  sent  her 
love  to  dear  Miss  Riddle,  and  hoped  ere  long 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  clasjiing  her  to  her 
heart  as  a  daughter. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Woodwar(rs  Visit  to  BallyspeUan. 

After  a  consultation  ^ith  his  mother  our 
worthy  hero  prepared  for  his  journey  to  this 
once  "celebrated  Spa,  wliich  possessed  even 
then  a  certain  local  celebrity,  that  subse- 
tjuently  wdened  to  an  ampler  i-ange.  The 
little  village  was  filled  with  invtxhds  of  all 
classes  ;  and  even  the  farmers'  houses  in  the 
vicinity  were  occupied  with  individuals  in 
quest  of  health.  The  family  of  the  <tO(x1- 
wtus,  however,  were   still  in  deep  aliiiction, 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


749 


although  Alice,  for  the  last  few  clays,  was 
progressing  favorably.  Still,  such  was  her 
weakness,  that  she  was  unable  to  walk  un- 
less supported  by  two  persons,  usually  her 
maid  and  her  mother  or  her  father.  The 
terrible  influence  of  tlie  Evil  Eye  had  made 
too  deep  and  deadly  an  impression  ever,  she 
feared,  to  be  effaced  ;  for,  although  removed 
from  Woodward's  blighting  gaze,  that  eye 
was  perpetually  upon  her,  through  the 
medium  of  her  strong  but  diseased  imagina- 
tion. And  who  is  there  who  does  not  know 
how  strongly  tlie  force  of  imagination  acts  ? 
On  this  subject  she  had  now  become  a  per- 
fect h's'jjochondriac.  She  could  not  shake  it 
off,  it  haiinted  her  night  and  day  ;  and  even 
the  influence  of  society  could  scarcely  banish 
the  dread  image  of  that  mysterious  and  fear- 
ful look  for  a  moment. 

The  society  at  Ballyspellan  was,  as  the 
society  in  such  places  usually  is,  very  much 
mi:;^e(l  and  heterogeneous.  Many  gentry 
were  there — gentlemen  attemiating  to  repair 
constitutions  broken  down  by  dissipation 
and  profligacy ;  and  ladies  afllicted  with  a 
disease  peculiar,  in  those  days,  to  both  sexes, 
called  the  spleen — a  malady  which,  under 
that  name,  has  long  since  disappeared,  and 
is  now  known  by  the  title  of  nervous  aft'ec- 
tion.  There  was  a  large  public  room,  in 
imitation  of  the  more  celebrated  English 
watering-places,  where  the  more  respectable 
portion  of  the  comj^any  met  and  became 
acquainted,  and  where,  also,  balls  and  din- 
ners were  occasionally  held.  Not  a  wreck  of 
this  edifice  is  now  standing,  although,  down 
to  the  days  of  Swift  and  Delan.y,  it  possessed 
considerable  celebrity,  as  is  evident  from  the 
ingenious  ver.^es  written  by  liis  friend  to  the 
Dean  upon  this  subject. 

The  principal  individuals  assembled  at 
it  on  this  occasion  were  Squire  ^Manifold, 
whose  complaint,  as  was  evident  by  his 
three  chinjs,  consisted  in  a  rapid  tendency 
to  obesity,  which  his  physician  had  told 
him  might  be  checked,  if  he  could  prevail 
on  himself  to  eat  and  drink  with  a  less  glut- 
tonous appetite,  and  take  more  exercise. 
He  had  already  had  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and 
it  was  the  apprehension  of  another,  with 
which  he  was  threatened,  that  brought  him 
to  the  Spa.  The  next  was  Parson  Topertoe, 
whose  great  enemy  was  the  gout,  brought 
on,  of  course,  by  an  ascetic  and  apostolic 
life.  The  third  was  Captain  Culverin,  whose 
constitution  had  suffered  severely  in  the 
wars,  but  which  he  attempted  to  reinvigor- 
ate  by  a  course  of  hard  drinking,  in  which 
he  found,  to  his  cost,  that  the  remedj*  was 
worse  than  the  disease.  There  were  also  a 
great  variety  of  others,  among  whom  were 
several  widows  whose  healthy  complexions 


were  anything  but  a  justification  for  theit 
presence  there,  especially  in  the  character 
of  invalids.  Mr.  Goodwin,  his  wife,  and 
daughter,  we  need  not  enumerate.  Tliey 
lodged  in  the  house  of  a  respectable  farmer, 
who  lived  convenient  to  the  village,  where 
they  found  themselves  exceedingly  snug  and 
comfortable.  In  the  next  house  to  them 
lodged  a  Father  Mulrenin,  a  friar,  who,  al- 
though he  attended  the  room  and  drank  the 
waters,  was  an  admirable  specimen  of  comic 
humor  and  robust  health.  There  was  also 
a  Miss  Rosebud,  accompanied  by  her  mother, 
a  blooming  widow,  who  had  married  old 
Rosebud,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  when  he  was 
near  sixty.  The  mother's  comjilaint  was 
also  the  sjaleen,  or  vapors  ;  indeed,  to  tell 
the  truth,  she  was  moved  by  an  unconquer- 
able and  heroic  determination  to  replace 
poor  old  Rosebud  by  a  second  husband. 
The  last  whom  we  shall  enumerate,  although 
not  the  least,  was  a  very  remarkable  char- 
acter of  that  day,  being  no  other  than 
Cooke,  the  Pythagorean,  from  the  county  of 
Waterford.  He  held,  of  course,  the  doc- 
trines of  Pytha;;oras,  and  believed  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls.  He  lived  ujjon  a 
vegetable  diet,  and  wore  no  clothing  which 
had  been  taken  or  made  from  the  wool  or 
skins  of  animals,  because  he  knew  that  they 
must  have  been  killed  before  these  exit  vice 
could  be  applied  to  human  use.  His  dress, 
consequently,  diu'ing  the  inclemency  of  win- 
ter and  the  heats  of  summer,  consisted  alto- 
gether of  linen,  and  even  his  shoes  wei^e  of 
vegetable  fabric.  Our  readers,  consequently, 
need  not  feel  surprised  at  the  complaint  of 
the  jjhilosopher,  which  was  a  chronic  and 
most  excruciating  rheumatism  that  racked 
every  bone  in  his  Pythagorean  body.  He 
was,  however,  like  a  certain  distinguished 
teetotaler  and  peace  preserver  of  our  own 
city  and  our  own  day,  a  mild  and  benevolent 
man,  whose  monomania  affected  nobody  but 
himself,  and  him  it  did  afl'ect  through  every 
bone  of  his  body.  He  was  attended  by  his 
own  servants,  especially  by  his  own  cook — 
for  he  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  considerable 
rank  in  the  country — in  order  that  he  could 
rely  upon  their  fidelity  in  seing  that  nothing 
contrary  to  his  principles  might  be  foisted 
upion  him.  He  had  his  carriage,  in  which  he 
drove  out  every  day,  and  into  which  and  out 
of  which  his  servants  assisted  him.  We  need 
scarcely  assure  our  readers  that  he  was  the 
lion  of  the  place,  or  that  no  individual  there 
excited  either  so  much  interest  or  curiosity. 
Of  the  manj-  others  of  various,  but  subordi- 
nate classes  we  shall  not  speak.  W^ealthy 
farmers,  professional  men,  among  whom, 
however,  we  cannot  omit  Counsellor  Puzzle- 
well,  who,  by  the  way,  had  one  eye  upoa 


750 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJTS   WORKS. 


Miss  Rosebud  and  another  upon  the  comely 
widow  herself,  together  with  several  minor 
grades  dov.n  to  the  very  paupers  of  society, 
were  all  there. 

About  this  period  it  was  resolved  to  have 
a  dinner,  to  be  followed  by  a  ball  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  evening.  This  was  the  pro- 
ject of  Squire  Manifold,  whose  physician  at- 
tended him  like,  or  very  unlike,  his  shadow, 
for  he  was  a  small  thin  man,  with  sharj)  eyes 
and  keen  features,  and  so  slight  that  if  put 
into  the  scale  against  the  shado\v  he  would 
scarcely  weigh  it  w\).  The  squire's  wife, 
who  was  a  cripple,  insisted  that  he  should  ac- 
company her  husband,  in  order  to  see  that 
he  might  not  gorge  himself  into  the  apo- 
plectic lit  with  which  he  was  threatened. 
His  first  had  a  peculiar  and  melancholy, 
though,  to  spectators,  a  ludicrous  effect  ujoon 
him.  He  was  now  so  stujrid,  and  made  such 
blunders  in  conversation,  that  the  comic 
effect  of  them  was  irresistible  ;  especially  to 
to  those  who  were  not  aware  of  the  cause  of 
it,  but  looked  upion  the  whole  thing  as  his 
natural  manner.  He  had  been,  ever  since 
his  arrival  at  the  accursed  Spa,  kept  by  Doc- 
tor Doolittle  upon  short  commons,  both  as 
to  food  and  drink  ;  and  what  with  the  effect 
of  the  waters,  and  severe  piu'gatives  admin- 
istered by  the  doctor,  he  felt  himself  in  a 
state  little  short  of  purgatory  itself.  The 
meagre  regimen  to  which  he  was  so  merci- 
lessly subjected  gave  him  the  apjietite  of  a 
shai-k.  Indeed,  the  bill  of  fare  prescribed 
for  him  was  scarcely  sufficient  to  sustain  a 
boy  of  twelve  years  of  age.  lu  consequence 
of  this  he  had  got  it  into  hi'^  head  that  the 
season  was  a  season  of  famine,  and  on  this 
calamitous  disjiensation  of  Providence  he 
kept  halting  from  morning  to  night.  The 
idea  of  the  dinner,  however,  was  hailed  by 
them  all  as  a  very  agreeable  project,  for 
which  the  squire,  who  only  thought  of  the 
opportunity  it  would  give  himself  to  enjoj^  a 
surfeit,  was  highly  comjilimented.  It  was 
to  be  in  the  shape  of  a  modern  table  d'Jiole  : 
every  gentleman  was  to  pay  for  himself  and 
such  of  his  partj'  as  accompanied  him  to  it. 
Even  the  Pythagorean  relished  the  proposal, 
for  although  peculiar  in  his  opinions,  he  was 
sufficiently  liberal,  and  too  much  of  a  gen- 
tleman, to  quarrel  vsdth  those  who  differed 
from  him.  Mr.  Goodwin,  too,  was  a  con- 
senting party,  and  mentioned  the  subject  to 
Alice  in  a  cheerful  spirit,  and  mth  a  hope 
that  she  might  be  able  to  rally  and  attend  it. 
She  promised  to  do  so  if  she  could  ;  but 
said  it  chiefly  depended  on  the  state  of 
health  in  which  she  might  find  herself.  In- 
deed, if  ever  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl 
was  to  be  pitied,  she,  most  unquestionably, 
was  uu  object  of  the  deepest   comf)assion. 


It  was  not  merely  what  she  had  to  suffet 
from  the  Evil  Eye  of  the  demon  Woodward, 
but  from  the  fact  which  had  reached  her  eara 
of  what  she  considered  the  jjrofligate  con- 
duct of  his  brother  Charles,  once  her  be- 
trothed lover.  This  latter  reflection,  associ- 
ated with  the  probability  of  his  death;  when 
joined  to  the  terrible  malady  which  Wood- 
ward had  inflicted  on  her,  may  enable  our 
readers  to  perceive  what  the  jioor  girl  had  to 
suffer.  Still  she  told  her  father  that  she 
would  be  present  if  her  health  jjermitted 
her,  "  especially,"  she  added,  "  as  there  was 
no  possibility  of  Woodwai-d  being  among 
the  guests." 

"  Wliy,  my  dear  child,"  said  her  father, 
"  what  could  put  such  an  absurd  ajjprehen- 
sion  into  j'our  head  ?  " 

"Because,  papa,  I  don't  think  he  will  ever 
let  me  out  of  his  power  vmtil  he  kills  me.  I 
don't  think  he  wdll  come  here  ;  but  I  dread 
to  return  home,  because  I  fear  that  if  1  do 
he  wiU  obtnide  himself  on  me ;  and  I  feel 
that  another  gaze  of  his  eye  would  occasion 
my  death." 

"  I  would  call  him  out,"  repHed  the  father, 
"  and  shoot  him  like  a  dog,  to  which  honest 
and  faithful  animal  it  is  a  sin  to  compare  the 
villain." 

"  And  then  I  might  be  left  fatherless ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  O,  paj)a,  p)romise  me  that 
you  never  will  have  recourse  to  that  dread- 
ful alternative." 

"  But  my  darling,  I  only  said  so  upon  the 
sujDpositiou  of  your  death  by  him." 

"  But  mamma  !  " 

"  Come,  come,  Alice,  get  up  your  spirits, 
and  be  able  to  attend  this  dinner.  It  will 
cheer  you  and  do  you  good.  We  have  been 
discussing  soap  bubbles.  Give  up  thinking 
of  the  scoundrel,  and  you  will  soon  feelj'our- 
self  well  enough.  In  about  another  month 
we  will  start  for  Killarney,  and  see  the  lakes 
and  the  magnificent  scenery  by  which  they 
are  surrounded." 

"  Well,  dear  papa,  I  shall  go  to  this  din- 
ner if  I  am  at  all  able  ;  but  indeed  I  do  not 
expect  to  be  able.'" 

In  the  meantime  every  preparation  was 
made  for  the  forthcoming  banquet.  It  was 
to  be  on  a  large  scale,  and  many  of  the 
neighboring  gentry  and  their  families  were 
asked  to  it.  The  knowdedge  that  Cooke, 
the  Pj'thagorean,  was  at  the  Well  had  taken 
wind,  and  a  strong  curiosity  had  gone  abroad 
to  see  him.  This  eccentric  gentleman's  ap- 
pearance was  exceedingly  original,  if  not 
startling.  He  was,  at  least,  six  feet  two,  but 
so  thin,  flesiiless,  and  attenuated,  that  he  re- 
sembled a  living  skeleton.  This  was  the 
more  strange,  inasmuch  as  in  his  earlier 
days   he   had   been   robust   and   stout,  ajv 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


75  J 


proacliing  even  to  corpulency.  His  dress 
v.-as  ns  remarkable  ns  his  person,  if  not  more 
so.  It  consisted  of  bleached  linen,  and  was 
escoetlingly  white  ;  and  so  jaarticular  was  he 
in  point  of  cleanliness,  that  he  jJut  on  afresh 
dr'";S3  every  day.  He  wore  a  pair  of  long 
par-taloons  that,  unfortunately  for  his  sym- 
nifjhry,  adhered  to  his  legs  and  thighs  as 
c1o3f?iy  as  the  skin  ;  and  as  the  aforesaid  legs 
arid  thighs  were  skeletonic,  nothing  could  be 
more  ludicrous  than  his  apjjearance  in  them. 
His  vest  was  equally  close  ;  and  as  the  hang- 
Lig  cloak  which  he  wore  over  it  did  not 
reach  far  enough  do\STi  his  back,  it  was  im- 
possible to  view  him  behind  without  con- 
vulsive laughter.  His  shoes  were  made  of 
some  description  of  foreign  bark,  which  had 
by  some  chemical  process  been  tanned  into 
toughness,  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  tur- 
ban of  linen,  made  of  the  same  material 
which  furnished  his  other  garments.  Alto- 
gether, a  more  ludicrous  figure  could  not  be 
seen,  especially  if  a  person  happened  to 
stand  beliind  him  when  he  bowed.  Not- 
withstanding all  this,  howevei",  he  possessed 
the  manners  and  bearing  of  a  gentleman  ; 
the  only  thing  remarkable  about  him,  beyond 
what  we  have  described,  being  a  peculiar 
wildness  of  the  eyes,  accomisanied,  however, 
by  an  unquestionable  expression  of  great 
benignity. 

We  leave  the  company  at  the  Well  prepar- 
ing for  the  forthcoming  dinner  and  return  to 
RathfiUau  House,  where  Harry  Woodward  is 
making  arrangements  for  his  journey  to 
BallyspeUau,  which  now  we  believe  goes  by 
the  name  of  Johnstown.  Under  every  cir- 
cumstance of  his  life  he  was  a  plotter  and  a 
jjlanner,  and  had  at  all  times  some  private 
speculation  in  view.  On  the  present  occasion, 
in  addition  to  his  murderous  design  upon 
Miss  Goodwin,  he  resolved  to  become  a  wife- 
hunter,  for,  being  well  acquainted,  as  he  was, 
with  the  tone  and  temper  of  English  society 
at  its  most  celebrated  watering  places,  and 
the  matrimonial  projects  and  intiigues  which 
abound  at  them,  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
he  might  stand  a  chance  of  making  a  suc- 
cessful hit  with  a  view  to  matrimony.  One 
thing  struck  him,  however,  which  was,  that 
he  had  no  horse,  and  could  not  go  there 
mounted,  as  a  gentleman  ought.  It  is  true 
his  step  father  had  several  horses,  but  not 
one  of  them  beyond  the  character  of  a  com- 
mon hack.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  jjur- 
chase  a  becoming  nag  for  his  journey,  and 
with  this  ol)ject  he  called  upon  a  neighboring 
farmer,  named  MuiTay,  who  possessed  a 
very  beautiful  animal,  rising  four,  and  which 
he  learned  was  to  be  disposed  of. 

"Mr.  Murray,"  said  he,  "I  understand 
you  have  a  young  horse  for  sale." 


"I  have,  sir,"  rejalied  Miu-ray ;  "and  a 
better  jjiece  of  Mesh  is  not  in  the  country  he 
stands  in." 

"  Could  I  see  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,  and  try  him,  too.  He  is 
not  flesh  and  bone  at  all,  sir — devil  a  thing 
he  is  but  quicksilver.  Here,  Paudeen,  sad- 
dle Brieu  Boro  for  this  gentleman.  You 
won't  require  wings,  Mr.  Woodward  ;  Brien 
Boro  will  show  you  how  to  liy  without 
them." 

"Well,"  replied  Woodward,  "tri.al's  all; 
but  at  any  rate,  I'm  willing  to  prefer  good 
flesh  and  bone  to  quicksilver." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  horse  was  brought 
out,  saddled  and  bridled,  and  Woodward, 
who  certainly  was  an  excellent  hor.seman, 
mounted  him  and  tried  his  paces. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Murray,  "how  do  you 
like  him  ?  " 

"I  like  him  well,"  said  Woodward.  "His 
temjjer  is  good,  I  know,  by  his  docility  to 
the  bit." 

"Yes,  but  you  haven't  tried  him  at  a 
ditch  ;  follow  me  and  I'll  show  j'ou  as  pretty 
a  one  as  ever  a  horse  crossed,  and  you  mny 
take  my  word  it  isn't  every  horse  could  cross 
il.  You  have  a  good  firm  seat,  su* ;  and  I 
know  you  will  both  do  it  in  sportsman-like 
style."  • 

■  Having  reached  the  ditch,  which  certainly 
was  a  rasper.  Woodward  reined  round  the 
animal,  who  crossed  it  like  a  swallow. 

"  Now,"  said  jMurray,  "  unless  you  wish  to 
ride  half  a  mile  in  order  to  get  back^  you 
must  cross  it  again." 

This  was  accordingly  done  in  admii-able 
style,  both  by  man  and  horse ;  and  Wood- 
ward, having  ridden  him  back  to  the  farm- 
yard, dismounted,  highlj^  satisfied  with  the 
animal's  action  and  powers. 

"Now,  Mr.  Murray,"  said  he,  "what's  his 
price  ?  " 

"Fifty  guineas,  sir  ;  neither  moi-e  nor  less." 

"  Say  thii-ty  and  we'll  deal." 

"  I  don't  want  money,  sir,"  rejilied  the 
sturdy  farmer,  "  and  I  won't  part  with  the 
horse  under  his  value.  I  will  get  \v-hat  I  ask 
for  him." 

"  Say  thirty-five." 

"  Not  a  cross  under  the  round  half  hun- 
dred ;  and  I'm  glad  it  is  not  your  mother 
that  is  buying  him." 

"  ^Vliy  so  ?  "  asked  Woodward  ;  and  his  eye 
darkly  sparkled  with  its  malignant  influence. 

"  Why,  sir,  because  if  I  didn't  sell  him  to 
her  at  her  own  terms,  he  would  be  worth 
very  little  in  a  few  days  afterwards." 

The  observation  was  certainly  an  offensive 
one,  especially  wlien  made  to  her  son. 

"Will  you  take  forty  for  him? "asked 
Woodward,  cooUy. 


752 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Not  a  penny,  sir,  under  what  I  said. 
You  are  clearly  a  good  judge  of  a  horse,  Mr. 
Woodward,  and  I  wonder  that  a  gentleman 
like  you  would  offer  me  less  than  I  ask,  be- 
cause you  cannot  but  know  that  it  is  under 
his  value." 

"  I  will  give  no  more,"  replied  Woodwai-d  ; 
"  so  there  is  an  end  to  it.  Let  me  see  the 
horse's  eyes." 

He  placed  himself  before  the  animal,  and 
looked  steadily  into  his  eyes  for  about  five 
minutes,  after  which  he  said, — 

"I  think,  ]VIi'.  Murray,  you  would  have 
acsted  more  prudently  had  you  taken  my 
offer.     I  bade  you  full  value  for  the  horse." 

To  Murray's  astonishment  the  animal  be- 
gan to  tremble  excessively  ;  the  perspira- 
tion was  seen  to  flow  from  him  in  toiTents  ; 
he  aj^peared  feeble  and  collapsed  ;  and 
seemed  scarcely  able  to  stand  on  his  limbs, 
which  were  shaking  as  if  with  terror  under 
him. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Murray,"  said  Woodward, 
"  I  am  very  glad  I  did  not  buy  him  ;  the 
beast  is  iU,  and  will  be  for  the  dogs  of  the 
neighborhood  in  tlu'ee  daj's'  time." 

"  Uutn  the  last  five  minutes,  sir,  there 
wasn't  a  sounder  horse  in  Europe." 

"Look  at  him  now,  then,"  said  Wood- 
ward ;  "  do  you  call  that  a  sound  horse  ? 
Take  him  into  the  stable  ;  before  the  ex- 
piration of  three  days  you  wQl  be  flaying 
him." 

His  words  were  prophetic.  In  three  days' 
time  the  fine  and  healthy  animal  was  a  car- 
cass. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  farmer,  when  he  saw  the 
horse  lying  dead  before  him,  "  this  fellow  is 
his  mother's  son.  From  the  time  he  looked 
into  the  horse's  eyes  the  poor  beast  sank  so 
rapidly  that  he  didn't  pass  the  third  day 
ahve.  And  there  are  fifty  guineas  out  of  my 
pocket.  The  curse  of  God  on  him  wherever 
he  goes ! " 

Woodward  provided  himself,  however, 
with  another  horse,  and  in  due  time  set  out 
for  the  Spa  at  Ballysisellan. 

The  dinner  was  now  fixed  for  a  certain 
day,  and  Squire  IManifold  felt  himself  in 
high  spirits  as  often  as  he  could  recollect 
the  circumstance — which,  indeed,  was  but 
rarely,  the  worth)'  ejiieure's  memory  having 
nearly  abandoned  him.  Topertoe,  of  the 
gout,  and  he  were  old  acquaintances  and 
companions,  and  had  spent  many  a  merry 
night  together  —  both,  as  the  proverb 
has  it,  being  tarred  with  the  same  stick. 
Topertoe  was  as  great  a  glutton  as  the 
other,  but  without  his  despente  voracity 
in  food,  whilst  in  drink  he  equalled  if  he 
did  not  surpass  him.  Manifold  would  have 
forgotten  every  thing  about  the  dinner  had 


he  not  from  time  to  time  been  reminded  of 
it  by  his  companion. 

"  Manifold,  we  will  have  a  gi'eat  day  on 
Thursday." 

"  Great !  "  exclaimed  Manifold,  who  in 
addition  to  his  other  stupidities,  was  aa 
deaf  as  a  post ;  "  great — eh  ?  "VlTiat  sizo 
wiU  it  be  ?  " 

"  \^^lat  size  wUl  it  be  ?  TVTiy,  confound 
it,  man,  don't  you  know  what  I'm  saying  ?  " 

No,  I  don't— yes,  I  do — you  are  talking 
about  something  great.  O,  I  know  now-- 
your  toe  you  mean — where  the  gout  lies. 
They  say,  it  begins  at  the  great  toe,  and  goes 
up  to  the  stomach.  I  suppose  Alexander 
the  Great  was  gouty  and  got  his  name  from 
that." 

"I'm  talking  of  the  great  dinner  we're 
to  have  on  Thursday,"  shouted  Topertoe. 
"  We'll  have  a  sjilendid  feed  then,  my  fa- 
mous old  trencherman,  and  I'll  take  care  that 
Doctor  DooUttle  shall  not  stint  you." 

"  There  won't  be  any  toast  and  water — 
eh?" 

"  Devil  a  mouthful ;  and  we  are  to  have 
the  celebrated  Cooke,  the  Pythagorean." 

"  Ay,  but  is  he  a  good  cook  ?  " 

"  He's  the  celebrated  Pythagorean,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Pj-thagorean — what's  that  ?  I  thought 
you  said  he  was  a  cook.  Does  he  under- 
stand venison  proj^erly  ?  O,  good  Lord  ! 
what  a  life  I'm  leading  !  Toast  and  water — 
toast  and  water.  But  it's  all  the  result  of: 
this  famine.  And  yet  they  know  I'm  wealthy. 
I  say,  what's  this  your  name  is  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  that — an  old  acquaintance. 
Hell  and  torments  !    what's  this  ?    O  !  " 

"  The  weather's  pleasant,  Topertoe.  I  say, 
j  Toisertoe,  what's  this  your  name  is  ?  " 

"  O  !  O  !  "  exclaimed  Topertoe,  who  felt  one 
or  two  desperate  twinges  of  his  prevailing 
malady  ;  "  curse  me.  Manifold,  but  I  think  I 
would  exchange  with  you  ;  your  complaint 
is  an  easy  one  compared  to  mine.  You  ai-e 
a  mere  block,  and  wiU  pop  off  without  pain, 
instead  of  being  racked  like  a  soul  in  per- 
dition as  I  am." 

"  Your  soul  in  perdition — well  I  suppose 
it  will.  But  don't  groan  and  scream  so — you 
are  not  there  yet ;  when  you  aie  you  will 
have  i^lenty  of  time  to  groan  and  scream. 
As  for  myself,  I  Tvill  be  likely  to  sleep  it  out 
there.  I  think,  by  the  way,  I  had  the  plea- 
sure of  knowing  you  before  ;  your  face  is 
famihar  to  me.  ^Vhat's  this  you  call  the 
man  that  attends  sick  people?  " 

"A  doctor.  O!  O!  HeU  and  torments ! 
what  is  this  ?    Yes,  a  doctor.     O  !    O  !  " 

"  Ay,  a  dostor.  Confound  me,  bvit  I  think 
my  head's  going  around  like  a  top.  Yes,  a 
— a — a — a  doctor.     Well,  the   doctor   says 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


tliat  I  and  Parson  Topertoe  led  a  nice  life  of 
it — one  a  glutton  and  the  other  a  di-unkard. 
Do  you  know  Topertoe  ?  Because  if  you 
don't  I  do.  He  is  a  damned  scoundrel,  and 
squeezed  his  tithes  out  of  the  peojsle  with 
pincers  of  blood." 

"  Jlanifold,  your  gluttony  has  brought  you 
to  a  fine  j)ass.     Ai'e  you  alive  or  not  V  " 

"Eh?  Curse  all  drj'  toast  and  water! 
But  it's  all  the  consequence  of  this  year  of 
famine.     Pray,  sir,  what  do  you  eat '? " 

"  Beef,  mutton,  venison,  fowl,  ham,  turbot, 
salmon,  black  sole,  mth  all  the  proper  and 
corresponding  sauces  and  condiments." 

"'  O  Lord !  and  no  toast  and  water,  beef 
tea,  and  oatmeal  grael  ?  Heavens  !  how  I 
wish  this  year  of  famine  was  past.  It  will 
be  the  death  of  me.  I  say,  what's  this  your 
name  is  ?  Your  face  is  famihar  to  me  some- 
how. Could  you  aid  me  in  jjoisoning  the — 
the — what  you  call  him — ay,  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  easily  done,  my  dear 
Manifold.  Contrive  to  let  him  take  one  of 
his  own  doses,  and  he's  done  for." 

"  Wouldn't  ratsbane  do '?  I  often  think 
he's  a  rat." 

"In  face  and  eyes  he  certainly  looks  very 
like  one." 

"Are  you  aware,  su",  that  my  wife's  a 
cripple?  She's  paralyzed  in  her  lower 
limbs." 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that  melancholy 
f.ict." 

"  Are  you  aware  that  she's  jealous  of 
me?" 

"No,  not  that  she's  jealous  of  you  now; 
but  perfectly  aware  that  she  had  good  cause 
to  be  so." 

"  Ay,  but  the  de\'il  of  it  is  that  the  pa^ 
ralysis  you  sjseak  of  never  reached  her 
tongue." 

"  /  sp)eak  of — 'twas  j'ourself  spoke  of  it." 

"  She  sent  me  here  because  it  haj^jJens 
to  be  a  year  of  famine — what  is  commonly 
called  a  hard  season — and  she  stitched  the 
little  blasted  doctor  to  me  that  I  might  die 
legitimately  under  medical  advice.  Isn't  that 
ver}'  like  murder — isn't  it  ?  " 

"Ah,  my  dear  fi-iend,  thank  God  that  you 
are  not  a  parson,  ha\'ing  a  handsome  wife  and 
a  handsome  curate,  ^"ith  the  gout  to  support 
you  and  keep  you  comfortable.  You  would 
then  feel  that  there  are  other  twinges  worse 
than  those  of  the  gout." 

"  Ay,  but  is  there  anything  wrong  about 
your  head  ?  " 

"Heaven  knows.  About  a  twelvemonth 
ago  I  felt  as  if  there  were  two  sprouts  bud- 
ding out  of  my  forehead,  but  on  putting 
up  my  hand  I  could  feel  nothing.  It  was  as 
smootli  as  ever.  It  must  have  been  hypo- 
chondriasis.    The  curate,  though,  is  a  hand- 


some dog,  and,  Uke  yourself,  it  was  my  wife 
sent  me  here." 

"Isi  your  wife  a  cripple?" 

"Faith,  anything  but  that." 

"  How  is  her  tougue  ?  No  paralysis  in 
that  quai'ter  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  is  calm  and  soft 
spoken,  and  perfectly  sweet  and  angeUc  in 
her  manner." 

"  But  was  it  in  consequence  of  the  famine 
she  sent  you  here  ?  Toast  and  water ! — toast 
and  water  !    O  Lord  !  " 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Manifold's 
lodgings,  where  Topertoe,  aided  by  a  crutch 
and  his  servant,  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
him.  To  Manifold,  indeed,  this  was  a  penal 
settlement,  in  consequence  of  the  reasons 
which  we  have  already  stated. 

The  Pj-thagorean,  as  well  as  Topertoe,  was 
also  occasionally  forced  to  the  use  of  crutches  ■ 
and  it  was  certainly  a  strange  and  remarkable 
thing  to  witness  two  men,  each  at  the  extreme 
point  of  social  indulgence,  and  each  depai't- 
ing  from  reason  and  common-sense,  suffer- 
ing from  the  consequences  of  their  respec- 
tive errors  ;  Manifold,  a  most  voracious  fel- 
low, knocked  on  the  head  by  an  attack  of 
apoplexy,  and  Cooke,  the  philosopher,  suf- 
fering the  tortures  of  the  damned  from  a 
most  violent  rheumati.sm,  produced  by  a 
monomania  which  compelled  him  to  dechii* 
the  simjjle  enjoyment  of  reasonable  food  anil 
dress.  Cooke's  monomania,  however,  was  a 
rare  one.  In  BlackwoocVs  jllagazine  there  ap- 
peared, several  years  ago,  an  admirable  wii- 
ter,  ■nhose  name  we  now  forget,  under  the 
title  of  a  modem  Pythagorean  ;  but  that  was 
merely  a  nom  de  guerre,  adoj^ted,  i^robably, 
to  excite  a  stronger  interest  in  the  perusal 
of  his  productions.  Here,  however,  was  a 
man  in  whom  the  principle  existed  upon 
what  he  considered  rational  and  jihilosophie 
grounds.  He  had  gotten  the  philosophical 
blockhead's  crotchet  into  his  head,  ard  car- 
ried the  principle,  in  a  j^ractical  point  of 
view,  much  further  than  ever  the  old  fooi 
himself  did  in  his  Ufe. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


The  Dinner  at   BaUyspellan. —  TTte  Ajypearanee  of 
Woodward. —  Valentine  Greatrakes. 


The  Tliursday  appointed  for  the  dumer  at 
length  arrived.  The  little  village  was  all 
alive  with  stir  and  bustle,  inasmuch  as. for 
several  months  no  sucf5  important  event  had 
taken  place.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  gala  day  ;  and 
the  poorer  inhabitants  crowded  about  the 


754 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


inn  to  watch  the  guests  arrivinp;,  and  the 
paupers  to  solicit  theii-  ahns.  Twelve  or  one 
was  then  the  iisual  hour  for  dinner,  but  in 
consequence  of  the  large  scale  on  wliich  it 
was  to  take  place  and  the  unusual  prepara- 
tions necessai-y,  it  was  not  untO  the  hour  of 
two  that  tLe  guests  sat  do-mi  to  table.  Some 
of  the  principal  names  we  have  already  men- 
tioned— all  the  males,  of  course,  iuvaUds — 
hut,  as  we  have  said,  there  were  a  good 
number  of  the  siuTounding  gentry,  then* 
^\dves  and  daughters,  so  that  the  fete  was 
n^pected  to  come  oft'  with  great  eclat.  Toper- 
toe  was  dressed,  as  was  then  the  custom,  in 
fuU  canonical  costume,  with  his  silk  cassock 
and  bands,  for  he  was  a  doctor  of  divinity ; 
and  Manifold  was  habited  in  the  usual  dress 
of  the  day — his  falling  collar  exhibiting  a 
neck  whose  thickness  took  away  all  surprise 
as  to  liis  tendency  to  apoplexy.  The  lengthy 
figure  of  the  unsubstantial  Pythagorean  was 
cased  in  huen  garments,  almost  snow-white, 
through  which  his  anatomy  might  be  read 
as  distinctly  as  if  his  living  skeleton  was 
naked  before  them.  Mrs.  Rosebud  was 
blooming  and  expanded  into  fuU  flower, 
whilst  Miss  Rosebud  was  just  in  that  inter- 
esting state  when  the  leaves  are  appai'ently 
in  the  act  of  bursting  out  and  bestowing 
their  beauty  and  fragrance  on  the  gratified 
senses  of  the  beholder.  Dr.  Doolittle,  who 
was  a  regular  wag — indeed  too  much  so  ever 
to  succeed  in  his  profession — entered  the 
room  with  his  three-cocked  hat  under  his 
arm,  and  the  usual  gold-headed  cane  in  his 
hand  ;  and,  after  saluting  the  company, 
looked  about  after  Manifold,  his  patient. 
He  saluted  the  Pythagorean,  and  compli- 
mented him  upon  his  philosophy,  and  the 
healthful  habits  engendered  by  a  vegetable 
diet,  and  so  jjrimitive  a  linen  dress — a  dress, 
lie  said,  which,  in  addition  to  its  other  ad- 
vantages, ought  to  be  generally  adopted,  if 
only  for  the  s;ike  of  its  capacity  for  showing 
otf  the  symmetry  of  the  figure.  He  was  him- 
self a  warm  admirer  of  the  principle,  and 
begged  to  have  the  honor  of  shaking  hands 
with  the  gentleman  who  had  the  courage  to 
carry  it  out  against  all  the  prejudices  of  a 
bessotted  world.  He  accordingly  seized  the 
pliilosopher's  hand,  which  was  then  in  a 
desperately  rheumatic  state,  as  the  little 
scoundrel  well  knew,  and  gave  it  such  a 
squeeze  of  respect  and  admiration  that  the 
Pythagorean  emitted  a  yell  which  astonished 
and  alarmed  the  whole  room. 

"Death  and  torture,  sir — why  did  you 
squeeze  my  rheumatic  hand  in  such  a 
manner  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  Mf.  Cooke — respect  and 
(idmiration  for  your  principles." 

"  Well,  sii-,  I  ivill  thank  you  to  express 


what  you  may  feel  in  jjlain  language,  but  not 
in  such  damnable  squeezes  as  that." 

"  Pardon  me,  again,  sir  ;  I  was  ignorant 
that  the  rheumatism  was  in  your  hand  ;  you 
know  I  am  not  yom-  jjliysician  ;  perhaps  if  I 
were  you  could  bear  a  fi-iendly  shake  of  it 
without  aU  that  agony.  I  very  much  regi-et 
the  pain  I  unconsciously,  and  from  motives 
of  the  highest  resioect,  have  put  you  to." 

"  It  is  gone — do  not  mention  it,"  said  the 
benevolent  philosopher.  "  Perhajis  I  may 
try  your  skill  some  of  these  days." 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Doolittle,  "  that  I 
am  forcing  Mr.  Manifold  here  to  avail  liim- 
self  of  your  system — a  simisle  vegetable  diet." 

"  O  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Manifold,  in  a  so- 
liloquy— for  he  was  jierfectly  unconscious  of 
what  was  going  on — "  toast  and  water,  toast 
and  water  !  That  and  a  season  of  famine — 
what  a  jorospect  is  before  me  !  Doolittle  is 
a  rat,  and  I  will  hire  somebody  to  give  him 
ratsbane.  Nothing  but  a  vegetable  diet,  and 
be  hanged  to  him !  "What's  ratsbane  an 
ounce  ? " 

"  You  hear,  sir,"  said  Doolittle,  addressing 
the  Pythagorean  ;  "  you  perceive  that  I  am 
adojsting  _your  system  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Doolittle,"  replied  Cooke,  "  from 
this  day  forth  you  are  my  phj'sician — I  in- 
trust you  with  the  management  of  my  rheu- 
matism ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  I  think  the 
room  is  devilishly  cold." 

Captain  Culverin  now  entered,  swathed 
uji,  and,  as  was  evident,  somewhat  tipsy. 

"  Eh !  confound  me,  ^philosopher,  your 
hand,"  he  eselaimed,  putting  out  his  own  to 
shake  hands  with  him. 

"I  can't,  sir,"  rei^lied  Cooke;  "I  am  af- 
flicted with  rheumatism.  You  seem  unwell, 
captain  ;  but  if  you  gave  up  sjjirituous 
liquors — such  as  wine  and  usquebaugh — you 
would  find  yourself  the  bettei'  for  it." 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  "  asked  Mani- 
fold. "  At  all  events  Doohttle's  a  rat.  A 
vegetable  diet,  a  year  of  famine,  toast,  and 
water — O  Lord  !  " 

Dinner,  how'ever,  came,  and  the  little  wag- 
gish doctor  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him, 
avoid  his  jokes.  Cooke's  dish  of  vegetables 
was  placed  for  him  at  a  particular  j^art  of  the 
table  ;  but  the  doctor,  taking  Manifold  by 
the  hand,  placed  him  in  the  philosopher's 
seat,  whom  he  afterwards  set  before  a  mag- 
nificent sirloin  of  beef — for,  truth  to  speak, 
the  little  man  acted  as  a  kind  of  master  of 
the  ceremonies  to  the  company  at  Bally- 
sj^eUan. 

"WTaat's  this?"  exclaimed  Manifold. 
"  Perdition  !  here  is  nothing  but  a  dish  of 
asjsaragus  before  me  !  AMiat  kind  of  treat- 
ment is  this  ?  Were  we  not  to  have  a  great 
dinner,  Topertoe  ?     Alexander  the  Great !  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SJfJ^CTItE. 


"  And  who  placed  me  before  a  sirloin  of 
beef?"  asked  tlie  philosoiDher  ;  "I,  who  fol- 
low the  2>riueiples  of  the  Great  Pythagorean. 
I  am  nearly  sick  ah'eady  with  the  fiime  of  it. 
Good  heavens !  a  sirloin  of  beef  before  a 
vegetarian."  • 

Of  com-se  Manifold  and  the  philosojiher 
exchanged  places,  and  the  dinner  jiroceeded. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  were  J)resent,  but 
Alice  was  unable  to  come,  although  anxious 
to  do  so  in  order  to  obhge  her  i:)arents.  It 
is  imnecessary  to  describe  the  gastric  feats 
of  Manifold  and  Topertoe.  The  voracitj'  of 
the  former  was  astonishing,  nor  was  th  it  of 
the  latter  much  less ;  and  when  the  dishes 
were  removed  and  the  tables  cleared  for 
theu-  compotations,  the  faces  of  both  gentle- 
men appeared  as  if  they  were  about  to  ex- 
plode. The  table  was  now  suppUed  with 
eveiy  variety  of  liquor,  and  the  conversation 
began  to  assume  that  conwdal  tone  peculiar 
to  such  assemblies.  The  httle  doctor  was 
placed  between  Manifold  and  the  Pythago- 
rean, who,  by  the  way,  was'  exceedingly 
short-sighted  ;  and  on  the  other  side  of  him 
sat  Parson  Topertoe,  who  seemed  to  feel 
something  like  a  reprieve  from  his  gout. 
AVhen  the  liquor  was  placed  on  the  table, 
after  dinner,  the  Pythagorean  got  to  his  feet, 
filled  a  large  glass  of  water,  and  taking  a 
gulp  of  it,  leaving  it  about  half  full,  he  pro- 
ceeded as  follows : 

"  Gentlemen :  considering  the  state  of 
monxls  in  our  unfortunate  coimtry,  arising 
as  it  does  fi'om  the  use  of  intoxicating 
liquors  and  the  flesh  of  animals,  I  feel  my- 
self called  upon  to  impress  upon  the  con- 
sciences of  this  respectable  auditory  the 
necessity  of  studying  the  admirable  princi- 
ples of  the  great  philosopher  whose  simplic- 
ity of  life  in  food  and  drink  I  humbly  en- 
deavor to  imitate.  Modern  society,  my 
friends,  is  all  wrong,  and,  of  coui-se,  is  pro- 
ceeding upon  an  erroneous  and  pernicious  sys- 
tem— that  of  eating  the  flesh  of  animals  and 
indulging  in  the  use,  or  rather  the  abuse,  of 
liquors,  that  heat  the  blood  and  intoxicate 
the  brain  into  the  indulgence  of  passion  and 
the  commission  of  crime." 

Here  the  little  doctor  threw  a  glass  of 
usquebaugh — now  called  whiskey — into  the 
half-emptied  cup  which  stood  before  Cooke. 

"  A  vegetable  diet,  gentlemen,  is  that 
which  was  appointee!  for  us  by  Providence, 
and  water  hke  this  our  drink.  And,  indeed, 
water  like  this  is  delicious  drink.  The  S/>a 
of  BaUyspeHan  stands  imrivaUed  for  strength 
and  flavor,  and  its  capacity  of  exliilarating 
the  animal  spirits  is  extraordinaiy.  You  see, 
gentlemen,  liow  copiously  I  drink  it ;  ser- 
vant, fill  my  glass  again — thank  you." 

Tn  the  meantime,  and  before  lie  touched 


it,  the  doctor  whipped  another  glass  of 
whiskey  into  it — an  act  which  the  Pytha- 
gorean, who  was,  as  we  have  said,  unusually 
tall,  and  kept  his  eye  upon  the  company, 
could  neither  sus^^ect  nor  see. 

"It  has  been  ignorantly  said  that  th^' 
structui-e  of  the  human  mouth  is  an  argu-i 
ment  against  me  as  to  the  quaUty  of  our 
food,  and  that  the  growth  of  grapes  is  a 
proof  that  wine  was  ordained  to  be  di-ank  by 
men.  It  is  perfectly  weU  known  that  a  man 
may  eat  a  bushel  of  gxapes  without  getting 
drunk  ;  because  the  pure  vegetable  f)ossessea 
no  intoxicating  power  any  more  than  the 
water  which  I  am  now  drinking — and  deli- 
cious water  it  is  !  " 

Here  the  doctor  dug  his  elbow  into  the  fat 
ribs  of  Topertoe,  whose  face,  in  the  mean- 
time, seemed  in  a  blaze  of  indignation. 

"  I  ^.eU  you  what,  23hilosoj)her,  curse  me, 
but  you  are  an  infidel." 

"I  have  the  honor,  sir,"  he  rephed,  "to 
be  an  infidel — as  every  jjhilosopher  is.  The 
truth  of  what  I  am  stating  to  you  has  been 
tested  by  philoso2:)hers,  and  it  has  been  as- 
certained that  no  quantitj'  of  grapes  eaten 
hy  an  individual  could  make  him  drunk." 

The  doctor  gave  the  j)arson  another  dig, 
and  winked  at  him  to  keep  quiet. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  ^sarson,  unable,  however, 
to  restrain  himself,  "  confound  me  if  ever  1 
heard  such  infidel  opinions  exj)ressed  in  my 
life.  Damn  your  philosophy ;  it  is  cur.sed 
nonsense,  and  nothing  else." 

"A  vegetable  diet,"  proceeded  Cooke,  "is 

a  guarantee  for  health  and  long  life O 

Lord  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  tliis  accursed  rheu- 
matism will  be  the  death  of  me." 

"  What  is  he  sajing  ?  "  asked  Manifold. 

"  He  is  talking  philosophj-,"  replied  the 
doctor,  with  a  comic  giin,  "  and  recommend- 
ing a  vegetable  diet  and  fiure  water." 

"  A  clevilish  scoundrel,"  said  Manifold. 
"  He's  a  rat,  too.  Doolittle's  a  rat ;  but  I'll 
poison  him  ;  yes,  I'll  dose  him  with  ratsbane, 
and  then  I  can  eat,  drink,  and  swill  away.  Is 
the  philosojiher's  vrife  a  cripple  ?  " 

"  He  has  no  wife,"  repUed  Doolittle. 

"  And  what  the  devil,  then,  is  he  a  philos- 
oijher  for  ?  'Wliat  on  earth  challenges  pliilos- 
ophy  in  a  husband  so  much  as  a  wife, — es- 
pecially if  she's  a  cripple  and  has  the  use  of 
her  tongue  ?  " 

"  Not  being  a  married  man  myself,"  replied 
the  doctor,  "  I  can  give  you  no  information 
on  the  subject ;  or  rather  I  could  if  I  would  . 
but  it  would  not  be  for  your  comfort : — ask 
Manifold." 

"  Ay ;  but  he  says  there's  something 
wrong  about  his  head—  sprouts  pressing  up, 
or  something  that  way.  Ask  ]\Irs.  Rosebud 
wiU  she  hob  or  nob  with  me.    Mrs.  Rosebud," 


756 


WILLIAM    CARLETOX'S   WORKS. 


he  proceeded,  addressing  the  widow,  "hob 
or  uob  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rosebud,  knowing  that  he  was  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  a  gouty  old  parson, 
bowed  to  him  vei-y  coldly,  but  accepted  his 
challenge,  notwithstanding. 

"Mrs.  Rosebud,"  he  added,  "what  kind 
of  a  man  was  old  Rosebud  ?  " 

"  His  family  name,"  rejjUed  the  widow, 
"  was  not  Rosebud  but  Yellowboy  ;  and,  in- 
deed, to  speak  the  truth,  my  dear  old  Rose- 
bud had  all  the  marks  and  tokens  of  the 
original  family  name  upon  him,  for  he  was 
as  thin  as  the  philosoplier  there,  and  as  yel- 
low as  saf&'on.  His  mother,  however,  the 
night  before  he  was  born,  dreamed  that  she 
was  presented  with  a  rosebud,  and  the  name, 
being  somewhat  poetical,  was  adopted  bj' 
himself  and  the  family  as  a  kind  of  set-off 
against  the  duck-foot  color  of  the  ancestral 
skin." 

The  philosojjher,  in  the  meantime,  finding 
himself  interrupted,  stood,  with  a  complacent 
countenance,  awaiting  a  pause  in  which  he 
might  ijroceed.  At  length  he  got  au  oppor- 
tunity of  resuming. 

"  The  world,"  he  added,  "knows  but  Httle 
of  the  great  foimder  of  so  many  systems  and 
theories  connected  with  hviman  life  and  phi- 
losophy. It  was  he  who  invented  the  multi- 
phcation  table,  and  solved  the  forty-seventh 
proposition  of  the  first  book  of  Euclid.  It 
was  he  who,  from  his  i^rofound  knowledge 
of  music,  first  discovered  the  music  of  the 
spheres — a  divine  harmony,  which,  from  its 
unbroken  continuity,  and  incessant  play  in 
the  heavenly  bodies,  we  are  iucai^able  of 
hearing." 

"Where  the  deuce,  then,  is  the  use  of 
it?  "  cried  Cajitaiu  Culverin  ;  "  it  must  be  a 
veiy  odd  kind  of  music  which  we  cannot 
hear." 

"  The  great  Samian,  sir,  could  hear  it ; 
but  only  in  his  heart  and  intellect,  and  after 
he  had  discovered  the  truthful  doctrine  of  the 
metempsi/chosis,  or  transmigration  of  souls." 

"  The  transmigration  of  mkv  ;  whj',  my 
dear  sir,  doesn't  every  fi.shwoman  understand 
that  ?  "  observed  the  captain.  "  Was  the  fel- 
low a  fisherman  ?  " 

"  His  great  discovery,  however,  if  mankind 
would  only  adopt  it,  was  the  healthful  one 
of  a  vegetable  diet,  cai-ried  out  by  a  fixed 
determination  not  to  wear  any  di-ess  made 
up  fi-om  the  skins  or  fleeces  of  animals  that 
have  been  slain  by  man,  but  jjhilosopliically 
to  confine  himself  to  plain  linen  as  I  do.  O 
Lord  !  this  rheumatism  will  be  the  death  of 
me.  Pythagoras  was  one  of  the  greatest 
philosophers." 

Here  the  doctor  threw  another  glass  of 
UBquebaugh  into  the  cu^d  which  stood  before 


the  Pythagorean,  which  act,  in  consequenca 
of  his  great  height  and  short  sight,  he  did 
not  perceive,  but  imagined  that  he  w^aa 
di'iukuig  the  well  water. 

"Philosopher,"  said  Captain  Culverin, 
"  hob  or  uob,  a  glass  with  you." 

"With  pleasure,  captain,"  said  the  Pytha- 
gorean, "  only  I  wish  you  would  adojit  my 
principles — a  vegetable  diet  and  aqua  pura." 

"  Upon  my  credit,"  observed  Father  Mul- 
renin,  "  I  think  the  aquajiura  is  the  best  of 
it.  It  is  blessed  water,  this  well  water,  and 
it  ought  to  be  so,  because  the  parson  con- 
secrated it.  Hob  or  uob  with  me,  Mr. 
Cooke." 

"  With  i^leasure,  su',"  replied  Mr.  Cooke, 
again  ;  "  and  I  do  assure  you.  Father  Mulre- 
nin,  that  I  think  the  joarson's  consecration 
has  improved  the  water." 

"  Sorra  doubt  of  it,"  replied  the  fiiar  ; 
"  and  I  am  sure  the  doctor  there  will  sup- 
jDori  me  in  the  ai-ticle  of  the  parson's  conse- 
x;ration." 

"  The  gi'eS.t  Samian,"  proceeded  Cooke, 
"  the  gTeat  Samian " 

"My  dear  philosojiher," said  the  facetious 
fiiar,  "  never  mind  your  great  Samian,  but 
follow  up  your  principles  and  drink  j-our 
water." 

The  mischievous  doctor  had  tlu'own 
another  glass  into  his  cup  :  "  Drink  youi 
water,  and  set  us  aU  a  pihilosophical  example 
of  sobriety." 

"  That  I  always  do,"  said  the  jshilospher, 
staggering  a  little  ;  "  that  I  always  do  :  the 
water  is  dehcious,  and  I  think  my  rheuma- 
tism has  departed  from  me.  Mr.  jNIanifold, 
hob  or  nob  !  " 

"No,"  replied  Manifold,  "  confound  me  if 
I  will.  You  are  the  fellow  that  eats  nothing 
but  vegetables,  and  drinks  nothing  but  wa- 
ter. Do  j'ou  think  I  will  hob  or  nob  with  a 
water-drinking  rascal  hke  you  ?  Do  you 
think  I  will  put  my  wine  against  your  j^altry 
water  ?  " 

"Don't  call  it  paltry,"  replied  the  Pytha- 
gorean ;  "it  is  dehcious.  You  know  not 
how  it  elevates  the  si^irits  and,  so  to  speak, 
jihilosoi^hizes  the  whole  system  of  man.  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  extremely  happy." 

"I  think  so,"  replied  the  friai- ;  "but 
wasn't  it  a  fact,  as  a  proof  of  your  mrli'mp.fy- 
chosiii,  that  the  great  author  of  your  doctrine 
was  at  the  siege  of  Troy  some  centuries  be- 
fore he  came  into  the  world  as  the  ^jhUoso- 
pher  Pythagoras  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sii',"  rephed  his  follower,  "  he  fought 
for  the  Greeks  in  the  character  of  Euphor- 
bus,  in  the  Trojan  wax-,  was  Hermatj-nus, 
and  afterwai-ds  a  fisherman  ;  his  next  trans- 
formation having  been  into  the  body  of  Py- 
thagoras." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


%11 


"  What  an  extraordinai-y  memory  lie  must 
have  had,"  said  the  Mar.  "Now,  can  you 
j'ourself  remember  all  the  bodies  your  soul 
has  passed  through  ? — but  before  I  expect 
you  to  answer  me, — hob  or  uob  agaiu, — this 
is  famous  water,  my  desu-  philosojsher." 

"  It  is  famous  water,  Father  Muh-enin  ; 
and  the  parson's  consecration  has  given  it  a 
power  of  exhilaration  which  is  astonishing." 
Tho  doctor  had  throNMi  another  glass  of 
usquebaugh  into  his  cup,  of  coui'se  unob- 
served. 

"  Why,"  said  the  fiiai',  "  if  I'm  not  much 
mistaken,  you  will  feel  the  benefit  of  it.  It 
is  jjurely  philosophical  water,  and  fit  for  a 
philosopher  hke  you  to  dinnk.' 

The  companj-  now  were  di\'ided  into  little 
knots,  and  the  worthy  philosopher  found  it 
necessaiy  to  take  his  seat.  He  felt  himseh 
in  a  state  of  mind  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand ;  but  the  deheious  flavor  of  the  water 
still  clung  to  him,  and,  owing  to  his  shorts 
ness  of  sight,  and  the  doctor's  wicked  wit, — 
if  wit  it  coidd  be  called, — he  contLuued 
drinking  spmts  and  water  until  he  became 
perfectlj' — or,  in  the  ordinary  jjhrase — blind 
drunk,  and  was  obUged  to  be  carried  to 
bed. 

In  the  meantime,   a  new  individual  had 
arrived ;   and,   having  ascertained  from  the 
seiTauts  that  there  was  a  great  dinner  on 
that  day,  he  inquired  if  iMr.  Goodwin  and  | 
his  family  were  present  at  it.     He  was  in-  ' 
formed  that  Mr.  Goodwin  and  ili-s.  Good- 
win were  there,  but  that  iliss  Goodwia  was 
unable  to  come.    He  asked  where  5Ii\  Good-  I 
win  and  ]\Irs.  GoodT\-in  resided,  and,  ha%"ing 
been  informed  on  this  point,  he  unmediately 
passed   to  the   farmer's   house   where  thej- 
lodged.  j 

Now,    it   so   happened   that  there  was  a  ; 
neat  garden  attached  to  the  house,  in  which 
was  an  arbor  of  \\t11ows  where  Jliss  Good- 
win was  in  the  habit  of  sitting,  and  amus- 
ing herself  by  the  perusal  of  a  book.     It  I 
contained   an  arm-chair,    in  which  she  fi-e-  i 
quently  rechned,  sometimes  after  the  shght 
exertion  oi  walking ;   it  also  happened  that 
she  occasionally  fell  asleep.    There  were  two 
modes  of  ajjj^roach  to  the  farmer's  house —  ' 
one  by  the  ordinary  pathway,   and  another 
much   shorter,    which  led   by   a   gate   that 
opened  into  the  gai'deu.     By  this  last  the 
guide  who  pointed  out  the  house  to  Wood-  ] 
ward  directed  him  to  procee;!,  and  he  did  [ 
so.     On  passing  through,  his  eye  caught  the  ! 
summer  house,  and  he  saw  at  a  glance  that 
Ahce  Gcodwin  was  there,  and  asleejj.     She 
was,  indeed,   asleep,  but  it  was  a  troubled  j 
sleeji,  for  the  demon  gaze  of  the  tenible  eye 
which  she  dreaded,   and  which  had  almost 
blasted  her  out  of  life,   she  imagined  was 


one  more  fixed  upon  her.  Woodward  ap- 
proached -nith  a  stealthy  step,  and  saw  that, 
even  although  asleep,  she  was  deeply  agita- 
teJ,  as  was  evident  by  her  moauings.  He 
contemislated  her  features  for  a  brief  space. 

"Ah,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  have  done 
my  work.  Although  beautiful,  the  stamp  of 
death  is  upon  her.  One  last  gaze  and  it  will 
all  be  over.  I  am  before  her  in  her  ch'eam. 
Mj'  eye  is  upon  her  in  her  morbid  and  dis- 
eased imagination,  but  what  wUl  the  conse- 
quence be  when  she  awakens  and  tinds  it 
uijon  her  in  reahty  ?  " 

As  those  thoughts  passed  through  his 
mind,  she  gave  a  scream,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  O,  take  him  away  !  take  him  away  !  he 
is  kiUing  me  ! "  and  as  she  uttered  the 
words  she  awoke. 

Now,  thought  he,  to  secure  my  twelve 
hundi'ed  a  year  ;  now,  for  one  glance,  with 
the  power  of  hell  in  its  bhghting  influence, 
and  aU  is  over  ;  my  twelve  hundred  is  safe 
to  me  and  mine  forever. 

On  awakening  fi-om  her  terrible  dream, 
the  first  object  that  jsresented  itself  to  her 
was  the  fixed  gaze  of  that  terrific  eye.  It 
was  now  \^TOught  up  to  such  a  concentration 
of  malignity  as  surpassed  aU  that  even  her 
imagination  had  ever  formed  of  it.  Fixed — 
diabohcal  in  its  aspect,  and  steady  as  fate  it- 
seH — it  jjoured  upon  the  weak  and  alarmed 
girl  such  a  flood  of  venomous  and  pros- 
trating influence  that  her  shi-ieks  were  too 
feeble  to  reach  the  house  when  calUng  for 
assistance.  She  seemed  to  have  been  fasci- 
nated to  her  own  destmction.  There  the  eye 
was  fastened  upon  her,  and  she  felt  herself 
deprived  of  the  power  of  removing  her  own. 
fi'om  his. 

"  O  my,  God  !  "  she  exlaimed,  "  I  am  lost 
— help,  help  ;  the  murderous  eye  is  upon 
me  !  " 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Woodward  ;  " good 
by,  !Miss  Goodwin.  I  was  simply  contem- 
plating your  beauty,  and  I  am  sony  to  see 
that  you  are  in  so  weak  a  state.  Present  my 
compliments  to  your  father  and  mother  ;  and 
think  of  me  as  a  man  whose  afiection  you 
have  indigiiantly  spurned — a  man,  however, 
whose  eye,  whatever  his  heai-t  may  be,  is  not 
to  be  trifled  with." 

He  then  made  her  a  low  liow,  and  took 
liis  departure  back  through  the  garden. 

"It  is  over,"  said  he  ;  "Jim htm  exi,  the 
jwojierty  is  mine  ;  she  cannot  be  saved  now  ; 
I  have  taken  her  life  ;  biit  no  one  can  say 
that  I  have  shed  her  blood.  My  jjreeious 
mother  will  be  delighted  to  hear  this.  Now, 
we  \rill  l)e  free  to  act  wth  old  Cockletown 
and  his  niece  ;  and  if  she  does  not  turn  out 
a  good  wife — if  she  crosses  me  in  my  amours 
— fov  amoiu's  I   will  have, — I  shall  let   her, 


758 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


too,  feel  -wliat  my  eye  can  do."  Alice's 
screams,  after  his  departure  from  the  gar- 
den, brought  out  Sarah  SuUivan,  who,  aided 
b}'  another  seiTaut,  assisted  her  between 
them  to  reach  the  house,  where  she  was  put 
to  bed  in  such  a  state  of  weakness,  alarm, 
and  terror  as  cannot  be  described.  Her 
father  and  mother  were  immediately  sent  for, 
and,  on  arriving  at  her  bedside,  found  her 
apparently  in  a  djing  state.  All  she  could 
find  voice  to  utter  was, — 

"He  was  here — his  eye  was  ujion  me  in 
the  summer  house.     I  feel  I  am  dying." 

Doctor  Doohttle  and  Father  Mtdi'enin 
were  both  sent  for,  but  she  had  fallen  into  an 
exhausted  slumber,  and  it  was  deemed  bet- 
ter not  to  disturb  her  until  she  might  gain 
some  strength  by  sleep.  Her  parents,  who  felt 
so  ansious  about  her  health,  and  the  faint 
hopes  of  her  recovery,  now  made  fainter  by 
the  incident  which  had  just  occurred,  did 
not  retiu-n  to  the  assembly,  and  the  conse-  | 
quence  was  that  Woodward  and  they  did  '. 
not  meet. 

WTien  the  hour  for  the  dance,  however,  ! 
arrived,  the   tables   for   refi-eshments   were  i 
jjlaced  in  other  and  smaller  rooms,  and  the  i 
larger  one  in  which   they   had   dined   was 
cleared  out  for  the  ball.     The  simpile-heart-  1 
ed    Pythagorean  had   slept   himself  sober,  | 
without   being   aware   of  the  cause  of  his  | 
break-dovm  at  the  diimer,  and  he  now  ap- 
peared among  them  in  a  gida  dress  of  snow- 
white  linen.     He  was  no  enemy  to  healthy 
amusements,  for  he  could  not  forget  that  ' 
the  great  philosopher  whom  he  followed  had 
won  jjublic  jnizes  at  the  Olympic  games.  ; 
He  consequently  fi-isked  about  in  the  dance  | 
with  an  awkwardness  and  a  disregard  of  the 
graces  of  motion,  which,   especially  in  the 
jigs,  convulsed  the  whole  assembly,  nor  did 
any  one  among  them  laugh  more  loudly  than 
he   did   himself.     He   esiaecially   addressed  , 
himself  too,  and  danced  with,  Mrs.  Rosebud,  [ 
who,  as  she  was  short,   fat,   and  jilump,   ex-  j 
hibited  as  ludicrous  a  contrast  with  the  al-  ! 
most    naked    anatomical     structure    which  \ 
frisked  before  her  as  the  imagination  could 
conceive.  j 

" U2)on  my  credit,"  obsei-ved  the  fiiar,  "I 
see  that  extremes  may  meet.     Look  at  the 
pilosopher,  how  he  trebles  and  capers  it  be-  j 
fore   the  widow.    Faith,  I  should  not  feel 
surjjrised  if  he  made  Mi'S.  Pythagoras  of  her  \ 
before  long."  j 

This,  however,  was  not  the  worst  of  it,  for 
what  or  who  but  the  de^dl  himself  should 
tempt  the  parson,  vvith  his  gout  strong  upon 
him,  to  select  Miss  Rosebud  for  a  dance,  | 
whilst  the  philosopliic  rlieumatist  was  fri.sk-  ; 
ing  it  as  well  as  he  could  with  her  mother  ? 
The  room  was  in  an  uproar.     Miss  Rosebud,  | 


who  possessed  much  wicked  humor,  having, 
as  the  ladj'  always  has,  the  2)iivilege,  called 
for  one  of  the  livehest  tunes  then  known. 
The  jjarson's  attemjjt  to  keejj  time  made  the 
uproar  stUl  gi-eater  ;  but  at  length  it  ceased, 
for  neither  the  philosopher  nor  the  parson 
could  hold  out  any  longer,  and  each  retu-ed 
in  a  state  of  torture  to  his  seat.  The  mhth 
having  now  subsided,  a  gentleman  entered 
the  room,  admirably  dressed,  on  whom  the 
attention  of  the  whole  com2oany  was  turned. 
He  was  tall,  elegantly  formed,  imd  at  a  tirst 
glance  was  handsome.  The  expression  of  his 
eyes,  however,  was  stiiking — startling.  It 
was  good — briUiant  ;  it  was  bad  and  strange, 
and,  to  those  who  examined  it  closely,  such 
as  they  had  never  witnessed  before.  Still  he 
was  evidently  a  gentleman  :  there  could  be 
no  mistake  about  that.  His  manner,  his 
dress,  and  his  whole  bearing,  made  them  all 
feel  that  he  was  entitled  to  resjject  and  cour- 
tesy. Little  did  they  imagine  that  he  was  a 
murderer,  and  that  he  entered  the  room  im- 
der  the  gratifying  impression  of  his  having 
kUled  Alice  Goodwin.  It  was  Harry  Wood- 
ward. The  evening  was  now  advanced,  but, 
after  his  introduction  to  the  company,  he 
joined  in  then-  amusements,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  dancing  with  both  Mi-s.  Rosebud 
and  her  daughter ;  and  after  having  con- 
cluded his  dance  with  the  latter,  some 
tidings  reached  the  room,  which  strack  the 
whole  companj'  with  a  feehng  of  awe.  It 
was  at  first  whispered  about,  but  it  at  length 
became  the  general  topic  of  conversation. 
Alice  Goodwin  was  dying,  and  her  paients 
were  in  a  state  of  distraction.  Nobody  could 
tell  why,  but  it  apj^eared  she  was  at  the  last 
gasp,  and  that  there  was  some  mystery 
in  her  mfilady.  Slany  sjDeculations  were 
broached  ujjon  the  subject.  Woodward  pre- 
served sdence  for  a  time,  but  just  as  he  was 
about  to  make  some  observations  with  refer- 
ence to  her  dlness,  a  tall,  handsome  gentle- 
man entered  the  room  and  bowed  with  much 
grace  to  the  company. 

Father  Mulreuiu  stai'ted  up,  and,  shaking 
hands  with  him,  said, — 

"  I  know  now,  su-,  that  you  have  got  my 
letter." 

"  I  have  got  it,"  rephed  the  other,  "  and  1 
am  here  accordingly." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eye  glanced  ai-ound  the 
room,  the  most  distinguished  iigiu-e  in  which, 
beyond  comparison,  was  that  of  Woodward, 
who  instantly  recognized  him  as  the  gentle- 
man whom  he  had  met  on  the  morning  of 
his  departure  from  the  hospitable  roof  of 
Mr.  Goodwin,  on  his  return  home,  and,  we 
may  add,  between  whom  and  himself  that 
extraordiuaiy  trial  of  the  power  of  «-/7/,  as 
manifested   by   the   power  of  the  eye,  took 


THE  EVIL  EYE^    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


759 


place  so  comjjletely  to  Lis  own  discomfiture. 
They  were  both  gentlemen,  and  bowed  to 
each  other  very  courteously,  after  which  they 
apjoroached  and  shook  hands,  and  whilst  the 
stranger  held  Woodward's  hand  in  his  during 
their  short  but  friendly  chat,  it  was  observed 
that  Woodward's  face  got  as  pale  as  death, 
and  he  almost  immediately  tottered  towards 
a  seat  from  weakness. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  s:iid  the  stranger ; 
"  you  navi  feel  that  the  principle  of  good  is 
always  able  to  overcome  the  principle  of  etu7." 

"  Who  or  what  are  you  ?  "  asked  Wood- 
ward, faintly.  * 

"I  am  a  plain  country  gentleman,  sir; 
and  something  more,  a  man  of  wealth  and 
distinction  ;  but  who,  unlike  my  friend  Cooke 
here,  do  not  make  myself  ridiculous  by  ab- 
surd eccentricities,  and  the  adojjtion  of  the 
nonsensical  doctrines  of  Pythagoras,  so 
utterly  at  variance  with  reason  and  Christian 
truth.  You  know,  my  dear  Cooke,  I  could 
have  cured  you  of  your  rheumatism  had  you 
possessed  common-sense  ;  but  who  could 
cure  any  man  who  guards  his  person  against 
the  elements  by  such  a  ludicrous  and  un- 
substantial dress  as  yours  ?  " 

"I  am  in  torture,"  replied  Cooke  ;  "I  was 
temjjted  to  dance  with  a  pretty  woman,  and 
now  I  am  suffering  for  it." 

"  As  for  me,"  exclaimed  Topertoe,  "  I  am 
a  match,  and  more  than  a  match,  for  you  in 
suffering.     O,  this  accursed  gout !  " 

"  I  sup230se  you  brought  it  on  by  hard 
drinking,  sir,"  said  the  stranger.  "If  that 
be  so,  I  shall  not  undertake  to  cure  you  un- 
less you  give  up  hard  drinking." 

"  I  will  do  anything,"  replied  Topertoe, 
'pi'ovided  you  can  allay  my  pain.  I  also 
was  tem2:)ted  to  dance  as  well  as  the  j)hi- 
losopher  ;  and  now  the  Christian  j^arson  and 
the  pagan  Pythagorean  are  both  suffering 
for  it." 

"  Wliat  is  all  this  about  ?  "  exclaimed  Mani- 
fold. "  O  Lord  !  is  he  going  to  put  them 
on  a  vegetable  diet,  relieved  by  toast  and 
water — toast  and  water '?  " 

Tlie  stranger  paid  but  little  attention  to 
Manifold,  because  he  saw  by  his  face  and  the 
number  of  his  chins  that  he  was  past  hoi^e  ; 
but  turning  towards  Tojsertoe  and  the  Pytha- 
gorean, he  requested  them  botli  to  sit  beside 
each  other  before  him.  He  then  asked 
Topertoe  where  his  gout  affected  him,  and 
having  been  informed  that  it  was  principally 
in  his  great  toe  and  right  foot,  he  deliber- 
ately stripped  the  foot,  and  having  pressed 
his  li.uiils  upon  it  for  about  the  space  of  ten 
minutes,  he  desired  his  patient  to  rise  up 
and  walk.  Tliis  he  did,  and  to  liis  utter  as- 
tonishment, without  the  slightest  sj'mptom  or 
sensation  of  pain. 


"  Wliy,  bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  the 
j^arson,  "  I  am  cured  ;  the  pain  is  altogether 
gone.     Let  me  have  a  bumper  of  claret." 

"  That  will  do,"  observed  the  stranger. 
"  You  are  incurable.  You  will  plunge  once 
more  into  a  life  of  intemperance  and  luxury, 
and  once  more  your  comjjlaint,  from  which 
you  are  now  free,  will  return  to  yoii.  You 
will  not  deny  yourself  the  gratification  of 
your  irrational  and  senseless  indulgences, 
and  yet  you  exjiect  to  be  cured.  As  for  me, 
I  can  only  remove  the  malady  of  such  per- 
sons as  you  for  the  present,  or  time  being  ; 
but,  so  long  as  you  return  to  tlie  exciting 
cause  of  it,  no  earthly  skill  or  power  in  man 
can  effect  a  permanent  cure.  Now,  Cooke,  I 
will  relieve  you  of  your  rheumatism  ;  but 
unless  you  exchange  this  flimsy  stuff  for  ap- 
parel suited  to  your  climate  and  condition,  I 
feel  that  I  am  incapable  of  rendering  you 
anything  but  a  temporary  relief" 

He  passed  his  hands  over  those  parts  of 
his  limbs  most  affected  by  his  complaint,  and 
in  a  short  time  he  (the  philosopher)  found 
himself  completely  free  from  his  pains. 

During  those  t^vo  most  extraordinary  pro- 
cesses Woodward  looked  on  with  a  degree 
of  wonder  and  of  interest  tliat  might  be 
truly  termed  intense.  What  the  operations 
which  took  place  before  him  could  mean  he 
knew  not,  but  when  the  stranger  turned 
round  to  the  fiiar  and  said, — "  Now  bring 
me  to  this  unhappy  girl,"  Woodward  seized 
his  hat,  feeling  a  presentiment  that  he  was 
going  to  the  rehef  of  Alice  Goodmn,  and 
with  hasty  steps  pi'oceeded  to  the  farm  house 
in  which  she  and  her  parents  lodged.  He 
was  now  desf)erate,  and  resolved,  if  courtesy 
failed,  to  force  one  more  annihilating  glance 
upon  her  before  the  mysterious  stranger 
should  arrive.  We  need  scarcely  inform  our 
readers  that  he  was  indignantly  repulsed  by 
the  family  ;  bat  he  was  furious,  and  in  spite 
of  all  opposition  forced  his  way  into  her  bed- 
room, to  which  he  was  led  by  her  groans — 
dying  gi'oaus  they  were  considered  by  all 
around  her.  He  rushed  into  her  bed-room, 
and  fixed  his  eye  uj^on  her  with  something 
like  the  fury  of  hell  in  it.  The  poor  girl  on 
j  seeing  him  a  second  time  fell  back  and 
I  moaned  as  if  she  had  exjiired.  The  viUaiii 
j  stood  looking  over  her  in  a  spirit  of  the  most 
i  malignant  triumph. 

"  It  is  done  now,"  said  he  ;  "  there  she  lies 
— a  coiiDse — and  I  am  now  master  of  my 
twelve  hundred  a  year." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when 
he  felt  a  powerful  hand  gi'asp  him  by  the 
shoulder,  and  send  him  with  dreadful  vio- 
lence to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  On  tuvn- 
ing  round  to  see  wlio  tlie  person  was  who  had 
actually  twirled  him  about  like  an  infant,  ho 


760 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


found  tlie  large,  but  benevoleut-looking 
stranger  standing  at  Alice's  bedside,  his 
linger  upon  the  jsulse  and  his  eyes  intently 
tixed  upon  her  apparently  lifeless  features. 
He  then  turned  round  to  Woodward,  and 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  thimder, — 

"  She  is  not  dead,  villain,  and  wUl  not  die 
on  this  occasion :  begone,  and  leave  the 
room." 

"Villain  !  "  replied  Woodward,  putting  his 
liand  to  his  sword  :  "  I  allow  no  man  to  call 
me  villain  unpunished." 

The  stranger  contemptuously  and  indig- 
nantly waved  his  hand  to  him,  as  much  as  to 
.s  ly — jsresentlj',  presently,  but  not  now.  The 
truth  is,  the  loud  tones  of  his  voice  had 
caused  Alice  to  oj)en  her  eyes,  and  instead  of 
finding  the  dreaded  being  before  her,  there 
stood  the  sj^mbol  of  benevolence  and  moral 
power,  with  his  mild,  but  clear  and  benignant 
eye  smUmg  upon  her. 

"  My  deal-  child,"  said  he,  "look  upon  me 
and  give  me  your  hands.  You  shall,  with 
the  assistance  of  that  God  who  has  so  mys- 
teriously gifted  me,  soon  be  well,  and  fi-ee 
from  the  evil  and  diaboUcal  influence  which 
has  been  for  such  selflsh  and  accxu'sed  pur- 
poses exercised  over  you." 

He  then  took  her  beautiful  but  emaciated 
hands  into  his  own,  which  were  also  soft  and 
beautiful,  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
hers,  he  then,  with  that  necessary  freedom 
which  physicians  exercise  with  then-  patients, 
pressed  his  hands  after  a  time  upon  her  tem- 
ples, her  head,  her  eyes,  and  her  heart,  the 
whole  famOy  beiag  present,  sei-vants  and  all. 
The  efi'ect  was  miraculous.  In  the  course  of 
twenty  minutes  the  girl  was  recovered  ;  her 
spirits — her  health  had  returned  to  her.  Her 
eyes  smiled  as  she  turned  them  mth  deUght 
upon  her  father  and  mother. 

"  O;  papa  !  "  she  exclaimed,  smiUng,  "  O, 
ilear  mamma,  what  can  this  mean  ?  I  am 
(3ured,  and  what  is  more,  I  am  no  longer 
afraid  of  that  vile,  bad  man.  May  the  God 
of  heaven  be  praised  for  this  !  but  how  will 
Ave  thank — how  can  we  thank  the  benevo- 
lent gentleman  who  has  rescued  me  fi'om 
death  ?  " 

"  More  thanks  are  due,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger, smiling,  "  to  Father  Mulrenin  here,  who 
acquainted  me  in  a  letter,  not  only  with  _your 
hielancholjf  condition,  but  with  the  suj^posed 
cause  of  it.  However,  let  your  thanks  be 
first  returned  to  God,  whose  mj'sterious  in- 
strument I  only  am.  Now,  sir,"  siiid  he, 
tiu-ning  to  Woodward,  "you  laid  your  hand 
upon  your  sword.  I  also  wear  a  sword,  not 
for  aggression  but  defence.  You  know  we 
met  before.  I  was  not  then  a^vare  of  your 
personal  history,  but  I  am  now.  I  have  just 
returned  from  Loudon,  where  I  was  at  the 


coiu-t  of  his  Majesty  Charles  the  Second 
While  in  London  I  met  your  grandunele,  and 
fi-om  him  I  learned  yoiu-  histoiy,  and  a  bad 
one  it  is.  Now,  sir,  I  beg  to  inform  you  tliat 
your  malignant  and  diabohcal  influence  over 
the  person  of  this  young  lady  has  ceased 
forever.  As  to  the  future,  she  is  free  fi-om 
that  influence  ;  but  if  I  ever  hear  that  you 
attempt  to  intrade  yoiu-self  into  her  presence, 
or  to  anijoy  her  family,  I  will  have  you  se- 
cured in  the  jail  of  Waterford  in  forty-eight 
hours  afterwards,  for  other  crimes  that  render 
you  liable  to  the  law." 

"And  pray  who  are  you  ?"  asked  Wood- 
wai-d,  with  a  blank  and  crestfallen  counte- 
nance, but  still  with  a  strong  feeling  of  en- 
mity and  bittemess — a  feeling  which  he 
could  not  repress.  "  'Who  are  you  who  pire- 
sume  to  dictate  to  me  upon  my  conduct  and 
course  of  life  ?  " 

"  Who  am  I  ? "  replied  the  sti-anger,  as- 
suming an  ail-  of  incredible  dignity.  "  Sir, 
my  name  is  Valentine  Geeatb.\kes,  a  person 
on  whom  God  has  bestowed  powers  which, 
apart  from  inspiration,  have  seldom  for  cen- 
turies ever  been  vouchsafed  to  man." 

Woodward  got  pale  again.  He  had  heard 
of  his  extraordinai-y  powers  of  curing  almost 
every  description  of  malady  peculiar  to  the 
human  fi-ame,  and  without  another  word 
slunk  out  of  the  room.  On  heaiing  his 
name  ]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  rushed  to  him, 
seized  his  hands,  and  -with  the  enthusiasm  of 
grateful  hearts  each  absolutely  wept  upon 
his  broad  and  ample  bosom.  He  was  at  this 
j:)eriod  about  forty-six  ;  but  seeing  AHce's 
face  ht  up  with  joy  and  delight,  he  stooped 
do^vn  and  kissed  her  as  a  father  would  a 
daughter  who  had  recovered  fi-om  the  death 
struggle.  "My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "you 
are  now  saved  ;  but  you  must  remain  here 
for  some  time  longer,  because  I  do  not  wish 
to  part  with  you  until  I  shall  have  completely 
confirmed  the  sanative  influence  \\ith  which 
God  has  enabled  me  to  reinvigorate  you  and 
others.  As  for  yoiu-  selfish  persecutor,  he 
will  trouble  you  no  more.  He  knows  now 
what  the  consequences  would  be  should  he 
attempt  it." 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

History  of  the  BUick  Spectre. 

Woodward  returned  to  the  public  room, 
where  he  was  soon  followed  by  Father  Mul- 
renin and  Greatrakes,  who  were  shortlj' 
joined  by  Mr.  Goodwin ;  Mrs.  Good^Ndn 
having  remained  at  home  -ndth  Alice.  Tlie 
dancing  went  on  with  great  animation,  and 
when  the  hour  of  sspiaer  arrived  there  was  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


761 


full  and  merry  table.  The  friar  was  in  gi-eat 
glee,  but  from  lime  to  time  kept  his  eye  close- 
ly fixed  upon  Woodward,  whose  countenance 
and  conduct  he  watched  closely.  It  might 
have  been  about  the  hour  of  midnight,  if  not 
later,  when,  after  a  short  lull  in  the  conver- 
sation, Father  Muh'euin  addi-essed  Sir.  Good- 
win as  follows  : — 

"Ml-.  Goodmn,  is  there  not  a  family  in 
your  neighborhood  named  Lindsay  '?  " 

"  There  is,"  replied  Goodwin  ;  "  and  a 
very  resijectable  family,  too." 

"  By  the  way,  there  is  a.  very  cuiious  tra- 
dition, or  legend,  connected  with  the  family 
of  Mr.  iiindsay's  wife  :  have  you  ever  he;u'd 
of  it  ?  " 

"  That  such  a  tradition,  or  legend,  ejdsts, 
I  believe,"  he  replied,  "but  there  are  many 
versions  of  it — although  I  have  never  heard 
any  of  them  distinctly  ;  something  I  did  he;u' 
about  what  is  termed  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv, 
or  the  Black  Spectre." 

"  WeU,  then,"  proceeded  the  friai-,  "  if  the 
company  has  no  objection  to  hear  an  au- 
thentic account  of  this  fearful  ai^jDarition,  I 
will  indulge  them  with  a  slight  sketch  of  the 
uaiTative  ; 

"  When  Essex  was  over  here  in  the  Eliza- 
bethan wars — and  a  nice  hand  he  made  of 
them  ;  not,  God  knows,  that  we  ought  to 
regTet  it,  but  I  like  a  good  general  whether 
he  is  for  us  or  against  us — devil  a  doubt  of 
that :  well,  when  Essex  was  over  here  con- 
ducting them  (with  reverence  be  it  sj^oken) 
it  so  hapi^ened  that  he  had  a  scoundrel  with 
him  by  name  Hamilton — and  a  thorough 
scoimifrel  was  he.  O  Lord !  if  I  had  Hved 
in  those  days,  and  wasn't  in  Orders  to  tie  my 
hands  up — but  no  matter  ;  this  same  scoun- 
drel was  one  of  the  handsomest  vagabonds  in 
the  Eughsh  camp.  Well  and  good  ;  but, 
indeed,  to  tell  God's  truth,  it  was  neither 
well  nor  good,  because,  as  I  said,  the  man 
was  a  first-rate,  tiptop  scoundrel  ;  but  you 
will  find  that  he  was  a  devdish  sight  more 
so  before  I  have  put  a  period  to  my  little 
narration.  Mr.  Woodward,  will  j^ou  hob  or 
nob  ?     I  think  j'our  name  is  Woodward  ?  " 

"  With  great  pleasure,  sir,"  repHed  Wood- 
ward ;  "  and  you  are  right,  my  name  is 
Woodward  ;  but  j)roceed  with  your  narra- 
tive, for,  I  assure  you,  I  feel  very  much 
interested  in  it,  esiiecially  in  that  portion  of 
it  which  relates  to  the  Black-  Spectre.  Though 
not  a  behever  in  supernatui-al  apj^earances,  I 
feel  much  gi-atification  in  listening  to  ac- 
counts of  them.     Pray  proceed,  sir." 

"  Well  sir,  it  so  happened  that  this  Hamil- 
ton, who  hatl  been  originally  a  Scotch  Red- 
shank, became  privately  acquainted  \\'ith  a 
beautiful  and  wealthy  orplian  girl,  a  relation 
of  the  U'Neils  ;    and  it  so  happened  again, 


that  whether  they  made  a  tlu-ow  on  the  dice 
for  it  or  not,  he  -won  her  affections.  So  far, 
however,  there  was  nothing  very  pai-ticularly 
obnoxious  in  it,  because  we  know  that  inter- 
mai'riages  between  Cathohcs  and  Protestants 
may  disarm  the  parties  of  then-  religious 
prejudices  against  each  other  ;  and  although 
I  cannot  aflirm  the  truth  of  what  I  am  about 
to  say  from  my  own  exiierience,  still,  I  think 
I  have  been  able  to  smell  out  the  fact  that 
little  Cupid  is  of  no  pai'ticular  reUgion,  and 
can  be  cLiimed  by  no  particular'  chiu'ch  ;  or 
rather  I  shoidd  say  that  he  is  claimed  by  all 
churches  and  all  creeds.  This  Hamilton,  as 
I  said,  was  exceedingly  handsome,  but  it 
seems  from  the  tratlitiou  that  it  was  bj'  the 
beauty  of  his  eyes  that  Eva  O'Neil  was  con- 
quered, just  as  the  first  Eve  was  by  the  eyes 
and  tongnie  of  the  serpent.  Not,  God  knows, 
that  the  great  Eve  was  any  great  shiikes, 
for  she  left  the  world  in  a  nice  phght  by  fall- 
ing in  love  with  a  serpent ;  but  upon  my 
credit  she  was  not  the  fii'st  woman,  excuse 
the  blunder,  who  fell  in  love  with  a  serpent, 
and  suffered  accordingly.  I  appale  to  Pytha- 
goras there." 

"  It  is  an  allegorj-,"  replied  the  Pythagore- 
an, "  and  simply  means  that  we  are  innocent 
so  long  as  we  are  young,  and  that  when  we 
come  to  maturity  we  ai'e  corrupted  and  de- 
praved by  our  passions." 

"  How  the  sorra  can  you  say  that,"  replied 
the  fr'iar,  "  when  you  know  that  Adam  and 
Eve  were  created  fvdl-grown  ?  " 

"  Pray  go  on  with  your  tradition,"  said 
Greatrakes,  "  and  let  us  hear  the  history  of 
the  Black  Spectre.  I  am  not  myself  an  in- 
fidel in  the  historj'  of  supernatural  appear- 
ances, and  I  wish  to  hear  you  out." 

"  Well,  then,"  rephed  the  friar,  "  you  shall. 
The  villain  proj)osed  marriage  to  this  beauti- 
ful young  orjjhan,  and  as  he  was  a  handsome 
vagabone,  as  I  have  stated,  he  was  accepted  ; 
but  his  eyes,  above  all  things,  were  irresisti- 
ble. They  were  married  by  a  Protestant 
clergyman,  and  immediately  aftei-wards  by  a 
Catholic  j)riest,  who  was  far  advanced  in 
j-ears.  The  lady  would  submit  to  no  mar- 
riage but  a  legal  one.  The  marriage,  how- 
ever, was  private  ;  for  Hamilton  knew  that 
Essex  was  aware  of  his  having  been  during 
this  event  a  married  man,  and  that  his  wife, 
who  was  a  distant  relation  of  the  Earl's,  was 
still  living.  The  marriage,  however,  came 
to  Essex's  ears,  and  Hamilton  was  called  to 
account.  He  denied  the  maniage,  the  old 
priest  ha\ing  been  now  dead,  and  none  but 
the  Protestant  clerg;\'man  of  the  parish  being 
alive  to  bear  testimony  to  the  fcxct  of  the 
maniage.  He  endeavored  to  prevail  upon 
the  clergyman  also  to  deny  the  maniage, 
which  he  refused  to  do,  whereujjou  he  was 


762 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


found  murdered.  His  wife  by  tliis  marriage 
having  leai'ued  from  Essex  that  Hamilton 
had  most  treacherously  deceived  her,  fell  in- 
to premature  labor  and  tlied  ;  but  her  last 
words  were  an  awful  curse  upon  him,  and 
his  children  after  him,  to  the  last  genera- 
tion. 

"  '  May  the  Eye  that  lured  me  to  destruc- 
tion,' she  said,  '  become  a  curse  to  you  and 
your  descendants  forever !  May  it  blight 
and  kill  aU  those  whom  it  looks  uj)on,  and 
render  it  dreadful  and  dreaded  to  all  those 
who  will  place  confidence  in  you  or  j'our  de- 
scendants ! " 

"  God  knows  I  couldn't  much  blame  her.; 
it  was  her  last  Christian  benediction  to  the 
villain  who  had  destroyed  her,  and,  setting 
charity  aside,  I  don't  see  how  she  could  have 
spoken  otherwise. 

"  When  the  proofs  of  the  marriage,  how- 
ever, were  about  to  be  brought  against  him, 
the  Protestant  clergyman,  who,  on  discover- 
ing his  iniquity,  was  too  honest  to  conceal 
it,  and  who  felt  bitterly  the  fraud  that  had 
been  practised  on  him,  was  fouud  murdered, 
as  I  have  said,  because  he  was  now  the  only 
evidence  left  against  Hamilton's  crime.  The 
latter  did  not,  however,  get  rid  of  him  by 
that  atrocious  and  inhuman  act.  The  spirit 
of  that  man  haunts  the  family  from  that  day 
(o  this  ;  it  is  always  a  messenger  of  evil  to 
them  whenever  he  ajjpears,  and  it  matters 
not  where  they  go  or  where  they  hve,  he  is 
sure  to  follow  them,  and  to  fasten  upon  some 
of  the  family,  generally  the  -n-ickedest,  of 
course,  as  his  victim.  Now,  Mi'.  Wood- 
ward, what  do  you  think  of  that  family  tra- 
dition ?  " 

"I  think  of  it,"  replied  Woodward,  "  with 
contempt,  as  I  do  of  everything  that  proceeds 
from  the  lips  of  an  ignorant  and  iUiterate 
Roman  Catholic  priest." 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  friar,  "I  am  not  the  in- 
ventor of  this  family  tradition,  nor  of  the 
crime  which  is  said — however  justly  I  know 
not — to  have  given  rise  to  it ;  but  this  I  do 
know,  that  no  man  having  claims  to  the 
character  of  a  gentleman  would  use  such 
language  to  a  defenceless  man  as  you  have 
just  used  to  me.  The  legend  is  traditionary 
in  your  family,  and  I  have  only  given  it  as  I 
have  heard  it.  If  I  were  not  a  clergyman  I 
would  chastise  you  for  your  insolence  ;  but 
my  hands  are  bound  up,  and  you  well  know 
it." 

"Friai-,"  said  Greatrakes,  "when  you 
know  that  your  hands  are  bound  up,  you 
should  have  avoided  insulting  any  man.  You 
should  not  have  related  a  piece  of  family 
history — perhaps  false  from  beginning  to 
end — in  the  jjresence  of  a  gentleman  so  ul- 
timately connected  with  that  family  as  you 


knew  him  to  be.  It  was  no  topic  for  a  com- 
mou  room  Uke  this,  and  it  was  quite  unjus 
tifiable  in  you  to  have  introduced  it." 

"  I  feel,  SU-,  that  j'ou  are  perfectlj'  right," 
rephed  the  good-natured  friar,  "  and  I  ask 
Mr.  Woodward's  pardon  for  liaving,  without 
the  sUghtest  intention  of  offence  to  him, 
done  so.  You  wiU  recollect  that  he  himseli 
expressed  an  anxiety  to  hear  it." 

"  All  I  say  upon  the  subject,"  observed 
the  Pythagorean,  "  is  simply  this,  that  Pyth- 
agoras himself  could  not  have  cured  me  of 
the  rheumatism  as  my  fiiend  Valeutme 
Greatrakes  has  done." 

"  You  will  require  no  cure,  and,»what  is 
better,  no  necessity  for  cure,"  rejsUed  Great- 
rakes, smiling,  "  if  you  will  have  only  com- 
mon sense,  my  dear  Cooke.  Clothe  yourself 
in  warm  and  comfortable  garments,  and 
feed  your  miserable  carcass  with  good  beef 
and  mutton,  and,  in  addition  to  which,  hke 
myself  and  the  friar  here,  take  a  warm  tum- 
bler of  good  usquebaugh  punch  to  jiromote 
digestion." 

"I  will  never  abandon  my  principles,"  re- 
plied the  philosojiher.  "  Linen  and  vege- 
table diet  forever." 

Manifold  was  asleep  after  his  gorge, — a 
sleep  from  which  he  never  awoke, — but  Doc- 
tor Doolittle,  anxious  to  secure  Cooke  as  a 
patient,  became  quite  eloquent  upon  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  vegetable  diet,  and  of  the 
Pythagorean  system  in  general ;  after  which 
the  conversation  of  the  night  closed,  and  the 
guests  depiarted  to  their  respective  lodg- 
ings. 

The  night  was  stiU  an  beautiful.  The 
moon  was  about  to  sink,  but  still  she  emit- 
ted that  faint  and  shadowv'  light  which  lends 
such  crdni,  but  picturesque  beauty  to  the 
nocturnal  landscape.  Wooodward  was  alone  : 
but  it  would  be  difficidt  to  lind  language  in 
which  to  describe  the  bitterness  of  his  feel- 
ings and  the  frightful  sense  of  liis  disap- 
pointment on  finding,  not  only  that  his  in- 
famous design  upon  the  life  of  Alice  Good- 
wdu  had  been  frustrated,  but  on  feeUng  cer- 
tain that  she  had  been  restored  to  perfect 
health  before  his  eyes.  This,  however,  was 
not  the  worst  of  it.  He  had  calculated  on 
killing  her,  and  consequently  of  securing  the 
twelve  hundred  a  3'ear,  on  the  strength  of 
which  lie  and  his  mother  could  confidently 
negotiate  with  the  old  nobleman,  who  al- 
ways slept  with  one  eye  open.  In  the  venom 
and  dark  m.alignity  of  his  heart  he  cursed 
Alice  Goodwin,  he  cursed  Valentine  Great- 
rakes, he  cursed  the  world,  and  he  cursed 
God,  or  rather  would  have  cursed  him  had 
he  believed  in  the  existence  of  such  a  lieiug. 

In  tills  mood  of  mind  he  was  proceeding 
to  his  lodgings,  when  he  espied  before  him 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


763 


the  Shan-dhiiine-dhuv,  or  Black  Sj^ecb-e  with 
the  middogTie  in  his  hand.  He  stood  and 
looked  at  it  steadily. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  he,  addressing  the 
figure  before  him.  "  ^^'hat  pranks  are  you 
playing  now?  Do  jou  think  me  a  fool? 
\\Tiat  brouglit  you  here  ?  and  what  do  you 
mean  by  this  pantomimic  nonsense,  Mr. 
Conjurer  ?  " 

The  fignire,  of  course,  made  no  reply,  ex- 
cept by  gesture.  It  brandished  the  mid- 
dogue,  or  dagger,  however,  aiid  pointed  it 
three  times  at  his  heart.  The  spot  upon 
which  this  strange  inten'iew  occiuTed  was 
perfectly  clear  of  anything  that  could  con- 
ceal an  individual.  In  fact  it  was  an  oj)eu 
common.  Woodwai'd,  consequently,  led 
astray  by  circumstances  with  which  the 
reader  will  become  subsequeutlj-  acquainted, 
started  forward  ■with  the  intention  of  reach- 
ing the  individual  whom  he  suspected  of  in- 
dulging himself  in  plaj'ing  with  his  fears,  or 
rather  wth  jocularly  intending  to  excite 
them.  He  sprang  forward,  we  say,  and 
reached  the  spot  on  which  the  Black  Spectre 
had  stood,  but  oiu-  readers  may  judge  of  his 
surprise  when  he  found  that  the  spectre,  or 
whatever  it  was,  had  disappeared,  and  was 
nowhere,  or  any  longer,  visible.  Place  of 
concealment  there  was  none.  He  examined 
the  ground  abc)ut  him.  It  was  firm  and 
compact,  and  without  a  fissure  in  which  a 
rat  could  conceal  itself. 

There  is  no  power  in  human  natirre  which 
enables  the  heart  of  man,  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, to  bear  the  occm-reuce  of  such 
a  scene  as  we  have  described,  unmoved. 
The  man  was  hardened — an  infidel,  an  athe- 
ist ;  but,  notwithstanding  all  this,  a  sense  of 
awe,  wonder,  and  even,  in  some  degi-ee,  of 
terror,  came  over  his  heart,  which  nearly  un- 
nerved him.  Most  atheists,  however,  are 
utter  profligates,  as  he  was  ;  or  sLUy  philoso- 
phers, who,  because  thej'  take  their  own  rea- 
son for  their  guide,  will  come  to  no  other 
conclusion  than  that  to  which  it  leads  them. 

"  It  is  simply  a  hallucination,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  and  merely  the  resvilt  of  having 
heai'd  the  absui-d  nonsense  of  what  that 
ignorant  and  credulous  old  friar  related  to- 
night concerning  my  family.  StUl  it  is 
strange,  because  I  am  cool  and  sober,  and  in 
the  perfect  use  of  my  senses.  This  is  the 
same  appearance  which  I  saw  before  neur 
the  Haunted  House,  and  of  which  I  never 
could  get  any  account.  "What  if  there  should 
be ?" 

He  checked  himself  and  proceeded  to  his 
lodgings,  with  an  intention  of  returning 
home  the  next  morning  ;  which  he  did,  after 
having  failed  in  the  murderous  mission  which 
he  undertook  to  accompli.sh. 


"  Mother,"  said  he,  after  his  return  home, 
"  aU  is  lost :  Ahce  Goodwin  has  been  restored 
to  perfect  health  by  Valentine  Greatrakes, 
and  my  twelve  hundred  a  year  is  gone  for 
ever.  How  can  we  enter  into  negotiations 
with  that  shai-p  old  scouncb'el.  Lord  Cockle- 
town,  now  ?  I  assure  you  I  had  her  at  ine 
last  gasp,  when  Greatrakes  came  in  and 
restored  her  to  perfect  health  before  my 
face.  But,  setting  that  aside  for  the  jiresent, 
is  there  such  a  being  as  what  is  termed  the 
Black  Spectre,  mysteriously  connected,  if  T 
may  say  so,  with  our  ftimily  ?  " 

His  mother's  face  got  pale  as  death. 

"  AMiy  do  j-ou  ask,  Harry  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  reason  I 
think  that  I  have  seen  it  t^^'ice." 

"iUas  !  alas  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "then  th 
doom  of  the  curse  is  upon  uou.  It  select 
onlj'  one  of  every  generation  on  which  to  wori 
its  vengeance.  The  third  appeai-ance  of  i 
will  be  fatal  to  you." 

"This  is  aU  contemptible  absurdity,  m;j 
dear  mother.  I  don't  care  if  I  saw  it  }■ 
thousand  times.  How  can  it  interfere  ■uitb 
my  fate  ?  " 

"It  does  not  interfere,"  she  replied,  "it 
onl}'  intimates  it,  and  whatever  the  nature 
of  the  individual's  death  among  our  family 
may  be,  it  shadows  it  out.  AMiat  signs  did  it 
make  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  brandished  what  is  called  in  this 
country  a  middogue,  or  Ii-isli  dagger,  at  my 
heart." 

His  mother  got  pale  again. 

"Harrj%"  said  she,  "I  would  recommend 
you  to  leave  the  kingdom.  Avoid  the  third 
warning !  " 

"  Mother,"  he  rejjlied,  "  this  cerfaiuly  is 
sad  nonsense.  I  have  no  notion  of  leaving 
the  Idngdom  in  consequence  of  such  super- 
stitious stuff  as  this  ;  all  these  things  are 
soap  bubbles  ;  put  your  finger  on  them  and 
they  dissolve  into  nothing.  How  is  Charles  ? 
for  I  have  not  j'et  seen  him." 

"  Improving  very  much,  although  not  able 
yet  to  leave  his  room." 

Woodward  walked  about  and  seemed 
absorbed  in  thought. 

"  It  is  a  painful  thing,  mother,"  said  he, 
'■  that  Charles  is  so  long  recovering.  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  he  will 
never  recover  ?  His  wound  was  a  di'eadful 
one,  and  its  consequences  on  his  constitution 
wUl,  I  fear,  be  fatal." 

"I  hojje  not,  HaiTy,"  she  replied,  "for 
ever  since  his  illness  I  have  found  that  my 
heart  gathers  about  him  with  an  afi'ection  that 
I  have  never  felt  for  him  before." 

"  Yoiu-  resolution,  then,  is  fixed,  I  suppose 
to  leave  him  your  property  ?  " 

"  It  is  fixed  ;  there  is,  or  can  be,  no  doubt 


764 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


about  it.  Once  I  come  to  a  determination  I 
am  immovable.  We  shall  be  able  to  ■wheedle 
Lord  Cockletown  and  his  niece." 

Haiiy  paused  a  moment,  then  passed  out 
of  the  room,  and  retii'ed  to  his  own  apart- 
ment. 

Here  he  remained  for  hours.  At  the  close 
of  the  evening  he  ajipeared  in  the  withdi-aw- 
ing-room,  but  still  Lu  a  silent  and  gloom j' 
state. 

The  perfect  cure  of  Miss  Goodwin  had 
spread  Uke  vdldtire,  and  reached  the  whole 
countrj'. 

Greatrake's  reputation  was  then  at  its 
highest,  and  the  number  of  his  cures  was  the 
theme  of  aU  conversation.  Barney  Casey 
had  well  marked  Woodwartl  since  his  retvu-n 
from  Ballysf»ellaii,  and  having  heard,  in  con- 
nection with  others,  that  Miss  Goodwin  had 
been  ciu-ed  by  Greatrakes,  he  resolved  to 
keep  his  ej'e  upon  him,  and,  indeed,  as  the 
event  will  prove,  it  was  well  he  did  so. 

That  night,  about  the  hour-  of  twelve 
o'clock,  Barney,  who  had  suspected  that  he 
(Woodward)  had  either  murdered  Grace  Dav- 
oren  in  order  to  conceal  his  own  guUt,  or 
kept  her  in  some  secret  place  for  the  most 
unjustifiable  pui-jjoses,  remarked  that,  as  was 
generally  usual  with  him,  he  did  not  go  to 
bed  at  the  period  peculiar  to  the  habits  of 
the  family. 

"There  is  something  on  my  mind  this 
night,"  said  Barney  ;  "  I  can't  tell  what  it  is  ; 
but  I  think  he  is  bent  on  some  viUaiuous 
Scheme  that  ought  to  be  watched,  and  in  the 
name  of  God  I  wUl  watch  him." 

Woodward  went  out  of  the  house  more 
stealthily  than  usual,  and  took  his  way 
towards  the  town  of  Kathfillan.  A  good  way 
in  the  distance  behind  him  might  be  discov- 
ered another  figiu-e  dogging  his  footsteps, 
that  figure  being  no  other  than  the  honest 
figure  of  Barney  Casey.  On  went  Woodward 
unsuspicious  that  he  was  watched,  until  he 
reached  the  indescribable  cabin  of  Sol  Don- 
nel,  the  old  herbaUst.  The  night  had  be- 
come dai'k,  and  Barney  was  able,  without 
being  seen,  to  come  near  enough  to  Wood- 
ward to  hear  his  words  and  observe  his 
actions.  He  tapped  at  the  old  man's  win- 
dow, which,  after  some  delay  and  a  good 
deal  of  grumbling,  was  at  length  ojjened  to 
him.  The  hut  consisted  of  only  one  room — 
a  fact  which  Barney  well  knew. 

"  "WTio  is  there  ?  "  said  the  old  herbaUst. 
"  ^\Tiy  do  you  come  at  this  hour  to  deprive 
me  of  my  rest  ?  Nobody  comes  for  any 
good  purpose  at  such  an  hour  as  this." 

"  Open  your  door,  you  liAiiocritical  old 
sinner,  and  I  v.tU  speak  to  you.  Open  your 
door  instantly." 

"  Wait,  then ;  I  will  open  it ;  to  be  sure 


I  \vill  open  it ;  because  I  know  whoever  you 
are  that  if  there  was  not  something  extraor- 
dinary in  it,  it  isn't  at  this  hour  you'd  be 
coming  to  me." 

"  Open  the  door  I  say,  and  then  I  shiill 
speak  to  you." 

The  window,  which  the  old  herbalist  had 
opened,  and,  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment, 
left  unshut,  remained  uushut,  and  Barney, 
after  Woodward  had  entered,  stood  close  to 
it  in  order  to  hear  the  conversation  which 
might  i^ass  between  them. 

"Now,"  said  Woodward,  after  he  had  en- 
tered the  hut,  "  I  want  a  dose  fi'om  you. 
One  of  my  dogs,  I  feai',  is  seized  with  ineij)- 
ient  sjinptoms  of  hydroiihobia,  and  I  wish  to 
dose  him  to  death." 

"And  what  hour  is  this  to  come  for  such 
a  puii^ose'?"  asked  Sol  Donnel.  "It  isn't 
at  midnight  that  a  man  comes  to  me  to  ask 
for  a  dose  of  poison  for  a  dog." 

"  You  are  very  right  m  that,"  replied 
Woodward  ;  "  but  the  truth  is,  that  I  had 
an  assignation  with  a  gu'l  in  the  town,  and  I 
thought  that  I  might  as  well  call  uj^on  you 
now  as  at  any  other  time." 

The  eye  of  the  old  sinner  glistened,  for  he 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  malady  of  the 
dog  was  a  fable. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  can  give  you  the 
dose,  but  what's  to  be  the  recompense  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  ask  ?  "  replied  the  other. 

"  I  win  dose  nothing  under  five  pounds." 

"Ai-e  you  certain  that  your  dose  will 
be  sure  to  effect  its  purpose  ?  "  asked  Wood- 
ward. 

"  As  siu-e  as  I  am  of  life,"  replied  the  old 
sinner  ;  "  one  glass  of  it  would  settle  a  man 
as  soon  as  it  would  a  dog  ;  "  and  as  he  spoke 
he  fastened  his  keen,  glittering  eyes  upon 
Woodward.  The  glance  seemed  to  saj',  I 
understimd  you,  and  I  know  that  the  dog 
you  are  about  to  give  the  dose  to  walks 
upon  two  legs  instead  of  four. 

"Now,"  said  Woodward  after  having  se- 
cured the  bottle,  "  here  are  your  five  ijounds, 

and  mark  me "   he  looked  sternly  in  the 

face  of  the  herbaUst,  but  added  not  another 
word. 

The  herbaUst,  having  secured  the  money 
and  deposited  it  in  his  pocket,  said,  with  a 
malicious  grin, — 

"  Couldn't  you,  ill'.  Woodward,  have  pre- 
vented yourself  from  going  to  the  expense 
of  five  pounds  for  poisoning  a  dog,  that  you 
could  have  shot  without  aU  this  expense  ?  " 

Woodward  looked  at  him.  "YourUfe," 
said  he,  "  wUl  not  be  worth  a  day's  purchase 
if  you  breathe  a  syllable  of  what  took  place 
between  us  this  night.  Sol  Donnel,  I  am  a 
desperate  man,  other\nse  I  would  not  have 
come  to  you.     KeejJ  the  secret  between  us, 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


for,  if  you  divulge  it,  you  may  take  my  word 
for  it  that  you  will  not  survive  it  twenty- 
four  hours.  Now,  be  warned,  for  I  am  both 
resolute  and  serious." 

The  herbalist  felt  the  energy  of  his  lan- 
guage and  was  subdued. 

"  No,  "  he  replied,  "  I  shall  never  breathe 
it ;  liiU  your  dog  in  your  own  way  ;  all  I 
can  say  is,  that  half  a  glass  of  it  would  kiLL  the 
strongest  horse  in  your  stable  ;  only  let  me  re- 
mark that  I  gave  you  the  bottle  to  kill  a  dog  !  " 

"Now,"  thought  Barney  Casey,  "what 
can  aU  this  mean  ?  There  is  none  of  the 
dogs  wi-ong.  He  is  at  some  de\irs  work  , 
but  what  it  is  I  do  not  know  ;  I  shall  watch 
him  well,  however,  and  it  wiU  go  hard  or  I 
shall  find  out  his  pui-pose." 

As  Woodward  was  about  to  depart  he 
mused  for  a  time,  and  at  length  addressed 
the  herbalist. 

"  Suppose,"  said  he,  "  that  I  -B-ish  to  kUl 
this  dog  by  slow  degi'ees,  would  it  not  be  a 
good  plan  to  give  him  a  little  of  it  every- 
day, and  let  him  die,  as  it  were,  by  inches  ?  " 

"  That  my  bed  maj'  be  made  in  heaven  but 
it  is  a  good  thought,  and  by  far  the  safest 
plan,"  rephed  the  herbalist,  "and  the  very 
one  I  would  recommend  you.  A  small 
spoonful  every  day  put  into  his  coifee  or 
her  coffee,  as  the  case  may  be,  will,  in  the 
course  of  a  fortnight  or  three  week.s,  make 
a  complete  cure." 

"  Why,  you  old  scoundrel,  who  ever  heard 
of  a  dog  drinking  coffee  ?  " 

"I  did,"  replied  the  old  villain,  with  an- 
other grin,  "and  many  a  time  it  is  newly 
sweetened  for  them,  too,  and  they  take  it 
untd  thej-  fall  asleep  ;  but  they  forget  to 
waken  somehow.  Taste  that  j'oiu'self,  and 
you'll  find  that  it  is  beautifully  sweetened  ; 
because  if  it  was  given  to  the  dog  in  its 
natural  bitter  state  he  might  refuse  to  take 
it  at  all,  or,  what  would  be  worse  and  more 
dangerous  still,  he  might  suspect  the  reason 
why  it  was  given  to  him." 

The  two  persons  looked  each  other  in  the 
face,  and  it  would,  indeed,  be  difficult  to 
witness  such  an  exjjression  as  the  counten- 
ance of  each  betrayed.  That  of  the  herbahst 
lay  princiiiaUy  in  his  fen-et  eyes.  It  was 
cruel,  selfish,  cunning,  and  avaricious.  Tlie 
eye  of  the  other  was  dark,  significant,  vin- 
dictive, and  terrible.  In  his  handsome 
features  there  was,  when  contrasted  with 
those  of  the  herbalist,  a  demoniacid  eleva- 
tion, a  Satanic  intellectuality  of  expression, 
which  rendered  the  contrast  striking  beyond 
belief  The  one  appeared  with  the  power 
of  Apollyon.  the  god  of  destraction,  conscious 
of  that  power  ;  the  other  as  his  mere  con- 
temptible agent  of  evil — subordinate,  low, 
villauous,  and  wicked. 


Woodward,  after  a  significant  look,  bade 
him  good  night,  and  took  his  way  home. 

Barney  Casey,  however,  still  dogged  him 
stealtliily,  because  he  knew  not  whether  the 
dose  was  intended  for  Grace  Davoren  or  his 
brother  Choiies.  Mrs.  Lindsay  had  made  no 
secret  of  her  intention  to  leave  her  propei-ty 
to  the  latter,  whose  danger,  and  the  state 
of  whose  health,  had  awakened  aU  those 
affections  of  the  mother  which  had  lain 
dormant  in  her  heart  so  long.  The  revivifi- 
cation of  her  affections  for  liim  was  one  of 
those  capricious  manifestations  of  feeUng 
which  can  emanate  from  no  other  source  but 
the  heart  of  a  mother.  Independently  of 
this,  there  was  in  the  mind  of  Sirs.  Lindsay 
a  jDrinciple  of  conscious  guilt,  of  hardness  of 
heart,  of  all  want  of  common  humanity, 
that  sometimes  startled  her  into  terror.  She 
knew  the  villany  of  her  son  Woodwai-d,  and, 
after  all,  the  heart  of  a  woman  and  a  mother 
is  not  like  the  heart  of  a  man.  There  is  a 
tendency  to  recuf)eration  in  a  woman's  and 
a  mother's  heart,  which  can  be  found  no- 
where else  ;  and  the  contrast  which  she  felt 
herself  forced  to  institute  between  the  gen- 
erous character  of  her  son  Chai-les .  and  the 
villany  of  Woodward  broke  down  the  hard 
propensities  of  her  spirit,  and  subdued  her 
verj-  wickedness  into  something  like  hu- 
manity. Virtue  and  goodness,  after  all,  will 
work  their  way,  especially  where  a  moth- 
er's feelings,  conscious  of  the  e^il  and 
conscious  of  the  good,  are  forced  to  strike 
the  balance  between  them.  This  con- 
sideration it  was  which  determined  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  in  addition  to  other  considerations 
already  alluded  to,  to  come  to  the  resolution 
of  leaving  her  property  to  her  son  Charles. 
There  is,  besides,  a  want  of  confidence  and 
of  mutual  affection  in  villany  which  reacts 
ujion  the  heart,  precisely  as  it  did  upon  that 
of  J\Ii-s.  Lindsay.  She  knew  that  her  eldest 
son  was  in  intention  a  murderer  ;  and  there 
is  a  ten-ible  summons  in  conscience  which 
sometimes  awakens  the  soul  into  a  sense  of 
virtue  and  truth. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Barney  Casey's  vigi- 
lance was  ineffectual.  From  the  night  on 
which  Woodward  got  the  bottle  from  the 
herbalist,  Charles  Lindsay  began  gradually 
and  slowly  to  decline.  Barney's  situation  in 
the  family  was  that  of  a  general  sei"vant,  in 
fact,  a  man  of  ail  work,  and  the  necessaiy 
consequence  '^as,  that  he  could  not  contra- 
vene the  conduct  of  Harry  Woodward,  al- 
though he  saw  clearly  that,  notwithstanding 
Charles's  wound  was  nearly  healed,  his  gen- 
eral health  was  getting  worse. 

Now,  the  benevolence  and  singular  power 
of  Valentine  Greatrakes  are  historical  facts 
which  cannot  be  contradicted.     After  about 


766 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S   WORIvS. 


a  inontli  from  the  time  he  cured  Alice  Good- 
win he  came  to  the  town  of  Rathfillan,  with 
several  objects  in  view,  Due  of  which  was  to 
eee  AUce  Goodwin,  and  to  ascertain  that  her 
ftealth  was  perfectly  reestablished.  But  the 
other  and  greater  one  was  that  which  we 
*hall  describe.  Mr.  Liudsaj',  having  pei-- 
ceived  that  his  son  Charles's  health  was 
gradually  becoming  worse,  though  his  wound 
was  healed,  and  on  finding  that  the  jjliysician 
who  attouded  him  could  neither  do  anything 
for  his  mslady,  nor  even  account  for  it,  or 
pronounce  a  diagnosis  ujjon  its  character, 
bethought  6iio  of  the  mau  who  had  so  com- 
pletely cured  Ai5ce  Goodwin.  Accordingly, 
on  Greatrakes's  vi3it  to  KathfiUan,  he  waited 
upon  him,  and  requested,  as  a  f)ersonal  fa- 
vor, that  he  would  con:e  and  see  his  dying 
son,  for  indeed  Charles  h.^  that  time  was  ap- 
parenth'  not  many  days  ttom  death.  This 
distinguished  and  wealtny  geEtieman  at  once 
assented,  and  told  Mr.  LiEdsa>  that  he 
would  visit  his  sen  the  next  day. 

"I  may  not  cure  him,"  said  he,  '•  yiecaus*^ 
there  are  certain  complaints  which  cannoi 
be  cured.  Such  comjalaints  I  never  atteippt 
to  cure  ;.  and  even  iu  others  that  are  cui-abio- 
I  sometimes  fail.  But  wherever  there  is  a 
possibility  of  cure  I  rarely  fail.  I  am  not 
proud  of  this  gift ;  on  the  contrary,  it  has 
subdued  my  heart  into  a  sense  of  piety  and 
gratitude  to  God,  who,  in  his  mercy,  has 
been  pleased  to  make  me  the  instrument  of 
so,  much  good  to  my  fellow-creatures.'' 

Mr  Lindsay  returned  home  to  his  family 
in  high  spirits,  and  on  his  way  to  the  house 
obseiTed  his  stepson  Woodward  and  Barney 
Casey  at  the  door  of  the  dog-kennel. 

"  I  maintain  the  dog  is  wrong,"  said 
Woodward,  "  and  to  me  it  seems  an  iucipi- 
tent  case  of  hydrophobia." 

"  And  to  me,"  replied  Barney,  "  it  appears 
that  his  complaint  is  hunger,  and  that  you 
have  simply  de^jrived  Mm  of  his  necessary 
food." 

At  this  moment  INIr.  Lindsay  approached 
them,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Harry,  let  your  honest  and  affectionate 
heart  cheer  ujj.  Valentine  Greatrakes  wiU 
be  here  to-morrow,  and  will  cure  Charles,  as 
he  cured  Alice  Goodwin,  and  then  we  will 
have  them  married  ;  for  if  he  recovers  I  am 
determined  on  it,  and  will  aliide  no  opposi- 
tion from  any  quarter.  Lideed,  Harry,  your 
mother  is  now  willing  that  they  should  be 
married,  and  is  sorry  that  she  ever  opposed 
it.  Your  motlier,  thank  God,  is  a  changed 
woman,  and  thank  God  the  change  is  one 
that  makes  my  very  heart  rejoice." 

"  God  be  praised,"  exclaimed  Barney, 
"  that  w  good  news,  and  makes  my  heart  re- 
joice nearly  as  much  as  yours." 


"Father,"  said  Woodward,  "you  have 
taken  a  heavy  load  oiJ  mj-  mind.  Charles  is 
certainly  very  ill,  and  until  Greatrakes  comes 
I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  watch  and  nurse 
tend  him  myself." 

"  It  is  just  what  I  would  expect  from  your 
kind  and  affectionate  heart,  Hany,"  rejslied 
Lindsay,  rather  slowly  though,  who  then 
passed  into  the  house  to  communicate  the 
gi-atifj-^ing  intelligence  to  his  wife  and  daugh- 
tei". 

The  intensity  of  Woodward's  malignity 
and  villany  was  such  that,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned before,  on  some  occasions  he  forgot 
himself  into  -such  a  state  of  mind,  and,  what 
was  worse,  into  such  an  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, as,  especially  to  Barney  Casey,  who 
so  deeply  susjiected  him,  challenged  obser- 
vation. After  Lindsay  had  gone  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  chin,  and  said,  still  with  cau- 
tion,— 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow,  I  wiU  watch  him  myself 
this  night ;  for  if  he  happened  to  die  before 
Greatrakes  comes  to-morrow,  what  an  afflic- 
tion would  it  not  be  to  the  family,  and 
especially  to  myself,  who  love  him  so  well. 
Yes,  in  order  to  sustain  and  support  him,  I 
will  watch  him  and  act  as  his  nurse  this 
right." 

There  was,  however,  such  an  expression 
on  his  countenance  as  could  not  be  mistaken 
even  by  a  common  observer,  much  less  by 
such  an  acute  one  as  Barney  Casey,  who  had 
his  eye  upon  him  for  such  a  length  of  time  ! 
His  countenance,  Barney  saw  plainly,  was  as 
dark  as  hell,  and  seemed  to  catch  its  inspi- 
ration from  that  damnable  region. 

"  Barney,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  watch  the 
sick  bed,  and  nurse  mj'  brother  Charles  to- 
night, in  order,  if  possible,  to  sustain  him 
until  Greatrakes  cures  him  to-morrow." 

"  Ah,  it's  j'ou  that  is  the  affectionate 
brother,"  replied  Bai'ney,  who  had  read  de- 
liberate murder  in  his  countenance.  "But," 
he  exclaimed,  after  Woodward  had  gone,  "  if 
you  watch  him  this  night,  I  will  watch  you. 
You  know  now  that  he  stands  between  you 
and  your  mother's  projierty,  and  you  will 
put  him  out  of  the  way  if  you  can.  Ye.s,  I 
will  watch  you  well  this  night." 

The  minute  poisoned  doses  which  he  had 
contrived  to  administer  to  his  brother  were 
always  followed  by  an  excessive  thirst.  Now, 
Barney  had,  as  we  have  often  said,  strong 
susjiicions ;  but  on  this  occasion  he  was 
determined  to  place  himself  in  a  position 
from  which  he  could  watch  every  move- 
ment of  Woodward  without  being  sus- 
pected himself.  His  iisual  sleeping  place 
was  in  a  low  gallery  below  stairs  ;  but  it  so 
happened  that  there  was  a  closet  beside 
Charles's  bed  in  wliich  there  was  neither  bed 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SI' EC  TEE. 


761 


nor  furniture  of  any  kiud,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  single  chair.  The  door  between 
them  had,  as  is  usual,  two  panes  of  glass  in 
it,  through  which  any  person  in  the  dark  could 
see  what  happened  in  the  room  in  which 
Charles  slept. 

Barney  locked  the  door  on  the  inside,  and 
it  was  well  that  he  did  so,  for  in  a  short  time 
Woodward  came  in,  with  a  guilty  and  a 
stealthy  pace,  and  having  looked,  like  a  mur- 
derer, about  the  room,  he  approached  the 
closet  door  and  tried  to  ojjen  it ;  but  finding 
that  it  was  locked  his  ajiprehensions  vanished, 
and  he  dehberately,  on  seeing  that  his  broth- 
er was  asleefi,  took  a  bottle  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  having  poured  about  a  \vine-glassful  of 
the  poison  into  the  small  jug  which  con- 
tained the  usual  drink  of  the  patient,  he  left 
the  room,  satisfied  that,  as  soon  as  his 
brother  awoke,  he  would  take  the  deadly 
draught.  When  he  departed,  Barney  came 
out,  and  having  substituted  another  for  it — 
for  there  was  a  variety  of  potions  on  the  sick 
table — he,  too,  stealthily  descended  the  stairs, 
and  going  to  the  dog-kennel  dehberately  ad- 
ministered the  pernicious  draught  to  the  dog 
which  Woodward  had  insisted  was  unwell. 
He  happily  escajied  all  observation,  and  ac- 
complished his  plan  without  either  notice  or 
suspicion.  He  stayed  in  the  kennel  in  order 
to  watch  the  eifects  of  the  potion  upon  the 
dog,  who  died  in  the  course  of  about  fifteen 
minutes  after  having  received  it. 

"  Now,"  said  Barnej',  "  I  think  I  have  my 
thumb  upon  him,  and  it  will  go  hard  with  me 
or  I  wdU  make  him  suifer  for  this  helhsh  in- 
tention to  murder  his  brother.  Islv.  Greatr 
rakes  is  a  man  of  great  wealth  and  high 
rank  ;  he  is,  besides,  a  magistrate  of  the 
county,  and,  please  God,  I  will  disclose  to 
him  all  that  I  have  seen  and  suspect." 

Barney,  under  the  influeni'e  of  these  feel- 
ings, went  to  bed,  satisfied  that  he  had  saved 
the  life  of  Charles  Lindsay,  at  least  for  that 
night,  but  at  the  same  time  resolved  to  Ijring 
his  murderous  brother  to  an  account  for  his 
conduct. 


CHAPTER  XXHI. 

Greatrakes  at  Work — Denouement. 

Greatrakes  was  on  his  way  fi-om  Birch 
Grove  to  Rathfillan  House  the  next  day  when 
he  was  met  by  Barney  Casey,  who  had  been 
on  the  lookout  for  him.  Barney,  who  knew 
not  his  person,  was  not  capalile  of  determin- 
ing whether  he  was  the  individual  whom  he 
wanted  or  not.  At  all  events  he  resolved  at 
once  to   ascertain   that   fact.     Accordingly, 


putting  his  hand  to  liis  hat,  he  said,  with  a 
resj^ectful  manner, — 

"Pray,  sir,  are  you  the  great  Valentine 
Great  Rooke,  who  prevents  the  people  from 
dj-in'?" 

"  I  am  Valentine  Greatrakes,"  he  replied, 
with  a  smile  ;  "  but  I  cannot  prevent  the  peo- 
ple from  dying." 

"  Begad,  but  you  can  prevent  them  from 
being  sick,  at  any  rate.  I  am  myself  some- 
times subject  to  a  colic,  bad  luck  to  it — (this 
was  a  lie,  got  up  for  the  purjjose  of  arresting 
the  -attention  of  Greatrakes) — and  maybe  if 
you  would  be  kind  enough  to  nib  me  down 
you  would  drive  the  wind  out  of  me  and 
cure  me  of  it,  for  at  least,  by  aU  accounts 
through  the  whole  parish,  it's  a  windy  colic 
that  haunts  me." 

Greatrakes,  who  was  a  man  of  great  good- 
nature, and  strongly  susceptible  of  humor, 
laughed  very  heartily  at  Barney's  account  of 
his  miserable  state  of  health. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  my  good  friend,  let  me 
teU  you  that  the  cohc  you  sjDeak  of  is  one  of 
the  most  healthy  diseases  we  have.  Don't, 
if  you  regard  j-our  constitution,  and  your 
health,  ever  attempt  to  get  rid  of  it.  Your 
constitution  is  a  wiudy  constitution,  and 
that  is  the  reason  why  you  are  graciously 
atirticted  with  a  windy  cohc." 

It  was,  in  fact,  diamond  cut  diamond  be- 
tween the  two.  Barney,  who  had  never  had 
a  coUc  in  his  Ufe,  shi-ugged  his  shoulders 
very  dolefully  at  the  miserable  character  of 
the  sympathy  which  was  expressed  for  him  ; 
and  Greatrakes,  from  his  great  powers  of 
observation,  saw  that  every  word  Barney 
uttered  with  respect  to  his  besetting  malady 
was  a  lie. 

At  length  Barney's  countenance  assumed 
an  exjiression  of  such  honest  sincerity  and 
feeling  that  Greatrakes  was  at  once  strack 
by  it,  and  he  kept  his  eye  steadily  fixed  upon 
him. 

"Sh","  said  Baniej',  "I  understand  you 
are  a  distinguished  gentleman  and  a  magis- 
trate besides  ?  " 

"I  am  certainly  a  magistrate,"  repHed 
Greatrakes  ;  "  but  what  is  j-our  object  in 
asking  the  question,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  I  understand  you  are  going  to  cure 
Masther  Charles  Lindsaj-.  Now,  I  wish  to 
give  you  a  hint  or  two  concerning  him.  His 
brother — he  of  the  Evil  Eye — according  to 
my  most  solemn  and  serious  opinion,  is 
poisoning  him  by  degrees.  I  think  he  has 
been  dosing  him  upon  a  small  scale,  so  as  to 
make  him  die  ofi'  l)y  the  effects  of  poison, 
without  anj'  suspicion  being  raised  against 
himself ;  but  Avhen  his  father  told  him  yes- 
terday that  you  were  to  come  this  day  to 
cure    him,    his    brother    insisted    that    he 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


should  sit  up  with  him,  and  nurse-tend  him 
himself.  I  was  aware  of  this,  and  from  a 
conversation  I  heard  him  have  with  an  old 
herbalist,  named  Sol  Dounel,  I  had  suspi- 
cious of  his  desi.cfn  against  his  brother's  life. 
He  strove  to  kill  iliss  Good-n-in  by  the 
damnable  force  and  power  of  his  Evil  Eye, 
and  would  have  done  so  had  not  you  cui-ed 
her." 

"And  are  you  sure,"  replied  Greatrakes, 
"  that  it  is  not  his  Evil  Eye  that  is  kilHng 
his  brother  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  reislied  Barney ; 
"  perhajis  it  may  be  so." 

"No,"  rejolied  Greatrakes,  "  fi-om  all  I 
have  read  and  heaixl  of  its  influence  it  can- 
not act  upon  persons  within  a  certain  degi-ee 
of  consanguinity. " 

"  I  would  take  my  oath,"  said  honest 
Barney,  "  that  it  is  the  poison  that  acts  in 
this  instance." 

He  then  gave  him  a  description  of  Wood- 
ward's having  poured  the  f)oisou — or  at  least 
what  he  suspected  to  be  such — into  the 
drink  which  was  usually  left  at  the  bedside 
of  his  brother,  and  of  its  effect  uj)on  the 
dog. 

Greatrakes,  on  hearing  this,  drew  up  his 
horse,  and  looking  Barney  sternly  in  the 
face,  asked  him, — 

"  Pray,  my  good  fellow,  did  IMi'.  Wood- 
ward ever  injure  or  offend  you?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  rephed  Barney,  "  never  in  any 
instance  ;  but  what  I  say  I  say  from  my  love 
for  his  brother,  whose  life,  I  can  swear,  he  is 
tampering  with.  It  is  a  weak  word,  I  know, 
but  I  will  use  a  stronger,  for  I  say  he  is 
bent  upon  his  murder  by  poison." 

"Well,"  said  Greatrakes,  "keep  your 
counsel  for  the  present.  I  will  study  this 
matter,  and  examine  into  it ;  and  I  shall 
most  certainly  receive  j'our  informations 
against  him  ;  but  I  must  have  better  opj^or- 
tunities  for  making  mj'self  acquainted  with 
the  facts.  Li  the  meantime  keep  your  own 
secret,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

Wlien  Greatrakes  reached  Eathfillan  House 
the  whole  family  attended  him  to  the  sick- 
bed of  Charles.  Woodward  was  there,  and 
appeared  to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  fate 
of  his  brother.  Greatrakes,  on  looking  at 
him,  said,  before  he  applied  the  sanative 
power  which  God  had  jilaced  in  his  constitu- 
tion,— 

"  This  young  man  is  dying  of  a  slow  and 
subtle  jioison,  ■\\hich  some  ijersou  under  the 
roof  of  this  liouse  has  been  administering 
to  him  in  small  doses." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  Woodward,  whose  face  quailed 
and  blanched  under  the  power  and  signih- 
cance  of  his  gaze. 


"  Sir,"  replied  Lindsaj',  "  with  the  greatest 
respect  for  you,  there  is  not  a  single  individ 
ual  under  this  roof  who  Vould  injure  him. 
He  is  beloved  bj'  every  one.  The  sympathy 
felt  for  him  through  the  whole  jiarish  is  won- 
derful— but  by  none  more  than  by  his  broth- 
er Woodward." 

This  exj)lanation,  however,  came  too  late. 
Greatrakes's  im23ressions  were  unchanged. 

"  I  think  I  will  ciu'e  him,"  he  proceeded  : 
"  but  after  his  recovei-y  let  him  be  cautious 
in  taking  anj'  drink  unless  from  the  hands 
of  his  mother  or  his  father." 

He  then  jolaced  his  hands  over  his  face 
and  chest,  which  he  kept  rubbing  for  at 
least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when,  to  their  ut- 
ter astonishment,  Charles  pronounced  him- 
self in  as  good  health  as  he  had  ever  enjoyed 
in  his  life. 

"  This,  sir,"  said  he,  "  is  wonderful ;  why, 
I  am  perfectly  restored  to  health.  As  I  live, 
this  man  must  have  the  power  of  God  about 
him  to  be  able  to  effect  such  an  extraordi- 
nary cure  :  and  he  has  also  cured  my  dai-hng 
Alice.  Wliat  can  I  say  ?  Father,  give  him 
a  hundred — five  hundred  pounds." 

Greatrakes  smiled. 

"  You  don't  know,  it  seems,"  he  replied, 
"that  I  do  not  receive  remuneration  for  any 
cures  I  may  effect.  I  am  v.'ealthy  and  inde- 
pendent, apd  I  fear  that  if  I  were  to  make 
the  wonderfvd  gift  which  God  has  bestowed 
on  me  the  object  of  mercenary  gain,  it  might 
be  withdrawn  fi'om  me  altogether.  My 
principle  is  one  of  humanity  and  benev- 
olence. I  wUl  remain  in  Kathfillan  for  a 
fortnight,  and  shaU  see  you  again,"  he  add- 
ed, addressing  himself  to  Charles.  "Now," 
he  proceeded,  "  mark  me,  you  \\  ill  requii-e 
neither  drinks  nor  medicine  of  any  descrip- 
tion. 'WTiatever  dmiks  you  take,  take  them 
at  the  common  table  of  the  family.  There 
are  circumstances  connected  with  your  case 
which,  as  a  magistrate  of  the  county,  I  am 
resolved  to  investigate." 

He  looked  sternly  at  Woodward  as  he  ut- 
tered the  last  words,  and  then  took  his  de- 
parture to  Rathfillan,  ha^'ing  first  told  Bai-- 
ney  Casey  to  call  on  him  the  next  day. 

After  Greatrakes  had  gone.  Woodward  re- 
pau'ed  to  the  room  of  his  mother,  in  a  state 
of  agitation  which  we  cannot  describe. 

"  ]\Iother,"  said  he,  "  unless  we  can  man- 
age that  old  jieer  and  his  niece,  I  am  a  lost 
man." 

"  Do  not  be  uneasy,"  replied  his  mother  ; 
"whilst  you  were  at  Bally  speilan  I  contrived 
to  manage  that.  Ask  me  nothing  about  it  : 
but  every  arrangement  is  made,  and  j'ou  are 
to  be  married  this  day  week.  Keep  yourself 
preji.ared  for  a  settled  case." 

"WTiat  the  mother's  arguments  in  behalf  of 


yUE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


769 


the  match  may  have  been,  we  cannot  pre- 
tend to  say.  We  believe  that  Miss  Riddle's 
attachment  to  his  handsome  person  and 
E^entlemanly  manners  overcame  all  objec- 
tions on  the  jDart  of  her  uncle,  and  nothing 
now  remained  to  stand  in  the  way  of  their 
union. 

The  next  day  Bamey  Casey  waited  upon 
Greatrakes,  according  to  appointment,  when 
the  foUo-ning  conversation  took  place  betn^een 
them  : — 

"  Now,"  said  Greatrakes,  solemnly,  "  what 
is  j'our  name  ?  " 

As  he  put  the  question  with  a  stem  and 
magisterial  au',  his  tablets  and  pencil  in 
hand,  which  he  did  vdih  the  intention  of 
awing  Barney  into  a  full  confession  of  the 
exact  truth — a  jsrecaution  which  Barney's 
romance  of  the  windy  colic  induced  him  to 
take, — "  I  say,"  he  repeated,  "  what's  your 
name  ?  " 

Barney,  seeing  the  pencil  and  tablets  \.i 
band,  and  besides  not  being  much,  or  at  all, 
acquainted  with  magisterial  investigations, 
felt  rather  blank,  and  somewhat  puzzled  at 
this  query. 

He  accordingly  resorted  to  the  usage  of 
the  country,  and  commenced  scratching  a 
rather  round  bullet  head. 

"  My  name,  your  honor,"  he  replied  ;  "  my 
name,  couldn't  you  pass  that  by,  sir  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Greatrakes,  "I  cannot  pass  it 
by.     In  this  business  it  is  essential  that  I  j 
should  know  it."  I 

"Ay,"  replied  Barney,  "but  maybe  you  \ 
have  some  treacherous  design  in  it,  and  that 
you  are  goiu'  to  take  the  part  of  the  wealthy 
scoundrel  against  the  poor  man  ;  and  even  it 
you  did,  you  wouldn't  be  the  first  magistrate 
who  did  it." 

Greatrakes  looked  keenly  at  him.  x'he 
observation  he  expressed  was  precisely  in  ac- 
cord;mce  with  the  liberality  of  his  own  feel- 
ings. 

"  Don't  be  alanned,"  he  added;  "if  you 
knew  my  character,  which  it  is  evident  you 
do  not,  you  would  know  that  I  never  take 
the  i^art  of  the  rich  man  against  the  poor 
man,  unless  when  there  is  justice  on  the  part 
of  the  wealthy  man,  and  crime,  unjustifiable 
and  ciiiel  crime,  on  the  part  of  the  poor  man, 
which,  I  am  soriy  to  say,  is  not  an  unfi-e- 
queut  case.  Novr,  I  must  insist,  as  a  magis- 
trate, that  you  give  me  your  name." 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  the  other,  "  I'm  one 
Barney  Casey,  sir,  who  lives  in  RathfiUan 
House,  as  a  sers'ant  to  Mr.  Lindsay,  step- 
father to  that  murtherin'  blackguard." 

Greatrakes  then  examined  him  closely,  and 
made  him  promise  to  come  to  RathfiUan  that 
night,  in  order  that  he  might  accompany  him 
to  the  hut  of  old  Sol  Donnel,  the  herbalist 


"I  am  resolved,"  said  he,  "to  investigate 
this  matter,  and  in  my  capacity  of  a  magis- 
trate to  bring  the  guilty  to  justice." 

"  Faith,  sir,"  replied  Bamey,  "  and  I'm  not 
the  boy  who  is  going  to  stand  in  j'our  way 
in  such  a  business  as  that.  You  know  that 
it  was  I  that  put  you  up  to  it,  and  any  assis-. 
tance  I  can  give  j'ou  in  it  you  may  reckon  on. 
Although  not  a  magistrate,  as  you  ai-e,  maybe 
I'm  just  as  fond  of  justice  as  yourself.  Of 
coorse  I'll  attend  you  to-niglit,  and  sliow  you 
the  devil's  nest  in  which  Sol  Donnel  and  his 
blessed  babe  of  a  niece,  by  name  Caterine 
Collins,  Uve." 

Greatrakes  took  down  the  name  of  Cater- 
ine Collins,  and  after  haring  arranged  the 
hour  at  which  Barney  was  to  conduct  him  to 
Sol  Donnel's  hut,  they  separated. 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  night  Barney 
and  Greatrakes  reached  the  miserable- 
looking  residence  in  which  this  old  vipei 
Hved. 

"  Now,"  -said  Greatrakes,  addressing  the 
herbalist,  "  my  business  with  you  is  this  :  I 
have  a  bitter  enemy  who  wants  to  establish 
a  claim  upon  my  property,  and  I  wish  to 
put  him  out  of  my  way.  Do  you  imderstand 
me  ?  I  am  a  wealthy  man,  and  can  reward 
you  well." 

"  I  never  talk  of  these  things  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  party,"  replied  the  herbalist, 
looking  significantly  at  Barney,  whom  he 
well  knew. 

"Well,"  repUed  the  other,  "I  dare  say 
you  are  right.  Casey,  go  out  and  leave  us 
to  ourselves." 

There  was  a  little  hall  in  the  house,  which 
hall  was  in  comjilete  obsciu'ity.  Bame;;, 
availed  himself  of  this  circumstance,  opened 
the  door  and  clapped  it  to  as  if  he  had  gone 
out,  but  remained  at  the  same  time  in  the 
inside. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Sol  Donnel,  ignorant  of 
the  trick  which  Bamey  had  plaj'ed  upon 
him,  "  I  never  allow  a  third  person  to  be 
present  at  any  of  those  conversations  about 
the  strength  and  power  of  my  herbs.  Now. 
tell  me,  what  it  is  that  you  want  me  to  do 
for  you." 

"\^1iy,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  replied 
Greatrakes,  "  I  never  heard  of  your  name 
until  within  a  few  days  ago,  that  you  were 
mentioned  to  me  by  Mr.  Henry  Woodward, 
who  told  me  that  you  gave  him  a  dose  to 
settle  a  dog  that  was  laboiing  under  the  first 
symptoms  of  hydrophobia.  Well,  the  dog  is 
dead  by  the  influence  of  the  bottle  you  gave 
him  ;  but  now  that  we  ai-e  by  ourselves  1 
tell  you  at  once  that  I  want  a  dose  for  a  man 
who  is  likely,  if  he  Lives,  to  cut  me  oul  of  a 
large  property." 

"  O,  Cheernah .'  "  exclaimed  the  old  villair. 


TTO 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'IS    WOIiRS. 


"  do  you  tliiuk  that  I  who  Hves  by  ciirin'  the 
poor  for  nothiug,  or  next  to  nothing,  could 
lend  myself  to  sich  a  tlung  as  that  ?  " 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  other,  preparing 
to  take  his  departure,  "you  have  lost  fifty 
pounds  by  the  afi'aii-  at  all  events." 

"  Fifty  pounds  !  "  exclaimed  the  other, 
whilst  his  keen  and  diabohcal  eyes  gleamed 
with  the  united  spirit  of  avarice  and  viUauy. 
"  Fifty  pounds  !  well  how  simijle  and  foohsh 
some  people  are.  Why  now,  if  you  had  a 
dog,  say  a  setter  or  a  pointer,  that  fi'om  fear 
of  madness  you  wished  to  get  rid  of,  and 
that  you  had  mentioned  it  to  me,  I  could 
give  you  a  bottle  that  woidd  soon  settle  it  ; 
I  don't  go  above  a  dog  or  the  inferior  animals, 
and  no  man  that  has  his  senses  about  him 
ought  to  ask  me  to  do  anything  else." 

"  Well,  then,  I  teU  you  at  once  that,  as  I 
said,  it  is  rwt  for  a  dog,  but  for  a  worse 
animal,  a  man,  my  own  cousin,  who,  unless  I 
absolutely  contrive  to  isoisou  him,  will 
deprive  me  of  sis  thousand  a  j'ear.  Instead 
of  fifty  I  sliiill  make  the  recompense  a  hun- 
dred, after  having  found  that  your  medicine 
is  successfid." 

The  old  villain's  eye  gleamed  again  at  the 
prospect  of  such  Uberality. 

"  WeU  now,"  said  he,  "  see  what  it  is  for  a 
jiious  man  to  forget  his  devotions,  even  for 
one  day.  I  forgot  to  say  my  Leadan  Wurrah 
this  mornin',  and  that  is  the  raison  that 
yom*  temjitation  has  overcome  me.  You 
must  call  then  to-mon'ow  night,  because  I 
have  nothiug  now,  barriu'  what  'ud  excite 
the  bowels,  and  it  seems  that  isn't  what  you 
want ;  but  if  you  be  down  here  about  this 
same  hoiu-  to-morrow  night,  you  shall  have 
V7hat  will  put  your  enemy  out  of  the  way." 

"  That  wiU  do  then,"  re2)lied  Greatrakes, 
''  and  I  shall  depend  on  you." 

"Ay,"  rejjlied  the  old  villain,  "but  re- 
member that  the  act  is  not  mine  but  your 
ovsm.  I  simply  furnish  you  with  the  ne- 
cessary means  —  your  own  act  wiU  be  to  ap- 
ply them." 

On  leaving  the  hut,  Greatrakes  was  highly 
gratified  on  finding  that  Barney  Casey  had 
overheard  their  whole  conversation. 

"You  win  serve  as  a  corroborative  evi- 
dence," said  he. 

The  herbalist,  at  all  events,  was  entrap- 
ped, and  not  only  his  disposition  to  sell  bo- 
tanical 25oisons,  but  his  habit  of  doing  so, 
was  clearly  proved  to  the  benevolent  magis- 
trate. 

On  the  next  night  he  got  the  poison,  and 
hscviug  consulted  with  Casey,  he  said  he 
woujd  not  urge  the  matter  for  a  few  days,  as 
he  wished,  in  the  mo.st  private  way  possible, 
to  proieure  further  evidence  against  tlie  guilty 
pai'ties. 


In  the  meantime,  every  preparation  was 
made  m  both  families  for  Woodward's  wed- 
ding. The  old  peer,  who  had  cross-examined 
his  niece  upon  the  subject,  discovered  hev 
attachment  to  Woodward  ;  and  as  he  wished 
to  see  her  settled  before  his  death  with  a 
gentlemanly  and  respectable  husband — a 
man  who  would  be  capable  of  taking  care  of 
the  property  which  he  must  necessarily  leave 
her,  as  she  was  his  favorite  and  his  heiress 
— and  besides,  he  loved  her  as  a  daughter — 
he  was  resolved  that  Woodward  and  she 
should  be  united." 

"I  don't  cai-e  a  fig,"  said  he,  "  whether  this 

Woodward  has   property  or  not.     He   is   a 

gentleman,  respectably  connected,  of  accom- 

j  jjlished  manners,   handsome  in  person,  and 

j  if  he  has  no  fortune,  why  you  have  ;  and  I 

j  think  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is   to  accept 

him  without  hesitation.    The  comical  rascal," 

I  said  he,  laughing  heailily,    "  took  me  in  so 

completely  diu-iug  our  first  interview,   that 

he  became  a  favorite  with  me." 

"I  thmk  well  of  him,"  rejalied  his  firm. 
'  minded  niece  ;  "  and  even  I  admit  that  I 
love  him,  as  far  as  a  girl  of  such  a  cold  con- 
stitution as  mine  may  ;  but  I  tell  you,  uncle, 
that  if  I  discovered  a  taint  of  vice  or  want 
of  principle  in  his  character,  I  could  lling 
him  off  with  contempt." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven,"  rejilied  the  uncle, 
rather  nettled,  "that  we  could  have  ujj  one 
of  the  twelve  apostles.  I  dare  say  some  of 
them,  if  they  were  disposed  to  marry,  might 
come  up  to  yoiu-  mai'k." 

"  Well,  uncle,  at  all  events  I  hke  him  suffi- 
ciently to  consent  that  he  should  become  my 
husband." 

"  WeU,  and  is  not  that  enough  ;  bless  my 
heart,  could  you  wish  to  go  beyond  it  ?  " 

In  the  meantime,  very  importiint  matters 
were  j)roceeding,  which  bore  strongly  upon 
Woodward's  destiny.  Greatrakes  had  col- 
lected —  aided,  of  course,  by  Barney  Casey, 
who  was  the  principal,  but  not  the  sole,  evi- 
dence against  him — such  a  series  of  facts,  as, 
he  felt,  justified  him  in  receiving  informa- 
tions against  lum." 

At  this  crisis  a  discovery  was  made  in  con- 
nection with  the  Haunted  House,  which  v  as 
jirivately,  through  Casey,  communicated  to 
Greatrakes,  who  called  a  meeting  of  tht 
neighboruig  magistrates  ujjon  it.  This  he 
did  by  writing  to  them  privately  to  meet 
liim  on  a  j^articular  day  at  his  little  inn  in 
EatlifiUan.  For  obvious  reasons,  and  out  of 
consideration  to  his  feeling.%  111-.  Lindsay's 
name  was  omitted.  At  aU  events  the  night 
jirecediug  the  day  of  Woodward's  maniage 
with  Miss  Riddle  had  ai-rived,  but  two  cir- 
cumstances occuiTed  on  that  evening  and 
on  that  night  which  not  only  fnistrated  all 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OB,   THE  BLACK   SPECTRE 


77i 


his  designs  upon  Miss  Riddle,  or  rather 
upon  her  uncle's  pi'operty,  but — however, 
we  shall  not  anticipate. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  Miss  Rid- 
dle was  told  by  a  servant  that  a  young  man, 
handsome  and  of  tine  jnoportions,  washed  to 
see  her  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Not  that  I  would  recommend  j'ou  to  see 
him,"  said  the  serving-woman  who  deUvered 
the  message.  "  He  is,  to  be  sure,  very 
handsome  ;  but,  then,  he  is  one  of  those 
wiid  people,  and  armed  with  a  gi'eat  mid- 
dogue  or  dagger,  and  God  knows  what  his 
object  may  be — maybe  to  take  your  life.  As 
sure  as  I  live  he  is  a  toi-y." 

"That  may  be,"  rej^Ued  Miss  Riddle; 
"  but  I  know,  by  your  description  of  him, 
that  he  is  the  indi\'idual  to  whose  generous 
spirit  I  and  my  dear  uncle  owe  our  lives  : 
let  him  be  shown  in  at  once  to  the  front 
parlor." 

In  a  few  mmutes  she  entered,  and  found 
Shawn  before  her. 

"  O  Shawn  !  "  said  she,  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  My  uncle  is  using  all  his  interest  to 
get  you  a  pardon — that  is,  provided  you  are 
willing  to  abandon  the  wild  life  to  which  you 
have  taken." 

"I  am  willing  to  abandon  it,"  he  replied  ; 
"  but  I  have  one  task  to  perform  before  I 
leave  it.  You  have  heard  of  the  toir,  or  tory- 
hunt,  which  was  made  after  me  and  others  ; 
but  eliiefly  after  me,  for  I  was  tlie  object 
they  wanted  to  shoot  down,  or  rather  that 
he,  the  villain,  wanted  to  murder  under  the 
authority  of  those  cruel  laws  that  make  ws, 
tories." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  hel  "  asked  Miss 
RidiUe. 

"I  mean  Hany  Woodward,"  he  rej)lied. 
"  He  hrnted  me,  disguised  by  a  black 
mask." 

"  But  are  you  sure  of  that,  Shavra  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  rephed  ;  "and  it 
was  not  until  yesterday  that  I  discovered  his 
villany.  I  know  the  barber  iu  RathtiUan 
where  the  black  mask  was  got  for  him,  I  be- 
lieve, bj'  his  wicked  mother." 

Miss  Riddle,  who  was  a  strong-minded 
girl,  paused,  and  was  silent  for  a  time,  after 
which  she  said, — 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  nie  this,  Shawn.  I 
spoke  to  him  in  your  favor,  and  lie  j^ledged 
his  honor  to  me  previous  to  the  tenible 
hunt  you  allude  to,  and  of  which  the  whole 
country  rang,  that  he  would  never  take  a 
step  to  your  prejudice,  but  woidd  rather 
protect  you  as  far  as  he  could,  in  conse- 
quence of  your  having  generously  saved  my 
dear  uncle's  life  and  mine." 

"The  deeper  villain  he,  then.  He  is  upon 
my  trail  night  and  day.     He  ruined  Grace 


DaToren,  who  has  disapjDeared,  and  the  be- 
lief of  the  people  is  that  he  has  mui-dered 
her.  He  jJosstsses  the  Evil  Eye,  too,  and 
would  by  it  have  nuu-dered  Miss  Goodwin, 
of  Beech  Grove,  iu  order  to  get  back  the 
property  which  liis  uncle  left  her,  only  for 
the  wouderfid  power  of  Squu'e  Greatrakes. 
who  cured  her.  And,  besides,  I  have  raisoi; 
to  know  tha,t  he  will  be  arrested  tliis  very 
night  for  attemjjting  to  jjoisou  Ms  brother. 
I  am  a  humble  young  man.  Miss  Riddle,  but 
I  am  afeai'd  that  if  you  mai-iy  him  you  will 
stand  but  a  bad  chance  fcr  hapiiiness." 

"  She  was  again  silent,  but,  after  a  pause 
she  said — 

"  Shawn,  do  you  want  money  ?  " 
"I  thank  you.  Miss  Riddle,"  he  replied. 
"I  don't  want  money:  all  I  want  is,  that 
you  will  not  he  desaved  by  oue  of  the  most 
damnable  villains  on  the  face  of  the  earth.'' 

There  was  an  earnestness  and  force  of 
truth  in  what  the  generous  young  tory  said 
that  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  arose,  and 
was  about  to  take  his  leave,  when  he  said, — 
"  iEss  Riddle,  I  understand  he  is  about 
to  be  married  to  you  to-moiTow.  Should  he 
become  your  husband,  he  is  safe  from  my 
hand — and  that  on  your  account ;  but  as  it 
may  not  yet  be  too  late  to  spake,  I  warn  you 
against  his  h-yjjocrisy  and  viUanj^ — against 
the  man  who  destroyed  Grace  Davoren — 
who  would  have  killed  Miss  Goodwin  with 
his  Evil  Eye,  in  order  to  get  back  the  proj)- 
erty  which  his  uncle  left  her,  and  who  would 
have  jjoisoned  his  own  brother  out  of  his 
way    bekase  liis  mother  told  liim  she  had 

i  changed   her   mind   in    leaving   it   to   him 

!  (W^oodward),  and  came  to  the  resolution  of 
leaving  it  to  his  brother,  and  that  was  the 
raisoii  whj'  he  attempted  to  jJoison  him.  AU 
these  things  have  been  proved,  and  I  have 
raison  to  beheve  that  he  will  sleep — if  sleep 
he  can — iu  Waterford  jail  before  to-morrow 
mornin'.  But,"  he  added,  with  a  look  which 
was  so  replete  with  vengeance  and  terror, 
that  it  iDerfectly  stunned  the  girl,  "  perhaps 
he  won't,  though.     It  is  likely  that  the  fate 

I  of   Grace    Davoren  vsdll   prevent  him  fi-om 

1  it." 

I      He  did  not  give  her  time  to  reply,  but  in- 

'  stantly  disapjieared,  and  left  her  iu  a  state 

\  of  mind  which  our  readers  may  very  well  un- 
derstand. 

She  immediately  went  to  her  uncle's  li- 

!  brary,  where  the  following  brief  dialogue  oc- 
cun'ed  : 

1      "  Uncle,  this  maniage  must  not  and  shall 

I  not  take  place." 

"  "Wliat !  "  replied  the  peer  ;  "  then  he  is 
none  of  the  twelve  apostles." 

"You  are  there  mistaken,"  said  she  ;  "he 
is  one  of  them.     Remember  Judas." 


'i-Z 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


"  J.idas  !  What  the  deuce  ai-e  j'ou  at,  my 
djur  niece  ? ' 

"  Why,  that  he  is  a  most  treacherous  -^-il- 
laip  ;  that's  what  I'm  at,"  and  iier  face  be- 
same  crimson  with  indin^nation. 

"  But  wliat's  in  the  \vind  ?  Don't  keep 
me  iu  a  state  of  susjjense.  Judas  !  Con- 
;jimd  it,  what  a  comparison  !  Well,  I  per- 
ceive you  ai-e  not  disjiosed  to  become  Mi'S. 
Judas.  You  know  me,  however,  well 
enough  :  I'm  not  going  to  press  you  to  it. 
Do  you  think,  my  dear  niece,  that  Judas  was 
a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Precisely  such  a  gentleman,  perhaps,  as 
Mr.  Woodward  is." 

"  And  you  think  he  woidd  betray  Christ  ?  " 

"  He  would  poison  his  brother,  uncle,  be- 
cause he  stands  between  him  and  his  moth- 
er's proj)erty,  which  she  has  recently  ex- 
pressed her  intention  of  leaving  to  that  bro- 
ther— a  fact  which  awoke  something  like 
comj)assion  iu  my  breast  for  Woodwai-d." 

"  Well,  then,  kick  him  to  hell,  the  scoun- 
drel. I  liked  the  fellow  iu  the  beginning, 
and,  indeed,  all  along,  because  he  had  badg- 
ered me  so  beautifully, — which  I  thought 
few  persons  had  capacity  to, — and  iu  conse- 
quence, I  entertained  a  high  opinion  of  his 
intellect,  and  be  hanged  to  him  ;  kick  him  to 
liell,  though." 

"  Well,  my  dear  lord  and  uncle,  I  don't 
think  I  would  be  capable  of  kicking  him  so 
far  ;  nor  do  I  think  it  will  l)e  at  all  neces- 
sary, as  my  opinion  is,  that  lie  wiU  be 
able  to  reach  that  region  without  any  assist- 
ance." 

"  Come,  that's  very  well  said,  at  all  events 
— one  of  youi'  touchers,  as  I  call  them. 
There,  then,  is  an  end  to  the  match  and  mar- 
riage, and  so  be  it." 

She  here  detailed  at  further  length,  the 
conversation  which  she  had  with  Shaum-na- 
Middogue ;  mentioned  the  fact,  whicli  ha<l 
somehow  become  well  known,  of  lus  having 
wrought  the  ruin  of  Grace  Davoren,  and 
concluded  by  stating  that,  notwithstanding 
his  gentlemanly  manners  and  deportment, 
he  was  unworthy  either  the  notice  or  regard 
of  any  respectable  female. 

"  Well,"  said  the  peei-,  "from  all  you  have 
told  me  I  must  say  you  have  had  a  nar- 
row escape  ;  I  did  suspect  him  to  be  a  for- 
time-luiuter  ;  but  then  who  the  deuce  can 
i)lame  a  man  for  striving  to  advance  liimself 
in  life  ?  However,  let  there  be  an  end  to  it, 
and  you  must  only  wait  until  a  better  man 
comes." 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  uncle,  I  am  in  no 
hurry;  so  let  that  be  your  comfort  so  f;u'  as 
I  am  concerned." 

"  WeU,  then,"  said  the  peer,  "I  shall  wi-ite 
to  him  to  say  that  the  mamage,  in   conse- 


quence of  what  we  have  heard  ot  his  chai> 
acter,  is  oil'." 

"  Take  whatever  steps  you  please,"  re- 
phed  his  admirable  niece  ;  "  for  most  assur- 
edly, so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is  oif.  Do 
you  imagine,  uncle,  that  I  coiU<l  for  a  mo- 
ment think  of  mari'ying  a  seducer  and  a 
poisoner  ?  " 

"  It  woidd  be  a  very  queer  thing  if  you 
did,"  replied  her  uncle  ;  "but  was  it  not  a 
fortunate  circumstance  that  you  came  to  dis- 
cover his  real  character  in  time  to  prevent 
vou  from  becoming  the  wife  of  such  a  scoun- 
drel?" 

"  It  was  the  providence  of  God,"  said  his 
niece,  "  that  would  not  suffer  the  innocent 
to  become  associated  with  the  guilty." 

Greatrakes,  iu  the  meantime,  was  hard  at 
work.  He  and  the  other  magistrates  had 
collected  evidence,  and  received  the  infor- 
mations against  Woodward,  the  herbalist,  and 
the  mysterious  individual  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  appearing  about  the  Haunted  House 
as  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv,  or  the  Black  Spectre. 
ViUany  hke  this  cannot  be  long  concealed, 
and  wUl,  in  due  time,  come  to  light. 

During  the  dusk  of  the  evening  preceding 
Woodward's  intended  marriage,  an  individual 
came  to  Jlr.  Lindsay's  house  and  requested 
to  see  Mr.  Woodward.  That  gentleman 
came  dovm,  and  immediately  recognized  the 
person  who  had,  for  such  a  length  of  time, 
frightened  the  neighborhood  as  the  Shan- 
dhinne-dliuv  or  the  Black  Spectre.  He  was 
shown  into  the  j)arlor,  and,  as  there  was  no 
one  present,  the  following  dialogue  took 
place,  fi-eely  and  confidentially,  between 
them  : — 

"  You  must  fly,"  said  the  Sisectre,  or,  in 
other  words,  the  conjurer,  whom  we  have 
already  described, — "you  must  fiy,  for  you 
are  to  be  arrested  this  night.  Our  estab- 
lishment for  the  forgery  of  bad  notes  must 
also  be  given  up,  and  the  Haunted  House 
must  be  deserted.  The  magistrates,  some- 
how, have  smeUed  out  the  truth,  and  we 
must  change  our  lodgings.  We  dodged 
them  pretty  well,  but,  after  all,  these  things 
can't  last  long.  On  to-morrow  night  I  bid 
farewell  to  the  neighborhood  ;  but  you  can- 
not wait  so  long,  because  on  this  very  night 
you  are  to  be  arrested.  It  is  very  well  that 
you  sent  Grace  Davoren,  at  my  suggestion, 
from  the  Haunted  House  to  what  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  haunted  cottage,  in  the 
mountains,  where  Nannie  Morrissy  soon 
joined  her.  I  suppUed  them  with  pro- 
visions, and  had  a  bed  and  other  aiiicles 
brought  to  them,  according  to  yoiu-  own  in- 
structions, and  I  think  that,  for  the  present, 
the  safest  place  of  concealment  will  be 
there." 


I    !, 


tm^fm^ 


•tow,"  SAm  Bie,  "thk  phhaltx  tou  hati  paid  toe  toub  cbimes  has  taxkn  awai  the  pollution  feom  you» 

lips;   USD  t  WILL  KK8  TOD   FOB  THE  SAKE  OF  OUB  SABLY   LOVK."— Evti  Sye,  chap.    rslil,  p.  T'i- 


LIBRARY 

;,■  THE 

CNIVERSiTY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    Oli,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


773 


WooJwiird  became  terribly  alarmed.  It 
tvas  on  the  eve  of  bis  marriage,  aud  tbe  iu- 
tellif^fonce  almost  drove  him  into  distraction. 

"I  will  follow  your  advice,"  said  be,  "  and 
will  take  refuge  in  wbat  is  called  tbe  baunted 
cottage,  for  this  nigbt." 

His  mj'sterious  friend  now  left  him,  and 
Woodward  prepared  to  seek  tbe  baunted  cot- 
tage in  tbe  mountains.  Poor  Grace  Davoren 
was  in  a  painful  and  critical  condition,  but 
Woodwai-d  bad  engaged  Caterine  Collins  to 
attend  to  her :  for  wbat  object,  will  soon  be- 
come evident  to  oui-  readers. 

Woodward,  after  nigbt  bad  set  in, — it  was 
a  mild  nigbt  witb  faint  mooubgbt, — took  his 
way  towai'ds  the  cottage  that  was  supposed 
to  be  baunted,  and  whieli,  in  those  daj's  of 
witchcraft  and  sujjerstition,  noljody  would 
think  of  entering.  We  have  already  de- 
scribed it,  and  that  must  suffice  for  our 
readers.  On  entering  a  dark,  but  level  moor, 
be  was  startled  by  tbe  appearance  of  tbe 
Black  Spectre,  which,  as  on  two  occasions  be- 
fore, pointed  its  middogiie  three  times  at 
his  heart.  He  rushed  towards  it,  but  on 
arriving  at  the  spot  be  could  find  nothing. 
It  had  vanished,  and  he  was  left  to  meditate 
on  it  as  best  he  might. 

We  now  pass  to  the  haunted  cottage  itself. 
There  lay  Grace  Davoren,  after  having  given 
birth  to  a  cbUd  ;  there  she  lay — the  victim 
of  the  seducer,  on  the  very  eve  of  dissolution, 
and  beside  her,  sitting  on  tbe  bed,  the  un- 
fortunate Nannie  Morrissy,  now  a  con- 
firmed and  dying  maniac. 

"  Grace,"  said  Nannie,  "  j'ou,  Hke  me,  were 
ruined." 

"I  was,"  rei^lied  Grace,  in  a  voice  scai'cely 
audible. 

"  Ay,  but  you  didn't  mvu'der  your  father, 
though,  as  I  did  ;  that's  one  advantage  I 
iiave  over  you — ha  !  ba  !  ha  !  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  Nannie,"  replied 
tbe  dying  gui  ;  "  but  where's  my  baby  ?  " 

"  O !  yes,  you  have  had  a  baby,  but 
Caterine  CoUins  took  it  away  witb  her." 

"  My  child !  my  cbUd !  where  is  my 
child  ?  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  low,  but  husky 
voice  ;  "  where's  my  chUd  '?  and  besides,  ever 
since  I  took  that  bottle  she  gave  me  I  feel 
deadly  sick." 

"  Will  I  go  for  your  father  and  mother — 
but  above  all  things  for  your  father  ?  But 
then  if  he  punished  the  villaiu  that  iniined  you 
and  brought  disgrace  upon  your  name,  he 
miglit  be  hanged  as  mine  was." 

"  All !  Nannie,"  repUed  poor  Grace  ;  "  my 
father  won't  die  of  tbe  gallows  ;  but  be  will 
of  a  broken  heart." 

"  Better  to  be  banged,"  said  tbe  maniac, 
whose  reason,  after  a  lapse  of  more  than  a 
year,  was  in  some  degree  returning,  precisely 


as  bfe  was  ebbing  out,  "bekase,  thank  God, 
tliere's  then  an  end  to  it." 

"I  agree  with  you,  Nannie,  it  might  be 
only  a  long  life  of  sufl'ering  ;  but  I  wouldn't 
wish  to  see  my  father  hanged." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Nannie,  relapsing 
into  a  deeper  mood  of  her  mania, — "  do  you 
know  that  when  I  saw  my  father  last  he 
wouldn't  nor  didn't  spake  to  me  ?  Tbe  bouse 
was  filled  with  peojjle,  and  my  little  brother 
Frank — why  now  isn't  it  strange  tliixt  I  feel 
somehow  as  if  I  will  never  wash  his  face 
again  nor  comb  bis  white  head  in  order  to 
prej^are  him  for  mass  '? — but  whisper,  Grace, 
sure  then  I  was  innocent  and  had  not  met  tbe 
destroyer." 

Tbe  two  unhappy  girls  looked  at  each 
other,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  gaze  calculated 
to  wring  the  human  heM-t  with  angiiisb  and 
with  pity,  it  was  that  gaze.  Both  of  them 
were,  although  unconsciously,  on  the  verj' 
eve  of  dissolution,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  a 
kind  of  presentiment  of  death  had  seized 
ujjon  both  at  the  same  time. 

"  Nannie,"  said  Grace,  "  do  you  know  that 
I'm  afeard  we're  both  goiu'  to  die  ?  " 

"And  why  are  you  afeard  of  it?  "asked 
Nannie.  "  Many  a  time  I  would  'a  given  the 
world  to  die." 

"  ^Tiy,"  repUed  Grace,  who  saw  the  deep 
shadows  of  death  upon  her  wild,  pale,  but 
stdl  beautiful  countenance, — "why  Nannie, 
you  have  your  wish — you  are  dying  this 
moment." 

Just  as  Grace  spoke  the  unfortunate  girl 
seemed  as  if  she  had  been  stricken  by  a 
spasm  of  the  heart.  She  gave  a  slight  start 
— turned  up  her  beautiful,  but  melancholy 
eyes  to  heaven,  and  exclaimed,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  moment  that  had  come, — 

"  Forgive  me,  O  God  !  "  after  which  she 
laid  herself  cabnly  down  by  the  side  of  Grace 
and  expired.  Grace,  by  an  effort,  put  her 
hand  out  and  felt  her  heart,  but  there  was 
no  pulsation  there — it  did  not  beat,  and  she 
saw  by  tbe  utter  lifelessness  of  her  features 
that  she  was  dead,  and  had  been  reUeved  at 
last  fi'om  all  her  sorrows. 

"Nannie,"  she  said,  "  jour  start  before  me 
won't  be  long.  I  do  not  wsli  to  bve  to  show 
a  shamed  face  and  a  ruined  character  to  my 
family  and  the  world.  Nannie,  I  am  coming  ; 
but  where  is  my  child  ?  "^Miere  is  that  wo- 
man who  took  it  away  ?  My  chUd  !  Where 
is  my  child  ?  " 

Whilst  this  melancholy  scene  was  taking 
place,  another  of  a  vei-y  different  description 
was  occuiing  near  the  cottage.  Two  poach- 
ers, who  were  concealed  in  a  hazel  copse  on 
tbe  brow  of  a  little  glen  beside  it,  saw  a  wo- 
man advance  witb  an  infant,  which,  by  its 
cries,  they  felt  satisfied  was  but  newly  bom 


774 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


Its  cries,  however,  were  soon  stilled,  and  they 
saw  her  deposit  it  in  a  little  grave  which  had 
evidently  been  j^rejiared  for  it.  She  had 
covered  it  slightly  with  a  portion  of  clay, 
but  ere  she  had  time  to  proceed  further 
they  pounced  upon  her. 

"Hould  her  fast,"  said  one  of  them,  "  she 
ias  murdered  the  infant.  At  aU  events,  take 
it  up,  and  I  ^vill  keep  her  safe." 

This  was  done,  and  a  handkerchief,  the 
one  with  which  she  had  strangled  it,  -was 
found  tightlj'  tied  about  its  neck.  That  she 
was  the  instrament  of  AVoodward  in  this 
terrible  act,  who  can  doubt  ?  In  the  mean- 
time both  she  and  the  dead  body  of  the  cliOd 
were  brought  back  to  Rathfillan,  whei-e,  ujjon 
their  e^i<leuce,  she  was  at  once  committed  to 
prison,  the  handkerchief  having  been  kejjt 
as  a  testimony  against  her,  for  it  was  at  once 
discovered  to  be  her  o\\ti  property. 

Durmg  aU  this  time  Grace  Davoren  lay 
dying,  in  a  state  of  the  most  terrible  desola- 
tion, with  the  dead  body  of  Nannie  jNIorrissy 
on  the  bed  beside  her.  What  had  become 
of  her  child,  and  of  Caterine  CoUins,  she 
could  not  tell.  She  had,  however,  other 
reflections,  for  the  young,  but  guilty  mother 
was  not  without  strong,  and  even  tender, 
domestic  affections. 

"  O  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  her  woful  sohtude 
and  utter  desolation,  "  if  I  only  had  the  for- 
giveness of  my  father  and  mother  I  could  die 
happy  ;  but  now  I  feel  that  death  is  upon  me, 
and  I  must  die  alone." 

A  footstep  was  heard,  and  it  reUevefl  her. 
"  Oh  !  this  is  Caterine,"  she  said,  "  with  the 
child." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  young  toi-y, 
Shaicn-na-3Iid(logH<>,  entered.  He  paused  for 
a  moment  and  looked  about  him. 

"^^^lat  is  this?"  said  he,  looking  at  the 
body  of  Nannie  Morrissy  ;  "  is  it  death  ?  " 

"  It  ».s  death,"  rephed  Grace,  faintly  ;  "  there 
is  o)ie  death,  but,  Shawn,  there  will  soon  be 
another.  Shawn,  forgive  me,  and  kiss  me  for 
the  sake  of  our  early  love." 

"  I  am  an  outlaw,"  replied  the  stern  young 
tory  ;  "but  I  will  never  kiss  the  jioUuted  lijas 
of  woman  as  long  as  she  has  breath  in  her 
body." 

"  But  Catei-ine  Collins  has  taken  away  my 
child,  and  has  not  retiirned  with  it." 

"  No,  nor  ever  will,"  replied  the  outlaw. 
'"  She  was  the  instrument  of  your  destroj'er. 
But  I  wish  you  to  betonsoled,  Grace.  Do 
you  see  that  middogue  ?  It  is  red  with  blood. 
Now  listen.  I  have  avenged  you  ;  that  mid- 
<logue  was  reddened  in  the  heart  of  the  villain 
that  wrought  your  ruin.  As  far  as  juan  can 
be,  I  dm  now  satisfied." 

"  My  child  !  '  she  faintly  said  ;  "  my  chUd  ! 
where  is  it  ?  " 


!  Her  words  were  scarcely  audible.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  was  silent.  The  outlaw 
looked  closely  into  her  countenance,  and  per- 
[  ceived  at  once  that  death  was  there.  He  felt 
!  her  pulse,  her  heart,  but  all  was  stUl.  * 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  the  penalty  you  have 
I  paid  for  j'our  crime  has  taken  awny  the  pol- 
!  lution  fi-om  your  hps,  and  I  icill  kiss  you  for 
I  the  sake  of  oiu"  early  love." 
I      He  then  kissed  her,  and  rained  showers 
'  of  tears  over  her  now  unconscious  features. 
The  two  funerals  took  place  upon  the  same 
i  day  ;    and,    what  was  still  more  particular, 
they  were  buried  in  the  same  churchyard. 
Their  unhajjpy  fates  were  similar  in  more 
than  one  point.     The  selfish  and  inhuman 
seducer  of  each  became  the  -Naetim  of  his 
crime ;  one  by  the  just  and  righteous  ven- 
geance   of    a   heart-broken   and    indignant 
father,  and  the  other  by  the  middogue  of  the 
brave  and  nolile-minded  outlaw.     Who  the 
murderer  of  Harry  Woodward,  or  rather  the 
avenger  of  Grace  Davoren,  was,  never  became 
known.     The  only  ettrs  to  which  the  outlaw 
revealed   the  secret   were   closed,   and  her 
tongue  silent  for  ever. 

Thfi  body  of  Woodward  was  foimd  the 
next  morning  lifeless  ujjon  the  moors  ;  and 
when  death  loosened  the  tongues  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  when  the  melancholy  fate  of  Grace 
Davoren  became  known,  there  was  one  indi- 
ridual  who  knew  perfectly  well,  from  moral 
conviction,  who  the  avenger  of  her  ruin 
was. 

"  Uncle,"  said  ]\Iiss  Riddle,  while  talking 
with  him  on  the  subject,  "  I  fed  who  the 
avenger  of  the  unfortunate  and  beautiful 
Grace  Davoren  is." 

"  And  who  is  he,  my  dear  niece  ?  " 
"  It  shaU  never  escape  my  li^js,  my  lord 
and  uncle." 

"  Egad,  talking  of  escapes,  I  think  you 
have  had  a  very  narrow  one  yourself,  in  es- 
cajiing  from  that  scoumb-el  of  the  Evil 
Eye."" 

"  I  thank  God  for  it,"  she  replied,  and  this 
closed  theu-  conversation. 

There  is  little  now  to  be  added  to  our 
narrative.  We  need  scarcely  assiu'e  our 
readers  that  Chai'les  Lindsay  and  Alice  Good- 
win were  in  due  time  made  hap2\y,  and  that 
Ferdora  O'Connor,  who  had  been  long  at- 
tached to  Maria  Lindsay,  was  soon  enabled 
to  call  her  his  beloved  wife. 

The  deriUsh  old  herbalist,  and  his  equally 
devilish  niece,  together  \\dth  the  conjurer 
and  foi'ger,  who  had  assumed  the  character 
of  the  Blaci:  S/ii'i'Irr,  were  all  hanged, 
through  the  iusti-umentality  of  Valentine 
Greatrakes,  who  had  acquired  so  many  testi- 
monies of  their  vUlainy  and  their  crimes  as 
enabled  him,  in  conjunction  with  the  otlier 


Tilt:  EVIL  EYE;   OR, 

::aagistiates  of  the  comity,  to  obtain  such  a 
body  of  evidence  against  them  as  uo.jiuy 
could  i^ithstaud.  It  was,  probably,  ■well  for 
Woodward  that  the  middogiie  of  the  outlaw 
23revented  him  fi-om  sharing  the  same  fate, 
and  dying  a  death  of  pubhc  disgrace. 

Need  we  saj-  that  honest  Barney  Casey 
was  rewarded  by  the  love  of  Sarah  Sullivan, 
who,  soon  after  their  marriage,  was  made 
housekeejier  in  JNIi-.  Lindsay's  famUy ;  and 
that  Barney  himself  was  appointed  to   the 


(fi;i\Ti;SfTrrir(((i!" 

THE  BLACK  SPECTRE.     '  "  775 

comfortable  situation  of  steward  over  his 
property  ? 

Lord  Cockletown  exercised  all  his  influ- 
ence with  the  government  of  the  day  to  pro- 
cui-e  a  pardon  for  Shawn-na-Mitkhxine,  but 
without  effect.  He  furnished  him,  however, 
with  a  liberal  sum  of  money,  with  which  he 
left  the  countiy,  but  was  never  heard  of 
more. 

Jliss  Riddle  was  mai-ried  to  a  celebrated 
barrister  who  subsequently  became  a  judge. 


